EatingAsia

Savory, Soupy Jelly for a Hot Day in Laos

Luang Namtha isn't an obvious food destination. Most Luang Namtha dishes aren't gorgeous in the offhand way that a simple bowl of Malaysian noodles can be. The appetite rousing aroma of grilling meat doesn't hang in its air, as is often the case in Indonesia. And unlike Saigon, its streets aren't overflowing with vendors offering a staggering variety of tempting local specialties.

Yet we ate well during our visit to this remote province in northern Laos late last March. This was thanks in part to the restaurant at The Boat Landing, a laid-back riverside 'resort' (I hesitate to use that word lest it conjure images of the sort of luxe, isolated-from-the-real-world lodgings more easily found on true beaches elsewhere in the region) about 30 minutes by bicycle from Luang Namtha town.

The Boat Landing's little kitchen prepares specialties of Luang Namtha's numerous ethnic groups. Each night we dined on a variety of jaew (dips) made with unusual ingredients such as young rattan tips (creamy and a bit nutty, like sesame paste), sawtooth herb, and a local variety of Sichuan peppercorn (prickly ash, actually); soupy stews called aw lahm, packed with eggplant and snake beans and foraged leafy vegetables; toasted mak tua nao, umami-rich discs of pressed and dried fermented soybeans seasoned with chilies; and sticky rice. (Coming soon: my review of a cookbook inspired by this very kitchen and featuring recipes from around Luang Namtha.)

During the day we hit the streets, foraging as best we could -- up and out before dawn, biking first to a nearby market where we might snack a bit, and then further on into Luang Namtha town, for its relatively larger morning market. There we found a warming and delicious northern Laos-style kao soi, a good green papaya salad, some wonderful pickles, and a few other treats we'll tell you about later in the week.

In town we also discovered a restaurant -- admittedly grotty, though we never fell ill from eating there -- serving intriguing Chinese-Laotian dishes.

Cycling back to the Boat Landing mid-afternoon, we sometimes found a food stall or two open in the tiny village of lovely wooden structures up the road from The Boat Landing. Once we stopped for what was possibly the best tam mak hoong (green papaya salad) of our trip, pungently fishy with padek and made with wide flat strips of crispy papaya.

On another day a woman sitting behind a low table set next to the entrance of a shop house caught our eye. Before her was a tall container of clear liquid with a few red orbs bobbing in it, a jar of chili paste and another of MSG (a common table condiment in Laos), and a large enameled metal bowl draped with a cloth. Hung from a nail protruding from the wooded door frame were small bags of golden fried rice crackers.      

We lowered ourselves onto stools so low we might as well have been sitting on our heels, and watched as she pulled bricks of rice flour jelly from beneath the cloth. She sliced each into cubes and dropped them into small ceramic bowls.

To this she added a ladle or two of liquid and a few of the red orbs, which turned out to be cherry tomatoes. A small scoop of chili paste went on top. Finally she pulled a package of rice crackers from the hook, slit it open with her knife, and motioned for us to break the crisps over our bowls.

The liquid was sour, probably from the tomatoes but also, I think, with vinegar. Combined with the cool and bland soft jelly it made for a dish to revive us after a long, unshaded bike ride at the height of a bright-white hot-season afternoon.

We're suckers for anything hot and sour, so the fiery cilantro-seasoned and slightly fishy chili sauce made the already pleasant treat even better. And the deep-fried crackers, which retained their crunch despite immersion in the liquid, contrasted nicely with the squishy jelly. 

The next morning we spied the same dish at the Luang Namtha morning market, and found a woman making and steaming the rice jelly in its rear 'kitchen'.

Where else are these rice flour jellies eaten? We've tried something similar -- though not quite as dense -- in Chengdu and long ago, in Kunming. And Shan Burmese shave noodle-like strips from firmer, larger rice flour blocks for their version of kao soi. Not surprising, as northern Laos has long been a regional trade crossroads.

Puff the Magic Cracker

Prompted by a review -- of a new book on the cuisine of northern Laos -- that I recently finished writing for ZesterDaily (I'll link it here when it's published, probably within a week), Dave has been sorting through some photos from our excursion last March north from Luang Prabang, where we were working on a few stories for Wall Street Journal Asia, north to Luang Namtha.

