EatingAsia

Just the Thing for a Cold: 'Oregano', Tea, and Turmeric

I brought a whopper of a cold home from Vietnam. This seems to be par for the course when we're traveling and cramming a lot of work into a relatively short space of time. It might also have had something to do with the fact that we arrived in Hoi An unprepared for cool weather and lots of rain. Lacking a rain coat - or any warm clothing, for that matter - I spent the better part of 5 days in a locally-purchased rain poncho that resembled a garbage bag with sleeves. (Dave assured me that if I wore the same in San Francisco it would quickly become must-have wet weather garb for the city's fashion divas. Ahem. Nice try, Dave.)

When my cold started to rear its ugly head I wished for something I was drinking quite a lot of exactly a year ago, while battling an even nastier cold while on assignment in Pampanga, Philippines. When a string of early mornings (as in 3am, for dawn mass) and non-stop days lay me low the kitchen angels at our host's home boiled up batch after batch of tea made with an herb growing wild outside the house. They called it 'oregano' (pictured below, and above - same name, two different leaves - two varieties, perhaps?). It eased my sore throat, cough, and general feeling of unwellness.

This 'oregano' is actually Indian borage (Plectranthus barbatus), a fuzzy, fleshy-leafed herb thought to be native to India that's also found in Australia, where it's known as five-in-one (thanks to once-prolific EatingAsia commenter RST for this link and others related to the herb). In India the tuberous roots are also used as a spice or prepared as a pickle. 

And Indian borage is found in Vietnam, where it's known as hung chanh, tan la day, and thom long. We first noticed it at a Hue/Hoi An market in Saigon; the vendor told us that it's not for eating, but for boiling into tea when you have a sore throat or cough. According to the link above it also grows wild in Malaysia, where it's known as daun bangun-bangun. We've not seen it in the market here, yet.

The herb smells a bit like Italian or Greek oregano but, to my nose, even more like sage or thyme. In Pampanga I asked if the herb was used for cooking; the response was 'no'. Yet something called 'oregano' is perhaps part of a dried herb mix called sangkot-sangkot that's added to a Philippine stewed meat dish called apritada.

According to that link above Indian borage is added to fish or goat meat curries in Malaysia and on Java (thus one of its Indonesian names - daun kambing or 'goat leaf') and, according to my Vietnamese herb book, there '...young leaves are cut into small pieces to enhance fish or meat as a seasoning before cooking'. (A similarly fuzzy, fleshy, and odiferous leaf, the name of which escapes me at the moment, is cooked with dog in Vietnam to mitigate that meat's distinctive odor.)

Intriguingly, the herb is also used in cooking in Cuba and the Caribbean, where it goes by the name of 'Cuban oregano' or 'French oregano'. In this 2005 Miami Herald article chef and cookbook author Maricel Presilla writes that the plant made its way to Latin America during colonial times. Which begs the question - from where and via whom? From the Philippines with the Spanish? Or from southern India or Malaysia/Indonesia with the Portuguese? Or...? And how did the herb find its way to Vietnam?

Filipinos, Australians, Indians, Malaysians, Vietnamese - anyone familiar with this herb - do you cook with it? And if so, how do you use it?

But back to Hoi An. I searched for Indian borage tea in vain but I did find, bubbling away over a wood fire in a corner near the seafood section, a vat of che tuoi, or 'fresh tea'. The leaves used for this tea are indeed unfermented and, from the looks of it, pretty old.

Branches, berries, leaves - everything goes into the pot and the vendor, who's been pouring cups of che tuoi in the market for over thirty years, gives it all a good boil for a couple hours. This isn't meant as specifically a cold remedy but its slightly bitter, grassy flavor and warmth was most welcome on our misty Hoi An mornings.

My cold, by the way, is pretty much vanquished, and in just over ten days. That's a record for me; these things usually seem to hang on for weeks. I don't know whether to attribute my quick recovery to che tuoi, thoughts of oregano tea, the handfuls of vitamin C tablets I began swallowing at regular intervals as soon as my symptoms appeared .... or candied turmeric.

