EatingAsia

Risky Eating?

A couple weeks ago a reader sent me an email asking about eating in Siem Reap (and Bangkok and Laos) which said, in part):

I really want to do some food exploration, but am concerned about eating fresh veggies and fruit.  What are your thoughts on the matter?

It wasn't the first such email I've received. The food-focused traveler's conventional wisdom says: if it's not hot and cooked don't eat it, unless it's a fruit or vegetable with a peel you can remove yourself. We flout that rule wherever we go.

Fresh tropical fruits, peeled and cut into bite-sized pieces and sold from a cart are one of Southeast Asia's manyedible pleasures, as are blender drinks made with fresh fruit and ice. If you're eating in Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, or Thailand, staying away from fresh veggies means denying yourself a key component of the local cuisine. Room-temperature curries and other not-ot cooked foods eaten with rice are par for the course.

Do we get sick from street food? Not often at all, considering the amount of grazing we do. Is that because we've built up 'immunities' in our years in Asia? I tend to doubt it. We're both in excellent shape (according to the results of recent physicals) and try to stay that way when we travel, and I think that gives us a leg up to begin with (we've also had the requisite vaccinations).

On the rare occasion that we do get sick from food there's no pattern to it, no easily identifiable source. And when one of us gets sick the other never does, even though we eat from the same plates (even if we're not sharing he tastes mine, I taste his). To me this indicates that getting ill from street food often comes down to the luck of the draw. All it takes is one little speck of nasty matter, which might originate in the food you're eating or with the vendor who dishes it up. It might be lurking on the plate it's served on or the chopsticks or silverware you eat with. Or, it might just float in on a breeze and settle on your spoon right before it enters your mouth. A crap shoot, in other words.

Which is not to say practicing some common sense doesn't increase the odds of staying healthy. We look for crowds - locals get sick too, after all - and for vendors who strive to keep their tables clean and shoo away flies. We avoid the last dregs of anything (if something's obviously been sitting around for hours and hours, why tempt fate?) and try to do the same with hideously dirty surroundings.

Try. That's the operative word. After arriving in Siem Reap we headed straight for Psar Loeu, a big and, yes, awfully dirty wet market about 10-15 minutes by tuk-tuk from the center of town, in search of something to eat. Soaking rains had left its surrounding lanes a sea of mud. It was 3pm and the row of rickety food stalls out front were open but quiet, flies buzzing unimpeded around the ingredients on display. We went inside, where the only stalls still open were those dealing in gold, currency exchange, and dried meats and fish.

And exited at the rear, where we ran into a group of women cooking a kanom krok-alike coconut and rice flour treat.

Next to their table, a pile of reeking refuse - one of the market's binless 'dumpster' areas. It was mostly vegetal matter, but it stank to high heaven. The dishes looked dodgy.The ladies were serving their specialty with bowls of coconut milk seasoned with prahok, so getting a bag to go was out of the question. Dave and I looked at each other: 'Should we?' we asked each other, a couple of times, as we'd done in similar situations countless times before. The answer is always the same. I'd like to say that we perform some sort of logical calculus, carefully weighing pros and cons, risks versus rewards. But this is how it goes: here is an appetizing, unfamiliar food. Or a familiar food served in an unfamiliar way. A street food we might not see again.

How could we not? So we did.

It's an inspired combo, coconut milk and prahok (the Cambodian equivalent of bplaa raa, Thai super fermented fish sauce), rich sweetness playing off salty fishiness. A spoonful of garlic-laden chili sauce from the jar on the table jazzes things up a bit, and the lot is a fine accompaniment to the crispy-outside, chewy within coconut milk-rice flour balls. Unfortunately, as I discovered when I put one in my mouth, ours were cold - the vendor had chosen them from an old batch instead of taking them off the griddle. (I take full responsibility for inattentiveness. I know better.) Risky, perhaps, but the thing was already in my mouth, and scrumptious.

Emboldened - because that's how it works for us; once we've breached that Should I?-Shouldn't I? barrier we figure well, what the heck, if we're gonna get sick later anyway we might as well eat what we can before it happens - we munched our way through Psar Loeu's late-afternoon offerings, mud squelching into our sandals as we walked (that's what showers are for). There were thin crepes rolled around coconut-scented sticky rice into tubes the size of our forefingers, slices of fresh mango bagged in plastic, and the tastiest green papaya salad we've ever eaten.

