EatingAsia

Steam the Bean

A year or two before its demise Gourmet magazine introduced a "meatless meal" page. "Just try one meal meatless!" -- or something to that effect -- Ruth Reichl encouraged readers when she introduced the column in her editor's intro.

Great idea, I thought. Just please no bean curd-as-meat concoctions.

But several month later, there it was -- a recipe for marinated and grilled tofu. That column summed up everthing that's wrong with how bean curd is perceived by much of the Western world: as a meat substitute absent any of redeeming that must be doctored as if it were meat to be rendered edible. And barely edible at that.

Twenty-five years ago I too eschewed tofu, and it's only living in Asia for over a decade that has altered my view of the food. When it's bad, it's so bad. But when it's made well and prepared appropriately bean curd can make you question everything you believed about the superiority of meat.

(Note: I'm not now, nor have I ever been, nor will I ever be, probably, a vegetarian.)

By now the Japanese prowess with the soy bean is well known. But high-quality, entirely luscious bean curd is also easily found on Taiwan, in parts of China, and in Malaysia (and probably elsewhere). Since moving to Kuala Lumpur, especially, I've become a Bean Curd Freaks.

In this house there is no time of the day that is not tofu appropriate.

Taufu fah (dou hua in Mandarin) -- steaming hot scoopable soft fresh bean curd drizzled with palm sugar syrup -- is a breakfast of champions. Substitute chili oil, black vinegar, soy sauce, and chopped Sichuan pickles for the sugar syrup, and it's an unbeatable lunch. We eat tofu for dinner several times a week -- the soft stuff in a Chinese-style light soup with tomato, ginger, and leafy greens (accompanied by chopped chili-and-soy dipping sauce), the firm stuff in mapo tofu, stir-fried with oyster mushrooms and scallions, or "steamed with all manner of condiments. A big jar of fermented bean curd, aka Chinese cheese", has a permanent spot in the door of our refrigerator. We spread it on rye crackers, slather it over chicken before putting the bird in a bamboo steamer, stir fry it with spinach, spoon it up straight.

Writing that paragraph has made me hungry. That's how much I love bean curd. I revere it as much as I revere a nicely grilled T-bone or pork chop. I eat more bean curd than I do beef, chicken or pork, not for political, moral or dietary reasons, but simply because after going a day without I crave the stuff.

Now -- if you don't live in Asia, finding good bean curd can be difficult. I'd never eaten tofu before I met Dave. He added it to the spaghetti he served me on one of our first dates. (In those days Dave also volunteered at the food co-op and baked his own wheat bread). While I appreciated the effort that went into the meal, I found the rubbery batons in my spaghetti sauce rather vile.

But times are changing. Good bean curd is becoming a bit easier to find in the USA. Googling "artisan tofu" brought up a number of makers in the San Francisco Bay Area, Portland, Vermont and southern California. I'm sure there are others.

So what I want to say here folks is: give bean curd a chance! If you enjoy Asian food and have access to some decent tofu it's a natural addition to your menus. Don't grill it, don't saute it and add to pasta sauce, don't try to make ice cream with it because you're going for a "healthy" alternative to dairy products. Love the bean for what it is. Treat it properly in the kitchen, and it will love you back.

I like steaming bean curd. Firm bean curd, when most of its moisture has been lost by one means or another (I'll get to that), is a fantstic sponge. I love soft tofu but I prefer firm tofu. I like the dense-yet-creamy texture, and the slightly fermented, almost one-quarter-way-to-tempeh that you get with really good specimens. The stronger flavor stands up well to seasonings -- including chili which, if you are a regular reader, you know by now I'm addicted to.

So, how do you maximize the flavor-sucking sponginess of your bean curd? First, start with the firmest you can find. Then, wrap the cakes in towels and place a good heavy weight on it. (I use a cookie sheet topped with any canned products in my pantry.) And just leave it there, the longer the better. A lot of recipes recommend a half hour or an hour but several hours, if you have them to spare, is preferable.

Even better: press your tofu for a couple hours and then, if you live somewhere with fairly clean air and a good strong sun, set it out to sunbathe (protected with cheesecloth or a not-so-fine strainer, if you like) for up to half a day. This is how our host in Mae Salong, northern Thailand prepared her tofu before she stirred it into a wonderful ginger-tomato-yellow bean paste sauce. Time in the sun might set the tofu to "fermenting" just a wee bit, which will amplify the soy bean taste (don't worry, you won't end up with Chinese cheese) -- a good thing if you're going heavy with the chilies.

I can't deny that the recipe below results in a pretty healthy main dish. But don't hold that against poor, misunderstood tofu.

Spicy and Salty Steamed Bean Curd

Another not-quite recipe, malleable to your palate. Stir together the amounts of ingredients I suggest below, then sample it and add more of anything to taste. I like mine quite winey and very heavy on the chilies. What you add or don't add will also depend on the quality of your black beans (old, not-so-great ones will taste saltier) and your chili paste (some are much saltier than others). Remember that steaming will bring out whatever moisture remains in the bean curd, and add more, so the sauce should taste too strong when the tofu is added.