Candied turmeric is sold alongside candied ginger all over Hoi An's market. Before I even got sick a vendor told me it's good for a cough and sore throat. I bolted at least a half a bag at the first sign of a sore throat and then continued to snack on the astringent treat for a few more days.

What's your (non-Western pharmaceutical) cure for the common cold?

Lunch at the Meat Counter

Much in the way that a seafood vendor's stall makes for the perfect setting in which to partake of kinilaw, meat may well be best enjoyed in front of a butcher counter. That, anyway, is what we took away from our lunch at Carniceria Santa Fe, a stubby Pepto Bismol-pink butcher shop cum sundries store just off Santa Fe's Cerillos Road.

Finding great food in spots that fly under the radar is about keeping your eyes open when traversing landscapes that you'd otherwise be tempted to snooze through. Cerillos Road is an unattractive strip mall-lined antidote to Santa Fe's adobified American Southwestern charm. It does not overtly broadcast the presence of good grub. But it was past noon, and we were hungry. Whether because it was tantalizingly hidden on a side street or because its plastic tarp signage suggested newcomer status, Carniceria Santa Fe held promise. We've no doubt that many similar eateries don't deliver on said promise, but this one did.

Carniceria means 'butcher' in Spanish, and while the front of Carniceria Santa Fe is crowded with shelves weighted with canned beans and chipotles en adobo, Mexican herbs and spices, tooth-achingly sweet candies, and plastic toys for the kids, its beating heart lies in back where a meat-filled display case, two tables, and a short counter front a dimunitive cooking area dominated by a table-sized griddle. Tacos, tortas, and burros (burritos) are on offer - choose your filling in its raw state from the meat case. There's also menudo and barbacoa and a daily platillo, the main component of which bubbles away griddleside on a single burner.

This day the scent of costilla en salsa verde (pork ribs stewed with green chilies) slapped us silly the moment we darkened the entryway. It was served with smoky pork nubbin-studded pinto beans and interestingly masa-flavored rice steamed with corn kernels (opening photo). We supplemented with an order of tacos discada, which is the name for both the dish (chopped meats cooked with tomatoes, chilies, herbs - whatever the cook wishes to throw into the mix) - and the traditional flattened wok-like pan it's usually cooked on. Our discada, pulled right from the meat case, was - like everything else save the platillo - cooked on the griddle.

Purists (you know who you are) will rue the presence of lettuce on these tacos but we who come from the land of Sad-Imitations-for-Mexican-Food Restaurants cannot be so choosy. At any rate, the discada (pork? beef? other? we were too busy oohing and aaahing to parse it) was crumbly, fatty in just the right way, satisfying. Even better was the costilla en salsa verde, the ribs so porcine and tender, the sauce not exactly spicy but smoky and even a bit sweet from the roasted green chilies.

'My favorite of our platillo,' is how owner Luis Guzman describes it. He's a native of Chihuahua who works in construction but stops into the Carniceria every weekday to say hello to his wife (behind the cash register) and lunch with his pre-school-age son.

That may explain why the costilla was still on the menu when we returned 24 hours later. No matter. It gave us an excuse to try the torta, carnitas (roast meat) for both of us. Chunks of pork of varying degrees of griddle-infused charred-ness lay on a pillow of chewy grilled bun spread with a layer of guacamole, more lettuce, a sprinkling of chopped jalapenos, a couple slices of tomato. No sour cream, no mayo, red or green salsas on the side only if you wish.

Seated spitting distance from the griddle and a few steps from the butcher case, we ate our meaty Mexican sandwiches gazing at mounds of raw animal flesh while swaddled in the comforting hug of cooked meat aromas, serenaded by the grinding of a bone saw out back.

It seemed, somehow, very right.