By the time we'd traced a path back to the front of the market the previously sleepy stalls were hopping. We stopped in front of a crowded table where, on our way in, Dave had eyed a platter of what looked like snow-white earthworms. A few minutes later we were diving into a mound of fantastically chewy rice noodles char-fried with heaps of Chinese chives and bean sprouts and served with a Chinese chive-stuffed fried rice dumpling (deep-fried taro cake was also an optional accompaniment), as greasy (in a good way) as it was delicious, especially with a blob of vampire-chasing garlic-chili sauce on the side.

On our way out of the market we stopped for another brilliant snack food, long beans wrapped in fish paste and deep-fried.

Bagged with a splash of fish sauce, a dab of chili paste, and shredded fresh cucumber and herbs, these were reminiscent of Thai tod man bplaa (deep-fried fish cakes). The beans, shriveled from their bath in the hot oil, were intensely vegetal and the flavorful fish paste crispy and rubbery at the same time.

The bottom line here? In two hours at Psar Loeu we ate five delicious street foods that we probably never would have encountered if we'd limited our eating to Siem Reap shops and restaurants (we were on the ground only 3 days this trip). Were the surroundings dirty? No doubt. But we came through with no ill effects (though we certainly can't guarantee the same for others), spied a stall that would prove the source of a wonderful dinner later that night, and returned again another morning to sample more equally worthwhile market treats. Risk has its rewards.

More to come. 

 

Num Banh-Chok, Rice to Noodle - Part Two

Once Madame Moul has finished teasing the fermented rice dough into a substance resembling (to the eye, not to touch) whipping cream at the stiff-peak stage, it's time to make the num banh-chok.

She starts by spooning the dough into a mold, which consists of a round cylinder covered at the bottom by a perforated piece of metal. Once the mold is filled she places its heavy wooden press on top. (Notice the playing card in the photo above- Madame Moul will use it later to scrape dough off of the press.)

By now the water is boiling vigorously, and she needs to bring it down to a manageable simmer so that the noodles don't break up - easily done by adding a few dippers of cool water to the pot.

There's a double plank suspended directly over the pot, and Madame Moul places the filled mold into an opening cut in its middle; the wooden lip of the mold catches on the planks so that the whole thing doesn't go tumbling into the water.

She then grabs a long log, places it on the 'head' of the mold's press, and sits on one end, using the weight of her body to lower push the thick rice dough through the mold's tiny holes. Even with her weight on the log 'lever' it takes quite a bit of time for all of the dense dough to be extruded.

Once the noodles are in the water Madame Moul removes the mold from its cradle, pulls out the press (the dough is sticky, so this takes a fair bit of effort), and cleans it off with that playing card. She has just enough time to refill the mold and replace the press before the num banh-chok are done,  signaled by their rise to the surface of the water.

Working quickly, she scoops them up in a basket

and carries them to a corner of the yard,

where she cools them off and rids them of any clinging starch with a plunge into a pail of water followed by several rinses.

Then it's over to a covered area where her daughter in-law waits to prepare the noodles for sale. After her mother-in-law slides the noodles into a bowl of water her partner lifts out consistently sized skeins of the by-now firm white threads,

loops them over her forefinger, and gently sluices off excess water with her other hand.

She then forms them into loose coils, which she then squeezes to remove as much water as possible.

Laid in a banana leaf-lined basket in concentric circles, the num banh-chok are ready for market and table.

Are you as awed by this process as we are?

Let's not romanticize it - there's no doubt Madame Moul and her daughter-in-law would welcome automation, or any innovation for that matter, that would lessen the effort and time required to turn rice into noodles. But there's ingenuity and hard-earned skills at play here, and we'll certainly remember this amazing sequence the next time we tuck into a bowl of num banh-chok. 

Asian Culinary Forum, San Francisco, October 10-12

In October the Asian Culinary Forum will be staging, from October 10-12 in San Francisco, its First Annual Symposium, 'Asian Food Beyond Borders' .

The Friday-evening-through-Sunday lineup comprises a series of events (such as a tasting tour of Asia's six flavors, cooking demonstrations, a how-to on deciphering Asian ingredients, and a walking tour of San Francisco's Chinatown), capped off by a full-day symposium featuring some great speakers. If this piques your interest but you're not going to be around all weekend, no problem - you can register for events individually online.

