At the back of the hill

Warning: If you stay here long enough you will gain weight! Grazing here strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton. And you might like cheese-doodles.
BTW: I'm presently searching for another person who likes cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Thursday, July 24, 2014


Holy crapp, there's mint flavoured m&m's! This is the new brainfood.
It is the breakfast of champions.

I am surprised at how utterly wonderful these little green gems are.
Nearly irresistable, as they lay there in their little package barely two feet away, softly whispering blandishments and allure in my direction.

Oh evil grass-green tempation!

"Come on over, big boy, you know you want to."

Shut up, small veridian hussies, shut up! I am supposed to be enjoying a cup of coffee at this early hour, especially because there are child-like cigar smokers out there I must tolerate later today!
I cannot have any sweetness!

It makes no difference. As if by an evil spell I come closer and closer to the package of sugared harlotry, I can smell the intoxicating perfume.
It beckons; a bracing blast.

Maybe if I had a cigarillo, those emerald delights would not shake their chubby thighs at me. At least I would not smell the minty freshness!

I need a wholesome morning snack, so that I do not succumb.

It's almost as bad as the zesty banana pudding.

Bruce Aidell's meatballs, a handful of sliced mushrooms, and spinach for colour; it's green. Oh crap, it looks like slick greeny-green sex-leaves! Quick, we must add some Sriracha to the pan, tame the savage beast.
Plus a squeeze of lime juice.

Toast will keep my mind off the bold trollops in the candy bag.
I also need toast.

Bruce Aidell's meatballs are yummy and delicious; all chicken. There is a perfect balance between their juicy goodness, and the textural effects of mushrooms and spinach. While I have shreds of leaf-vegetables stuck in my teeth, I cannot eat the green m&m's.
Conflict of interest.

Still, they just sit there, looking at me.
They are hurt by my lack of interest.
I swear I saw one of them winking.

I normally avoid breakfst.

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Wednesday, July 23, 2014


The driver in Manila was getting more and more antsy. Reason being that it had been several hours since breakfast, as it was likewise for everyone else on the road. Filipinos tend to be emotional about meals, especially when it's been too long since they ate. It's low blood sugar. Never interfere with a Filipino and food; it leads to very bad things.

We solved the problem by means of rice and skewered barbecue pork with garlic vinegar. Given that I'm a mukang-puti kano, I can do strange things like eating with the driver. Normally it isn't done. One breaks for lunch, and gives the other person time to squirrel-up their own chow.
But there were just two of us, and no one eats alone.
Single eating is just fuel.

There's always something tasty when there are Filipinos about. That's just the way it is. And Filipinos have an incredibly strong urge to eat companionably. The idea of stuffing one's own face and letting someone else go hungry nearby makes them uncomfortable, verging on nausea.
Here! You must eat!

Two and half hours later we needed some bihon.
It was a spontaneous decision.
Based on exposure.

There was an eatery he knew about five miles from where we had started talking about noodles.....

We backtracked from Balintawak to Caloocan. It rained heavily while we were eating, but by the time we finished, it had stopped and the fierce heat had driven all the moisture away. It barely even felt humid, and flies and dust intermingled in the blazing parking lot.
We were glad we had taken a break.

Filipinos eat a lot of rice, and consequently many dishes pack a bit of extra flavour, because the taste will be diluted by the starch. A little more salt (hot climate!), and little more sugar (brings out flavours), and a little more oil. It's still far far healthier than any part of the traditional American diet, and just tastes a heck of a lot better too.

For one thing, vegetables are not inevitably boiled limp and buttered.
That right there should get you rushing off to House of Lumpia!

One fast-food hot dog in downtown San Francisco is less digestible and more dangerous. A hamburger is worse for your heart than a large plate of pancit and inihaw na isda at a carinderia.
Lechon, longanisa, lumpia?
Talagang masarap!

The only problems with the Filipino diet are threefold: too much good stuff to eat, tea is only drunk when someone feels ill, and almost no hotsauce available everywhere!


Kapampangans are rice cultivators and fishermen, and the province is well-known for culinary creativity. Besides rice, sugar cane, vegetables, and fruits, are plentiful. Pampanga was one of the first Spanish territories in the islands, and also one of the first to revolt. It is part of the Philippine heartland, and well worth visiting.

A dish that frequently shows up when Filipinos get together is stewed oxtail with peanut sauce, which originated in Pampanga. Some recipes are complicated, others fairly simple. But it is quite unlike West-African, Indonesian, and Surinamese peanut sauce dishes, because there is no chili pepper heat.

Instead, the rich and savoury side is stressed.

The meat is simmered in its own broth for a few hours, then peanut butter or finely ground roasted peanuts are added to flavour and thicken the sauce, and subsequently vegetables put into the pot to contribute different textural elements. It is served with rice and fish-paste.
Most versions add achuete for colour, many use banana blossom (puso na saging) or bokchoy (petsay) as one of the vegetables, and several cooks thicken the sauce with fine-ground toasted glutinous rice.
Other meats are also used, not just ox-tail.
Heck, try it with brisket!


Three pounds meat, preferably on the bone.
One bunch of long beans (sitaw).
Three Asian eggplants (talong).
One onion.
Eight TBS peanut butter.
Four or five cups water.
Half a cup Atsuete water.
Some minced garlic.

Chop the meat into chunks, cut the long beans into two inch lengths, chunk-cut the eggplants. The onion should be simply halved.
Fry the garlic golden, then pour the water into the pot and bring it to a boil. Simmer the meat in the water with the onion added, for about two hours or more; it should be tender and well-cooked.
Remove the meat from broth. Strain the broth and put it back on the stove. Ladle some out and blend with the peanut butter till smooth, pour this into the pot. Put the meat back in and add the Atsuete water.
Add the vegetables and simmer till tender.

