EatingAsia

In Sinop, Breaking a Meat Fast

After two solid weeks of fish, we had a lust for red meat.

For fourteen days Dave and I had been ranging along the center part of Turkey's Black Sea coast, indulging our love of things piscene. (This journey you'll read about another time, in another place.) All fish all the time -- for seafood lovers like us, this was not a hardship. Especially not here on Turkey's northern coast, where the fish is so fresh (just an hour or two off the boat in some cases), so delicious.

But yesterday the weather changed. Around noon the breeze -- which has been bizarrely spring-like, warm and caressing for the last half month -- stiffened and chilled. The Black Sea went from marine blue to white-capped gunmetal. The clear sky darkened and gauzy gray clouds spat rain. By the time darkness fell (4 o'clock-ish this time of year, during inclement weather) we were driving through a steady downpour that smelled like snow.

On this night fish just would not do. Our chilled bones needed meat.

So we bypassed our favorite restaurant, which serves nothing but seafood, in favor of an old-style ocakbaşı, or restaurant featuring an open grill.

Sahil is a kendin pişir kendin ye (cook it yourself, eat it yourself) establishment within shouting distance of Sinop's harbor. The set-up is simple. On the ground floor seating is around a community "table" comprised of a marble countertop framing a big charcoal grill, all beneath a gigantic copper exhaust hood.

You walk in, grab a stool, and place your order. The restaurant offers beef (bonfile or pounded fillet steak, and kofte or mini burgers), chicken (pounded breast and wings) and seasonal fish. (Lamb isn't as relished on the Black Sea as it is in other regions of Turkey; locals often tell us that the smell is a turn-off.)

We ordered bonfile and kofte, which the son of the owners -- Mustafa Usta and his wife, a jovial middle-aged couple from Ordu, several hours east of Sinop on the Black Sea -- brought to the table along with sliced onion and tomato, long green peppers and bread. After giving the coals a good stir with a long poker he used a thick slice of onion to clean the grill of gunk and oiled it with a chunk of talo. His mother spread our meat over its center and formed constellations of bread and vegetables around it.

We asked for a salad and a plate of mixed pickles (most every restaurant in Turkey stocks some sort of pickle or other, often not listed on the menu -- just ask for turşu / TOOR-shoo). Then we sat back to make conversation with our fellow diners while monitoring the main attraction as it smoked and sputtered in front of us.

 

I was nominally in charge but in reality it was Mustafa Usta's wife, who (understandably, given the Turkish obsession with the BBQ) oversaw our dinner. Every 30 seconds or so she jumped in with her tongs, adjusting and flipping our patties and fillets and pressing the vegetables onto the fat-slicked metal. In under 5 minutes we were diving into our meat feast.

What's not to love about well-seasoned beef hot off the grill? What cut of meat -- or vegetable, for that matter -- doesn't benefit from a lick of flame, a crusty char, a hint of smoke?

The kofte, impossibly light, had obviously been chopped, seasoned and molded by a master. The beef fillet, while not the most tender I've ever eaten, boasted the full flavor of meat from a grass-fed cow (a luxury in the USA but a norm in much of Turkey). Pickled chilies with a good but not overwhelming bite made an excellent accompaniment to the juicy, fatty meat. The grilled vegetables, wilted but not without texture, were as delicious as vegetables always are in Turkey, where flavor hasn't yet been bred out of cucumbers, tomatoes, salad greens and the like.

We ordered another round, ate like king and queen for a total of 35 tay-lay (the equivalent of 20 US bucks) and, meat lust sated, waddled back to our hotel.

Sahil Ocakbaşı, Camiibekir Mahallesi Ortayol No. 12, Sinop (across from the mosque right in front of the harbor). 368-260-3645

Turkey's King of Nuts

When you say Turkey folks tend to think pistachios -- if they are thinking of nuts, that is. Pistachios are a huge crop in the country's southeast, and more often than not pistachios are what gets tucked between sheets of yufka for the baklava sold back in Istanbul.

But for me Turkey's big nut is the hazelnut, so dear in the USA but so everyday here, especially on the Black Sea coast. On our first road trip along the Black Sea some 11 or 12 years ago we marvelled at the burlap bags of hazelnuts in the region's kuru yemis (dried foods) stores, pounds and pounds of shelled and unshelled nuts sold for a song. We bought dried mulberries and plums and hazelnuts by the kilo and cobbled together what seemed at the time fabulously luxurious trail mixes. To accompany a beer with handfuls of hazelnuts, instead of peanuts, seemed almost a sin.

A few days ago we kicked off our third Black Sea trip in less than two years, in Giresun -- also known as Turkey's hazelnut capital. Like those of other Turkish cities Giresun's central square is graced with a statue of Kemal Ataturk. But just nearby is another statue, of male and female hazelnut pickers standing back-to-back, conical woven baskets laden with nuts strapped around their waists and giant hazelnut husks (the papery covering over the nut, which looks a bit like a trumpet flower) balanced on their heads.