Our regret is that we discovered Carniceria Santa Fe late in our New Mexico stay, which left no time to become acquainted with its other platillo or to explore the menudo or barbacoa, let alone the tubs of alluringly creamy, snow-white queso fresco imported from Mexico in the refrigerator case.

Carniceria has been open only 4 months, but it already draws a steady stream of lunchtime traffic, and Luis says it's packed with families on the weekend. The welcome is warm, the food says 'made with love'. Highly recommended.

Carniceria Santa Fe, Felipe Street (at corner of Cerillos Road - a side street just across from the El Rey Inn), Santa Fe New Mexico. 505-983-7281.

 

Americana

Abandoned trailers in the vicinity of Bishop New Mexico

Now, while at least half the US is still wrapped in the warm, fuzzy glow of change/hope/yes-we-can, seems the perfect time to post some Americana.

Vintage Cadillac, Espanola New Mexico

Last month we spent three and a half weeks in the US - our longest stay since we moved to Bangkok seven years ago. We split our time between three very different parts of the country: the San Francisco Bay Area (where we resided happily for 8 years),

Kite and hills at sunset, Emeryville California

Michigan (where we both grew up and earned our undergraduate degrees),

Draft horse demonstration, East Lansing Michigan

and northern New Mexico, where my parents have lived for twenty years.

El Santuario do Chimayo, Chimayo New Mexico

Everywhere we went America's 'America-ness' announced itself. Foreigners - and Americans - cleave to so many cliched images of our country. Yet without even trying we bumped up against those images again and again. Postcard-perfect pictures of America.

High school football practice, Berkeley California

Historic Ingham County Courthouse, Mason Michigan

Little Man, Abiquiu New Mexico

Maybe we've been away so long that we've begun to view our own country as foreigners would, seeing the odd, unusual, beautiful, or extraordinary in the ordinary.

Giving a Clydesdale a bath, East Lansing Michigan

Certainly traveling with a camera (or with a photographer) leads you to search for often overlooked images.

A bar owner with a sense of humor, Holt Michigan

Dog tunnel, Abiquiu New Mexico

No doubt being in the US during the lead-up to a national election heightened our awareness of our country's uniqueness.

Obamanos, Santa Fe New Mexico

There's no denying that America is overflowing with vistas you won't find anywhere else in the world.

San Francisco Bay Bridge

Abandoned house, Edgewood New Mexico

We know a North America-resident writer-photographer who spends a chunk of every year in Southeast Asia. When he's back home in NA his camera stays in its bag. Lack of inspiration, he says. We can't imagine it.

Last Saturday we left San Francisco eager to return to our home in Kuala Lumpur yet wishing we'd had more time in the US. And maybe even appreciating the US more than we ever have.

Cochise, Abiquiu New Mexico

We'd like to know it better. Next time, maybe a road trip.

On the road in Espanola, New Mexico 

Vintage Buick, Hell Michigan

Tommy on the run, Abiquiu New Mexico

Today's the Day

Today Americans take to the polls, exercising their right to choose ... anyone but that other candidate

But seriously - if you're eligible and haven't done so already .... vote! The right to cast a free ballot that actually matters is not one that everyone in the world enjoys. We shouldn't waste it.

Tortas Rainbow

As recently as two weeks ago we believed that Vietnam was home to the world's best sandwiches. But no more. We've been torta-fied. 

A torta is a Mexican sandwich comprised of any one of a number of fillings nestled between the halves of an oval roll called a bollilo. I've long known of the existence of torta, but never thought to actually try one. To tell the truth, until I caught banh mi fever in Vietnam sandwiches just seemed so pedestrian, so American. If you're going to eat Mexican food, I thought, why eat a sandwich?

Then one day last week we were trolling for lunch in Espanola, New Mexico. Route 584 is not a pretty stretch of road (at least not the part that runs through Espanola), but it is nonetheless intriguing for its large number of what I like to call EWPs (eateries-with-potential). You know, the sort of exceedingly plain-in-appearance restaurants and strip mall holes-in-the wall that can be surprisingly good - or horrifically bad.

