EatingAsia

More Turkish Anchovies, and a Recipe

In our latest piece for food and wine website Zester Daily: more on anchovy season in Turkey and the threats posed to the Black Sea's anchovy stock, plus a slideshow and a recipe for anchovy pilaf. If you're lucky enough to have fresh anchovies to hand (sardines might be a decent subsitute), give it a try!

Read the story here.

Chengdu's Sleeper Dish: Mizheng Rou

Sichuanese rice meal-coated steamed pork belly with pumpkin

If all goes according to plan, Dave and I will be back in Chengdu in a little over a month. Until then, we have mizheng rou.

"Rice-steamed meat" is the admittedly not especially appetizing translation of the Chinese characters for what is actually a quite delicious dish. At its most basic mizheng rou consists of meat tossed with ground toasted rice packed into a bowl and steamed for a good long time. It's a cool weather staple, served from giant bamboo or stainless steel steamers set out on sidewalks in front of hole-in-the-wall eateries.

Mizheng rou is probably the most delicous Sichuan dish you've never heard of.

It's deeply comforting in the way that a long-simmered stew is. Imagine it --- meat seasoned with sauces and (sometimes) chilies, then tossed with coarsely ground toasted rice, packed into a bowl, and set into a steamer. For two hours, or maybe three (it's hard to overcook mizheng rou) the meat and rice are gently coddled in swirling scented steam. The meat goes wonderfully soft, absorbing and releasing flavors that are picked up by the uneven bits of rice clinging to its surfaces. They in turn plump up, taking on a texture akin to a thin layer of lumpy mashed potatoes.

Our first encounter with mizheng rou was in 1991, on our first trip back to Chengdu since teaching English there in the mid-eighties. One evening we ate at the home of our friend Qiao's (the same Qiao who taught me how to make some pretty fantastic sauce for noodles with Sichuan preserved vegetable) parents. The weather was typically late-autumn awful -- damp, cold, and gray -- and Dave and I were both nursing sore throats and achy bones. Soon after we arrived at Qiao's parents' place they threw open the windows to let in some "fresh air". We shivered in our coats and warmed our hands on big mugs of tea.

But that dinner -- oh, the food! -- nearly cured us. If there's anything better than a meal in Chengdu it's a home-cooked meal in Chengdu. We ate dry-fried green beans sporting bits of fatty pork and salty preserved vegetable, softened stir-fried tomato slices nestled in pillows of scrambled egg, deep-fried 'sandwiches' of chopped pork held between crispy slices of lotus root, tender pea vines dotted with toasted Sichuan peppercorns and dried chilies, and cool shredded cucumber and carrot tossed with bean thread noodle, chili oil, and black vinegar.

But the highlight of the meal was Qiao's mom's mizheng niu rou, a mound of roughly chopped steamed beef mixed with chili paste, soy sauce, sesame oil, Sichuan peppercorn, chopped green onion, lots of chopped cilantro, and bits of toasted rice. It wasn't especially spicy, but every bite was so flavorful, every morsel of meat thoroughly imbued with the seasonings.

Dave and I talked about that dish for days, months even. Then on our trip to Chengdu last January it seemed that mizheng rou was everywhere. Pork belly with pumpkin, beef with green onions, pork ribs with preserved vegetable -- we couldn't get enough of it. When we returned home I set about recreating the dish, with help from Fuchsia Dunlop's Land of Plenty and a recipe book of Sichuan home-style dishes that I picked up in Chengdu, and we've eaten it many times since.

Mizheng rou's greatness was confirmed when we served it to two houseguests a few months ago, Americans who had no preconceptions of what Sichuan food should or shouldn't be. They loved it. I think you will too. (Bonus -- it is VERY easy to make. Any steamer will do -- you don't necessarily need a Chinese-style bamboo one.)

I offer two versions, one for beef and one for pork with pumpkin or winter squash (the pork is not spicy), below. Both are wonderful served with crisp cold romaine leaves dressed with black vinegar (substitute a mixture of cheap balsamic and rice vinegar) mixed with sesame oil, a bit of sugar, salt, chili oil, and just enough sesame paste to give body.

 

Rice-meal coated spicy beef pre-steaming

Mi Zheng La Niu Rou (Spicy Rice-Steamed Beef)

This recipe is adapted from Dunlop's Land of Plenty (a must-buy if you are at all interested in Sichuan cuisine, and especially if you're travelling to Sichuan and want to bone up on what to eat there). I sometimes top it with slices of carrot, which will soften in the steam. Feel free to play with the recipe -- add a bit of chili bean paste if you like, or chop up some cilantro stems and mix them into the meat with the green onions.

1/2 cup white or brown rice

2 star anise

a 1-inch piece of cinammon stick

1 lb of beef (Dunlop recommends flank steak, but I've used tough Malaysian beef to good effect -- any stewing beef will work)

2 Tbsp soy sauce

1 Tbsp each chopped ginger and garlic

2 green onions, white and green parts, chopped

Anywhere from 1/2 tsp to 1 Tbsp dried red chili flakes (if you're a chili head -- OPTIONAL)

2 Tbsp dry sherry or rice wine

3 Tbsp sesame oil

water or meat broth

For serving:

Ground Sichuan peppercorns

sesame oil or chili oi

cilantro leaves, a large handful

1. Rice meal: Put the rice, star anise, and cinammon stick into a pan and toast over low-to-medium heat, stirring fairly constanty, till the rice turns opaque. Remove the rice from the heat and set aside to cool. Then, remove the star anise and cinnamon (set them aside) and pound the rice in a mortar or grind it in a spice grinder to make ROUGH, UNEVEN pieces. (You do not want a powder).
2. Cut the beef into thin slices or approx. 1/2-inch chunks. Put it in a bow and add the soy sauce, ginger and garlic, green onions, chili flakes if using, dry sherry or rice wine, and sesame oil and mix. Set the meat aside to marinate for 15 minutes.
3. Add the rice meal to the meat and mix. If the mixture is completely dry add water or broth by the tablespoon full. You want just a small pool of liquid at the bottom of the bowl.
4. Pack the meat snugly (and any liquid) into a heat-proof bowl (I use a stainless steel bowl). Tuck in the reserved star anise and cinnamon. Lay thin slices of carrot on top, if you like.
5. Place the meat into a steamer and cook for 1.5-2 hours. (It's hard to overcook this dish and how long it takes will depend on the cut of meat you use. Test for tenderness after an hour and 15 mins.)
6. When the meat is done, remove the bowl from the steamer. Place a large plate over the top of the bowl and turn it upside down. Remove the bowl and scrape any bits clinging to its sides onto the meat. 
7. Drizzle with sesame or chili oil, sprinkle with ground Sichuan peppercorns, garnish with a flurry of cilantro leaves, and serve.

Rice meal-coated steamed beef with carrots, served

Mi Zheng Zhu Rou Nan Gua (Rice-Steamed Pork with Pumpkin/Winter Squash)

Note that there are no chilies in this dish (though you could certainly add some if the spirit moved you.)Use soft pork ribs or a fatty cut (belly perhaps, or shoulder). Pumpkin, butternut, acorn, kabocha squashes all work well here. I like to serve this with a simple stir-fried leafy green like spinach, mustard, or baby bok choy.

1/2 cup white rice

3/4# boneless pork cut into 1/2-1 inch chunks, or 1# soft pork ribs

2 Tbsp taucu (bean paste)

3 Tbsp soy sauce

2 Tbsp rice wine or dry sherry 

2 Tbsp sesame oil

1 1/2-inch piece ginger, finely chopped

2 garlic cloves finely chopped

2-4 tablespoons meat or vegetable stock

1/2# pumpkin or winter squash cut into 1.2-inch chunks.

Sesame oil for drizzling

Handful of cilantro leaves

1. Toast the rice in a pan till opaque (don't burn it!), let cool, then roughly grind in a spice grinder (or pound in a mortar).
2. In a bowl, mix the pork, taucu/bean paste, soy sauce, rice wine or sherry, sesame oil, ginger, and garlic, then set aside to marinate for 10 minutes.
3. Add the rice meal to the pork and mix, then add stock and water a tablespoon at a time until the meat is thoroughly moistened and there's perhaps 1-2 tbsp of liquid at the bottom of the mixing bowl.
4. Pack the meat and its juices snugly into a heatproof bowl. Cover the meat's surface with squash or pumpkin cubes, pressing them down into the meat.
5. Steam the pork and pumpkin for up to 2 hours. Check after 1 hr 15 mins for tenderness.
6. When the meat is done remove it from the steamer, place a large plate over the top, and turn the bowl upside down onto the plate. Scrape any pieces sticking to the bowl onto the meat. Drizzle 1/2 a tablespoon or so of sesame oil over the top, garnish with cilantro leaves (if using), and serve.

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.

Shan Pickle

I'm not sure if we've ever made it public, but we are Pickle People. It's something to do with our love of sourness in absolutely any form, I suppose. We adore vegetables too, so it stands to reason that any food that is both sour and vegetal is a guaranteed winner in our book.

Last year, while reporting a feature article on Naomi Duguid and Jeffrey Alford's first cooking class in northern Thailand, we were introduced to the pickle of our dreams. Made with mustard -- our favorite leafy green -- and dried chilies, turmeric, and rice wine and fermented with glutinous rice, it's crunchy and sharp and possesses the funky pungency more often found in Asian pickles than those made in the West.

We encountered said pickle on a lovely lychee farm in Fang (a city about 2 hours north of Chiang Mai) where Naomi and Jeff's students spent two idyllic days learning how to cook Shan dishes from a soft-spoken Burmese Shan couple. She had made the pickle, and so we've called it 'Shan pickle' ever since.

In Thai the pickle is called pakkat dong. Dong (pronounced 'dawng') is a general term for anything pickled or fermented. Pakkat most often refers to the choy sum-ish yellow-flowering mustard that is a main ingredient of northern Thai jaw pakkat, a delicious sour pork and vegetable soup. Yellow-flowering pakkat leaves are also served as part of the array of fresh herbs and vegetables that accompany every northern Thai meal.

Pakkat is also a general term for any leafy mustard. Our Shan pickle is made with a variety that closely resembles in flavor the especially sharp-tasting, egg-shaped 'head' mustard that Chinese call jie cai (gai choy in Cantonese). 

Before and after: mustard before pickling and the pickle, sun-dried

The Shan are also Pickle People. Not only do they make and eat 'wet' specimens like our Shan pickle, they also take those pickled vegetables and dry them in the sun. These intensely flavored wisps of soured goodness, which are often touched with a whiff of smoke, are then added to soups and curries. (You can taste and buy a variety of dried pickles at the Cin Haw Friday morning market in Chiang Mai.)

 

Shan pickle is a cinch to make, though it does require a bit of space in which to lay out the mustard greens to dry. They need to be shriveled and moisture-free before they're put in their pickling bath. (If you live somewhere very hot and sunny, the greens can be dried in a day.)