Driving into Giresun from the east along the four-lane highway, we passed fındık fabrikası (hazelnut processing facility) after fındık fabrikası -- huge buildings, many with container trucks parked out front. In the city fındık depo tucked among houses and low-rise apartment buildings house hundreds of burlap bags of nuts in their shells, and shops with names like Hazelnut Castle and Hazelnut World sell all manner of hazelnut products: the nuts shelled and unshelled and dipped in chocolate, hazenut butter chunky or smooth, hazelnut flour and the big macaroon-type cookies that are made from it and hazelnut ezme, a sweet, sticky slurry of coarsely crushed hazelnuts blended withsyrup.

At Giresun's twice-weekly market, which draws fresh and prepared food vendors from villages near and far, we asked a husband-wife team selling whole dried pears, pear and apple pekmez (fruit molasses) and seven types of cheese why, given that the Black Sea hazelnut harvest was not all that many weeks ago, there were no hazelnuts for sale at the market.

"Why would we sell our hazelnuts at the market for 5 lira a kilo when we can get 15 lira from the factory?" he asked (the couple harvest around 500 kilos of hazelnuts a year from their own orchard).

But there are hazelnuts aplenty in Giresun's pastane, or pastry shops. We eyed the breads, buns and sweets in many pastry shop windows before settling on Patar Kadayıfı, in the center of town. Our rationale: the glass case tiny Patar held just three or four sweets, and only two made with hazelnuts.

If there's one thing we've learned from working the street food circuit all these years, it's that specialization rules.

We we ordered the hazelnut baklava. And it was delicious, not too syrupy ..... but to be honest, once you've eaten baklava in Gaziantep no other baklava can ever come close.

So we tried the fındık ezmeli kadayıf, a sort of sticky bar cookie made of hazelnut ezme combined with kadayıf, wispy dried wheat vermicelli. It was wonderful, heavenly, packed with nuts that had been crushed not too fine to really taste. We swooned through a shared plateful.

As we were scraping our plate with our forks, two portly middle-aged Turkish men sat down at the table next to us and ordered a portion each. Their ezme squares arrived topped with thick slices of what looked like kaymak (Turkish clotted cream) and a hillock of crushed hazelnuts. Whoa!

Well, the kaymak turned out to be dondurma, that delicious, slightly chewy Turkish ice cream. So much the better. We returned to Parar the following day just before blowing town and did our fındık ezmeli kadayıf right, crowned with shingles of ice cream and more fındık  -- to the delight of the trio of burly men behind the counter who, judging by their collective girth, enjoy hazelnut ezme often.

Patar Kadayıfı, 21/B Fatih Caddesi, Giresun.

 

Lunch in Kars, and the Appeal of Places Neither Here Nor There

"What on earth am I doing, sitting here in eastern Turkey thinking about northern Thailand?" I thought to myself.

Dave and I were tucking into a beautiful spread at Kristal, a friendly lokanta in the old section of Kars. I was working on the haşam, a simple beef and potato stew. I sat opposite a large window, and as I chewed I watched the mid-day parade: scarved older women en route from the weekly market, toting plastic bags of red apples and miniature green pears, chard and tomatoes, chicken and lamb; men sporting jaunty wool caps and enormous moustaches whose lazy pace suggested a destination no more pressing than the tea house; a horse-drawn cart piled with round cabbages; two sheep, a goat, and a cow standing in the back of an open truck. A Kars scene. Yet my thoughts kept drifting to a lunch we'd eaten almost 18 months ago on a farm in northern Thailand.

But ... I'm getting ahead of myself.

We'd driven into Kars at the cusp of dusk, two days prior. Dark low-hanging clouds blanketed the sky and though it was the middle of June an almost icy wind had me diving into my suitcase in search of polar fleece.

Most of what I knew about Kars I'd read in Orhan Pamuk's novel Snow. Pamuk's Kars is a desolate, unfriendly city thick with intrigue and foreboding. The novel takes place during an especially harsh winter (the Turkish translation of 'snow' is 'kar'). Here it was summer, but first impressions didn't work to dispel Pamuk's image of the place.

Located in northeastern Turkey near the border with Armenia (and touristed most often for its proximity to the ruins of the abandoned city of Ani), Kars was the last Ottoman outpost before Russia. The city was taken by the Russians and occupied for appoximately 40 years, until the Russian Revolution in 1917.

Kars' time as part of the Empire is evident in what Pamuk calls "Russian houses" -- hulking structures of grey stone blocks, many of which lie empty, their windows broken or missing altogether. The old part of the city is bordered by a river -- an angry, roiling river on the day that we arrived -- and is watched over from a hilltop by castle ruins. Most of the roads are still paved with cut stone.

By the time we checked into our hotel the weeping gray sky was adding to the city's distinctly unwelcoming vibe. Rude service and lackluster kebabs at dinner did nothing to improve our spirits, nor did the series of fierce thunderstorms that rumbled through the night.

But in the morning we woke to a clear turquoise sky. The river, though still churning, sparkled in the sun. The air was crisp (now it felt a treat to be wearing polar fleece in June) and clean and sweet. Walking the streets of Kars, we found a city quite unlike the one we thought we'd arrived in.