Luang Namtha is a weird, complicated, fascinating place that is undergoing rapid change. We haven't posted nearly enough on our days there -- something we plan to remedy shortly.

In the meantime, here's a time-lapse of the making of an interesting snack sold at Luang Namtha's morning market: a cracker (for lack of a better word) made from ground rice cassava flour. Held over hot coals, the initial cracker 'pancake' puffs to several times its original size.

What grabbed us most about this treat -- other than the dexterity that the vendor displays as she turns it back and forth above the cooking fire  - was its texture, something akin to cotton candy. 'Light as air' would be an apt description; it dissolves almost immediately on contact with lips and tongue, leaving just a hint of sweetness.

It's also, as the time-lapse shows, a popular pre-school snack for kids lucky enough to pass by the market on their way to class.

The Other Side of the Island

We spent last weekend in Penang. On  Sunday, determined to get out of our George Town rut (if one can ever call something as pleasurable as staying and eating in George Town a 'rut'), we drove over to the west side of the island.

Our destination was Balik Pulau, a small village that's known for its Sunday market -- which truth to tell wasn't all that interesting. It must have been so when all the buying and selling happened in the great old, now-empty market building on Balik Pulau's main street. The new structure, built by the bus terminus, is just fine -- big and airy and cleaner, I'm sure, than the old. The fish looked good, and there were the usual vegetables and fruits and dried goods. (One less-than-usual site: a vendor selling what appeared to be freshly dead geckos. A medicinal thing, I think.) There's a food court in the new building, and we'll probably explore it at some point. Stalls were set up across the road, but about half appeared to be selling clothing and such.

Nothing to capture our fancy, really. So we headed back into 'town' to hunt up some breakfast.

We just love Balik Pulau's main street, with its remaining wooden structures, a few grand George Town-style shop houses, the aforementioned old-style market building, and all sorts of places to eat. It's got such a great, almost festive atmosphere on Sunday mornings (we arrived around 9am), busy as all get out with folks in town to catch up with friends, do a spot of shopping and, of course (this is Malaysia after all!) get a good meal -- and maybe a snack too -- in before heading home.

Balik Pulau boasts what might just be the island's best siam laksa (a clearly Thai-influenced, coconut milk-based gravy heavy on the lemongrass with chewy round laksa noodles) -- something we know from our last visit. But this time around we thought we'd explore other options.

We made a circumference around the old market building and knew fairly quickly that this is where our grazing would focus, starting with a stall at the back of a coffee shop that fronts the main street. It was a simple set-up: fish and one pot on a single burner. As soon as the female half of this husband-and-wife vendor team lifted the lid from that pot, letting loose a curry-scented cloud, our initial tasting was decided.

The husband has been making and selling fish curry and rice -- nothing else -- for over 10 years. All morning the curry bubbles away in the pot, getting stronger in taste as more and more fish is added to cook. Dave opted for a whole small pomfret while I went for a 'sea bass' steak.

Absolutely fantastic they both were, bathed in a spicy curry neither lemak (made with coconut milk) nor necessarily assam (sour), but almost briney in its fishiness, much like a bouillabaise. The gravy was thick with lemongrass and shallots. We might have added seasoning with soy sauce from the table, but it seemed unnecessary. The next time we're in Penang we plan to pick up a bag of curry, fishless, and pack it home to use in our own kitchen.

The lane deadends at a welding yard. It's there that we ordered our next meal, at a busy stall catering to probably 10 or 15 tables, all of them packed. Seafood is the theme here and there's much to choose from: porridge, several kinds of noodles including some in soup and some cooked in claypots. We watched a number of dishes come off the burner and decided on seafood cooked in a gravy with yellow noodles.

After five minutes it became apparent that the wait would be long, so I wandered out to the lane to a char koay kak (fried 'carrot' cake) stall. This may have been the best version of this hawker food that we've ever eaten, even better than one that we quite like in George Town's Chow Rasta market.

There's no theatrics here. The vendor doesn't clank and clang his spatula against his griddle while tossing cubes of carrot cake into the air, he doesn't fling bean sprouts into the mix or break eggs with a flourish. Instead, he works quietly, slowly, and intently, barely lifting his spatula from the grill.

Our char koay kak included bean sprouts, egg, chinese chives, and finely chopped salted vegetable, the latter a nice addition that's new to us. The carrot cake here is cut into smaller-than-usual cubes, which makes for an excellent smoky-charred-surface to untouched-by-direct-heat-interior ratio. What's more, the cubes are so thoroughly heated through that they become creamy.