A variation to this recipe: make the sauce and toss short pork ribs in it. Arrange tofu on a plate and then mound the pork ribs on top. Steam the whole thing together.

Note: this recipe also work quite nicely with fish fillets/steaks -- something strong, like mackerel, tuna or salmon.

4 cakes tofu, pressed of as much water as possible and (optional) sun-dried for up to 4 hours

1.5 Tbsp Chinese rice wine (hua tiao jiu or the clear stuff) or dry sherry, white wine in a pinch

1 Tbsp soy sauce (not dark)

1.5 tsp sesame oil

pinch of sugar

1 Tbsp chili paste (preferably Sichuan Pixian chili bean paste)

1/2 Tbsp ground dry chilies (optional, for chili hounds)

1/2 Tbsp (heaped) roughly chopped fermented black beans (if yours are kind of shrivelled and very salty, give them a rinse and pat them dry.

1/2 Tbsp chopped garlic

1/2-1 Tbsp chopped ginger

2 scallions, green and white part

A handful of cilantro leaves/stem

1. Cut each cake of  tofu into 4 or 6 squares.
2. In a bowl large enough to hold the bean curd mix together the rice wine, soy sauce, sesame oil, sugar, chili paste, ground chilies (if using), black beans, garlic, and ginger. Taste the mixture and add whatever you like -- more wine, more chilies, more beans. Remember that the sauce will be diluted during steaming, so it should be just a little bit too spicy, too salty, too winey. But not too sesame oily.
3. Place the bean curd cubes in the sauce, gently stir to coat, and leave to marinate for at least 30 minutes and up to 1.5 hours.
4. Mound the bean curd on a plate sized to fit your steamer -- or in a bowl -- and pour any leftover sauce on top.
5. Steam for an hour. While the bean curd is steaming roughly chop together the scallions and cilantro.
6. Serve the tofu sprinkled with scallions/tofu and serve with a light Chinese greens-ginger-tomato soup (recipe here) or some stir-fried greens (recipe here).

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Few Reasons to Linger in Chiang Khong

We've journeyed to Luang Prabang a few times, but never by boat -- which I suppose explains why we'd never been to Chiang Khong before our diversion north from Chiang Mai last month. You see, Chiang Khong sits right across the Mekong River from the Laotian town of Huay Xai, from which boats depart south. So to most travelers it's little more than a way station.

But in less than 24 hours we found a few reasons to view Chiang Khong as more than a pitstop.

We drove into town on a Sunday afternoon, famished. Bypassing main street's row of empty cafes  advertising Western fare and espresso beverages, we headed downhill to the river. Before long we spotted a restaurant serving a small group of middle-aged Thais -- a good enough reason as any to stop.

We climbed a flight of stairs to a covered porch overlooking the Mekong. Presented with English menus listing central Thai and Isaan standards like tom yam gong, yam woonsen, and [shudder] fried rice, we set them aside and surveyed our neighbors' table instead. Two dishes in particularly beckoned.

When our dishes appeared from the kitchen they went straight to the Thais' table, only to be refused (they'd pretty much finished eating by the time we started), then ferried around the small dining area in search of another group of Thais. We waved our arms and smiled beseechingly, and the finally laid before us. We had an audience as we ate.

The deep-fried tiny fish called bplaa naa oon (opening photo), our waitress told us, had been plucked from the river that morning. Fried with a hillock of garlic shards, they were crispy enough to be eaten heads, bones, and all, and so sweetly caramelized that the chili sauce served alongside was superfluous. We finished our first serving in record time and promtply ordered another. And 5 hours later, we returned for another, to gobble down with a few ice-cold Singha beers.

The second dish, plaa khao phad chaa, is one of the most heavenly fish preparations we've ever eaten in Thailand. Bplaa khao is a white-fleshed, meaty, and not-too-bony river fish. It had been cut into generous chunks, deep-fried, and then incorporated into a stir-fry with yellow bell pepper, heaps of ginger matchsticks, fiery green chilies, sprigs of fresh green peppercorn, and basil sprigs. The chilies and fresh peppercorns lent a searing kick and low pleasure-pain quotient. Every bite of this dish literally hurt, but it was so delicious we couldn't bring ourselves to stop.

By the end of lunch we were smitten with Chiang Khong. After dropping our bags at a nearby guesthouse we explored the "port" below, where bottles of Fanta and cartons of instant noodles bound for Laos are loaded into boats that have just disgorged onto the beach fresh vegetables, twine-tied stacks of used cardboard, and bundles of cloth. We joined locals having an evening stroll on a strip of river promenade closed to cars, and wondered how on earth so many guesthouses, bars, and restaurants catering to tourists survive when there didn't seem to be any tourists about. And as the sun set we watched activity on the watery wind down from our balcony, over glasses of Sang Som and soda.

Around 8pm our sleepy guesthouse became a hubbub of activity as low-budget tour group arrived. Doors slammed, backpacks hit the floor, beer bottles clinked, a rush of orders were put in at the guesthouse's cafe, and a singalong -- accompanied by really, really bad guitar playing -- ensued. We imagined similar scenes playing out at every one of the empty guesthouses and cafes we'd scene on our walk earlier that evening.