The oppressiveness we'd felt the day before seemed to have evaporated with all evidence of rain. Kars' denizens smiled. They shook hands, they chatted, they insisted we sit down for for tea. Karsians are incredibly friendly, we found.

And in this new light, the old Russian houses were really quite beautiful. Some are painted hues more suggestive of the seaside than an inland city hemmed in by plains and pastures.

 

The night before we'd looked forward to escaping Kars. But that morning we wished we could spare a few more days.

The next day, our second and last in town, we wandered into a shop selling nothing but kaşar (a gruyere-like cheese special to Kars province) and honey, another local specialty.

 

The owner invited us inside and fed us slice after slice of cheese -- buttery young kaşar, aged kaşar with crunchy 'crystals' reminiscent of those in a good parmesan reggiano, toasted cheese sandwich-worthy orta ('middle' -- not young and not old) kaşar. It was all wonderful.

Cheese, we'd heard, is an essential part of the local breakfast, and the villages around Kars produce several varieties. After our kaşar tasting we wanted more. Where, we asked the shop's proprietor, could we find a good Kars breakfast?

'Kristal,' he answered. 'Orada,' pointing up the street.

We followed his advice and walked the half block to Kristal, a bright and pleasant spot with a glass display case for hot and cold dishes up front and perhaps 15 tables in rows of two arranged the length of its narrow dining room.

The welcome was cordial. We ordered Kars breakfast -- the works. A young waiter was sent out for cheese: kaşar, string cheese called çeçil peynir, çakmak peynir (a creamy, salty white cheese similar to Bulgarian feta), and an exceptionally rich and soft vanilla-hued specimen with a not-unpleasant funky edge.

Black olives, cucumbers, tomatoes, honey, bread and tea were brought from the kitchen. Kaymak the consistency of thick whipping cream was ladled from a glass bowl in the front case onto a saucer.

But then, as we were swooning over our breakfast, Kristal's chef began carrying stainless steel pan after pan into the dining room. Lunch prep had begun, and it was taking place not six feet from our table.

We ate cheese and bread and drizzled honey over kaymak and tried to ignore the scents of wood oven-baked vegetables, slow-cooked meats, onions and tomatoes and eggplants sauteed in olive oil, and dried legumes coaxed to tenderness in meaty broth.

We were due in Erzurum that evening, to catch a morning flight back to Istanbul. There would be no second chance, at least not this trip. It became obvious: we would have to return to Kristal for lunch. In three hours. And we did, after a brisk walk and a hike up to the castle.

We weren't really hungry. But it didn't really matter.

The secret to a fine Kars breakfast is good ingredients, which means that a halfway decent eatery can put together an exceptional morning feed. But lunch is another matter; it's all about what happens in the kitchen. And what's happening in Kristal's kitchen is something exceptional.

 

Kristal was opened in 1952 by the father of Tahsin Kaya, who now runs the restaurant with his brother. The recipes date back, and Kristal's current chef has been on the job for years. Dishes change by the day (only lunch is çeşit yemeği -- various dishes; at night Kristal serves döner and kebap). The food is unbelievably delicious.

Kristal is a destination restaurant.

Our favorite dish was the house specialty, piti. Chickpeas, suckling lamb, tail fat, a bit of tomato, and saffron are baked for many hours in enameled cups. The flavors mingle and meld, and the chickpeas become thoroughly infused with saffron-and-meat essence.

The dish is served in two parts: first, lavash is torn into strips and placed in a shallow bowl and the piti soup is poured over.

 

The solid ingredients, with a bit of broth as well (see opening photo), are given their own bowl.

It's a magical duo. I expected the lavash to sink under the weight of liquid as it absorbed the broth, but instead became a layer of light, airy dumplings.

The chickpeas hold their shape, contrasting with lamb so tender it requires eating with a spoon (my fork reduced the meat to shreds). Both meat and broth were assertively lamb-y yet not overwhelmingly so. Everything in the dish was laced with a fragrant, slightly bitter saffron edge that countered the richness of the meat and tail fat and the butteryness of the chickpeas.

That piti was unlike anything we've tasted elsewhere in Turkey, which isn't surprising given Kars' history of occupation and its position so near the border.

After we returned home to Kuala Lumpur I found a recipe for a piti -- described as 'individual lamb stews' -- in the Azerbaijan section of Culinaria Russia. Unlike Kristal's version of piti the book's version includes potatoes and dried sour cherries, prunes or dried cherries and is eaten sprinkled with dried mint and sumac. But otherwise it's essentially the same dish of meat and chickpeas, and it's served the same way, soup and solids in two separate bowls (sans lavash).

Another winner at Kristal was etli zeytinyağlı patlıcan (eggplant cooked in olive oil with meat), an eggplant split and stuffed with minced lamb -- pudding-soft eggplant, meat nubs both chewy and, for those exposed to the heat of the oven, crispy like crackling. Good fresh tomato paste and plenty of kırmızı biber (dried red pepper) punched up the meaty filling.

Note the bit of broth on the plate -- though cooked in plenty of olive oil this dish wasn't swimming in it.