Serve with a mound of white rice, a saucer of shrimp paste (bagoong), and quartered limes for squeezing. If you are me, you might want to fry the shrimp paste first in a little oil. While I love the taste of raw shrimp paste with very green mango, I prefer it cooked with hot food.
And yes, I would also add some chilipaste.
That's just the way I am.

All recipes are subject to modification and variance.

I should mention that I fry the onion in pork fat or clarified animal grease before the adding the garlic or anything else. I just like the extra oomph.
There's rice, remember?

Note: Achuete ('atsuete') is bixa orellana seed, also called achiote and annatto. There are two main ways of incorporating it for colour in your cooking. For achuete water, soak four tablespoons in a half a cup of hot water for an hour, then strain out the solids. The less-favoured method is to seethe it in three times the amount of oil, with some chopped garlic and a dried chili, then let the colour bleed into the oil for a few hours before straining. Either way, it adds only a very minor flavour, but a lovely glowing rust-red orange hue.

By the way, kare kare can also be made with pigs' trotters instead of ox-tail. Or even ribs.

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Sometimes this blogger is not the most warm-hearted of people. Even remotely. Oh sure, I hope that most humans find satisfaction and fulfillment in their lives, plus good karma, delicious tofu, and puppies, but once in a blue moon I put that fervent wish on the backburner.
And then turn off the heat entirely.
It ain't even simmering.
Stone cold.


My friend MK had given me a tin of pipe-tobacco, and I had filled a big bowl after enjoying tea-time snackipoos in Chinatown. Perhaps it was a mistake to then walk down Grant Avenue.

Grant Avenue is crowded during the tourist season, with slow moving pedestrians gawking at the colourful shops and strange native peoples. There are no paper parasols or off-duty frycooks where they come from, and the only non-whites are the Mexicans who keep everything running.

A large sour woman of a pinched wheatish complexion, very possibly from the People's Republic of Berkeley, saw me smoking and angrily informed me that I was a murderer.

"You kill children with that horrible habit!"

'No I don't, and you are taking up too much space.'

"People like you are destroying the world."

'Ma'am, kindly move your sanctimonious self aside. Life is far too short to deal with your type. You are loud and frumpily dressed, and you smell of bad karma.'
She seemed taken aback at my audacity, but then caught site of my Hello Kitty backpack. Which is the perfect size for half a dozen pipes, two or three tins of pipe tobacco, cleaners, tampers, matches, and a vitamin-packed energy drink if absolutely necessary.
Plus a small book.

"Hah, watcha got in there?!? Candy for tempting little kiddies?!?"

'A child's head, ma'am. We've got football practice this afternoon.'

I wish I could report that she fainted. Or plotzed. Instead she just looked daggers at me and left. The problem with white people like that is that they think they own the entire world. And Grant Avenue.
They block the sidewalk, say stupid things, and try on coolie hats.
Besides dressing funny, eating too much, and smelling bad.

It was an excellent smoke. Fairly robust, with Latakia pungency, and a nice undertone of decent Virginias. Precisely the kind of tobacco that makes me wish I had started smoking ten years earlier than I did, when I would still have been in my single digits. All children should learn to smoke fine pipe tobacco, as it inculcates good habits, dignity, and thoughtfulness.
And, with luck, they'll also avoid self-righteous pustules.
As well as loud frumps, possibly Berkeleyite.

If you see a mature man in San Francisco Chinatown with a Hello Kitty backpack, please don't stop to harass him. Unless you're fairly certain that the child's head in his bag is yours.
If you're polite, he'll give it back.

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Tuesday, July 22, 2014


Monkey gonna end up trouble. The Head Roomie is VERY upset with his behaviour. And he cannot understand why that little sheep is so angry. When I told him to look within himself, his reaction was sheer pleasure at the concept.

"Oh, I is SO handsome! Like a Filipino!"

He probably patted himself on the back. I don't know, as I wasn't watching. He was in the other room.

There are two humans in this apartment, surrounded by an unruly mob of stuffed animals. Consequently we are stressed; it is hard to bear the fuzzy riotous mob.
One of whom imagines himself "like a Filipino".
You know. Humphrey Bogart.
Très suave.

During the nineties and early two thousands I regularly read Filipino newspapers, especially the local weekly. After a while I became aware of a pattern of articles which served no other purpose than to win friends and influence people among the advertisers.
In which certain individuals were praised highly.
For great achievements oh my!
The brilliance!

"Photo of miss Daisy ("Dinky") Katabangbang at her recent piano recital. The talented sixteen year old native of Matabongga City (The Flower Capital of Dinuguan Island) has been praised for her soulful renditions of romantic ballads, and comes from an illustrious family (here shown surrounding the Yamaha grand piano in their beautiful salon), which includes several senators, doctors, and intellectuals.
Her grandfather Apo' Katabangbang was a celebrated war hero and godfather to the son of Senator Aristotle "Dingus" Quirino.

The community of South San Francisco is justly proud of Dinky's laurels at the recent Tri-State Junior Miss Industrial Equipment Pagaent.

Two weeks later, another mention of miss Dinky, or of famed senator Dingus. As well as praise for some auntie who wrote a truly precious cook book ("The Culinary Treasures from Paradise Island"), and mention of yet another beauty pageant (Miss Flower Butterfly of Matabongga City 1962 - shown saluting First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy upon first setting foot in Dinuguan)."

If you believed the articles, all well-dressed Filipinos were well-educated and talented, and capable of notable achievements, talaga!
Mas-masyadong illustre.
At bantog.

Everything a Filipino does is fantastic, and just absolutely wonderful.
You didn't know that, did you? Well, now you do.

Yes, I tend to sneer at Filipinos. But in all honesty I wouldn't mind being one. They have a zest for life, and bold enthusiasm.
As well as staggering imagination.
And really good food.

Napaka ma-admirable, kanila.

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Monday, July 21, 2014


Late lunch: lo mai kai, charsiu sou, and jin dui. Plus a bowlful of Russ Ouellette's imitation of Balkan Sobranie 759 (Black House Pipe Tobacco, marketed by Hearth and Home).