Tortas Rainbow falls into the former category. It's a strip mall corner shop EWP staffed by a couple of cooks from Durango and a stone-faced auntie who sits behind the cash register. We entered assuming we'd order burritos, but then our eyes fell on the filled-to-bursting buns in the hands of a couple of patrons near Tortas' entry. Ordering burritos was suddenly out of the question.

Rainbow's torta selection is large. There's pork many ways, chorizo and egg, ham and cheese. Dave quickly decided on a carnitas de puerco torta while in the heat of the moment I quite uncharacteristically went for the deep-fried option: torta with a filling of chile rellenos, or cheese-filled roasted green chilies, breaded and fried. (It's roasted green chile season in New Mexico - more on that later.)

The tortas come with a choice of red or green salsa and are accompanied, if you wish, by roasted whole jalapeno peppers. We added an optional garnish of pico, a fresh 'relish' of chopped jalapeno peppers mixed with chopped tomatoes and onions.

My torta, oozing cheese and redolent with the smokiness of the green chilies, was gone before Dave could capture it on camera. His boasted tender pulled pork. Both included a spread of refried beans carpeted with avocado slices on the bollilo's bottom half and a mound of shredded lettuce, chopped coriander, and sliced tomatoes piled atop our respective fillings. They were spectacular.

What really makes a torta special is the bollilo - soft but not mushy, chewy but not tough, and substantial enough to hold up to a hefty filling (and lashings of salsa) without falling apart in the hands. Bollilo, in fact, would make excellent hamburger buns. Before assembling our torta the cook crisped up our bollilo halves with a quick lieabout on the griddle.

I can't believe it took us so long to come around to the torta. It may well prove to be the Mexican specialty that finally lures us to Mexico. It's certainly a sandwich worth planning a detour from New Mexico around.

Tortas Rainbow, Riverside Drive (Route 584) near the intersection with Fairview (across the street from Fairview Plaza), Espanola, New Mexico.

Seek and Ye Shall Find, By Accident

We didn't intend for this trip to the US to be a multi-state search for Mexican (or Mexican-inspired) fare. But somehow, over the last couple of weeks, that's what it's become.

First came the squash blossom quesadilla, carne asado tacos, and grapefruit-and-jicama salad at Mijita, an ever-so-slightly precious, rather pricey, but very attention-to-details purveyor of undeniably delicious Mexican dishes in the San Francisco Ferry Plaza. Then came our brief guided tour of Oakland's taco trucks, serving more down-to-earth and considerably cheaper (but no less tasty) food. A few days later, we landed in the vicinity of East Lansing, Michigan, home to our undergraduate alma mater and Dave's parents.

If you imagine that the United States is a homogenous whole, try tracing that same path - from San Francisco and the East Bay, where the crowds jamming the entryways of all the anything-but-economy restaurants appear oblivious to the latest financial headlines, to Lansing, where it seems at least two front lawns on every block sport 'For Sale' signs (and at least two more houses are 'For Rent'). The streets of Lansing's attractively restored Old Town are nearly empty, many storefronts vacant. Driving me past the Oldsmobile plant where he earned astronomical sums as a college student - or what remains of it; demolition is in progresss - Dave remembered the days when you couldn't find a spot in its football-sized parking lot. Economic doldrums don't begin to describe the state of things in this part of Michigan.

But we found, quite by accident, a local story of economic success. One morning, after following a few Mexican food leads that ended up leading nowhere at all, we happened upon Handy's Mexican Deli. The sign that opens this post spoke to us. It said, 'Get your fix here.'

For thirty-six years Handy's Mexican Deli was Handy's Market, your average mini-grocery with a deli counter. Then a year or so ago Carlos (above right) and a friend purchased the place and turned it into a Mexican grocery cum takeout joint. The friend's wife Claudia (above left) signed on as cook and cashier. Handy's shelves are now lined with cans of Goya black beans, nopales, huitlacoche (corn smut, a rude name if ever there was one for something so deliciously earthy tasting), dried corn husks and pinto and black beans, masa Mexican brown sugar and pinatas.