When we headed out fpr a stroll the next morning around sunrise we passed a few farang nursing hot cups of Nescafe in the cafe. On the main street, busy now with Chiang Khong-ians on their way to work and school, farang pitched forward under the weight of backpacks made their way to the port and the bus station. Others kicked back in tuk-tuks and pick-up trucks.

We ducked down a sidestreet in search of breakfast, and found a woman dishing up kao soi Tai Lua from the front of her old timber house. And afterwards, when we returned to Chiang Khong's "city center", we found it .... empty.

Once again we had Chiang Khong to ourselves, and we would have gladly lingered a day or two had we not been expected back in Chiang Mai that evening. Our last meal was had just a few steps from our first, at cute little corner house with a sweet view of the river from its front dining area.

When we arrived around half past eleven the place was all but empty. But once again the culinary gods were smiling upon us. We'd unknowingly stumbled upon a lunchtime hot spot; 30 minutes later there was a wait for empty seats.

 A delicious kanom jeen nam ngiaow (fine rice vermicelli with meat-and-tomato 'gravy', a northern Thai specialty) -- super spicy, but neither as tomato-y as versions served in Chiang Mai, nor as fishy bplaa raa-heavy as those eaten in Chiang Rai -- is what's served here. Unlike any version we'd eaten before it featured nicely bouncy fish balls, as well as pork.

We finished our lunch with a house specialty that disappeared shortly after we snapped up our own two bowls' worth: khao tom, banana-stuffed pillows of steamed sticky rice,topped with crushed peanuts, gratings of moist fresh coconut meat, white sugar, and ground black sesame seeds. This sweet alone would have prompted us to linger another night if we'd had the time.

For more hop over to Dave's Chiang Khong audio slideshow, here.

Delicious fish at the restaurant next to Rimnan Guesthouse (forgive us, we did not note the name), one block in from the river.

In the wooden house on the corner of the same block, find superb kanom jeen nam ngiaow and khao tom. Around 11am till they run out. Closed in the evenings.

Kao soi Tai Lua, Tedsaban Soi 8 (green-painted flower shop on the corner, Tedsaban is the main road -- it's a small town, there's just one main road), about 1.5 blocks up from Tedsaban. Served from the front of a small wooden house on your left as you're heading away from the main road.

 

Another Thing Mr. Zhang Taught Me

No Garlic. Not as in, "Never ever cook with garlic, ever," but as in "When stir-frying greens skip the stinking rose."

(If you're wondering who Mr. Zhang is and what else he's taught me, go to our first post in this very sporadic series, here. And while we're at it, here's an article on Mr. Zhang's place, and other Chengdu eateries like his, that we did a while back for the South China Morning Post: Page 1 and Page 2)

Common knowledge says when you're stir-frying green leafy veggies in the Chinese manner you want to throw in some chopped garlic. But beginning wok jockeys -- heck, even myself on occasion -- often find that the garlic browns too quickly, or burns as it's being tossed with the greens once they're in the pan. One way to deal with this occasional issue is to fry the garlic, remove it from the wok, fry the greens, and then add the garlic back in.

But like many Sichuanese cooks Mr. Zhang has a better, easier way of adding in flavor to those stir-fried veggies: skip the garlic in favor of suan miao.

Suan miao, or leeks, show up in many Sichuanese dishes. A properly made mapo dofu gets its jade-green accents from the green part of suan miao. They're stir-fried with la rou (Sichuanese bacon), pork slivers and black beans, eggplant, pressed and dried tofu, and all sort of other ingredients. They're heaped in mounds in Chengdu markets, tucked into shopping bags, and bundled home under arms.

And, in Mr. Zhang's kitchen at least, the greenest part of suan miao substitute for chopped garlic when he stir-fries rape, mustard and other green leafy vegetables.

We can't find suan miao here in Kuala Lumpur, so I substitute scallion greens. And since returning from our last trip to Chengdu I have been turning out some pretty fantastic chao qing cai (fried green veggies). These stir-fried greens (choy sum/flowering mustard, usually) find their way to our table two or three times a week. For our Sichuan-leaning palates, they're best with a few Sichuan peppercorns and dried chilies thrown into the mix, a la Chez Zhang.

Thanks Mr. Zhang!

Mr. Zhang's Stir-fried Leafy Greens (A Recipe of Sorts)

I understand there is a raging debate among Asian cookbook authors whether or not one should dry one's greens before stir-frying. If I had a flame like Mr. Zhang's (see above) I never would dry my greens. But all I've got is a regular gas burner with a pretty unimpressive BTU. I find that spinning my greens dry a few times after washing makes for a much more successful stir-fry. Experiment or, to err on the safe side, dry those greens.