It's hard not to like char koay kak -- it's fried and greasy and tasty in that "I only allow myself this sort of thing once in a while" sort of way. But this is a char koay kak that we would go out of our way to eat again and again. Not everyday, perhaps, on order of our doctor.

Coming on the heels of that char koay kak our seafood noodles really needed to deliver. And they did, with wonderfully fresh -- and perfectly cooked -- prawns, squid and chunks of firm white fish and a light gravy more fish stock than soy sauce that echoed the taste of the seafood. We'd like to return to this place to sample the seafood porridge and claypot noodles. Everything arriving to other tables looked scrumptious.

At this point we were stuffed, but we hadn't yet had any fresh nutmeg juice -- reason in itself to head to Balik Pulau -- so we stopped in at the coffee shop famous for its mee siam.

Nutmeg juice, for which the 'peels' or skins of the fruit are squeezed, is something any visitor to Penang simply should not miss. At first sip the brain says "eggnog", so strong is the nutmeg flavor. Then it processes the fruity, slightly sour (from a Chinese salted plum that's added) quality of the drink. Nutmeg juice sounds unlikely but is entirely refreshing, and delicious.

As might be predicted, while sipping our juices we caved to the scent of mee siam wafting around the joint, and order a bowl to share. Waddling back to our car, we didn't regret a thing.

Stand facing the old market building on Balik Pulau's main street. The fish curry stall is in the lane on the left side of the market. Continue straight down the lane. The char koay kak vendor is on your left; opposite him is the seafood noodles/porridge stall. Continue around the circumferance of the market and you end up at the coffee shop serving nutmeg juice and mee siam (among other things). Across the street is a very decent asam laksa. For more on Balik Pulau go here and here.

 

 

 

Tofu and Chilies and Veggies, Oh My!

While in Chengdu last January we spent a few mornings at a small but fabulous wet market (you can read about it here). When we returned to the city last month we found that the market had become a construction site. In many Chinese cities this would be cause for sadness. But Chengdu is bucking general trend away from traditional wet markets and even building new ones in the center of the city. We found that our little market had been moved up the street and around the corner into a big, new, covered home.

(Its copious traditional wet markets, by the way, were just one reason cited by UNESCO when the organization named Chengdu Asia's first City of Gastronomy.)

So we spent a few more mornings there. And wrote and photographed all about it for Zester Daily. Read the story and see the mouthwatering slideshow here.

What is Lao Food?

I really couldn't have told you, before we spent two weeks in the former Lao royal capital of Luang Prabang last March. Vietnamese influences show up in markets (as in the rest of Laos the local version of pho is a popular breakfast) and dishes like the local kao soi are reminiscent of the spicy-salty cuisine of neighboring northern Thailand. But Luang Prabang has its own food as well that bears the imprint of climate (lots of wild mushrooms during the rainy season), geography (plenty of fish from the Mekong and Nam Khan rivers) and topography (lots of ingredients foraged from the jungle that carpets hills around the city).

In our latest contribution to food and wine website Zester Daily we investigate the cuisine of Luang Prabang, serve up a couple of simple -- and really delicious -- recipes, walk you through local markets with a slide show, and show you how to wrap fish in banana leaf for steaming with a second slideshow.

Read the story here. And give those recipes a try!

Göztepe, For the Love of Gözleme

If you visit one weekly neighborhood market in Istanbul, make it the one held on Mondays in Göztepe. The produce on offer is stunning, and the vendors are welcoming.

 

But mostly, the thing about the Göztepe market is ... there's gözleme.

We were introduced to Göztepe market -- and to its gözleme -- by Turkish food writer and blogger Tuba Şatana. Shortly after we arrived in Istanbul Tuba shot me an email offering, in a typical display of Turkish hospitality, to take us eating. So on our last Monday in town the three of us met at the Kadikoy pier and, after tossing back a bracing Turkish coffee and stopping into a historic sweets shop to buy some halva (delicious by the way, and highly recommended) we hopped into a taxi and headed to the market.