 

The refrigerator case stocks tubs of Claudia's zesty red and whallop-packing green salsas, made fresh every couple of days. And the deli case displays all manner of burritos and tacos and tamales and enchiladas and even plastic containers of menudo to take away or eat standing or sitting in your car out front (for now tables are just a twinkle in Carlos and Claudia's eyes; we hope for major progress on that front within the next twelve months). The original owners of Handy's, who weren't ready to retire when they retired, are still around. Peek through the door behind the checkout counter and you'll see them in the back, chopping jalapenos or tending to other chores. Handy's old and new owners seem like one big happy family.

Business, Claudia says, is great. That has something much to do with the food, we know - but also, we suspect, as much to do with the new owners. When we walked into Handy's, full from a pretty decent but not 'wow' kind of lunch, we found them were ready to talk Mexican fare in Lansing. We bought a couple small items - a dulce de leche bar and a coconut treat, and Carlos shared his recommendations for decent Mexican in the area (Mongo's on Saginaw, he says, has 'good authentic food'. Unfortunately we couldn't fit Mongo's in on this trip.) Then Claudia asked if we'd like to try her salsa. When we responded in the affirmative she handed over a gallon-sized ziploc bag of housemade chips and a cup each of red and green.

'Um, can't I pay for this?' I asked.

With a great cook's confidence she replied, 'That's OK. You'll be back.'

And so we were. Business was indeed great - when we entered we found a thicket of patrons waiting in front of the deli counter for their orders.

With chips still left over we grabbed some red salsa (Claudia was fresh out of green, but obligingly dumped a pile of chopped jalapenos into our tub of red) and settled on a pulled beef burrito and a couple of servings of menudo. Plain and simple best describes the burrito, and that's not a bad thing. Tender, intensely flavored shredded meat combined with onions, tomatoes, lettuce, and chopped jalapenos - no cheese, no sour cream (though they're available on request) - filled this soft, thin flour tortilla wrap, and it was spectacular.

And I couldn't help thinking, as I spooned up Claudia's menudo, that this was a dish a pork-eating Malaysian could love. Except for the posole (pleasingly chewy kernels of dried corn), all the ingredients are familiar: chilies, cumin, cloves, cilantro, pork, and tripe. Its fragrant brick-colored broth, not overly fiery but just nipping at the tip of the tongue, married flawlessly with the the tripe's subtle funkiness. Spare parts poetry in a cup.

Thank the God of Good Mexican Grub for serendipitous finds.

Handy's Mexican Deli, Willow Street (near Walnut), just up the road from Willow Plaza Shopping Center, Lansing, Michigan. 517-482-1156.

Meals on Wheels, Oakland (CA) - Style

This morning I craved laksa asam. I really hadn't given Malaysian food much thought since we left KL a week ago Thursday, but when I woke up I was seized by a longing for something soured with tamarind and spiced with chilies, with a saucer of belacan stinkiness on the side. I know I won't find it here (in Michigan where we are now), or in New Mexico, where we're headed next. I know I'll have to wait till we're back home.

That's not to say we haven't been taking advantage of all the delicious things easily found in (parts of) the States, that we can't eat in Malaysia. Sweet, juicy, heirloom tomatoes. Cheese - blues, cheddars, buffalo mozzarella, goat cheese in various guises - sold at prices that won't send us to the poorhouse. Interesting Italian wines that we can afford. Big glasses of cold skim milk (sorry - I happen to love skim milk). Porchetta. Good artisanal breads, many made with sourdough starter. Pizza and wonderful handmade pastas. And tacos.

Earlier this week we hooked up with a blogger based in Oakland (formerly Bangkok). After I read his most recent taco truck post I dropped him a line: Hey, want to take us to an Oakland taco truck or two? That's how friendships are forged, over common interests. These days, more of our friendships have been made via food blogs than not. (Is that weird?)