Cooking oil (rapeseed oil gives that Sichuan flavor; if that's unavailable, peanut oil is preferred)

OPTIONAL but authentically Sichuanese: a heaping tsp or two of Sichuan peppercorns, whole and unroasted AND a heaping tbsp. or two of dried red chilies, snipped in half crosswise

About 1 lb. / one half kilo sturdy greens (Sichuanese rape, mustard greens/choy sum, gai lan leaves, bok choy, etc) -- sliced into 1-inch/3-cm shredds, washed and if you prefer, spun dry

a good handful of scallion greens, washed and snipped into 2-inch/4-cm lengths

salt

a Tbsp or two of stock or water

1. Set a wok or big frypan over high heat, and add a good glug or two of oil. Swirl the oil over the surface of the wok/pan and heat till not quite smoking.
2. Toss in chilies and Sichuan peppercorns, give a good stir but don't let the chilies blacken.
3. Start adding greens by the handful, stirring and tossing as you go. When the last of the greens are in add a few pinches of salt (less if you're using salted stock). Stir-fry for a minute or two, tossing to expose all green to the heat.
4. Add just a bit of stock or water (you don't want a pool in the bottom of your wok/pan, you just want to moisten the greens a bit to create a little steam) -- this may not be necessary if you haven't dried your veggies, toss, and cover the pan.
5. Check after a minute or two. The veg stems should still be fairly crunchy. Now, throw in your scallion / leek greens, toss for a minute or so, and turn the lot onto a plate.

 

Famous Beans

We've long been legume fiends, and we both have a thing for white beans in particular. Maybe that's one reason we can't stay away from Turkey -- Turkish cooks do white beans like no one else.

Turkey's kuru fasulye (koo-roo fah-SOOL-yay), or dried white beans, vary in size from no larger than the nail of your index finger to half the length of your thumb. Cooked and cooled, they might be tossed with olive oil, vinegar, sliced onions, parsley, and chopped egg for a refreshing salad called piyaz. Or they might be pureed and eaten as a mezze. Or added to a meaty soup or stew.

Our favorite kuru fasulye preparation is often called simply ... fasulye. Stewed with onions, tomato (and sometimes red pepper) paste(s), lamb, plenty of butter and -- if the cook is very conscientious and cares not a whit about cholesterol -- lamb tail fat, dried white beans become the sort of can't-get-enough dish that haunts your dreams.

Write-ups on Turkish food, no matter how rhapsodic, rarely mention this dish. Maybe that's because it's a Black Sea specialty, and too little attention is paid to the wonderful cuisine of Turkey's northern-most region. Perhaps it's because kuru fasulye is such an everyday dish, an esnaf lokanti steam table staple. Truth to tell, the dish doesn't always live up to its potential.

So, with a few exceptions, for a really great fasulye you need to go to a specialist, a "white beanery" if you will. On our last stay in Istanbul we taste-tested the famous beans at two.

Ali Baba Kanaat Lokantasi is sits directly across from Fatih district's Suleymaniye Mosque, a must-visit site for every tourist in Istanbul. And there are plenty of tourists eating at Ali Baba. Don't let that worry you; there are plenty of Istanbullu eating there too.

The signage out front announces Ali Baba's pedigree: c. 1939. Inside, everyone's eating beans. Big, lush lima bean-sized beans sloshing around in a pool of thick tomato-and-red pepper meat gravy liberally spiced with biber (red chilies). That's Ali Baba's kuru fasulye up top in this post. It's served with nutty, buttery rice pilav and tursu, or pickles.

The page in my notebook headed "Ali Baba Kanaat Lokantasi" is empty. Apparently I forgot all about recording our meal as soon as the beans arrived. I remember Dave and I fought over the last bits of tart, salty pickle -- perfect match for the buttery beans -- , and that as good as the pilav was I for the most part avoided it in order to save room in my belly for all my beans, which were tingly with spice (sort of unusual outside of Turkey's southeastern region), tomato-ey, and rich with lamb and butter fat. I remember the couple at the table next to us having an intense, almost heated conversation and then falling silent as soon as their beans arrived. And I remember that after we left Ali Baba's I told Dave we'd have to go back again for another round because I hadn't taken any notes.

After lunch at Ali Baba's I was fairly convinced we'd eaten Istanbul's ultimate bean. But when the topic of legumes came up during my interview with a cafe owner in Galata and both she and the translator became almost giddy while describing the specialty of the house at a Tophane spot called -- no coincidence I'm sure -- Fasuli, I knew we had to investigate.

Fasuli's fasulye

Fasuli is a lovely old-style (though not old) restaurant -- think white tablecloths, heavy cutlery, black-and-white attired waiters -- specializing in Black Sea cuisine. Its menu is big and includes regional standards like corn bread and kara lahana (collard-y "black" cabbage) dolma, but don't be distracted. Everyone goes to Fasuli for the beans -- and on your first visit at least, so should you.

Smaller than the kuru fasulye at Ali Baba's, more like navy beans than lima beans, Fasuli's beans are cooked just so: long enough to render them tender and creamy but not so long as to turn them to mush. Fasuli's sauce isn't nearly as spicy as Ali Baba's, nor is it as tomato-ey. Mostly, it's just over-the-top rich with lamb flavor, which is strange because there isn't really much discernible meat in the dish. It's as if the kitchen has figured out a way to distill the essence of an entire lamb roast and 25 pounds of lamb tail fat into a single pot of beans. Fasuli's fasulye are buttery and no doubt very unhealthy. But that won't stop us from going back for more when we're next in Istanbul. We ate ours with the usual pilav and a tart, salty cacik (cucumbers in yogurt). The latter provided an almost necessary occasional break from the intensely shovel-icious fasulye.