Lo mai kai

Glutinous rice and chicken chunks, black mushrooms, and lapcheung, wrapped in a lotus leaf and steamed. The flavours meld magnificently, and the chicken-infused sticky rice is a comforting and hearty meal.
Very good with hot sauce.

Chaa siu sou

A small flaky pastry filled with barbecued pork. Delicious, and available at dimsummeries and coffee shops all over Chinatown. Tourist do not know what it is, and consequently look at it without realizing that it is edible.
Very good with hot sauce.

Jin deui

A glutinous rice flour dough ball filled with sweet lotus seed paste, rolled in sesame seeds, and plonked into a vat of hot oil. A mysterious fried object which any Dutchman would instinctively love. Except he would almost certainly call it onde onde, and buy it at the toko.
Not so good with hot sauce.
You knew that.

An imitation of, acclaimed.

There was a competition in 2011 to duplicate, if possible, a legendary pipe tobacco blend which is no longer made. Personally I think such events are remarkably silly, as people's nasal-memories always shift over time, and consequently within only a few years each person remembers something different about a tobacco.

Black House Pipe Tobacco, by Hearth and Home

Like another praiseworthy contender ('Blue Mountain', by McClelland Tobacco Company of Kansas City), this mixture barely resembles the target, being not even faintly recollective, and barely even in the same ball park. And like that other one, it is a very enjoyable smoke, which is worth buying for its own sake. Whatever the heck goes on in Russ Ouellette's subconscious -- or his nose -- is a disturbing and profound mystery, and sometimes yields interesting and strange results.
I like it. But if I ever tell Greg that, he may think me queer.
So I shall keep diplomatically silent.

For some reason, many things I like go well with hot sauce. I'd go out on a limb and state that pipe tobacco probably doesn't, but before or after the hot sauce is fine. Many pipe smokers like hot sauce.
Those that don't are likely perverts.

Lo mai kai, charsiu sou, jin dui, hot sauce, and pipe tobacco.

If you like four out of those five you are probably great to hang around with, a remarkable person, and lovely company.
We can work on the fifth.


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Several years ago, when Savage Kitten and I were still an item, she walked into the kitchen just after I had prepared myself a tasty snack.
I was reminded of this by a posting on the Facebook page of a friend, who praised Viet Huong Three Crabs Brand Premium Fish Sauce. What makes Viet Huong so special is that they use the first dewy extraction after eighteen months of slow fermentation, yielding an "all-purpose natural seasoning that enhances the flavor of your favorite dishes".

There's nothing like an authentic fish sauce for adding oomph to your food, and omitting it leads to empty lives and broken homes.

I heartily recommend Viet Huong's Three Crabs Brand.

['yuet heung saam haai mak seung dang tau pin yü lou']

Savage Kitten, on the other hand, might have other thoughts. Her reaction upon entering that day was to recoil, shrieking "good Lord it smells of c*nt in here! Did you fry up a bucket of dead c**tchie?!?"

Even after I clarified that it was merely pork chunks, a little brown sugar, chilies, and garlic, with lime juice and fish sauce, to go with my rice, she ranted on about elderly Asian women in downtown clothing stores who stank of fish. "Take a bath sometime, auntie, and PLEASE use sponge on a stick for your hard to reach squidgy parts!"

My ex is Cantonese; she can say these things.

I still appreciate her eloquence.

She's quite remarkable.


But she is perhaps far too refined and genteel to thoroughly appreciate good fish sauce (魚露 'yü lou'). Which Three Crabs brand (三蟹嘜 'saam haai mak') by Viet Huong Company Limited (越香有限公司 'yuet heung yau haan gung si') most certainly is.

Well-bred Cantonese people have problems with assertive smells like durian, cheese, white people, and fish sauce.

For the interested, here are addresses for Viet Huong:

[Viet Huong Company Ltd., Viet Huong Building, 28 Hoi Wah Road, Tuen Mun, Hong Kong.]

In the United States:

Viet Huong Fishsauce Company Inc.
5990, 3rd Street,San Francisco CA 94124 U.S.A
Tel: (415) 822 0612

Note: In the Netherlands, please contact: Mijnheer Herman Kuijper, Noorddammerweg 91b, 1187 ZS Amstelveen, The Nederlands. Tel: (31) 0206452988. OR: Nivo Im- en Export Beverwijk B.V., Schieland 8, 1948 RM Beverwijk, The Netherlands. Tel: (31) 0251215585.

[Viet Huong was founded in San Francisco in 1984. At present their main operation is based in Hong Kong, with factories in Vietnam and Thailand. In addition to the original Three Crabs, they make a range of other fish sauces.]

Savage Kitten (my ex) vociferously denies that she EVER said anything like what I quoted above. But I remember it quite well. It was the same week that she gave a durian to one of her white co-workers, perhaps to piss-off the Filippinas she works with.


Last week she walked into the kitchen after I had fixed myself something to eat, and said "hey why does it STINK of dead fish in here g*ddamn what have you been doing smelly old toad?" I believe she suspects me of perversion. Which, given that we have been merely apartment mates for four years now since our breakup, and I have been a single man all that time, is perhaps not an unnatural or unreasonable supposition.
Single men are known for eccentric behaviour.

In fact, I had not committed a perversion.

Not even close.

[Perversion: 變態的事 'pin taai dik si'. Perverted: 變態的 'pin taai dik'. Sexual perversion: 性變態 'sing pin taai'. Culinary perversion: 西方菜 'sai fong choi'.]

I had cooked up some meatballs (肉丸 'yiuk yuen') and spinach (菠菜 'po choi') with red curry paste(紅咖喱膏 'hung gaa lei gou'), shrimp sauce (鹹蝦醬 ' haahm haa jeung') from Lee Kum Kee (李錦記), and crumbled peanuts (碎花生 'suei faa sang'), over rice stick noodles (米粉 'mai fan'), chicken broth and lime juice added.
Repeat: not perversion.