There are no set-in-stone amounts for most ingredients. It depends on the size and shape of  of your jar (or jars), how spicy you like your pickle, whether or not you like turmeric, etc.

For my last batch of Shan pickle I started with about 6 pounds of jie cai / mustard. I removed the core and sliced it into approximately 3/4-inch / 3-cm pieces, which I washed thoroughly and dried in a salad spinner. I then laid the mustard in a single layer on towel-lined cookie sheets -- 6 in all -- and set them on my dining table under a ceiling fan. 

You don't have to live somewhere hot to dry vegetables this way, but it is very important that the cabbage, if not dried outdoors, be exposed to moving air. Otherwise -- speaking from experience, when I tried to dry them in my hot, airless, fan-free little kitchen -- the leaves will rot rather than dry.

So, there they sat on the table for three days. Did they begin to emit a strong cabbage-like stink? Yes, a bit. No matter; we don't spend much time in the vicinity of the dining table. By the end of the third day the mustard leaves had shrunk to about 1/3 of their original volume and looked like this:

I put all the leaves in a bowl, added about half a tablespoon of kosher salt and a full tablespoon of dried ground chilies, and rubbed the seasonings into the leaves with my fingers. I then cut a peeled knob of fresh turmeric into 6 or 7 slices (if fresh turmeric isn't available you can substitute about 1 teaspoon turmeric powder and rub it into the cabbage leaves with the chili and salt).

I placed the leaves and turmeric slices into a jar (see photo above), smushing the leaves down to pack them in tightly, then sprinkled in 2 or 3 tablespoons of Chinese rice wine. (Sake would work, as long as it isn't sweet, shoju might work as well, or a very dry sherry.) A single layer of glutinous rice topped the greens, and then I added warm (not boiling) water to about 3 fingers' height above the greens.

I sealed the jar, set it in a dark, warm place -- and 2 weeks later we had Shan pickle.

 

We could have let the pickle ferment for another week for a stronger taste, or pulled it a week early for a lighter fermentation. Once the jar is opened it goes in the fridge, where it stays good forever -- or 3 months, at least.

We eat it as a condiment to accompany other dishes and rice. You could toss it into a northern-style soupy curry made with pork, perhaps. But when we cook with our Shan pickle we most often use it in a wonderful pork belly and pressed tofu stir-fry that we learned at the class up in Fang. The sharpness of the pickle is the perfect foil for the belly's fatty richness. Feel free to adjust ingredient amounts (you could certainly do with more pork belly if you're a pork lover.) Serve with regular (not sticky) steamed rice.

(The glutinous rice aids fermentation. It doesn't soften. If you're eating the pickle as a condiment you might want to pick off the grains, but we don't bother. If you're cooking with the pickle the grains kind of disappear into the dish.)

This recipe is adapted from Naomi Duguid and Jeff Alford's cooking immersion course in northern Thailand (thanks to Jodi and Farina for putting together a collection of recipes from the class). Naomi is now offering classes on her own. Anyone interested in a very different -- and fun and fascinating -- sort of foodish experience should check out the 2011 schedule, with class details and itinerary, here.

Pakkat Dong Khua Sai Daohu Muu Sam Chan (Shan Pickle with 'Three-Layer' Pork and Bean Curd)

2 Tbsp cooking oil

200 grams fatty pork belly, skin removed and sliced thin

Optional: 1/2 Tbsp (or more) ground dried chili

1 large yellow onion, thinly sliced

Optional: 1 cup sliced fresh mustard greens, any variety

1 lb pressed tofu, sliced thin (Substitute regular firm bean curd, wrapped in towels and pressed under weights for at least 1 hour)

1 1/2 cups pickled mustard greens

Salt to taste

5 scallions (white part and green part), chopped with a medium bunch of cilantro

1. Heat a wok or frying pan over high heat. Add the oil and heat, and then add the pork belly. Fry it till it's brown and beginning to crisp, stirring often.
2. If using the chili, add it now and fry until fragrant, about 1 minute.
3. Add the sliced onion and fresh mustard greens, if using. Stir for a minute and then ad the tofu and fry until the tofu begins to brown.
4. Stir in the pickled greens and toss together, then cover the wok or pan, lower the heat to medium-low and simmer for about 7 minutes.
5. Taste for seasoning and add salt if necessary. I f you wish for a bit of sourness, splash in a Tbsp or two of pickle juice. Stir everything together.
6. Serve sprinkled with the cilantro and green onions.

Making Krayasaat (Thai Traditional Popped Rice Treat) - Up to You

Popped rice -- brown hulls are visible in the center of the photo

Our Thai helper Wan has been with Dave and I since 2002, when we lived in Bangkok. After more than 8 years of the three of us under one roof she's like a member of the family. It's thanks to Wan that we're able to do what we do; given our three dogs and two cats traveling 6 months out of the year for a living would be out of the question if not for her. When we leave we know that everything -- living and otherwise -- will be in competent  and loving hands until we get back. And you can't put a price peace of mind like that.

Twice a year we pack Wan off to her village near Buriram, in Thailand's northeast Isaan region, for a few weeks of family, food, and R & R. She leaves carrying suitcases bursting with edible presents my old food magazines ("When I retire I'll relax in my new house and enjoy looking at them."). When she returns to KL she's maxed out her weight limit with foods from home. 