In the end I'd be hard pressed to choose a favorite. Ali Baba's fasulye strike us as mid-day beans: sharply spicy enough to bring your brain into focus, not so heavy as to send you into a coma post-meal. Fasuli's version seem more like dinner material, something fantastically swoonworthy to reward oneself with after a long, bone-breaking kind of day. They invite slow, ponderous spooning.

Hayvore's fasulye are a late-coming contender for Top Bean

A complication in the taste-off: One morning we stopped in at new-ish Black Sea spot Hayvore for some laz boregi, a sumptuous pastry best described as pudding-filled "baklava". As we prepared to leave, a gorgeous black pot of beans appeared from the kitchen. We couldn't walk out the door without a spoonful or two.

Verdict: Hayvore's may well be Istanbul's next Famous Bean.

Ali Baba Kanaat Lokantasi, directly across from front entrace to Suleymaniye Mosque, Fatih.

Fasuli, Kilic Ali Pasa Caddesi (behind Kilic Ali Pasa Mosque), Tophane.

Hayvore,Turnacibasi Sokak 4, just a few doors from Istiklal Caddesi.

 

Our Istanbul Corner Place: Home Cooking With a Masterly Touch

A couple months ago I received an email from a favorite former editor: "We're going to Istanbul. Suggestions welcome."

When I have the kind of intense affection for a place that I have for Turkey and Istanbul in particular, I desperately want other visitors to end up feeling the same way. Especially if I've been talking (or blogging) a destination up, as I have in pretty much all of our Turkey posts, I feel obliged to point friends to the sort of experiences that have endeared that destination to me.

So began a series of missives, me to her. I emailed lists of favorite places and foods and restaurants, bullet-pointed tips on how a first-time visitor can get the most out of Istanbul/Turkey, food-focused suggestions from local contacts, stream-of-consciousness ramblings on everything from where to go for the city's best Turkish coffee to where to find the best breakfast spread. I even drew and scanned a map of Cihangir, the neighborhood where she'd be staying.

My map highlighted, with a few stars, what Dave and I came to think of as our "Istanbul corner place": a tiny cafe called Mucver. We stayed a few doors down from Mucver last June and then again in December/January. After our first taste of Mucver it became our go-to for great, soul-satisfying home cooking. In fact, a number of times we found ourselves diverting back to our temporary 'hood from elsewhere in Istanbul just for one more Mucver meal.

Olive oil-cooked spinach and coarse bulgur, stewed chickpeas

My map highlighted, with several stars in different colors, what Dave and I think of as our "Istanbul corner place": a tiny cafe called Mucver. We stayed a few doors down from Mucver last June and then again in December/January. It became our go-to for great, soul-satisfying home cooking. In fact, a number of times we found ourselves diverting back to our temporary 'hood from elsewhere in Istanbul just for one more meal at Mucver.

Named after the dish -- mucver (mooj-VEHR) is a grated zucchini "fritter" usually eaten with thick yogurt -- the cafe serves Turkish Mom Food With a Twist. Its dishes are the comforting sort that make you feel loved and cared for. The twist is that Mucver's gifted cook has been a caterer for over ten years, and so while there's anything fancy on the menu, the food shows the kind of attention to detail that that caterers tend to lavish upon their creations. Everything is delicious ... and just a cut above versions you've had elsewhere.

Emine prepares Mucver's daily menu in a kitchen around the corner

Shy Emine and her outgoing husband Gursel opened Mucver early last year. On our first visit last June business was just so-so. When we returned in December we were pleased to see the place pretty much packed out every lunch hour. When we stopped in for some takeout at 5-something on our last evening in Istanbul there wasn't much left to choose from. This is all good, because it means that Mucver is likely to be going strong on our next visit.

Mercimek koftesi, red lentil and parsley rolls tea eat with a squeeze of lemon

Emine cooks everything in a small garden-level kitchen just around the corner from the cafe. Walk Palaska Sokak at ten in the morning and you'll be assaulted by all sorts of unbearably tempting aromas. The menu changes daily, but vegetarian mercimek koftesi, hand-formed logs of tender red lentils seasoned with parsley, garlic, and red pepper, are a regular fixture.

There are always a few creative salads to choose from. On one visit in January we ate a pretty "green"-tasting mix of shredded Swiss chard and romaine leaves mixed with fresh dill fronds and parsley sprigs, garnished with a sprinkle of bulgur and a small mound of ruby red pomegranite seeds. Everything was dressed lightly with a lemony sour-sweet dressing.

Emine's brown lentil, pasta and mint soup (Jerusalem artichoke mash behind)

On a cold, rainy afternoon we sampled Emine's mercimek corbasi -- lentil soup, Turkey's breakfast of champions. Made with brown rather than the usual red lentils, many of which were left whole, it included thick, chewy pasta and loads of fragrant dried mint that, with a squeeze of lemon juice, rendered the soup as refreshing as it was warming.