Lee Kum Kee's Shrimp Sauce 李錦記的蝦醬 ('lei kam kei dik haa jeung') is velvety smooth-smooth and slickitty-slick (幼幼滑滑 'yau yau gwat gwat').
You need it for your healthy life style (健康嘅生活方式 'gin hong ge saang wut fong sik').


電話: 852-26603600
圖文傳真: 852-26658005

[Lee Kum Kee, 2-4 Dai Fat Street, Tai Po Industrial Estate, Hong Kong. Tel: 852-26603600. Fax: 852-26658005.]

Three Crabs Brand Fish Sauce and Lee Kum Kee Fine Shrimp Sauce can be found at quality stores all over the civilized world, and perhaps even in Europe, rather like Gentleman's Relish.

I suspect that both fish sauce and shrimp sauce may be too objectionable for many women. Too robust, even. Strictly hearty white bachelor stuff.
It's that refined Cantonese femininity; hard to live with.
Hard to live without.

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Sunday, July 20, 2014


I am in receipt of an unusual communication. It represents the response a cigar-smoking friend sent following a request to be added to someone's LinkedIn contact list. I shall reproduce it below, with edits to protect the innocent.

Dear Spanker,

Please tell those motherless f8ck monkeys in corporate syndication: "Enough already!"


Sent from my Verizon Wireless Blackberry

What makes it remarkable is that I know the man who sent it and therefore understand that at least forty other individuals were also courtesy-copied on this simple message.

Only two of those forty plus are NOT cigar smokers.
We are pipe smokers. Two exceptions.
Indeed, we are blessed.

Both mister Spanker and mister Dingo are cigar smokers.
As is the person who originated the LinkedIn request.
Memo to self: don't taunt cigar smokers; they bite.

I spend half of each week in the proximal vicinity of cigar smokers, and consequently fear for my own sanity. It cannot be healthy, never mind the hail-fellow-well-met character of their company.

Unlike pipes, cigars and their aficionados have scant appeal to the gentler sex. Possibly it is because of the misplaced machismo that most stogey-huffers radiate, more likely their lack of refinement plays a deciding part.
When women think of men with cheroots, they automatically envision hairy unshaven men with paunches, body lice, beer-bellies, and crotch odour. And rightly so!

Men with briars, on the other hand, make them remember their favourite fellow-students, plus handsome scholars, refined mature human beings, and just all-round decent chaps with sound morals, civilized habits, and realistic standards of personal hygiene.
In fact, rational women, and even daring young ladies, naturally prefer the company of pipe smokers over cigar smokers by at least twenty to one.
The exception, unlike the nineteen others, has a plumber fixation.
Perhaps she needs therapy, more likely de-programming.


An internet search for "cigar smoking women" turned up several hundred porno sites, plus numerous snuff films, and ranting teapartiers. Whereas "pipe smoking women" found a thesaurus, literary criticism, an article about lobster, eBay, and a badger.

The conclusion is clear: date a pipe smoker.
Contact me, I know how it's done.


On Mondays and Tuesdays I am nowhere near cigar smokers. It is a welcome break, and I look forward to meeting real people.
Or washing my hair and doing laundry.


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A bunch of vodka-sodden yobbos, while finishing the last of the home-brew, decide, "hey, let's see if this thing really works". Doesn't matter if they were Russians, Ukrainians, or tribal werewolves and rednecks from Donetsk. Moments later a Malaysian plane comes plummeting down. "Wow, Igor, look at what you've done!" "Yeah, but it worked, huh!?!"

I am not equitably minded about Igor.

It would be nice if whoever was responsible for this were drawn and quartered. Slowly.

At present, I cannot tell the difference between people speaking Russian and people speaking Ukranian. They are often on the bus at the same time as I am. I find their languages equally repulsive at the moment, and would rather not be forced to listen to them.

Must maintain calm, must maintain calm.

Not everyone speaking Russian or Ukranian is a vodka-drenched syphilitic subhuman gangster who dresses funny, eats too much, and smells bad.

Russian Cossacks in Donetsk, however, have a special place in hell. And it is a pity that the fires do not lick them yet.

I fervently hope that they soon outlive all their friends and kin.

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Saturday, July 19, 2014


I had not been paying any attention to their conversation before, but the girl with the irritating voice finally uttered something that made me sit up and say 'howdy'. It was a magical sentence, one that would make any red-blooded man take notice.
An incantation that commanded complete concentration.

"And then he got peanut butter on my bra!"

Sweetheart, I am as "creative" as the next man. Adventurous too. But in my entire life I have never gotten peanut butter -- or any other delicious spread -- on anyone's mammary containment modules.

Maybe I am less of a man for that omission.

In any case, don't leave us hanging, tell us what happened next.
Did he lick it off? Offer to buy you a new one?
Bung it in the wash?

Unfortunately, I could not hear anymore of the conversation, as she and her friend spoke indistinctly, and I would have had to move back two or three seats to listen in.
Before I could do so, they exited the bus.

I cannot help but wonder how the peanut butter got on her brassiere. Peanut butter normally is a rather stiff gloop, and doesn't drizzle or drip unless it's warmed up. It is entirely possible that "he" smeared it on hot toast, which, as he was eating while leaning over her, warmed up the substance to the point that it escaped from between the two slices of bread. Which may or may not have been a buzz-kill. Women tend to treasure their brassieres, as a good fit is, so I've heard, hard to find. Quite likely she was ambivalent about him snacking while her bosom was in the line of fire. She may have had other things on her mind.

Note to self: make sure that brassieres are removed when eating a peanut butter sandwich. It's the gentlemanly thing to do.

Not that there is any connection, but since I became a bachelor again four years ago, exposed brassieres (or any other feminine under or support garments) have not been in the same room at the same time in this apartment as peanut butter, to the best of my knowledge. Maybe my apartment mate eats breakfast in her skivvies, I just don't know. She and I have different schedules. The only times we're in the kitchen together is in the evening, often when I am fixing myself some noodles while fully clothed. I am not a breakfast person.