There's always something for us -- usually long-grained red rice (deliciously nutty) from her village, maybe some dried red chilies or kanom (sweets). Back from her last trip in December, Wan gifted us a plastic tub of the best Thai coconut palm sugar I've ever tasted, purchased on a Bangkok street from a southern Thai lady who comes north a couple times a year to sell her family's product. I've cooked with it some, but mostly we've been eating it like candy, straight from the tub, apportioned out a tiny tip-of-a-spoonful at a time.

From her last visit home Wan also carried a bag of un-hulled sticky rice. One day last week I returned home to the smell of toast --she was cooking the rice in a dry pan like popcorn.

"I'm making krayasaat just like in my village," Wan announced. Which got me very excited indeed.

Krayasaat is a traditional Thai confection made with popped rice -- something along the lines of the best rice krispie treat you've ever eaten only one hundred times tastier. We had our last taste of krayasaat a few years ago in Bangkok, when we bought a portion from a batch just made that morning by the owner of a beauty parlor Suan Plu market. It was caramely with palm sugar and boasted lots of roasted peanuts and sesame seeds; not too sweet, more snack than candy. 

 

Krayasaat, made with kao mao colored with pandan

Later that day the scent of palm sugar heating in a pan drew me to Wan's kitchen (just me and my notebook; Dave, if he's attached to a camera, is rarely welcome there). She was stirring the same type of palm sugar she'd gifted us with coconut oil over a low heat. Next to her cooktop sat a bowl of white sesame seeds, another of lightly blistered peanuts that she'd roasted herself, and still another of kao mao, young rice that's been toasted and pounded in a process similar to -- but nowhere near as long and labor-intensive as -- the one that produces Philippine duman. 

"So you use palm sugar to make krayasaat?" I asked Wan.

"Arai gaw dai," she answered, using her favorite phrase ("Up to you.") "If you like to use palm sugar OK. If you want to use white sugar you can do."

"OK then," I parried, pen and notebook ready. "How about the popped rice? Do you have to use sticky rice?"

"Arai gaw dai. Sticky rice, regular rice, either can do."

"Well Wan, what are the other ingredients? Palm sugar, coconut oil, popped rice.."

"Arai gaw dai, Khun Robyn!" Exaggerated eye rolling at this point, and I think I heard a snort or two. "You like peanut, put peanut. You like sesame, OK. You don't like, you don't put!"

"Salt?"

"Arai gaw dai."

"Should you include kao mao?"

"Arai gaw dai."

One solid instruction only did Wan offer: the finished krayasaat shouldn't be caramel-sticky. Hers was sweet, but each ingredient remained distinct. It was a smoky, coconuty-peanuty treat to eat with a spoon, not with one's hands.

And next time she makes it I'm going to stay out of the kitchen.

Wan's Krayasaat

Coconut oil. No question.

Palm sugar or white sugar, up to you

Kao mao, if you like it.

Sesame seeds -- or not, up to you

Roasted peanuts maybe -- depends on your taste

Salt, unless you don't like the salty in which case no need. Up to you.

Puffed rice, not too much so it's all coated when you finish. But enough rice so it's not sticky

Heat coconut oil and palm sugar (proportions up to you) in a pan till soft. Stir in kao mao, sesame seeds and roasted peanuts if using -- Up To You! -- salt (if you like salty). Stir, then pour over puffed rice. Mix everything together, spread in a dish, and enjoy.

Green Papaya Fritter of (Tennis) Champions

This morning I shared a late breakfast of noodles, pork chop, and roti babi at Yut Kee with a friend visiting from Manila. It was a reminder of how long it's been since our last trip to the Philippines (a year and a half, in fact) -- and how, when we embarked on this 24/7 photography-writing thing we thought that we'd have all the time in the world in between assignments and work at home to travel for our own interest.

Not so. As it turns out I've barely got time to finish the work that sits on on corner of my desk, taunting me. And I'm so behind in posts - there's still much of Taiwan, Penang, where we've spent a lot of time over the last couple months, and even Chiang Mai yet to write about, Dave's got a bit more of India to share, I haven't blogged anything about Kuala Lumpur in months, and tomorrow we leave for Sulawesi, where we'll no doubt find many more culinary traditions to photograph and write about.

And now here I am revisiting material from Christmas 2007, which we spent in Arayat, Pampanga, on assignment. Can it really have been over 18 months ago? We returned from that trip with so much great material in the form of over 2,000 photos and three well-marked thick notebooks. By necessity there's much that didn't make it into our article, including a couple recipes.

Here's a taste.

Much of the action that week took place in Medina kitchen, a beautiful 100+-year-old grass-roofed, wood-beamed room with a wood-burning stove at its center. Saturday December 22nd was no different - that morning family cook Lucia (above, right) and her coterie of helpers (including daughter Maricris, left) were putting the finishing touches on the feast that would cap off the annual Medina Christmas tennis tournament, open to anyone in Arayat who cares to show up.

The kitchen's capiz shell-paned windows overlook the tennis court on one side and the side yard, where two whole spit-speared pigs were being turned slowly over a bed of coals, on the other. By late morning, as the tourney finals wore down and the pigs' skins cracked and began to drip fat, most of the stove-top dishes (chicken and pork adobo; balo-balo, pungent fish fermented with rice to eat with mustard leaves; menudo - pork and parts with carrots, potatoes, and red pepper) were already finished. All that remained to be cooked were the beruya (known outside Pampanga as okoy), or shrimp and green papaya fritters.