We started at Tacos Sinaloa, two trucks situated in a parking lot on International Boulevar at 22nd. One truck specializes in meat and meat product tacos etc., the other in seafood. The fish tacos were fine, albeit not transcendent. A noted that the edges of the tortillas were dry. The fish was nicely smoky and seemed fresh enough. Coming from Malaysia, with its dearth of taco trucks, we were a bit more appreciative of the basics than most California taco connoisseurs probably would be.

We also popped for a shrimp cocktail, which arrived as a sort of michelada (Mexican beer cocktail) with large, perfectly-cooked shrimp and chunks of avocado in it.There was the tomato juice-y base, the bit of Worcestire, the lime. Lots of chopped cilantro and tortillas on the side. This we were impressed with. While it could have used a bit more chili bite for our taste (yeah, we're chili addicts), the shellfish were surprisingly plump, fresh, and plentiful. After we finished dipping up solids with our tortillas I drank the liquid down, wishing I had a Negro Modelo to add in.

We saved the best - A's favorite taco truck - for last.

Tacos Alonzo's menu offers a whole host of meaty options, but we were really there for the tripe tacos.

And they were excellent - fried till cripsy and golden, a masterful blend of texture (crunchy and chewy) and just enough funky tripiness to keep the taste buds interested. Easily our favorite taco of the day.

Of course, one is never enough, so cabeza (head meat) - meltingly soft, a bit fatty, very meaty tasting - and spiced pork chunks (pastor) also found their way onto our taco platter.

All well and good (Alonzo's pickled carrots are a cut above, by the way), but it was the tripe that we talked about on the way back to our respective abodes (by way of the Berkeley Farmer's Market and the Phoenix's incredible macaroons).

We've heard tell of a Tex-Mex taco truck somewhere in the vicinity of Lansing, MI. Further investigation will be warranted.

Thanks A, for the all-too-short taco truck tour.

 

Got Your Goat

This dish has absolutely nothing to do with Asia, other than the fact that I cooked it in my Malaysian kitchen, but sometimes a good recipe should be shared whether or not it fits the theme of the food blog.
And a dish this rich and meaty is probably not going to appeal right now to most of our in-the-grip-of-summer North American readers, but I know that somewhere in the world it's daube weather.

I cooked goat for the first time just a few months ago, in a spicy coconut milk-based goat curry. The dish was delicious and got me wondering what else I could do with the other red meat.

It was Dave who suggested goat daube (a daube is wine-based stew). He'd been thinking about the string of Decembers we spent in a rented farmhouse in Piemonte. Not surprisingly (it's Italy after all, and this was before the precipitous drop of the US dollar) those weeks were all about eating and drinking and cooking and the sporadic sightseeing that occurred on the way to and from open markets and shops and osterie and trattorie and restaurants. One of our most memorable Christmas Eve meals was a Provencal daube made with bue grasso beef that we purchased from the local butcher. The daube recipe was one I'd followed a bunch of times at home, but made with Piemonte's exceptional beef it was an altogether different - and tastier - animal. Bue grasso tastes stronger, more minerally, and, for lack of a better word, beefier than American beef.  That Christmas Eve daube was so good, in fact, that I never made  the dish again, unless we were in Piemonte.

Until a month or so ago, when Dave suggested I substitute goat for the bue grasso. It's not a true substitution, of course - goat is a bit gamey and awfully tough. But, we thought, tamed by the overnight soak in red wine that this recipe calls for and stewed slowly for a good, long time, it might give the daube the sort of extra 'edge' that it gained from the Piemonte beef. Long story short - we were very happy with the rich, uber-meaty daube, in which goat and dry red wine played off each other beautifully. We ate half the day I made it and stuck the rest in the freezer. Leftovers, eaten for dinner Sunday night, were even tastier than the first round.