 

It's fairly rare to encounter an etsiz (meatless) güveç in Turkey, so when Tahsin Bey recommended this dish we pounced on it. Turkish cooks seem to have an innate ability to cook vegetables 'to death' (as my mother would say -- soft, in other words) without leaching them of flavor. 

The güveç perfectly demonstrated that unique way with vegetables. It was a mixture of standards (eggplant, carrots, spicy long green peppers) and seasonal items (peas, a couple varieties of summer squash, favas), oven-baked long and slow with olive oil. The result was a mess of limp but not mushy vegetables that retained their individual flavors while swimming in a rich vegetable 'jus' that tasted of each one.

We finished with a typically Turkish fırın sütlaç (pudding) capped with an oven-browned skin. Dave and I are hard-core sütlaç fans, and Kristal's version was spot-on -- smooth, full fat-creamy, and telling of milk first and sugar last. It was served sporting a mound of pulverized hazelnuts, a northeastern flourish.

 

But back to that haşam, and the northern Thailand connection. The dish consisted of a piece of beef (visible on the plate above at about 1 o'clock) and a few potatoes swimming in a pool of golden broth/soup. Beef seems to be a northeastern Turkish thing -- it wasn't until we arrived in Kars that we saw huge sides of cow hanging in butcher windows.

Yet every bite brought to mind gaeng man aroo sai gai, a Shan dish prepared for a hands-on cooking course in northern Thailand that Dave and I covered early last year for Wall Street Journal Asia (read the story here, see the slideshow here.)

The Shan dish's ingredients are: chicken, shallots, garlic, salt, turmeric, potatoes, tomato. According to Tahsin Bey the haşam is made with beef, potatoes, tomato, saffron, onions, and salt.

Two weeks later at a tea house in Istanbul a common thread showed itself. The proprietor gave us a short course in herbal teas and Ottoman-style şerbet, walking us through some of the ingredients he uses: dried poppy flower, wildly fragrant mint, sassafrass, rosehips, hibiscus and other dried flowers, and dried spices, among others.

As he described his use of 'saffron' he laid before me a dried root that was unmistakeably -- turmeric. 

Marigold petals are sometimes used as a saffron substitute (the poor man's saffron, if you will) in Turkey and countries to its east (Greece too?). Perhaps turmeric is as well. It was the turmeric-potatoes combination in the haşam that had so vividly transported me from Kars to northern Thailand and a lunch that included gaeng man aroo sai gai.

Kars felt as far away from Southeast Asia as I could imagine being. But it seems that even when we are wholly immersed in new experiences and sights and tastes, the mind (or the sub-conscious) insists on casting about for anchors -- connections to what we already know.

By the time we left Kristal Dave and I were thoroughly beguiled with Kars. There's something about border towns that has always appealed to us. Maybe it's the challenge of teasing origins and influences from cuisines and cultures that are the by-product of the merging of so many.

To us Kars is both very Turkish, and very not. Our lunch at Kristal was a delicious teaser.

Kristal, 127 Halitpaşa Caddesi, Kars. (For more on that delicious piti, head over to Istanbul Food.)

Interview: Tin Cho Chaw, Author of Burmese Cookbook 'hsa*ba'

Shwedagon Pagoda, Rangoon     photo courtesy of hsa*ba

In January and February I had a series of unexpected brushes with Burmese cuisine. First, Dave and I 're-found' a Burmese vendor whose food we'd adored on several occasions, until she up and disappeared from her spot just outside KL Chinatown's wet market. Yeechaw is now cooking at another food court in Chinatown. She looks much happier than when we last saw her a couple of years ago (when she had just recently arrived from her hometown of Moulmein and didn't seem to be adjusting so well to life in KL), and her more positive state of mind is reflected in her food, which is better than ever. More to come on that.

Shortly after we found Yeechaw I stumbled upon hsa*ba (the word means 'Please eat' in Burmese), a wonderful website on Burmese food by Tin Cho Chaw, author of the cookbook of the same name. I contacted Cho with a few Burmese food-related questions and, intrigued by both the topic of her book (not many Burmese cookbooks out there, you know) and the fact that her book is self-published, proposed an interview.

Before we could work out the interview Dave and I left for northern Thailand, where we ended up eating quite a lot of Burmese food at various markets and, as part of the assignment that took us there, spent a couple of days on a farm watching a Burmese Shan woman teach 11 North American cooking students how to make lots of extremely tasty Shan dishes (we got to eat them too).

We arrived back in KL hankering for a taste of Burma. Luckily, waiting for me at home was a copy of Cho's book hsa*ba. In the last couple of months I've cooked from it a fair bit, and I've been more than pleased with the results. The recipes are clearly written, easy to follow, and deliver on flavor (my favorites so far: roselle leaves and bamboo curry and tamarind fish). And the book, filled with gorgeous photos by the author and her husband, is as delightful to look at as it is to cook from.

I finally able, a couple weeks ago, to interview Cho by email. After you read the interview, peruse the wealth of material (including videos) on her site - and consider adding her book to your cookbook library.

Thanks Cho, for taking the time to answer my many questions - and congratulations on the recent glowing review of hsa*ba!

You moved to the UK at age eight. What food memories did you carry from Burma with you?