On Friday evening I'll be at the 'Asian Sweet' station offering a tasting of some of the wonderful small-batch palm sugars that Dave and I have picked up in the course of our research around Southeast Asia. Ever wondered why blond Cambodian palm sugar tastes nothing like mahogany-hued gula Melaka? Come by and find out! I'd love to see you there.

Num Banh-Chok, Rice to Noodle - Part One

About eight hours after our memorable meal of num ban-chok we return with our resourceful tuk-tuk driver Hak (you can find him hanging out with his machine in front of Siem Reap's most achingly hip hotel) to Pradok village to see just where our breakfast noodles had come from. Brief inquiries lead us to this house, the face-to-the-road of a compound of 5 or 6 similar wooden structures shared by a large extended family.

The only sign of food preparation is a huge pot on the fire, but the lady of the house and head of the family confirms that we'd come to the right place.

'After the Khmer Rouge I had nothing. No land, no rice, no food. My family needs money. So I make num banh-chok to sell,' Madame Moul tells me, with Hak translating. That was thirty years ago. Now she and her daughter-in-law work together,making the noodles each day to sell to vendors who take them to Pradok's small crossroads market.

Num banh-chok is made from rice that's boiled until soft and then ground into a liquidy dough with a heavy stone mill.

We missed this part of the process but a few of Madame Moul's grandkids are more than happy to whip themselves into a frenzy demonstrating how the mill works. It's turned round and round with a lever that attaches to the upper stone piece.

After the rice is ground the wet batter is placed in a cloth bag and heavy weights - mill parts, in fact - are placed on top to squeeze as much water out as possible. During this time the rice begins to ferment.

The result is a sort of very firm, dryish-but-sticky flour that needs to be softened in boiling water before it can be transformed into the smooth dough - or batter, if you wish - from which the num banh-chok are formed.

Before placing the dough into boiling water Madame Moul's daughter-in-law compacts it by opening the bag and sprinkling a little water on its contents,

and then repeatedly slamming the it onto a tree stump, rotating it the bag a bit each time.

When she's finished the dough resembles a huge ball of fresh cheese.

A banana leaf-lined bamboo tray with long handles is used to lower the dough ball into the pot of boiling water,

and after about 30 minutes it emerges rock-hard and a starchy-slick to the touch. Now it's ready to be pounded in a large, deep rock mortar with a pestle that's worked with leg power.

This is where Madame Moul comes in. First she places the dough ball into the mortar.

With a few light taps of the pestle the dough lump splits in two. Only one half will be pounded at a time, so Madame Moul transfers the other back to the bowl. Assisted on occasion by her husband and/or son, Madame Moul's daughter-in-law pumps the lever attached to the pestle as Madame Moul constantly turns the dough in the mortar, exposing all sides to the pestle's force. As it's being beaten the dough gives off a strong, sour, yeasty smell (a result of the mild fermentation that, we suspect, gives num banh-chok its special chewy elasticity).

More distracting than the smell of fermented rice is the way Madame Moul's fingers lightly dance about the dough ball, perilously close to that heavy pestle. Sometimes she takes her eyes away from the mortar and talks and laughs with observers who are observing us observing, which makes me shudder. I don't want to imagine the sort of damage that the heavy wooden rod could do to a hand that strays where it shouldn't. I suppose I needn't have worried; thirty years of experience has no doubt taught Madame Moul where in the mortar her fingers should and shouldn't be

Over the course of about fifteen minutes the dough is transformed from a rock-hard, floury ball to a smooth, elastic dough. Toward the very end Madame Moul softens it by sprinkling on water.

Back by the pot on the fire, she kneads it further by hand, adding still more water. When she's done its snow white soft peaks remind me of vanilla Tastee-Freeze twirled in a cone.

And then it's time to make some noodles...

Read the rest of the story in Num Banh-Chok, Rice to Noodle Part Two, here.

 

Num Banh-Chok at the Crossroad

About a half hour outside of Siem Reap by tuk-tuk, at a four-way intersection from which one road leads to Banteay Srei, another to Banteay Samre, still another back to the main Angkor temples, and the last to, well, nowhere in particular,

sits a row of eateries serving num banh-chok, a dish of fermented rice noodles topped with 'curry' that's nearly identical to Thai kanom jeen (note the similarity between the words 'kanom' and 'num').  They're all but empty when we whiz by at 630am on our way to watch a family make palm sugar, but the big metal pots stuffed with all sorts of interesting edible greens sitting on each table immediately catch our eye.