The Göztepe market is huge; a serious window shopper/foodie traveler/photographer could easily spend a couple of hours there working his or her way from one end to the other. There's a section devoted to clothing and household goods, but most of the stalls display fresh produce, dried fruits and nuts, cheeses and olives, and prepared foods. As Tuba and I surveyed pink-blushed peaches and apricots speckled with crimson wasp stings Dave wandered, letting his camera lead the way.

Then Tuba led the way to the gözleme stall. 

Anyone who knows Turkey knows gözleme, thin wheat flour flatbreads cooked on a griddle and folded around a variety of fillings such as cheese, mashed potatoes, and meat. Gözleme are ubiquitous and immediately appealing. Hot chewy dough pockets hiding something tasty -- what's not to love? We ate dozens on our first trip.

But as with any food, extensive sampling leads to a level of discernment or snobbishness, even. So let me say this: there are a lot of gözleme in Istanbul. And probably 90% of them aren't worth the calories.

 

But the gözleme at Göztepe are several cuts above, worth not only the calories but the effort to get to this suburb a bit away from the tourist-trod streets of Beyoglu and Sulthanahmet.

They're made to order by a family of women from Amasya, a lovely riverside town in central Turkey about two hours from the Black Sea coast. The dough is rolled out super thin on a floured table, filled to the customer's specifications (cheese and greens for us), and folded like a calzone into a half moon.

 

Then the gözleme is carefully transferred to a huge concave griddle shiny and blackened from use,

where it's lightly slicked with butter

and then coddled to brown-bubbled crispness via a bit of downward pressure from the wooden spatula and a carefully timed flip or two.

There is much to celebrate about the finished product, a sizeable snack measuring about 15 inches / 37 centimeters across at its base. The filling, a combination of tangy-salty white cheese, made in Amasya and carried to Istanbul by this family of gözleme makers, and shredded spinach and chard, announces its presence but is not so heavy as to weigh the gözleme down. The pancake has been cooked just long enough to soften but not liquify the cheese and to just barely wilt the greens, which retain their freshness and a bit of texture.

 

The wrapper, chewy at its center and ever so slightly cripsy at the edges, boasts a strong wheat flavor, and though it's been rubbed with butter it's not greasy.

Like an expertly grilled cheese sandwich, this gözleme tastes like sin but doesn't leave its stain on your fingers.

As if gözleme weren't enough, these women also make içli köfte, finger-length bulgur torpedoes filled with a chopped lamb and parsley. Most of the housewives amassing in front of their stall purchased theirs uncooked to finished at home, but we asked the ladies to fry a few up for us.

 

We bit into layers of texture and flavor: the köfte's greaseless, crackly outer skin gives way to mild, nutty nubs of tender bulgur and then the moistness of the rich meat filling sharpened with a fiery kırmızı biber (dried red pepper) kick. Though already full to near bursting with gözleme when we tried these we couldn't resist ordering a couple more

And shall I tell you about these ladies' baklava, layers of handmade thickish rustic yufka brushed with butter, sandwiching chopped nuts and doused with just enough sugar syrup to moisten but not overwhelm? Or their three apple butter-textured fruit spreads ranging from sweet to super-sour, one made with cranberries and boasting an intriquing whiff of warm spice? Or their homemade tomato and red pepper pastes? Or their zirod/siron, dried pinwheels of wheaty dough meant to be moistened with broth (a bit like the lavash for our piti in Kars) and topped perhaps with crumbled lamb, garlicky salted yogurt, and a drizzle of kırmızı biber and dried mint-infused melted butter?

Never mind, words can't do it all justice. For the love of gözleme, get yourself to Göztepe.

Gözleme etc. stall, Göztepe Monday market from about 10ish to evening. The easiest way to get to the market is to take the ferry from Eminonu or Karakoy to Kadikoy and catch a taxi 'Göztepe Pazari' (Goes-teh-peh Pah-zar-uh). These ladies can also be found cooking at the weekly market in Erenkoy (Thursdays) and Kozyatagi (Saturdays).

Thanks to Tuba Satana for sharing with us this market and its fabulously talented trio of Amasya cooks.

Chinese-ish Mint Salad. Grilled Fish. Together.

The utter lack of creative juice evident in that title is indicative of the low ebb at which my brain is operating at the moment. Since we returned from Turkey a little over two weeks ago I've spent an average of 10 hours a day in front of this computer. I'm fried. But articles have been emailed, I've only a couple more to do, and August is, for the most part, free and clear, and I am vowing to never again over-commit. It's time for a post.