The main road at the top of the street where we lived in Rangoon was a hub of stalls buzzing with life every evening. On our way to Sule pagoda, we would pass by these stalls selling an assortment of sweet snacks made with coconut, palm sugar, and sometimes flavored with pandan leaf. Occasionally I would be treated to these snacks and on hot humid nights we would stop for a faluda or a cooling grass jelly drink.

What was the family diet after you moved to the UK? Was it then - and is it now - easy to find ingredients for Burmese food in London and/or Sydney (where Cho also spends much time)?

Initially it was difficult to cook Burmese food until my mother found a small Chinese store that sold fish sauce and shrimp paste. After that mohingar and other Burmese dishes became more regular. We also ate a lot of British food like fish fingers and chips, baked potatoes with baked beans, though our stomachs were never content unless we ate rice!

Back in the 80s it was fairly difficult to find Asian ingredients in Devon where we lived. I'm glad to see it has totally changed ... In Sydney most supermarkets have an Asian aisle stocked with an assortment of ingredients. The only Burmese ingredient which cannot easily be found is pickled tea leaf, laphet.

When did you become interested in cooking? And in cooking Burmese dishes?

Most of my childhood was spent in the kitchen, where the life of the house was, so I was always interested in cooking. As I am the youngest of four, I mainly watched or helped with the preparations. Then when I left home to study in London, I started to cook Burmese dishes. 

Before you went to Burma to research the book, what was your source of Burmese recipes? All from family?

Yes, they were recipes my mother cooked or learnt from her sisters. Some came from my father's family as my grandmother was an excellent cook. She was famous for her soy sauce pork belly amongst many other dishes.

When and how did the idea of a book come to you? Did you know right away you'd go to Burma to research it?

The idea of collecting the family's recipes came about many years ago when I kept having to call my mother or sister for instructions. As time went by, I felt we had altered and adapted the recipes when ingredients were hard to find so the idea of going back to Burma was to rediscover the food we ate in Rangoon. The notion of creating a book to be published slowly evolved from it with the encouragement of my husband and my family.

How long were you in Burma for the book? Did your husband travel with you - if so, had he been to Burma before?

We were in Burma for three weeks which was not long enough. I managed to complete most of the research and do some of the photography. I intended on returning to do more of the photography especially the regional food and people, which have not yet materialized.

My husband, Christopher, came on the trip. It was his first experience of Burma and he absolutely loved it.

 

Steamed crabs     photo courtesy of hsa*ba

Favorite memories from the trip?

My cousin, Min Han, made boiled crab with soy sauce and lime dip (the crabs are on the front cover of the book). It was the best crab I've ever eaten so that will stay with me forever. Both Christopher and I just loved the time we spent in the kitchen, cooking, photographing, and eating.

It was lovely to spend time with my cousins. It brought back all the wonderful memories of growing up surrounded by not only my immediate family but all the aunties, uncles, and cousins.

Were you an avid photographer before you started on this book?

I've always had an interest in photography and when I discovered Steve McCurry I was totally hooked. Majority of the food photography was taken by Christopher as I did the cooking and styling. It was great fun working together.

How long did the book take from idea to publication?

After our trip to Burma in 2004, I had a clear idea for the book but work [Cho is in multi-media design and development] kept me from really starting on it till late 2006 when I decided to seriously take on the project and came up with hsa*ba.

As we are self-published and working mainly in our spare time, it took over a year before we were ready to go to the printers.

Why did you decide to self-publish? What was the biggest challenge?

I had a clear vision for the creative direction and tone of voice for the book. Both Christopher and I have worked in graphic design so designing, laying out the book, and managing printing was fairly straightforward. We both knew that the biggest challenge as a self-publisher would be to market and sell the book as we are a small fish in a big pond.

What's been the reaction to the book?

I've been overwhelmed by the positive feedback from people who bought the book and are cooking from it. I've received several emails that have touched me deeply and certainly made the hard work that went into the book worthwhile. One in particular which I'd like to share is an email from Lynette in Ontario:

'"There is a lovely South Indian restaurant I go to (almost everyday) near my office. On the day I took one copy to the chef (we talk alot about Burmese cooking), he introduced me to two young Burmese boys he had just hired. They are refugees and are helping him to read the titles in Burmese. I had seen the boys before and they looked so scared and sad. Now when I walk in they smile huge sunshine smiles and greet me "Daw Gyi! Hsa*ba!" A deep bow of gratitude for the healing your book has brought them."

Any other Burmese food-related projects in the works?

I'm always researching a new Burmese recipe after talking to my mother. When we're chatting she would suddenly remember eating something while she lived in Shan state or something my father made then we would try to work out how to cook it. 

 

Hand-mixed noodle salad     photo courtesy of hsa*ba

What's your favorite recipe from the book?

I love so many of them. I would probably pick hand-mixed noodle salad (let thote) because it is one that is best eaten with family and friends so I have lots of fond memories. I also think there is something wonderful and sensual about eating with your hands.

The recipes in hsa*ba are mouthwatering, yet so many travelers leave Burma saying that there's little good to eat there. Why do think that is?