Her zeytinyagli, or "cooked with olive oil" dishes, are not swimming in the stuff. Zeytinyagli yer elmasi ("earth/ground apple" -- Jerusalem artichoke) took the form of a pleasingly rough mash with studded with bits of sweet carrot. Though zeytinyagli dishes usually demand an accompaniment of good bread we spooned this up straight from the dish, and ordered one more.

Zucchini stuffed with lamb and rice

Emine has a way with ground meat. Her sauced lamb kofte (opening photo) or meatballs are light as air. Sauced with tomatoes and red pepper paste and aromatic spices (I think I detected nutmeg), they split in half with barely the nudge of a fork. Vegetable dolma, like the zucchini above, are stuffed with a similarly ethereal mixture of seasoned ground lamb, chopped vegetable "innards", and rice and topped with a finger of thick yogurt. Our last Mucver meal included a surprising, and wonderful, dish: moist, well-seasoned Turkish meat loaf swimming in silky smooth potato puree that would do an American midwestern grandmother proud.

Sutlu irmik, milk and semolina pudding dusted with cinnamon

The first dish to clue us in to Mucver's possibilities was not savory, but sweet. Our initial visit was for tea and dessert and on that day we swooned -- and are still swooning -- over sutlac (pudding) blanketed with crispy browned and sweetend kadaiyif. What an amazing pairing that was -- mild, uber milky pudding with the crunch of caramelized wheat threads.

We've never seen it since, unfortunately (the downside, if you can call it that, of the daily menu), but consoled ourselves in January with a slice of sutlu irmik tatlisi, a firm-ish milk and semolina pudding/cake dusted with cinnamon. Emine's caterer-ly touch: banana slices hidden inside the pudding, which is made in a bundt cake mold. Also noteworthy: mozaik, a firm slab of dark chocolate cake cum fudge shot through with crispy biscuit bits. (Emine has a thing for chocolate; there's at least one chocolate dessert a day.)

We can't close our ode to Mucver without a nod to its quirky, homely decor. Dave's favorite item, above: an old-fashioned diver's mask kitted out as a light. Gursel is quite a collector.

Mucver, corner of Palaska Sokak, just across from the mosque, Cihangir. Tel 0212-292-7918. Closed Sundays. A very generous lunch for two, including a few dishes, salads, tea and dessert, runs about TL 32.

Gat Luang Diaries II: Old Hotels and Extinct Sodas

A resident pug welcomes guests to Gat Luang's Thapae Inn

This is the second in a series of posts culled from our efforts this year to document daily life in Chiang Mai's historic Gat Luang neighborhood. To learn more about the project, rwhich will culminate next year in a book to be co-authored with several Chiang Mai-ites and photographed by Dave, read the first entry in the series, here.

Trade made Gat Luang. Unlike 'old' Chiang Mai to its west -- that part of the city encircled by a moat and sections of crumbling wall -- Gat Luang was never a royal capital or a center of religion. Yes, its main market was built on the site of a royal crematorium and the neighborhood boasts a wat, two Chinese temples, and a Sikh gurdwara. But its raison d'etre has always been commerce.

Gat Luang sits beside the Ping River, which was once the main route along which goods were shipped between Bangkok, Chiang Mai, and beyond. When a railroad connected the Thai capital to Chiang Mai the river's importance as a transport route waned. But Gat Luang's three main markets -- Warorot, Don Lam Yai, and the sprawling wholesale emporium Naowarat -- are still going strong.

In a commercial neighborhood like Gat Luang traders and other business people come and traders go. They all need a place to stay. And so it should come as no surprise that in this historic area there are a few hotels with stories of their own.

      Khun Panee at the entrance to the Nakorn Ping, and chatting with staff

Like the Nakorn Ping, a lovely old inn at the very edge of Gat Luang built in 1954. When the hotel opened it was one of THE places to stay in town; attracting well-off Bangkok businessmen and even a nationally known folk singer. Now it houses primarily traders from the north who come to do business in Gat Luang and at nearby Myang Mai market.

"I'm a woman taking care of this hotel all by myself," says lively Khun Panee, who shared a few choice words about a couple of famous long-ago guests. She took the Nakorn Ping over from her father when she was 36 years old, and has recently put it on the market. She's tired and wants to enjoy her older days. I hate to imagine the hotel's dark teak floors polished by years of bare feet, and thick heavy teak doors, falling into unsympathetic hands.

No such plans are in the works for the over half century-old Thapae Inn, which nowadays is as popular with backpackers as it is with traders come to buy and sell textiles at one of Gat Luang's markets. Thirty-four year old Khun Tor's grandfather built the place and charged less than 10 baht per room when it opened.

The Thapae Inn isn't just a hotel, but a repository for Khun Tor's extraordinary collection of ... everything. From soda cans to portraits of the King and Queen, there seems to be nothing he doesn't collect. We spent a good hour browsing items stashed in every nook and cranny, on both floors of the hotel.