(Is that insane, to 'celebrate' wrapping up a period of intense writing work with ... writing? Never mind, as I explained to Eatocracy, this space is my little haven.)

It drives me absolutely batty when I hear someone say, or read it written that "they don't eat raw vegetables in China." Or ''Chinese people don't eat salads." Or "If you go to China be prepared to eat all your vegetables stir-fried, steamed, or boiled."

While most Chinese may not sit down to a big plate of raw herbs and leaves accompanying their main dishes as their neighbors in Vietnam might, and while somtam-ish pounded salads of sour fruits and tomatoes and snake beans are not generally a part of the Chinese diet, and while being faced with an American-style chef's salad consisting of everything but the kitchen sink thrown into a bowl large enough to swim in would probably cause many Chinese to lose their appetite .... raw vegetables are eaten in parts of China. And they are eaten in forms that do qualify as a 'salad' of some sort. 

Many of you are probably familiar with liangban huanggua. In its most basic (and tastiest) form this salad -- yes, salad -- is composed of rough-cut chunks of cucumber (skin-on, preferably that has been salted and left to stand, gently squeezed of its water, and tossed with very fragrant sesame oil and chopped raw garlic. A bit of cilantro might be in there too. Some versions add vinegar, soy sauce, and sugar, but for me these ingredients overwhelm the subtle deliciousness of a good cucumber combined with great oil.

Here -- let me give you a recipe. Liangban huanggua is a great, fresh addition to any Chinese meal. It's very popular in Sichuan, where it cools mouths set on fire by chilies and Sichuan peppercorns. It's my go-to side dish when we're having a meat-heavy stir-fry and I don't want to be bothered with stir-frying a vegetable to eat alongside.

Liangban huanggua (Chinese Cold Cucumber Salad)

Take a couple dark green-skinned cucumbers (Armenian or Lebanese cucumbers, or English or whatever the smooth, jade green-skinned types are called in your neighborhood), wash them well, and cut them into rough chunks. Place the chunks in a colander and sprinkle with salt, then toss. Leave aside to drain for about half an hour, then gently squeeze the cucumber to get rid of liquid and chuck it in a bowl. Toss with a bit of (or a lot of) roughly chopped garlic and a generous amount of really good toasted sesame oil. Refrigerate until bracing.

There are other Chinese 'salads' as well, many of which, I suspect, aren't really known about because in China as in the West a salad can be anything, something made up on the spot with what's available in season.

In Chengdu a woman plucking plump bunches of lettuce from a display of greens told me that she planned to wash the lettuce and then eat it with la jiao -- chili sauce, really, the type that you make by heating an innocuous type of oil and then pouring it over a mound of dried ground chilies (both the oil and the chili 'sand' are used in China). But she said she would mix her la jiao with dark vinegar, sugar, sesame paste, sesame oil, salt, and ground Sichuan peppercorn. What she was describing is something like what sauces a dish that many of us think of as 'sesame noodles'.

I tried it when we returned from Sichuan to Kuala Lumpur, mixing black vinegar, sugar, salt, and sesame oil to taste (on the tart side, for me) first, then stirring in just enough sesame paste to give the sauce body but not enough to make it gloopy. Then I added a dash of finely ground Sichuan peppercorn (it certainly could have been omitted) and poured it over very cold, very crisp, Romaine leaves. Fantastic! And the perfect accompaniment to a hot (both in temperature and spiciness), meaty Sichuanese dish. (We ate it with spicy steamed rice meal-coated beef, recipe here.)

What would I call this 'dish'? Maybe liangban zhima lajiao shengcai (cold sesame-chili lettuce). If that's not a salad I don't know what is.

And there's laohu cai or "tiger vegetable", a dish we first encountered in Dalian, in northeast China, many, many years ago, and then ate at a dongbei (north eastern Chinese) restaurant in KL, and then were surprised to be served this last time in Chengdu.

The version at our KL dongbei haunt consists of lots of cilantro (leaves and stalks), shredded green onion and, sometimes, shredded red bell pepper dressed only with rice vinegar and salt. In Dalian, there was no cilantro but there were carrot and cucumber shreds and the dressing incorporated wasabi (for much of the first half of the 20th century Dalian was a part of the Japanese-occupied region of northern China that the Japanese named Manchuoko). In Chengdu, at a wonderful restaurant called Tian Tian, we were served a similar laohu cai, but its incendiary kick came not from wasabi but from mustard oil.