You're right. Most travelers go to Burma and end up only eating at tourist restaurants or being served food that's 'westernised'. I think it is part of the Burmese nature of being hospitable and catering to the 'guests'. I thought it was interesting that the word used for travelers or tourists in Burma is 'guests'.

Any advice for food-focused folks heading to Burma?

Learn a few names of Burmese dishes. Christopher always got an amazing response from people when he asked for mohingar or sipyan. People went out of their way to take him to the best place to eat a particular dish. Follow the locals as they usually know where to eat the best food and choose busy places so that there is a high turnover and the food will be fresh.

You've spent time in Kuala Lumpur. When was that?

Our first trip to Malaysia was in 2006 and in late 2007 we decided to go back. We thought it would be a great base for traveling to other Asian countries though we spent most of our time exploring Malaysia. Both Christopher and I are durian fans so we ended up staying for the durian season!

Some of my great grandfather's descendants ended up in Penang so I was fortunate to have many cousins to show us all the great food spots.

What's your favorite food from your stays here in KL?

My cousin Angeline took us to so many great places to eat. My favorite is fish head noodles at Taman Danau Desa. She also introduced us to her friend, Derek, who is an absolute foodie and through him we discovered pan meen. Once Christopher and I worked out how to navigate the streets of KL, we started to find other great places like roti canai at Raju and going to SS2 market to eat durian and assam laksa.

Street Food - Off and On the Street

We generally avoid malls and mall food like the plague. So it was a little disconcerting last year to find ourselves spending a lot of time in the region's shopping center food courts for a feature article in today's Wall Street Journal Asia 'Weekend Journal' (the annual Food Issue) on street foods cooked and served 'off the street' (a few out takes here).

I have to admit I accepted the assignment with some ambivalence. For me eating on the street is an integral part of travelling (where street food is available, anyway). It's such an easy and delightful way to connect with locals and immerse yourself in local culinary (and other) culture.

But I also realize that there are lots of travelers who, for whatever reason, just can't go there. And I do not turn my nose up at you. Street food is not just about the food, it's about the experience, and while the experience can't be recreated in a shopping mall food court or restaurant (though Saigon's Quan An Ngon comes pretty close), in the course of our research for this piece we found that - sometimes - the food can.

So I say, to those who just can't bring themselves to eat on the street or in a market: I'm glad that there are places like this, where you can find at least an approximation of the street's flavors. (I also say, put yourself in my hands for a day and I'll have you converted. But that's neither here nor there.)

For this article we visited malls and standalone restaurants in Bangkok, Jakarta, Saigon, and KL (we had help in Singapore) . And we found something interesting, a little tidbit that hasn't entered the debate about the desire of some regional municipal governments to sweep foods off the street: places like Jakarta's Kafe Betawi (a chain) or Tanah Abang food court may actually become repositories for some tastes of the street, as certain street foods disappear from their natural habitat.

The owner of Kafe Betawi, who is really very passionate about street foods, told me that she tries to conjure, in her restaurants, approximations of  street foods she remembers from her childhood that are now nearly extinct on the street. And on the 8th floor of Tanah Abang, a massive textile market, we found a street specialty - kerak telur, a sort of rice and egg 'omelet' with coconut and palm sugar - that we'd been searching for in vain. It was even cooked old-style, over charcoal.

***

That said, for us the street is still where it's at. I mean, just have a look at that opening photo: com tam (broken rice) topped with grilled pork, sweet-tart cucumber-carrot-daikon pickle, a fried egg, and scallion greens (fish sauce-chili dipping sauce on the side) taken with a glass of inky iced coffee at a tiny, low-to-the-ground beaten metal table, at 7am on a Saturday in an alley in Saigon's District 1. 

It's a dish we often overlook, common as it is to nearly every Saigon city block in the a.m., but it's so delicious. The broken rice is fluffy, light, almost couscous-like, the pork slightly sweet and smoky, the pickles a sharp counterpoint to the richness of the meat. The egg's yolk, broken to spill over the rice, pulls it all together. And the dipping sauce, with it's lightly sugared, fish-flavored chili punch, is the flavor of Vietnam itself. What a way to wake up. (That, and the coffee.)

But this meal isn't just about the deliciousness of what's on the plate in front of us. It's about being out and about when Saigon is at it's best, when the buildings still cast long shadows and the air is a bit cool and as close as it ever gets to clean; when the motorcycles, relatively thin on the street, speak a soothing purr instead of a deafening roar; and when locals, fresh from a night's sleep and not yet worn down from all the crap that a day in Saigon can throw at them, are at their friendliest.

(Smiles and nods also come from the sight of a couple of tall foreigners perched on kiddy stools hunkered down over a plate of com tam. Don't ever underestimate the power of partaking.)

 

It's about the aromas that waft about in that alley, the good ones: the comforting, enveloping smell of steamed rice, the hint of sourness rising from the vendor's jar of pickles, and the meaty smoke snaking up from the grill that taunts your growling belly while you're waiting for your plate of com tam and then, after it's delivered, stokes your hunger even as you're eating.