Most every KL wet market has a mutton and goat vendor (or five), and that's where I purchased the goat meat. I told the butcher I was making curry and asked him to leave the bones in when he chopped up the meat. Ten years ago I might have found eating a dish made with bone-in meat a pain in the rear, but living in Asia has inured me to the hassle of negotiating my way around bone bits; I've also come to realize that the extra flavor bones lend to slow-simmered dishes are more than worth the effort of dealing with them at the table. If I really don't want bones in a stew or soup I remove the meat from the finished dish, let it cool, and then add it back in after I've deboned it. But for cooking, bones stay in.

This goat daube must be started 24 hours ahead, so the meat can soak overnight in (a whole bottle of) red wine. Also in the drink are carrots and onions, freshly ground pepper and salt, fresh thyme and rosemary branches, bay leaves, garlic, and a couple strips of fresh orange peel.

When it's time to cook the daube, remove the meat from the marindate and pat it dry, so that it will brown well. First, chopped onions and minced garlic are sauteed in vegetable oil or, if you wish, pork fat. After they're removed the goat is added and browned off, then removed from the pot and set aside.

Flour is added to the fat left in the pot and cooked and stirred until it browns,

and then in goes the marinade.

Once the pan's been deglazed - bits clinging to the bottom scraped up and incorporated into the liquid as it's brought to a boil - in go the other marinade ingredients, to which are added the sauteed onions,

the browned meat,

some water and, finally, a few dried mushrooms (porcini or cepes).

The stew is simmered, covered, on the stove (it could also be placed in a hot oven) until the goat is tender - which took about 3.5 hours this time around. From pulling the marinated goat from the refrigerator to putting the cover on the pot to simmer took maybe 45 minutes max. Once it's cooking away you're pretty much golden ... not much to do except check the stew every half hour or so to see that it's at a gentle simmer and that sufficient liquid remains to keep things from sticking.

Daube with a (goaty) difference - we like it served with a grind of pepper and a mash of potatoes and winter squash.

Goat Daube with Dried Mushrooms (adapted from The Food and Flavors of Haute Provence by Georganne Brennan)

2.5 pounds bone-in goat meat (or about 2 pounds off the bone), cut into 2 to 2.5-inch pieces
2 yellow onions
3 carrots
8 or so thyme branches
2 rosemary branches, about 6 inches long
2 dried bay leaves
salt
freshly ground black pepper
5 cloves garlic
2 strips orange zest
1 bottle (750 ml) dry red wine
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 cup water
2 ounces dried mushrooms (cepes or porcini), some broken up and some left whole
1 cup water
1/2 cup flat leaf parsley (optional)

1. Trim and discard any large pieces of fat from goat. Place it in a non-reactive bowl, add 1 onion (quartered), carrots (peeled and cut into 2-inch pieces), 2 cloves of garlic, herbs, 1 teaspoon of salt, 1 tablespoon pepper, and orange zest. Pour the wine over all and turn to mix and immerse the ingredients. Cover and marinate overnight in the fridge, stirring occasionally to make all ingredients get a good soak.
2. To cook the daube heat 2 tablespoons oil (or pork fat) in a large heavy casserole or Dutch oven over medium heat. Add the remaining onion (diced) and garlic cloves (minced) and saute till their translucent, then remove with a slotted spoon and set aside.
3. Drain the meat and reserve the marinade. Pat the meat as dry as possible and then add to the pot a few pieces at a time to brown (don't overcrowd the pot or the meat will steam). Saute for about 5 minutes, turning to brown all sides, then remove with a slotted spoon and continue till all meat is cooked.
4. Add the flour to the pan and cook until it browns, stirring often. Raise the heat to high and slowly pour in the marinade liquid, deglazing the pan by stiring up any bits clinging to the bottom. Add the rest of the marinade ingredients, then the onion, goat, 1 teaspoon salt, and more ground pepper to taste. Throw in the dried mushrooms, pour in the water, and bring the mixture to the boil. Reduce the heat to very low, cover with a lid, and simmer until the goat can be cut through with a spoon, 3-4 hours.
5. Once the daube is cooked skim off some of the fat and serve sprinkled with parsley (optional), with pasta or a mash of potatoes and sweet winter squash.