A salad, certainly.

In Chengdu we also fell in love with a vegetable called zhuergen -- I never noted the characters, but it could translate as "pig's ear root" -- deep green and red sort of heart-shaped leaves attacked to a thick stem with a root at the base, with a peppery and astringent flavor. (It's also known as "fish mint" and is eaten raw in northern Thailand and Vietnam.)

We tried zhuergen stir-fried, but didn't care for the sliminess it developed over heat. Instead we ordered it again and again and again liangban, salad-style, and it always came dressed with black vinegar and la jiao. So, again -- a salad, in China.

And then I learned of a salad in Yunnan dressed the same way, but composed entirely of mint leaves. Imagine that -- mint, used not as an herb but as a vegetable, served in a big pile to be eaten as a salad! It sounded like the sort of dish that's so far from what you know it's either love or hate  at first bite.

For us it was love. There is something about the combination of full-on fresh mint, tart (and slightly sweet, in a balsamic vinegar sort of way) black vinegar, Sichuan-style chili paste/oil, sugar and salt that just works. I might even say it rocked our culinary world.

And it's even better eaten with fish grilled (or roasted) in a way that Naomi Duguid identifies as Dai, with garlic and chilies and Sichuan peppercorns and ... wait for it ... pork fat! Many times now we've eaten whole fresh mackerel, the fish's sides slashed and stuffed with a fragrant, spicy, porky paste, alongside mint salad Sichuan-style.

I tell you, it is a winning combination. And it makes the perfect summer supper.

Sichuan or Yunnan-ish Mint Salad

I can hardly call this a recipe. No amounts -- it's a salad after all. But we can easily manage 4 large handfuls of mint leaves between the two of us, with grilled fish. You'll have to experiment with the dressing, depending on how strong your mint is. And for this dish larger leaves are fine, because they'll be dressed.

Mint leaves, picked from the stem (for the leaves at the tip, just pinch them all off together along with some of the tender stem)

Chinese black vinegar

Chinese chili oil (la jiao)

sugar

salt

sesame oil

Wash and dry the mint leaves and place them in a bowl. In another bowl mix vinegar, chili oil, sugar, and salt. Taste -- it shouldn't be too sweet and if, like me, you enjoy tartness then definately lean in that direction. The mint holds up well to spiciness, so add extra chili oil if you can handle it. Or not. Stir in enough sesame oil to give it body, but not as much as you would if you were making a Western-style salad dressing. This should not be oily or it will weigh down the mint.

Right before serving, pour not too much dressing over the leaves and toss (hands are best). Better to err on the side of too little dressing. You can always add more.

Serve with grilled fish!

Fragrant Grilled (or Roasted) Fish

Another non-recipe. I have tweaked the original one, in the fabulous Hot Sour Salty Sweet. (I am always exasperated when people tell me this book is too beautiful to cook from -- you don't know what you are missing because every recipe simply works.) We usually don't grill this actually, but roast it at very high heat (say 400-425F). Again, feel free to play with ingredients, amounts, etc. You might substitute a bit of Aleppo pepper for the bird's-eye chilies, even. (I have used oiled and roasted ground chilies that I brought back from Chengdu.) For the fat, I have used straight pork fat, bacon grease and -- heavenly! -- the fat cut from Sichuanese la rou (Sichuan 'bacon' -- pork smoked over pine boughs and air-dried) , which lent an incredible smoky essence to the fish. If you can't do pork fat you could substitute roasted sesame oil or regular cooking oil -- just a bit, maybe a teaspoon.

A very thick piece of strong-ish fish, preferably skin-on (mackerel, salmon, etc.) -- or a small whole fish or part of a whole fish. Or two skin-on fillets that you can make a 'sandwich' with. Say about 1-1.5 lbs / 500-750 grams.

2 bird's-eye chilies, IF you wish (or omit)

a clove or two of garlic

coarse salt

Optional, but nice: a small knob of coriander root, chopped

3 green onions, white and green part, cut into pieces

1-2 tsp of pork fat, or bacon grease

A few Sichuan peppercorns, up to a teaspoon depending on how strong yours are

Wash and dry the fish, make a few slashes in it, and place it on a double thickness of tin foil that's been oiled.