Ever since we first sampled kanom jeen in Bangkok we've been obsessed with the dish. In our estimation it makes for the perfect tropical-weather meal: cool noodles topped with a warm but not-steaming-hot gravy, served with all sorts of fresh (and, in Thailand, cooked) vegetables on the side that one can add at will to tailor the dish to his or her own liking. We tend to add so many veggies to our kanom jeen that we end up with something resembling a wet noodle salad.

When we return to the intersection at 9:30 the num banh-chok huts are doing a brisk business. The one we choose offers a selection of two gravies, one soupy, made with fish and lots of coconut milk (up top) and the other a thicker spicy-sweet-salty sauce made with chilies and dried prawns. (Actually all seem to offer the same thing.)

Before ladeling sauce onto noodles the vendor adds bean sprouts and a mix of chopped herbs; fresh chilies, coarse salt, and lime slices are offered alongside. The selection of add-ins displayed in the veg-herb pot is amazing: lotus stems, long beans, and wild herbs such as the flat-leaf parsley-like Oenanthe javanica (rau can or can ong in Vietnamese), sourish Garcinia oliveri Pierre (bua nui in Vietnamese), and strangely drying Lagerstroemia speciosa (bang lang nuoc in Vietnamese).*

A bit of this and a bit of that, leaves torn and long beans and lotus stems snapped, a spritz of lime and a pinch of salt ... soon enough we're feasting on what must be one of the tastiest items on offer in and around Siem Reap. It's so good we consider returning the next morning before our flight to Saigon. Now I wish that we had.

After breakfast we wander up to the tiny market - just a couple of rows of streetside vendors, really - across the road. Many are selling num banh-chok, and we ask our tuk-tuk driver why.

'Because many families in this village make num banh-chok,' he replies.

Ah!! Well, can we come back later today and watch? we ask. Which leads us here ....

Num banh-chok, morning to evening at the Angkor Wat-Banteay Srei-Banteay Samre crossroads.

* For lack of a source of info on wild herbs and vegetables in Cambodia I'm relying here on the excellent Edible Wild Plants of Vietnam, which I discovered via Andrea Nguyen's site.

Somtam on Steroids

We weren't wowed by the grub in central Siem Reap - too much of it has been blanded down for tourists, we suspect. (And, though we generally like to start our evenings off with a drink, heaven save us from the Disney-esque scene on Pub Street.) But for those willing to go a bit slack on hygiene standards (yes you read that right, and we'll be devoting a post to these kinds of concerns in the near future), there are treasures to be found in and around Psa Leur, a wonderfully messy jumble of a market about a 7 or 8-minute ride from the river.

Psa Leur is where we headed right after dropping our bags at our hotel. It was 3pm -- too late for a full-on lunch, but just the right time of day for mixing and matching a snack or three. We zeroed in on this vendor after spying the grated green papaya and shredded leaves and herbs in her cart.

She's whipping up Thai somtam, Khmer-ized via the exclusion of tomatoes and the addition of shredded morning glory (water spinach) stems, cabbage, and basil and polygonum leaves (daun kesom, for Malaysian readers). After pounding together palm sugar, lime wedges, chilies, long beans, dried shrimp, and peanuts - the classic Isaan-style somtam combo - she adds a fishy element. We passed on salted paddy crabs and opted instead for a healthy dose of paadek (super-fermented fish sauce similar to Vietnamese mam and Thai bplaa raa) mixed with chili sauce. Then, in goes the in the green papaya and finally, after a bit of pounding, the morning glory stem-herb mixture.

Once it's all mixed she dishes it up, but not before placing a small mound of unpounded herb mixture in the bottom of a dish, a nice crunchy touch.

The salad goes on top.

We adore Isaan-style somtam, but this jazzed up version takes it up a notch. The fragrant basil and peppery, astringent polygonum leaves lend a non-heaty spiciness to balance the chili, and the tightly coiled morning glory stems and strips of green cabbage add texture and just that much more crispiness. An exceptionally refreshing version of green papaya salad that we'll be recreating in our own kitchen.

Not to mention a telling intro to what would prove to be a surprisingly fine three days of eating.

On the Move

We're wrapping up three enjoyably hectic days in and around Siem Reap (not one minute spent at Angkor Wat) and are on our way to Saigon. Still lots to share from Jakarta but right now our brains are filled with images like the one above, captured in a village about a 45-minute tuk-tuk ride outside of town. More to come once we're settled in HCMC.

But in the meantime - what's going on here, anyway?