 

It's about the tinkle of bicycle bells and the honk of motorcycle horns (at the end of the alley sits an apartment building, and at 7am residents walk or ride by your table on their way to work, school, the market, breakfast, coffee), and the nods and high-fives sent your way by other eaters, many of whom probably breakfast here every single day. It's about the vendor's smile as she sets down your plate, the coffee lady's laugh at your pronunciation of 'cafe sua da', the privilege of watching your meal prepared right in front of you, and the pleasure of tucking into something so luscious yet so ridiculously cheap.

In short, this fantastic plate of com tam is about everything - the whole experience rolled into one tasty package. 

And that's why, given the choice, the street is where we eat.

Com tam, alley behind the opera house, Saigon. Starts early, closes when she runs out.

Asian Culinary Forum, San Francisco, October 10-12

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

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

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

Lao-ish Dilled Fish Soup

Dill and tua nao (fermented soy beans). Northern Thais stir-fry the two together with garlic and chilies and eat the dish with sticky rice

I'm the sort of cook that lights upon an ingredient, falls in love (or falls in love again, if I'm reliving an old infatuation), does it to death, and then moves on. The affair is usually intense, torrid ... then one day my eye and taste buds alight on something else, and it's over.

I've had a thing going with dill since I wrote this post on bitter flavors in Lao cuisine. This fling of ours, dill and I, has shown surprising staying power; it's been almost four months and to date shows no sign of fading.

My time in the kitchen is not devoted solely to Asian food, and part of dill's appeal is that, to my mind, it's neither a solely 'Western' nor an entirely 'Eastern' herb. In fact my strongest dill-related food memories are from my childhood in Michigan and our time in Lao. As a kid I loved pungently dill-y tartar sauce (the mayonnaise might have had something to do with it as well), and the dish that made the biggest impression during a few sojourns in Luang Prabang is a chicken stew that paired the herb with coconut milk.

The other afternoon I got a craving for the latter, but I abhor supermarket chicken and hadn't had time to hit the morning market. So I used fish instead, lightened the dish up a bit with fish stock, and produced a delicious fascimile. If you doubt the appropriateness of pairing dill with coconut milk think of creamy dill dishes you might have had in the past - dilled potatoes, for instance. It's not such a big leap to just think of coconut milk as substitute for cream.

Lao-ish Dilled Fish Soup

Serves 2 enthusiastic eaters or 4-6 regular eaters

If you love dill you'll like this dish (it's also really easy and pretty quick). In Lao, Isaan, and northern Thailand dill is used like a vegetable; instead of removing the frilly fronds and throwing away the stalk cooks chuck the lot into the pot. Mushrooms are optional. If you want to take this from a soup to a stew cut the fish stock to 1 1/4 cups and increase the amount of coconut milk. Serve with rice (or stir in some pieces of cooked potato) and a simple dish of greens stir-fried with a splash of fish sauce, a pinch of sugar, and perhaps a few chopped chilies.

If you're not a fish fan you could substitute chicken stock and chicken for the fish stock and fish. I'd add the chicken in step 1 and tack on enough extra cooking time for it to reach tenderness.

2 3/4 cup fish stock

2 leeks, white part only, sliced down the middle lengthwise and then cut into 2-inch/5 cm strips

5 or so black peppercorns

3 thick slices of galangal (kha)

a big bunch of dill, stems and all, washed - 5 stems roughly chopped and set aside and the rest cut in half (across the stalks)

Optional: about 8 ounces oyster mushrooms, stems removed if you like and cut or torn in half (other mildish mushrooms such as enoki or straw mushrooms could be substitute)

about 1 lb. firm, white-fleshed fish, such as snapper, sea bass, etc. (a river fish would work well here too - salmon is another option), cut into chunks

1/4 - 1/2 cup coconut milk

1/2 tsp. fish sauce

small bunch of chives, roughly chopped

3 lime leaves, layed on top of each other, rolled tightly into a cigar shape, and cut into the finest slivers

1. Put the fish stock into large saucepan and bring to a boil. Add the leeks, peppercorns, galangal, the half-stalks of dill ,and the mushrooms, if using. Bring the liquid to a boil, then lower the heat, cover the pot, and let simmer until the leeks (and mushrooms, if using) are tender, about 10 minutes.
2. Remove the lid, add the fish, and cook through, just a few minutes. Add the coconut milk (less for a lighter soup) and heat through but don't bring the soup to a boil.
3. Add the fish sauce, taste for salt, and add more if necessary, by the quarter teaspoon.
4. Stir in the chives, the reserved roughly chopped dill, and the lime leaves.
5. Remove from the heat and serve. 

Souvenirs ...

...from a trip we made twenty-three years ago.

Plus ca change ... (The more things change ...)

'Tis the Season ...

...in Singapore and Malaysia, at least, for yu sheng (yee sang, in Cantonese), a dish of raw fish tossed - for luck - with sweet, sour, fresh, fried, and crispy ingredients. Both Singaporeans and Malaysians lay claim to this Chinese New Year banquet fixture, but it probably originated in China's Guangdong province. Read more in the Wall Street Journal, here.