Place chilies, garlic, and salt in a mortar and pound to a paste. Add the coriander root and pound to break up. Add the onions and pound until they're somewhat pasty -- this doesn't have to be a smooth puree. Add in the pork fat, pound to blend, and then stir in the whole Sichuan pepper.

(This could all be done in a blender as well, you'll just end up with a more homogenous paste.)

Stuff the paste into the slashes, or if you're using two fillets, spread it on both fillets (not skin side) then lay one on top of each, paste-side in.

Place the fish on the foil and wrap well but not super-tight. You want to leave room for the foil to puff.

Throw it on the grill or in a hot oven. How long you cook it will depend on what you're using and the type of a fish. For a small whole mackerel (about 400 grams) we usually go about 20 mins.

More Tarlabaşı

As a supplement to our recent ZesterDaily article and slideshow on the fabulous Sunday market in Istanbul's  Tarlabaşı Dave has posted some photographs of daily life in the 'hood on his photo blog. Wandering around and talking to some of the residents of the neighborhood made for one of our most enjoyable days in 3+ weeks in Istanbul. We hope we're able to get back for another visit before too much of it falls to the wrecking ball.

Click: Tarlabaşı street scenes.

Sunday Marketing in Istanbul

Every food-obsessed traveller in Istanbul visits the Spice Bazaar. Every single one. We certainly did, on our first trip to Turkey 12 years ago.

The market structure itself is grand and historic, and its location -- right across from Eminonu pier -- is central. But honestly, it's not the best place to buy spices, or Turkish coffee (as this Istanbul-based blogger points out, for really good coffee head to Kadikoy), or really anything else. And because so much of the Spice Bazaar has been given over to stalls hawking trinkets, it doesn't deliver the exhilerating jolt that a visit to food market should.

For our three weeks in Istanbul we rented an apartment (actually three different apartments, all rented from this outfit -- highly recommended) in Beyoglu district. We did a fair bit of cooking and, as such, a decent bit of food shopping. And one of our most enjoyable food shopping experiences was had at the Sunday market in Tarlabasi.

The market is sprawling, and fascinating, and cheap. I wouldn't recommend it for fish, but it's great for just about everything else. Many Istanbullu might tell you to stay away from Tarlabasi -- the neighborhood has a reputation for drugs and crime. I wouldn't wander its streets at night, but a visit to the Sunday market is perfectly safe. Bonus: the folks in Tarlabsi are among the friendliest in Istanbul.

My latest piece for food and wine internet pub Zester Daily is on Tarlabasi's fantastic Sunday pazar. It's accompanied by Dave's beautiful slideshow.

Bread and Cheese

It's been difficult to find time to post these last two weeks that we've been in eastern Turkey. The precious little idle time I've had on the road has been mostly devoted to work (a downside of being connected is that my editors can always find me.)

But it's been a fantastic trip, and we have much to share from Gaziantep, Mardin, Midyat, Van, Kars, and Erzurum. Tomorrow we head back to Istanbul for an additional 11 days. Once there I'm hoping to slip into a routine that will allow me time to think -- and write, and post -- about the last few weeks.

In the meantime, we leave you with the basics: bread and cheese. (You might also want to drop in on Dave's photo blog; he just posted his second in a series of posts featuring portraits from Turkey.)

 

A bread maker at work in Van. He's making a flat-ish, oval wheat bread with a hole in the middle called liva lavaş. Instead of a conventional wood-fired oven the bread is cooked in a tandoor-like clay vessel called a tandır (tahn-DER).

Interestingly, we found a similarly shaped (but leavened) wheat loaf -- also baked in a tandır -- in Midyat: it's called nan.

Villages in the vicinity of Kars produce a number of wonderful cheeses made from cow's milk. (You can sample them in the morning, at any one of the city's numerous kahvaltı salonu, or breakfast 'salons'.)

This is kaşar (which I also heard variously as kaşaş or kaşas depending on the cheese dealer I spoke with) a cheese that varies in color from vanilla to pale yellow and in flavor from mild and milky to nutty and lightly sharp, depending on how long it's aged.

On our first morning in Kars we had a slab cut from a soft young wheel and took it with us, along with a fresh pillow of pide, to the breathtakingly situated ruins at Ani. The next morning we sampled 'middle-aged' and very aged versions -- delicious, every one.