Just before I concluded my interview with Khun Tor my eye was drawn to a wall display of pop bottles. Dozens and dozens, all made in Thailand. It turns out that the 1930s was Thailand's heyday of soda production. Hundreds of brands of lemonade, orange 'crush', fruit pop, colas, 'polak milk', plain old aerated water were bottled and sold all over the country. According to Khun Tor most provinces -- most districts, even -- bottled their own. Then came foreign brands. Singha gained the upper hand in the aerated water stakes, and finally most local brands withered away.

What a sweet bit of Thai culinary history to stumble upon, tucked away in hotel we probably never would have known if not for the Gat Luang project. It makes us excited for what we'll discover next month in the 'hood.

(An interesting aside: very local soda production was also a big thing in Turkey. Turkish chef and culinary historian Musa Dagdeviren has researched and written on the phenomenon, and its recent revival, for his quarterly publication Yemek ve Kultur.)

Why We Love George Town

Dogs in pedicabs and delicious street eats.

The latter, in this case, being 'dry' wonton mee tossed with dark soy sauce, lard oil and a few stems of choy sum (Chinese mustard). Topped with Hong Kong-style barbecued pork and a fluff of shredded chicken breast and served with a deep-fried wonton and a spoonful of sambal belacan soured with kalamansi juice, the nearly translucent noodles display a good amount of 'Q' (springy chewiness). Accompanying wonton is suitably porky.

This version can be found at the coffeeshop on Malay Street (corner of Beach), across from a fruit stand. Mornings and afternoons. George Town, Penang.

The dogs and their driver can be found idling on Jalan Penang and cruising the heritage zone.

 

 

In Print and Online

A heads-up to those living in Malaysia: this month's Pro Photographer interview in Malaysia's Digital SLR Photography Magazine is with Dave. If we can get our hands on a copy we'll try to post a scan here. The magazines Facebook page is here.

If you don't know the site Great Food Photos, you should. Not just because it features photos by and interviews with um, great food photographers, but because this week's featured food photographer is none other than David Hagerman. Check out the interview and a few of Dave's favorite shots (the one above was taken in Kuching in December), here. Thanks to Donny Tsang, the photographer behind the site, for including Dave.

Yut Kee: The End of an Era?

Last week Dave and I took some visitors to Yut Kee for lunch. They were famished, and we wanted them to try all our favorite dishes so we ordered as much as the table would hold: chicken chops all around, hailam mee (dry), belacan fried rice, roti babi, stir-fried gailan, beef noodles. "It's comfort food!" she, a food writer from the USA, declared between mouthfuls. "And it's absolutely delicious"

After we'd finished dessert -- iced coffee and toast and kaya -- I found Jack Lee and brought him to the table for introductions. We'd told our visitors about Yut Kee's rolled pork roast, the special Friday and Sunday pork roast that draws many dozens of customers and sells out within an hour. They would miss it, and wondered how they might recreate it at home. "Oh, he won't want to tell us," he said when I suggested we just ask Jack. They were wrong, and I knew they would be. Jack gave them the recipe, just as easily as he had asked his son Mervyn demonstrate to us the Yut Kee method for making roti babi when we were working on a feature on Malaysia Hainan chefs a few months back. Jack's generous like that.

The six of us sat at the table shooting the sh*t for a good hour. "You didn't try the kaya roll?" Jack asked, and ordered over a couple slices along with two squares of butter cake and more coffees. We left full and happy that we'd been able to introduce our new friends to a bit of real Kuala Lumpur. Nothing touristy about Yut Kee, though tourists often find their way there. After all, it's been a part of many local lives for over eighty years.

"That place is really something special," she said to me as we walked to the car. They got it.

Heaving inside, crowd at the door: a typical lunch scene at Yut Kee

We KL-ites take Yut Kee for granted, don't we? It's difficult not to take a place for granted when it's been turning out the good stuff for approaching a century. As long as you don't turn up on a Monday or the last Sunday of the month you're guaranteed a savory chop, a smooth cup of joe, some of Malaysia's best kaya. There will be Jack -- hanging out at the front table with a changing cast of regulars if it's after 3pm and the shop's quieted down, or striding back and forth between dining room and kitchen shouting reminders to staff if the place is full. There will be Mervyn, behind the cash register, maybe in the kitchen, perhaps punching away at his computer if there's a lull.

If it's lunchtime you know the place will be packed, with a crowd outside the door waiting for an open seat. You know that Mervyn will take note of your presence, ask for the number of people in your party, and you will wait with a certain measure of patience because you know that Mervyn doesn't tolerate queue jumpers. If you're a party of just two or three, you know you'll have to share a table. The ceiling fans will be swishing air about, the portrait of Jack's father, who founded the place, will be staring down from the wall. The glass display case will be full of cakes, plastic cups of kaya will be stacked by the cash register, the smell of kopi will be everywhere. There will be couples and colleagues and whole multi-generational families, people from knee-high to months from the grave sitting at marble-topped tables, tucking in.