Beruya are one of Maricris' specialties (which doesn't preclude Lucia from peering over her shoulder to make sure she's preparing them correctly, as you can see above). She starts by cleaning (but not peeling) small shrimp and slicing red onion and camote (sweet potato). After grating green papaya halves she squeezes the shreds to remove as much water as possible,

and then adds in chopped onion and Chinese celery.

Beruya use a rice batter made from soaked ground rice rather than rice flour, and also incorporates egg, salt, and achuete (annatto seeds), the latter for color.

The fritters are assembled in a large shallow ladle: first a pool of batter and then on top of that a layer of papaya, a single shrimp, a piece of onion, and a slice of potato.

Then, enough batter is poured on top of it all to nearly cover the fruit-vegetable layer.

 

The spatula is lowered into hot oil, and after a few seconds the underside of the fritter is cooked enough to float free.. The beruya are done when well-browned.

The rice batter makes these fritters light and crispy. But they're also just a little bit evil, in that way that all delicious deep-fried foods are. Beruya are fine on their own (excellent with cocktails), but best eaten dipped a sawsawan (dipping sauce or accompaniment) of vinegar flavored with freshly ground black pepper, a few chopped fresh chilies, garlic and chopped shallot.

They are also known - or at least they were that day a couple Decembers ago - as snack food of tennis champions.

 

Beruya ni Maricris (Maricris' Green Papaya and Shrimp Fritters)

These fritters make an excellent hors d'oeuvre with cocktails. Best right out of the fryer, they're also quite okay if left aside for up to an hour. The sawsawan-vinegar dip is a must; it cuts through the oil and complements the sweetness of the shrimp and sweet potato. If you can't find small shrimp use larger ones cut into pieces. If you're more comfortable shelling and deveining your shrimp, so be it - the fritters won't suffer much.

The batter recipe is inexact - depending on how wet your rice is you might need less or more water. What you want is something with the consistency of thin pancake batter. It's important to squeeze the papaya as much as possible and make sure your shrimp are dry.

Batter:

2 c medium or long-grain rice

1 cup water

5 annatto seeds

1 egg

1 tsp salt

Fritters:

1 green papaya, grated

2 small red onions, finely chopped

1/4 cup finely chopped Chinese celery, including leaves

2 small red onions, finely sliced

1 sweet potato, thinkly sliced lengthwise and then cut into 1-inch-ish squares

1/2 pound whole shrimp, washed and dried (optional: heads removed)

Sawsawan:

1 cup white vinegar

2 cloves garlic, smashed

1-2 fresh chilies, chopped (optional)

Plenty of freshly ground black pepper

1-2 shallots, finely chopped

Vegetable oil for deep-frying

1. For the batter, mix rice with 1 cup water and leave overnight
2. Soak the annatto seeds in 1 cup water for 1 hour and remove.
3. In a food processor or blend grind the rice and water until somewhat, but not completely, smooth. Remove rice to a bowl and stir in annatto water, egg, and salt. The batter should be thinnish, like thin pancake batter. Add more water if necessary.
4. Squeeze as much water as possible from the papaya; use a piece of cheesecloth or muslin or your bare hands. Place it in a bowl and add the chopped celery and onions and a pinch of salt. Mix thoroughly and set aside.
5. Mix the sawsawan ingredients together in a bowl, smashing the chilies (if using) and garlic against the sides of the bowl to release their flavor into the vinegar. Set aside.
6. Add oil to a depth of at least 3 inches to a deep pan or wok and heat over medium high. Have batter and papaya, sliced onions, sweet potato, and shrimp nearby.
7. Spoon or pour enough batter into a wide, flast ladle or cooking spoon just to cover the bottom. Lightly place on top about 1 Tbsp papaya mixture, spreading it over the batter. Place a shrimp, a piece of onion, and a piece of camote on top, pressing down lightly with your finger. Spoon or pour enough batter over theshrimp and veggies to almost cover them.
8. Carefully lower the ladle into the oil and hold it there for a few seconds, then lightly shake the fritter off of it. Cook for a few minutes until browned on bottom, then flip and cook for minute or so. Remove with a slotted spoon and drain on a paper bag or paper towels.
9. Repeat with rest of ingredients. You can fry several fritters at once, but don't crowd the pan lest the temperature of the oil drop too much.
10. Serve hot or room temperature with the sawsawan.

Retro Thai Sausage Salad

Not 'retro' as in 'a sausage salad that was eaten in Thailand back in the day', but 'retro' as in - a Thai sausage salad that we ate back in the day.

About twenty years ago (that qualifies as 'retro', doesn't it?) we were grad students in Boston, living in a long, narrow South End walk-up. It was a great apartment, on the third floor of a gorgeous old building, lovingly refurbished by our photographer landlord. The kitchen was huge, with reams of counter space. But it was in the center of the apartment, which had windows only at the front and the back. In short - no natural ventilation. No air con. No ceiling fan.

In the summer, when the sun beat through the skylight, the kitchen temp hovered around 86F (30C) degrees. As cash-poor grad students we normally cooked every day, but that summer we spent as little time at the stove as possible. We made sandwiches. We grilled gai yang (Thai grilled chicken) on a mini 'cue on our fire escape. We ate a lot of zaru soba (Japanese chilled buckwheat noodles) and pasta salad with tuna, mayonnaise, tomatoes, and capers (snicker all you like - it's fantastic). We discovered sliced cucumbers napped with chilled thick garlicky yogurt at Nadia's, a cheap Lebanese resto around the corner.