"And then he got peanut butter on my bra!"

A truly scientific minded man would promptly ask questions. Is it still there? Natural fabric or synthetic? Does it smell?
And then, to show that I am not entirely insensitive, "how does that make you feel?"

Bra and peanut butter. What am I missing?

Crunchy? Or smooth?

I'm a practical man, I can't help thinking about these things.

Also, I really believe that whatever the situation was, the male person involved may have suffered a lapse of judgement. There was a woman present, with her upper-torso nether garment exposed to the elements, or leastways to a nutritious bread spread. How did that come about?
Would it not have been wiser to ascertain the circumstances before proceeding with the repast?
Postpone your nutritious snacking, if only for a little while.
Maybe she requires some assistance.
Feedback, or advice.

I'm sure there's a very good reason why someone is wandering around wearing a brassiere while there is peanut butter, but for the life of me I cannot think of one.

It's never happened to me.

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Friday, July 18, 2014


I was sitting in the teevee room happily cruising for kitten pictures, smut, and recipes on the internet, when the voice spoke: "Chinese girls have short stumpy legs".
This was not precisely the revelation I had been looking for.
Expecting felines, filth, or food, I was surprised.
But there it was. Short stumpy legs.
Under Chinese girls.

Ten minutes later, the voice informed me "lord, so much ugly crap out there!"

Just like with the first news flash, I did not know how to respond. What should one say when the person behind the other computer announces that she has long ago realized that Chinese girls had somewhat shorter legs than supermodels and angular Norwegians?

It's especially problematic when one should not go overboard on the "there there, you look fine" conversational tack.

My apartment mate is a Chinese girl.

"I've always thought your luscious shapely gams were worth committing war crimes over."

Erm, nope. Stay the heck away from that comment.

"'Strewth, your curvy thighs look fabulous. Verily."

Nah, that's dangerous too. Especially as I would never say something so creepy. And it might lead her to assume that I've been scoping out her two pedal appendages, and who knows what other stalkerish things my filthy eyes have been doing when nobody was watching?
I haven't actually seen any legs in years.

"Do your legs reach the ground? Well then!"

That, too, is not an entirely unproblematic approach.
Not reassuring at all.

So I went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea and smoke a cigarillo, instead of confronting the statement about Chinese legs head on.
Always avoid discussing one's apartment mate's physical attributes, especially if one is not romantically involved with them. It leads to discomfort. There are landmines all over that stretch of territory.
Diplomatically shutting the heck up seems a wise choice.
Let us therefore not mention her legs.
In any way at all.

The second comment, a complete non-sequitur to the first, indicated that she was internet shopping. That also is a patch of dangerous ice. I myself do not internet-shop, ever, seeing as I am a typical man and thus totally pre-occupied with cute kitten pix, high quality nastiness, and things to do with chilies, pork, and ginger. Men do not shop.

There's a lot of ugly crap out there.

I totally agree.

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Thursday, July 17, 2014


Not entirely sure why he did it; it seems quite unrabbinic. But entirely in keeping with his character, given that he is the rosheshiva of the most influential academic environment in the five boroughs or the tri-tip area.

Seeing it has renewed my faith.

Ikh bin farklempt.


The faithless may not know his true face, or utter his name.

Ve ha meiven, yaivin.

This image MUST be used for our school jersey.
Es iz a riezige mitzvah.

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Wednesday, July 16, 2014


A dish which will probably disturb very many people is actually quite delicious. And, if you are Chinese, it probably made you very happy. Not because you like disturbing people -- though when that happens, it's icing on the cake -- but because it was finger-licken' good.
Especially the juices.

One of the people it may disturb is your doctor, but only if he's very white.
It wouldn't disturb my doctor, because nothing fazes that man.
Most of his customers are elderly Cantonese.

Which means he's heard far, far worse than anything I could tell him.
The combination of incredible stubbornness, culinary adventurism, and near anarchic creativity with edible substances on the part of his patients has already added considerable surreality to his professional life.
Then he goes home and eats from that world.

Probably with moderation, but evenso.
It's home cooking.

Fatty pork. Ginger. Shrimp paste.


['haa jeung jing ng faa yiuk']

One pound streaky pork belly.
One or two inches ginger, slivered.
Two TBS sherry.
One to two TBS shrimp paste.
Half Tsp. sugar.
A dash of Worcestershire sauce.
Minced scallion.

Cut the pork into chopstickable chunks, rub with the sugar and shrimp paste. Arrange in a flat bowl, add the slivered ginger, sherry, and Worcestershire sauce, and place in a steamer over a roiling boil.
Steam for an hour, then remove and strew scallion over.
Serve with white rice and vegetables.

Be sure to spoon the juices onto your plate.

If our own tribal ancestors had had chopsticks and steamers, history would have turned out very differently. This dish is a potent peace maker, darn well sacramental. So simple, so good.

I'd love to see Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, and Vegans, everyone in the Middle-East, sitting down and sharing this. It would change them profoundly. Improve their minds.

Betcha they'd all light up cigars afterwards, have coffee together, and change the world.

Sure, you could eat it with khubz baladi or lavash.....
But why?

NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.


Around this time of year, if you live in some parts of San Francisco, you become aware of something that surprises you: mosquitoes. You had happily forgotten about the little pests, because since you moved here from Alaska or Detroit, they weren't really on the radar. San Francisco is not prime malaria territory. And not really conducive to the mental or physical health of bloodsucking parasites. That's probably also the reason we have so few rightwing hose-bags, but that's a subject for a different post.

Parts of the Peninsula spray regularly at the height of summer to lessen the incidence of West Nile Fever, and Dengue is common in pockets of the Deep South, along with other mosquito-borne ailments.

Not San Francisco. We're moist, yes. But warm, no. Not usually.

Both fog and chill winds lead to torpidity.

Still, there are pockets.

Warm swamp.