A Yut Kee favorite: the chicken chop

There will be Yut Kee's green-shirted Burmese staff, many of whom have been there since we started frequenting the place over five years ago. Have you ever noticed how Mervyn and Jack treat their staff? Not gruffly, not grumpily, not as if they're migrant labor (a status which -- let's be honest -- some equate with being sub-human). Jack and Mervyn communicate to their staff with the courtesy rooted in a recognition that respect -- not fear -- earns loyalty. It's a pleasure to watch, the well-oiled and well-managed machine that Yut Kee is. It says something about the kind of folks Jack and his son are.

Back in the kitchen, there will be cooks and the odd wait staff tending to orders, boiling noodles, plating chops, re-frying roti babi, whipping eggs, sometimes putting together a special order. Orders fly in, and plates fly out. Seats are filled and then given up to those in the waiting crowd. So it goes, day after day and year after year.

At the end of the day's business, when the shop is quiet, Jack will back at his front table. Folks passing by on their way home from work stop in for a piece of cake and a cup of coffee or a beer and a pork chop. Others picked up a box of kaya roll or an order of fried rice to go. Many don't eat or drink anything at all, just stop in to shake Jack's hand and say "hi". Sometimes they sit down and chat for a while.

To so many folks who eat at Yut Kee Jack isn't just a kopitiam owner -- he's a friend, a confidante, a buddy, an acquaintance willing to offer a sympathetic ear, a commiserator, and the kind of joke-teller who can humor you out of a foul mood. And Mervyn, though he's often too busy behind the counter or in the kitchen to spend a lot of time chatting, is in Jack's mold.

We were distressed to learn last week that the Yut Kee KL has known for over 80 years may have a limited shelf life. Though there remains one year to its lease, the building's owner wishes to redevelop. If this comes to pass Jack and Mervyn will move the coffee shop next door to the shuttered Boddhi Tree.

When I tweeted and Facebooked this news reaction was of three kinds. Some responded along the lines of "So what, the place has gone downhill anyway." Lord, some people do take a special pleasure in finding fault with well-loved eateries, don't they? Gone downhill since, like, Yut Kee the founder's days? In the past decade? Because in the over 5 years we've been eating there nothing's changed, while more and more hawker stalls that we used to frequent seem to be serving pale examples of their formerly delicious specialties. No eatery is above reproach, but this sort of sentiment is indicative of a certain small- mindedness.

Yut Kee's famous roti babi

Others were buoyed by the news that roti babi wil still be served, albeit in another location. "It's not closing, it's just moving. At least I can still get my beef noodles!" And that exasperates me. If your 80-year-old grandmother were devastated by the news that she'd have to move from the house she'd grown up and lived in all her life would you imagine that consolation lies in a condo up the block? "Don't worry grandma, you're just moving two doors down. At least it will still be convenient for me to stop in now and again."

Yes -- you may still be able to eat your favorite chicken chops. Kaya might even once again be stirred in a gigantic oil drum in the back of the shop. But the folks who run the establishment that serves the food that makes you happy are facing the loss of decades of family history. It's a big personal loss. This time, it's not just about your belly.

Hailam mee, dry

Still other Yut Kee fans responded, "There's nothing we can do."

Last year a local musician said to me, "We Malaysians are complacent." And why not? The economy is doing decently enough, Mercedes is enjoying brisk sales, Astro gets a billion channels, the authorities haven't shown any indication of cracking down on hawker food, and KL is set to get at least 4 new shopping malls in over the next five years. There's a lot to bitch about but just the act of bitching is so satisfying. Plus it works up a good appetite for the next meal. Why rock the boat?

And maybe there is nothing that can be done about Yut Kee. The building is in private hands and the owner -- whom Mervyn has taken pains to point out is a very nice gentleman who just wants to see his investment pay off -- can do whatever he likes with it. It's unlikely that anyone in charge in this city that is losing its history so fast it will soon be as soulless as some others in the region will give two hoots about an old Chinese coffee shop. Is there a way to have the place recognized as a site of KL heritage and thus in some way protected? Unlikely. Noisy protests might be staged but seeing as water cannons and tear gas have been used on peaceful demonstrators in the not too distant past that's probably not a good idea.

What can be done then? Well, how about a demonstation of affection and support for a family which has given Kuala Lumpur residents and visitors so darned much pleasure over eight decades? How about a collective expression of regret that a special era just may well be coming to an end? Could we possibly manage to get off our rear ends and make that effort on the behalf of good people who do good work and have been doing it so tirelessly for so long?

I'd like to see everyone who has ever enjoyed a meal at Yut Kee show up at the shop and give thanks. On a given date, at a given time. If we did, the crowd could number in the many hundreds -- a statement that would be hard to ignore. Folks, could we manage to do that much?

A Taste of Luang Prabang: Or Lam

If you've visited Luang Prabang you probably know aw lahm / or lam, a spicy stew of vegetables and grilled or smoked meat that's thickened with sticky rice and pounded boiled eggplants. In our latest piece for Zester Daily we delve into the dish's back story, and offer a recipe adapted from Food From Northern Laos: The Boat Landing Cookbook. Read it here.

We love this super savory, comforting dish. Give it a try -- it's not overly complicated, and is perfect paired with sticky or plain white rice and a Laos-style dip (find a recipe for the latter here).