And we ate a lot of Thai sausage salad, which - if you're competent with a knife - takes about as long to pull together as it takes to steam rice in a cooker. It's perfect hot-kitchen food: few ingredients, minimal prep, maybe 2 minutes in front of the stove. And it's spicy-sour-sweetness and mix of textures (chewy and fatty-crackly Chinese sausages, cleanly crisp cucumbers, crunchy scallions) are just the thing to excite an appetite numbed by the heat.

History repeats itself. Our current place is almost perfect - great location, just the right size, pet-friendly, fits the budget. But the kitchen - oh, the kitchen. The ugly fake dark timber cabinetry and black countertop I can deal with. Ditto the refrigerator, the smallest we've ever had. But the heat is something else. No ventilation. No air con. No ceiling fan, and no room for a standing fan. KL is suffering a miserable heat wave, with no end in sight. In short, cooking means sweating, in the form of big, fat drops falling from my forehead.

So last month I pulled an old favorite from the recipe box. We're eating a lot of Thai sausage salad these days.

Perhaps my timing with this post is off. It's not quite summer in the US, well into winter in Australia. But I'm willing to bet that, somewhere in the world, it's as hot as my kitchen.

Thai Sausage Salad (Adapted from Thai Home Cooking from Kamolmal's Kitchen)

If you've ever wondered what to do with those wrinkly Chinese sausages (which, by the way, keep forever in the fridge), here's one possibility. Though they needn't be fried (you could boil or steam the sausages instead), browning them in a pan brings out their sweetness and gives them crackly-crispy charred spots that are a delicious contrast to the chewy rest of them. Proportions are pretty loose here - make the salad spicier, more sour, or sweeter according to your own taste, add more or less cucumbers or sausage. In Boston we used to use jalapeno chilies rather than Thai bird chilies, for the flavor. Use whatever type of chili suits you. Do serve this with steamed rice; the coolish salad with hot rice makes for another wonderful contrast.

Interestingly, we didn't encounter this exact salad, incorporating browned and crisped Chinese sausage, in Thailand until our last trip up north in February, when we found it at a Teochew restaurant in Lampang (photo above).

6 Chinese sausages

4 large cucumbers

1/2 cup sliced red onion

4 scallions

3 fresh hot chilies (or more or less to taste)

2 Tbsp fish sauce

1/4 cup white vinegar

2-3 Tbsp fine granulated white sugar

2 tsp black soy sauce

handful of coriander sprigs

1. Slice the sausages on an angle (see opening photo) - this will expose the maximum amount of surface to the pan's heat. Fry them over medium heat in a dry skillet or wok until they start to blister. A few black spots are fine, but don't let them burn. Remove from the pan with a slotted spoon and drain on paper towel
2. Peel the cucumbers or not, as you please. Sliced them thinly. Halve the scallions lengthwise (white and green parts) and then cut them cross-wise into 1-inch pieces. Chop the chilies finely (remove the seeds first if you want less heat). 
3. Place the onion in a large mixing bowl and pour the vinegar over. Leave it aside to soak for 5 minutes.
4. To the onions, add the sausage, cucumber, scallion, and chili.
5. Mix the fish sauce, sugar, and soy sauce, and stir until the sugar's dissolved. 
6. Add the dressing to the onion-sausage-cuke mixture and toss. Taste for seasoning and adjust as desired.
7. Transfer to a plate, top with coriander sprigs, and eat with hot rice.

Flower Power

After making a project of frequenting Southeast Asian markets over these many years, we're still making discoveries.

The other morning we stopped by a Malay stall at our local market to pick up bamboo shoots for a Burmese curry and there, nestled amongst the bunches of various green leafy vegetables we've seen a million times, were these gorgeous turmeric flowers. I can't recall having seen these before at any market - perhaps it's a seasonal item?

At any rate, the friendly guy running the stall advised us to pick the leaves off of the stalk and eat them as we would any other ulam (the fresh and blanched veggies that accompany a Malay meal, to dip in sambal or not).

These babies don't keep well in the fridge, so we had at them as soon as we got home. The leaves have a delicate butter lettuce-like texture and taste bright and 'green'. Not surprisingly, there's a hint of turmeric flavor and the root's characteristic astringency.

I can think of a few other uses for them - mixed with grated coconut, chopped dried chili, and a bit of fish sauce for a 'salad', or stirred into Indian-style 'congee'  flavored with the root (or turmeric powder) and fried curry leaves. This morning I made a sort of Indian yogurt rice - leftover rice softened in the steamer, stirred into lots of yogurt seasoned with popped mustard seeds, a bit of turmeric powder-enhanced mustard oil, salt, and chopped cilantro - and as I ate it I couldn't help but think what a nice addition this flower would have made.

One aspect of Southeast Asia's culinary culture that continues to fascinate me is how, in many cases,  every bit of the plant is used. Here we have the turmeric flower, which is eaten as a vegetable. The leaves and root are used too, as flavoring agents. (And the whole plant is fantastically good for you.) Nothing is wasted.

Sounds like a prescription for frugal eating that long predates current economic woes.

Coming up soon - cooking a part of the banana plant that you might never have thought of as food.

Northern Meat Recipe

This is the dish that got innards into my kitchen - laab khua, or northern Thai-style cooked laab (pictured upper left and opening our previous post).

Dave and I were introduced to laab khua a couple years back, while in northern Thailand researching an article for the Chicago Tribune. On previous trips to the area we'd eaten well but hadn't really taken to sticky rice and northern flavors, which seemed almost too intense (many northerners have described their cuisine to us as kem-kon, which might be translated as 'concentrated and intense'), unlightened as they are by the lime juice that appears in so many Isaan and central Thai dishes.