I haven't strung up my mosquito net in years. When I still had a steamy relationship going on, it was an essential item from June through November, as my significant other would otherwise refuse to sleep in the same room. She'd always get bitten, or one of the little buggers would fly around in the middle of the night and keep her up whacking at invisible daemons with a pillow. Which is exciting oh boy howdy yes but not at all conducive to a good night's rest.

There are several things you can do to diminish the mosquito problem in your bedroom.

Mosquito nets, kelambu or kulambo in various Indonesian languages, muskieten gordijnen in Dutch, are not very expensive, easy to repair and clean, and make the bed-zone otherworldly. Could be very romantic, definitely old-school. Well worth your consideration. They can be ordered from companies in England and the Netherlands.

["Maagang taon na nakabitin ang kulambo, maulang magkano sa maraming buwan, at sa gayong nito walang pagpapatapon na lumubog..."]

Potted chrysanthemums are an anti-magnet for many insects, along with marigolds and lemon grass. Added benefit: lemon grass is a wonderful addition to stews, soups, and curries.

A metal tray of smoldering spent tea-leaves half an hour before bedtime will also drive them out.

Snow pear incense (雪梨香 'suet lei heung') repells mosquitoes, and leaves a delicate bookish fragrance.

Lavender or rosemary oil dabbed onto the temples and wrists at night also works.

So does the analgesic balm white flower oil (白花油 'baak faa yau').

Also effective: eagle wood incense (沉香 'cham heung').

But above all, travel with a female person of East-Asian ancestry when you visit the tropics. Trust me, it's magic. Mosquitoes, given a choice between a smelly white male tobacco smoker and a juicy woman with yellow skin, will avoid you like the plague and bite her.

During my first trip to South-East Asia I visited Mindanao accompanied by a Chinese businessman and his adult daughter, whom I knew from Berkeley. The two of them had one room, I slept in another. Every morning she'd show up for breakfast with her wrists and ankles looking like hamburger from the previous night's terrors, a veritable feast for the mosquitoes, whereas her father would only sport a few bites.
I myself, if I was lucky, might have just one.
It became a bone of contention.

Matters would have been better if I had been more diplomatic.
Instead I kept boasting about my uninterrupted rest.

That may have been the first time I ever heard "tiu, sei baak gwai, m-hou sik ga!"

[For the curious: 屌,死白鬼,唔好食噶!]

My ex, whom I mentioned earlier, is also a woman of East-Asian ancestry. South-East Asia is no place for a woman, especially a tender American, so while she and I were together any trips we made were to Canada and Western Europe. But I was much tempted, because the idea of roaming around Indonesia, Malaysia, and the Philippines, with my own personal mosquito bait appealed to me immensely.
I fondly imagined comfortable repose.
But it never came to that.

Since we broke up, the mosquitoes have not visited me.
I haven't hung the net around my bed in years.

Her, they're still tormenting. She's never taken the net in her room down, and the vermin struggle to get in. They like her, they hate me. She lives in the other side of the apartment, and occasionally I am awakened in the middle of the night by loud thumps, as she combats their assault with her pillows, swearing ferociously.


Hee hee hee. Yes, I still occasionally light up some snow pear incense (雪梨香), which guarantees that I will not be bothered by the pests. But that's primarily to disguise the fact that I've been smoking like a chimney on my days off, frequently till late in the afternoon. She gets back around seven in the evening, and I really should let the place air out for at least four hours before she returns.

The other day I lit some damp tea leaves to fumigate the place.
Also very effective.

I've still got a few coils of eagle wood incense left.
And I know where to purchase more of it.

No need to hang the net.

NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.


Tuesday, July 15, 2014


Friends have probably discerned that I like crackly things, particularly porcelain glazes. Often I will yearn for an object ONLY because of its fine tracing of hairline fractures that form an elegantly webbed visual.
I've got some oft-repaired bowls which speak to me, as well as a few celadons. On casual ceramics, the crackled pattern may be accented by melting sooty oil into the surface over a flame. Antique pieces often already have such an effect, due to age.

It should not surprise you that I am also fond of tea eggs.

Tea eggs are a convenient snack as well as a much better choice for picnics than devilled eggs, plus they keep better and are far less likely to queasify your digestive organ.
A wise choice.

Easy to make also.

['chaa yip daan']

Six eggs.
Four TBS good black tea.
Six TBS soysauce.
One or two pieces dried orange peel.
A slice of ginger.
Two or three star anise.
One stick cinnamon.
Two or three whole cloves.
One TBS sugar.
Pinch of salt.

Put eggs in a pot with barely enough water to cover, bring to a boil, then turn low and simmer for two or three minutes. Place the lid on the pot and let it stand for over ten minutes more; the residual heat will further cook the eggs.
Remove the eggs, and rinse in cold water till they can be handled.

Tap the eggs all over with the back of a spoon to crack the shells, and roll them around a bit without loosing any pieces. This will allow colour and flavour to penetrate, and yields a lovely patterning.

Place the eggs back in a pot, add the four cups or more of water plus the various other ingredients, and simmer for about four hours. Turn off heat, let it cool, then put it overnight in the refrigerator.

They can be eaten cold, but you could also gently warm them up first.


Tea eggs are quite common during the Spring Festival (note the clickable label underneath this post), as they can be eaten on the first day, when people do not cook, but they are also available throughout the year.

Please note that it is a good idea to keep an eye on the pot, and not go off to do something else in the meantime. Otherwise you might return to the kitchen to find a charred mess. Protein-rich substances, such as, for instance, eggs, smell rather frightful when burnt.
As I have discovered.


Eggs: 蛋 'daan'. Black tea: 紅茶 'hung chaa' (red tea); in Hong Kong cooks use Pu Erh (普洱茶 'pou nei chaa') or tuo cha (沱茶 'to chaa') instead for tea leaf egg. Soysauce: 豉油 'si yau'. Dried orange peel: 陳皮 'chan pei'. Ginger: 生薑 'saang geung' (fresh ginger). Star anise: 八角 'baat gok'. Cinnamon: 香桂 'heung gwai', 肉桂 'yiuk gwai'. Cloves: 丁香 'ding heung'. Sugar: 糖 'tong'. Salt: 鹽 'yim'.

NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
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Monday, July 14, 2014


He left the table briefly after we finished dinner, and returned moments later. As we talked, I could see his fingers snaking across and picking up my tin of tobacco. Of course I let him do so. One does not deny one's own father a bowl. It was so rare that he smoked a pipe by then, and it was largely because he used to be a pipe smoker that I had acquired the habit.

By the time I was a teenager he no longer indulged as regularly. Good tobacco blends were nearly impossible to find in the Netherlands (which is still an issue), and his British co-workers didn't visit England often enough.
But he didn't mind my Balkan Sobranie, and I felt closer to him when he took some. There weren't that many things we could share.

From my early teens until a few years ago I smoked mostly Oriental mixtures, which are made of Latakia and Turkish on a basis of Virginias. Since late 2010 my preference has been for aged Virginias. Partly it's because the taste is softer, mellower. And partly, a calmer habitus.

Virginias take a slower approach, a different attitude.

Smell is a psychological stimulant.

When I was an infant, my father still smoked a pipe regularly. After we moved to Holland he experimented with various mixtures, including Baai Tabak (straight Maryland compounds), English flakes, and Dobie's Foursquare Blue. The mind still revives at such aromas.
I have a few tins of Foursquare Blue left.
It is no longer made.

I remember the fragrances from the past particularly fondly.

Sunday afternoon. Strong tea.
Pipes and books.

An entire generation has grown up since, whose nose-memories are formed by marijuana and bazooka-barfing fruity cocktails. They hate tobacco, and rarely drink tea. Their dull sensibilities have been formed by brutish and typically self-indulgent middle-class preferences.
That dividing line shows that I am older.
I completely disapprove of dope.
No, it's not therapeutic.
It's just pot.

The Grateful Dead were a bunch of untalented stoners, and their fans are braindead slackers.

My father passed away years ago. I don't think he would entirely recognize what I have become, but I think we would still have very much in common.
If he were alive, he would no doubt enjoy sitting down with a pot of rubinous brew on the table, a tin of pipe tobacco between us, and a stack of books.

I know we have similar values.
Definitely kindred tastes.

There's a stack of empty tobacco tins over by the window. Rattray's Old Gowrie and Marlin Flake, Escudo, Davidoff Flake Medallions, Orlik Golden Sliced, Samuel Gawith Best Brown, Full Virginia, Golden Glow, and St. James Flake.
This place is a mess, but there is much here that has memory attached.
Like friends and family, however, there is a slow flux.
Change is a constant.


I've often advised other pipe smokers that if they want an old-fashioned full Latakia blend, especially if they liked what Dunhill and Balkan Sobranie produced years ago, there are four excellent newer products that they should keep in mind: Three Oaks Syrian, Wilderness, Legends, and Westminster.
That last mentioned is by Gregory Pease.
The others are McClelland.

All four of these are profoundly spiritual, truly classic tobacco mixtures. Indeed, their Latakia content is fairly close -- around forty five percent, probably -- but each one is different. and they induce shifting moods.
Imagine a forest in autumn with crunching leaves underfoot.
A train ride at night, while it rains outside.
Dwinelle Hall, many years ago.
Caffe Mediterraneum.
Cups of Ceylon.


If your children do not develop good habits in their teenage years, there is something wrong with you. Perhaps you indulged the little brats too much? Far better that they should smoke a pipe instead of illicit substances, read rather than listen to rap, and for craps-sakes, smack those sickening Starbucks and McDonalds drinks out of their hands.

This message was brought to you by a fine British-style spun-cut, with a heart of Louisiana Perique. It's a darn good thing.


Found a new pipe and pipe tobacco internet site today, which promises hours of solid pleasure browsing.

Pipe Village: 煙斗村

If you read Chinese, cruise on over.
They'll welcome you.


NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.


A correspondent confesses himself quirked by the situation I outlined in a previous post, to whit: "you got distracted while blogging by your roommate talking on the phone with her boyfriend. Sounds mighty dysfunctional, given that years ago you and she had an affair. Why are you still living with her? And why is she 'yacking' on the phone with you around? Shouldn't she use her phone privately?"

He also informs me that he hates it when folks talk on the phone around other people, because it is selfish and inconsiderate, and that he wishes they'd wait until they were alone before they called.

Let me clarify a few things.

Savage Kitten and I have known each other for over two decades. We're still friends, and though it may seem unimportant, we still care about each other's well-being, despite no longer being lovers.
Plus we get along quite well.

In San Francisco, relocating and / or finding new apartment mates means paying inordinately more rent, a new neighborhood with unfamiliar and undesirable peculiarities of its own, and a desperate search for a place to live not already occupied by schizophrenics, druggies, self-absorbed superficial consumerite bastards, and party-hearty braindead yuppie scum.
Or putting up with strident food-phobics and true-believers.
And their assorted dickhead associates.

The last item that requireth illumination is that she has her own room. She's always had her own room. We share the kitchen, bathroom, and television room. The kitchen is cramped but reasonably clean. The bathroom is not littered with perfume, unguents, and make-up. And the television room contains book cases, a television, the land-line telephone, and two of the five computers in this household, both connected to the internet.

Her computer. My computer. And a land line.

Yep. No cell-phones.

Neither of us are instantly available twenty four seven. It's a deliberate old-school approach. We don't want to field random conversation while eating, shopping, on the bus, or in transit. We don't take selfies. We will not be on a dirt road in the Sierras with a flat tire, nor shall we ever witness something that we absolutely have to tell someone about right this very minute.
There are no emergencies that require a cellular device.