Lao Bitter

Our first trip to Laos, in 1994, was our virgin foray into Southeast Asia. We were living in Hong Kong, and had lived in and travelled around China, but everything south was, to us, The Unknown.

We had three weeks around Christmas. Someone told me Laos was 'incredible' - or maybe I read it somewhere - and so we booked tickets and took the plunge. Landing in Vientiene was a jolt. The city (if you could even call it a city, then), with its single traffic light, seemed as far from Hong Kong as the moon. With their ready smiles and soft voices, Laos were to 'Hongkies' as day is to night. And the food!Lounging riverside, eating sticky rice with spicy dips and laap, garlicky grilled sausages and soups fragrant with intriguingly unfamiliar leaves and herbs, it was hard to believe we were merely two hours from delicate dim sum.

On that trip we encountered flavors that simultaneously delighted and confused, dishes that mixed Asian ingredients with those we associated with the West. In Luang Prabang we were served a French-influenced uncooked salad of watercress and runny-yolked boiled eggs dressed with a light gado-gadoish peanut dressing. On the surface of an otherwise Thai tom kha gai-like stew of chicken, galangal, and coconut milk floated a surprising flurry of chopped fresh dill. Zest and slivered leaves of kaffir lime lent a pleasing astringency to egg-based tarts.

Bitterness is a flavor we'll always associate with Laos - not the bright, sharp bitterness of a raddichio salad or the caustic, mouth-drying bitternes of arugula (rocket) gone to seed, but the mellow, appetite-rousing bitterness of meaty soups and stews thick with herbs and wild greens. It's a taste and a perfume so common to the country's cuisine that it's hard to imagine a Lao meal without it.

I was reminded of that distinctive bitterness the other day when I came across boxes of long-dormant slides from that and subsequent visits to Laos. Dave's images triggered a rush of memories - of a dusty bicycle ride to a crumbling, abandoned wat in a forest outside Luang Prabang, of a gulp of lao lao and wrists tied with bracelets of white string before a bumpy (and - because our drivers had partaken too - slightly frightening) jeep journey across the Bolaven plateau, of a slow boat from Pakse to a speck of a village and the deserted ruins at its edge. Suddenly I was craving the comfort of a pungent Lao stew accompanied by sticky rice.

That night I prepared the following recipe. The kitchen smelled, to us, like the probably long-gone Luang Prabang hole-in-the-wall where we fell in love with Lao bitter.

Lao Pork and Bitter Greens Stew

Adapted from Alford and Duguid's Hot Sour Salty Sweet (page 245), a seven-year-old book that continues to surprise us and feed us well (every single recipe works, brilliantly). I've changed the quantity of some ingredients, increased the cooking time, and substituted pork ribs for the sliced pork in the original recipe. The bones add tremendous flavor and, after long cooking, slide right away from the meat. If you're averse to bones in your stew then remove the ribs and let them cool, take the meat off the bones, and return it to the pot before serving.

This comforting stew is incredibly easy to make - minimal active time and long cooking. The combination of dill, mustard greens, and lime leaves makes for a complex earthiness marked by gentle bitterness. Sticky rice is the best go-with (very easy to make - just remember to soak the rice overnight), but regular white rice will do. Heat things up a bit with a side of Thai nam prik dtaa daeng, replacing the smoked fish with a teaspoon or two of fish sauce (to taste) and fresh minced galangal, or with a Hmong scallion-chile relish from Andrea Nguyen's article on California Hmong farmers in the August-September 2007 issue of Saveur.

12-14 ounces meaty pork ribs, preferably cut into pieces no longer than 2 inches

2 Tbsp. vegetable oil

1/4 cup roughly chopped shallots (or red onion, in a pinch)

6-8 garlic cloves, chopped

4-5 cups water

1 pound Chinese mustard greens (choy sum), cut into 2-inch lengths

5 whole stalks dill

small bunch of Chinese chives, cut into 1-inch length (substitute 1/4 cup sliced regular chives)

8 lime leaves

2 Tbsp Thai fish sauce or to taste

5 scallions, white and green parts, chopped

freshly ground black pepper

1. Heat the oil in a medium heavy pot over high heat. Add the garlic and shallots and stiry-fry briefly, until they start to brown.

2. Pat the pork ribs dry with a paper towel and add to the pan. Stir-fry to brown the ribs all over. Add 4 cups of the water and then add the dill, choy sum, and chives. Tear 5 of the lime leaves into pieces and add to the pot as well. Stir to immerse the greens. Water should nearly cover the ingredients - if necessary add more.

3. Bring to a boil and then reduce heat to a gentle simmer, stirring to immerse the greens. Partially cover the pot and cook slowly for about an hour and a half, stirring occasionally to make sure all the greens are cooked. Add more water if anything starts sticking.

4. At the end of cooking time the greens should have softened and partially melted into the stew and the meat should be falling-apart tender. Add the fish sauce and taste for seasoning. At this point the stew can be set aside for a couple of hours or refrigerated overnight.

5. Just before serving, bring the stew back to a simmer. Stack the remaining three lime leaves, roll into a tight cylinder, and slice into slivers; add them to the stew, along with the scallions and lots of black pepper to taste. Serve in bowls with rice on the side.