Well, something clicked for us on that Chicago Tribune foray. After just a couple of days in Chiang Mai we found ourselves waking with an urge for sticky rice and strong-flavored nam prik with fresh and blanched veggies and rich, meaty dishes like gaeng om and laab. In Nan we learned to make pork laab at the home of a local we'd become friends with on a previous trip. Her cousin, a real estate developer by day and reknowned cook (within Nan town, that is) during off hours, comandeered the kitchen and whipped up a feast that included jaw pakkat (pork and greens soup lightly soured with tamarind), 'red eye' nam prik, and both fresh and cooked laab. It was a spectacular meal.

When we got back to Kuala Lumpur I had to test recipes for the article - usually my very least favorite food writing-related task. But making (and eating) those northern Thai dishes was most enjoyable; we never tired of the flavors.

I submitted the laab khua recipe below with my article. My editor at CT, deeming it a bit too adventurous for her readers, elected not to run it, staying instead with 'safer' options like dtam makhya (smoky pounded eggplant dip) and gaeng khae gai (coconut milk-free chicken and vegetable curry). I don't blame her - the dish probably does include a few too many challenging bits for the average American cook and eater.

But it's soooo tasty! This is the dish that propelled me to the wet market in search of a pork seller who could provide the freshest pig liver, heart, stomach, and skin. Yes - this is the dish that got me, finally, after many years cooking pretty adventurously, to tackle offal. I don't make it often (it's extremely rich, after all), but whenever I do I'm thankful for that trip to northern Thailand that banished my squeamishness. I'd urge anyone who thinks they could never eat beef or pig liver (or other bits) to give this a try. At the very least, toss in some chicken livers. The strong spices need that balance.

Laab Khua Muu (Northern Style Pork Laab)

(Serves 6-8 with a couple other dishes; recipe can be halved)

This is a pork laab, but you could easily substitute beef and beef parts (or even chicken, but use a lighter hand with the spices). I haven't included blood - if you choose to, figure on about a quarter cup or so, and stir it in with the meat - or pig skin, both of which our hostess in Nan added to the mix.

This laab incorporates a moist spice paste, and the end result is relatively dry. Some laab cooks make a much simpler version by simply stirring ground (and, presumably, roasted) spices and chilies into chopped meat and then cooking that with blood. Some cooks add water so that the laab sits in a little pool of 'soup'. Laab khua seems to me a very personal thing; make it how you want it - if you like it hot, use more chilies. If you want less spice flavor and more emphasis on the meatiness, halve the amounts.

And if you just can't countenance innards, make it without (but you should probably reduce the amount of spices because you won't have the innard richness to balance them). Sticky rice is the authentic accompaniment (but steamed rice will do), along with a generous mound of fresh vegetables.

And don't be put off by the recipe's length - you could always toast and grind chilies and spices ahead of time, or even make the spice paste a day in advance and pop it in the fridge.

250 grams of pork skin and organ meats, such as stomach, heart, liver, kidney (it’s preferable to include at least some liver)

500 grams pork, roughly chopped

10 plump cloves garlic, unpeeled

3 Tbsp vegetable oil

5 red-skinned shallots, unpeeled

 

1 handful dried red chilies

 

3 slices galangal root

1 Tbsp coriander seeds

5 long peppers

1 cardamom pod (preferably white)

½ whole nutmeg

½-inch piece cinnamon stick

2 ribs mace or 1/8 tsp ground mace

10 black peppercorns

1 tbsp Sichuan peppercorns

 

½ Tbsp shrimp paste

4 green onions (white and green parts)

½ bunch each cilantro and mint

1 bunch sawtooth herb (if not available, substitute with additional cilantro and mint)

 

Salt

Fresh vegetables and herbs for serving, for instance: sliced cucumbers, green cabbage, napa cabbage, long beans, wing beans, water spinach, mint, sawtooth herb, coriander, Thai basil, pennywort.

1. Place pig innards and skin, if using, in a medium saucepan and cover with cold water by 1 inch. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer till cooked, about 15 mins. Drain, reserving the cooking liquid. Set innards aside to cool and then chop to same fineness as chopped meat.
2. Pound with mortar and pestle, or very roughly chop, 5 of the skin-on garlic cloves. Heat a wok or frying pan over medium heat and add the veg oil. Add garlic and fry over medium heat, stirring, until golden brown. Remove garlic with a slotted spoon and drain on paper towel. Leave oil in pan and set aside
3. Over a grill or an on unoiled griddle or saute pan, char the remaining garlic cloves and shallots over medium-high heat until soft, about 6-8 mins. (Or, place garlic and shallots in a microwaveable bowl, cover with plastic wrap, and microwave on high till soft, about 2-3 mins.) Set aside to cool.
4. Toast galangal and spices in an unoiled saute pan or wok over medium heat, stirring constantly, until galangal is touched with brown and spices are fragrant, about 2 mins. Take care not to burn spices. Remove from pan and set aside to cool, separating galangal from dry spices.
5. In the same pan, dry fry the chili peppers over medium heat till they're dark but not black. Allow to cool, remove stems (and seeds, if you don't want too much heat), and add to spices.
6. In the same pan, toast the gapi slowly over low heat, pressing and flattening it to a patty with a spatula to expose the maximum amount of surface to the heat. Cook until the gapi is lightly browned and no longer smells raw, 1 min. or so per side. (Or, flatten the shrimp paste with the back of a spoon, place on a piece of foil, and toast under a hot broiler till brown.) Set aside to cool.
7. Place dry spices and chilies in mortar or blender (or spice grinder) and grind to a rough powder. Remove and set aside.
8. Peel garlic and shallots and place in mortar or blender. Add galangal and shrimp paste and pound or chop to a rough puree. Add dry spices and process or pound briefly just to blend.
9. Over medium heat, reheat the garlic oil from Step 2. Add garlic-dry spice-shrimp paste mixture and cook, stirring constantly, for two minutes. Add 1/2 cup cooking water from the innards and continue to fry and stir until the liquid is mostly absorbed, about 2 mins. Remove the pan from the heat and leave aside to cool.
10. While the paste is cooling, roughly chop together the green onions, cilantro, mint, and sawtooth herb (if using).
11. Rehat the spice paste over medium-high heat. Add chopped pork and cook, breaking it up with a fork, until the pink color is almost gone. Add the innards, stir to combine, and taste adjust for salt. Add all but a heaping tablespoon of the chopped green onions and herbs, stir once or twice more to mix, and remove to a plate or bowl.
    