Real Pizza

When I described for my friend Brett my favorite pizza in the US, if not the world (fresh sweet corn, crumbled feta, cilantro, lemon zest), served by my favorite place in Berkeley, CA (The Cheeseboard), he rolled his eyes. And snorted. Yes, snorted.

'That's not a pizza!' he spat-snorted. 'Come to Brooklyn. I'll show you a real pizza.'

So I did. Go to Brooklyn, that is, while I was in the US last month. And he did. Show me a real pizza. He let me eat some of it too. (Dave and his camera missed out, unfortunately. Sorry Dave!)

If Brett's a representative sample I think I can safely assert that New Yorkers are pretty obsessive about their pizza. They believe they live in one of the world's pizza capitals. I'm not saying that they don't - I'm just saying they believe that they do. In his quest to demonstrate that years of residence in the San Francisco Bay Area had so warped my food consciousness that I no longer knew a frou-frou Sunshine State (CA is the Sunshine State, isn't it?) sorry excuse for a pizza from a real pizza, Brett took me to Di Fara's. It's a New York institution. I have to say, I loved it the minute I walked in.

Stacked ovens (two of which require a step ladder to reach), a counter, a refrigerated drinks case, and about seven tables - Di Fara's is not much to look at. But the smell of that pizza shop could get even a food poisoning victim salivating. Garlic and tomatoes and sizzling Italian cured meats and wheaty dough, that what Di Fara's smells like.  The aromas wafting about in there are intoxicating, and maddening too, because if you order a pie special, rather than just taking a slice or two from what's on offer for the coupla-slices customers, you'll be waiting a good while. Even if you phone your order in ahead, as we did.

Dom Di Fara makes the pizzas. And he's been doing it for eons. Di Fara is the sort of long-standing family-owned food business that I take for granted in KL and don't too often stumble across in the US. It was a delight to watch Dom work. He's slow and methodical, lavishing care and - dare I say it - love on every single pie. Dom keeps a steady pace no matter how many customers are lined up waiting for their pie or a slice. He won't be rushed and he won't be distracted. He treats every pizza as if it's the most important pizza he'll make all week. He's a true craftsman.

Buffalo mozzarella, sauce house made with imported Italian tomatoes, a healthy sprinkle of honest-to-goodness parmesan, substantial dough base randomly blistered on its rim and bottom. Fresh basil and oregano leaves and a sprinkle of dried oregano, not sprinkled from a canister but pulled from fragrant dried whole branches, a nice touch. We went with a few different toppings on one pie. What Dom called 'wild mushrooms' - obscenely huge, meaty chunks of porcini from a jar - were my choice and they were a standout, but in the end I have to admit that in the case of a pizza this good less is more. When it comes to savoring the honest flavor of Dom's crispy and chewy dough, and his tartly piquant tomato sauce softened by that milky buffalo mozzarella, the fewer distractions the better.

Yes, Dom Di Fara makes a real pizza. I'm a convert.

Di Fara Pizza, 1424 Avenue J, Brooklyn. Tel (718) 258-1367

Update: A comment below led me to this ode to Di Fara's, Dom, and his pies. It's a pretty wonderful read.

San Francisco Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market

Our trip to San Francisco last April was not all leisure.

Ferry Plaza clock tower. Trams Electric-powered light rail cars run along theSan Francisco Bay-fronting Embarcadero.

Dave pulled himself from bed early Saturday morning to shoot the photos for the write-up on the San Francisco Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market which appears in this month's Flavours magazine. The article was penned by our friend, San Francisco-based freelance writer and food blogger Catherine Nash. I tagged along for the snacking.

If a trip to San Francisco is in your future it's well worth staying over a Saturday to catch this market, with its numerous goodies to eat on site and plenty more to cart home. Catherine provides a round-up of the best eats at the end of her article.