12. Sprinkle with the browned garlic and reserved fresh herbs and serve warm or at room temperature with fresh vegetables and rice.

The Devil Made Me Do It

Actually, my editor did. Eat three versions of the  Malaccan Cristang dish devil's curry (debal) in less than 24 hours, that is, for a piece in today's Wall Street Journal Asia 'Weekend Journal'. (No link at the moment, unfortunately.)

This was our first encounter with debal, but it certainly won't be our last. For us this earliest of fusion (sorry! I hate the word too, but in this case it applies) dishes, a blend of Portuguese, Indian, and Chinese influences, hits all the right notes: spicy, tangy-sour, with a little kick from mustard seeds. It's a curry that tastes neither quite Malay, nor quite Indian. It's the addition of vinegar that makes the difference. If you like Goan vindaloo (which is probably curry debal's precursor), you'll love it (though it needn't be as wildly spicy as vindaloo usually is).

A week after we returned from Malacca I made a potful so that Dave could take photos. It's not that difficult a dish to cook - especially if you grind the paste with a blender or food processor instead of by hand - and it greatly improves upon standing, so it's good make-ahead fare. Crusty bread seems as appropriate an accompaniment as rice and a side of stir-fried veg. Readers in places where it's not quite curry weather might tuck this recipe away for a rainy (or snowy) day.

Debal (Devil Curry)
Adapted from Cuzinhia Cristang by Celine J. Marbeck (a great book on Cristang food - highly recommended!)

Like many curries and stews this dish really is better made at least one day ahead and it freezes very well. Debal was traditionally made for Boxing Day, with a mix of roast meats and sausages left over from Christmas. But the chicken version is tasty as well. One of the Cristang cooks that I interviewed for the article makes her debal with regular white vinegar. I'm not sure it matters much which type of vinegar you use but it's essential to keep tasting for sourness. The finished dish should have a pronounced - but not overwhelming - tang. Feel free to reduce the number of chilies. French beans are optional - I prefer my debal without them, though they do make for a colorful photo.

1 kg chicken
1tsp dark (thick) soy sauce, or regular soy sauce mixed with 1/4 tsp brown sugar
3 Tbsp vinegar (red wine, white, rice, white wine, apple cider, even Sherry vinegar)

For the curry paste:
1 1/2 tsp mustard seeds
30 shallots, peeled
5 cloves garlic, peeled
6 candlenuts, peeled (substitute 12 blanched almonds)
bottom 7 cm of three stalks lemongrass, sliced
a thick coin of galangal, peeled and chopped roughly
1/4 tsp turmeric
50 dried chilies, soaked in hot water for 1/2 hour and drained, soaking water retained if you'll be making the paste in a blender or food processor

2 tbsp tamarind pulp (soaked in 1/2 cup hot water and strained to extract 1 Tbsp juice)
1/3 cup oil
2 thick coins young ginger, peeled and cut into matchsticks
2 large onions, peeled and quartered top to bottom
6 large fresh red chilies (mild), red stalks left on and cut in half lengthwise
2 tsp mustard seeds
6 potatoes, peeled and quartered

20 or so French beans, slit in half lengthwise (optional)

salt, sugar, and vinegar to taste

1. Mix the vinegar and soy sauce and marinate the chicken for 20-30 mins.
2. Blend or process paste ingredients till smooth, adding chili soaking water or plain water as necessary to facilitate grinding (if you're not doing it by hand).
3. Heat the oil in a large Dutch oven or other stew pan over medium-high heat. Add the ginger, fry till golden, and remove and set aside. Repeat with the onions, and then with the red chilies.
4. Lower the heat to medium, add the 2 tsp mustard seeds, and allow them to pop.
5. Add the paste and fry, stirring constantly, until it loses its raw smell and becomes dark and glossy, with an oily sheen.
6. Remove chicken from marinade and slowly add the liquid to the fried paste, stirring constantly.
7. Add chicken and potatoes and toss to coat well with paste. Add 1 Tbsp tamarind juice and enough water to cover the chicken.
8. Boil rapidly, uncovered, for 10 mins, then reduce heat to simmer and cook until the chicken is tender, about 30 minutes. (Top up water if necessary, but you do want the gravy to reduce.) Add French beans if using and continue to cook until tender.
9. Add salt to taste. Taste for sour and add more vinegar - or sugar - if necessary.
10. Serve hot, or allow to cool and then park the debal in the fridge for up to a week or the freezer for up to 3 months.