Sure, we do get the occasional idiot sales-call, and around the election times there are computerized political messages. But the first (sales) is dealt with by informing them that there is a big-ass yam in the house or a teddy bear armed with a cleaver (her gambit), or asking what they are wearing and whether they are blonde (my approach). If I am feeling particularly feisty, I may even falsely inform them that I am naked.
Like a Greek god.

Whatever the tactic used, the sales-shmoo soon gets off the line, as they cannot deal with the madness at our end; they weren't trained for that.
Computerized vote-fer-me calls get a hang-up.
The telephone seldom rings anymore.
There's no recording device.
Either live, or zip.

I also rather like the fact that her boyfriend feels threatened by me, but that is just minor icing on the cake. The point is, both of us have a familiar place to hide from the world, we don't have to put up with asshats just because they occupy the same location, we have our privacy, and we have a teddy bear armed with a cleaver in case anything goes wrong.

Her telephonic yackery with wheelie boy usually happens when I'm wandering around Nob Hill with a pipe filled with aged Virginia tobacco, which helps me daydream, for an hour in the evening.
When I return, I'm happy, and she's happy.

Sure, it will get a little more complex if I ever find a girl-friend. But firstly, though I am in the market, I am not pursuing the matter with any great purposefulness, and secondly, casual nooky and unsuitable affairs with flibberty gibbits are not part of the programme. There is no point whatsoever to hooking up with another person if they aren't calm, reasonable, and intelligent, with insight, self-confidence, and a life of their own.
No teenagers, no party blondes, no emotionally unstable artsy types, no adherents of strange food cults, or "spiritual" people.

It might happen. But I shan't overturn anything even when it does.
At that point, certain details will have to be worked out.
But reasonable people can do that.

People all over the city live with others, the vast majority of them manage to have parts of their lives which are entirely private. Some of them have to tolerate an awful lot.

On my days off, this place is quiet.
Coffee, pipe, and a library.
I am undisturbed.

NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.

Sunday, July 13, 2014


This post is for Rabbi Yuter. Who may not know precisely why it is so.
But I suspect that it would not surprise him. Years ago Savage Kitten, who was my girlfriend at the time, obsessively watched a Canadian television series about a handsome blond vampire on the Toronto police force, his love interest in the coroner's department who was trying to cure him of both heliophobia and haematophagy, and his somewhat doofus allrightnik partner. No, it was not a documentary.

In the series, the crime squad detective was named Nick Knight (real name: Geraint Wynn-Davies. Repeating that name (or his actual nomen) in a low sexy whisper would make her squeal.
It still does.

Since then she has been incredibly fond of Canadians.

And I hasten to point out that there is much there of which to be fond. Numerous television shows have been produced in Canada, and both story and talent employed are usually better than the turgid spew made on this side of the border, good lord can you believe that crap? Infandous!
Admittedly, most Canadians are close genetic relatives of Burke and Hare as well as the Yeti, and bathe regrettably rarely -- maybe once every fortnight, if the drain isn't clogged -- plus the rates of syphilis and cretinism are disturbingly high, but they make great television.

She's never been around them when they're drunk.
Perhaps that's it.

Maybe she needs exposure to the dark side of Canadians; that part of their gestalt and weltanschauung which shows them to be grim and depraved, almost Scandinavian in their poisonous dullness.
Praise-singers of meaningful sh*8.


Much of the Northern Hemisphere is filled with depressive alcoholic types, who when sober veer toward brutal philosophies and I doubt that people who eat their own boogers in grade school ever grow up to be gourmands.
The educational video below shows their later life.
It could be Norway or the Baltics.
But it isn't.



Sorry, I got distracted by my apartment mate (the aforementioned Savage Kitten) yacking on the phone with her snoogums about Charsiu buns. When we split up, we decided to keep living together -- because we're kind of used to each other's peculiarities and still get along -- and she eventually got involved with some dude in a wheelchair. Who can't ever come over to visit, seeing as our place is uphill, and upstairs.
They talk on the phone. Being a hardened old grouch, cooing sounds and other icky noises like that make me sneer and frown.
I don't trust monkeys either.

I actually rather like the Canadians. In addition to Kids In The Hall, they also have The Arrogant Worms. Jolly good stuff. Witty.
Canadians are naturally rather cheerful types.
Not degenerate or alcoholic at all.

Except for Justin Bieber.

Anyhow, watch the clip.
It's very Canadian.

NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
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Yesterday: Pipes and pipe stems. Red raw spots on fingers of left hand, where the bleach attacked the skin. Cigar smokers wandering in and out in a daze. Mobbed by young briar fiends, to whom I am some kind of god. Lunch delayed till after five. Actually, I was just high as a kite on caffeine.

Evening: Pissing-contest about cultural appropriation / expropriation on the internet. Once it became clear that I was talking to a rabid socialist lesbian veganist spiritual mystic of colour (purple, I think), who was more interested in talking about her genetic background and the inherited guilt from Caucasian genes -- but before she started wailing about beavers, whales, spotted owls, and the horrid, horrid! repression of which all white males are inescapably responsible -- I left the Facebook battlefield. Life is too short to check one's privilege, sorry. I shall now dance a happy dance from a tattooed tribe, while claiming MY people invented it.
And wear culturally inappropriate clothing.

Today: Off to Palo Alto to revel in glazes and textures, shapes and wall-thicknesses. The Association of Clay and Glass Artists (ACGA) does a grand open-air show every year. Over two hundred talented people displaying beautiful things for sale.

Palo Alto Clay & Glass Festival - 2014
1313 Newell Rd Palo Alto
Saturday, July 12 through Sunday, July 13

Particularly fond of various copper oxides.
Cobalt carbonates. Red iron.
Oh flux yeah.

The hues of celadon derive from iron oxide's ferric changes in a reduction firing. Finding a new artist experimenting with the process is always a cause for joy. Classic simplicity, carefully considered interpretation.
Good pieces can be heard late at night; little private pings in the darkness, as the glaze develops yet another microscopic crackle.
Sometimes it takes years before they quiet down.

Should be gloating soon.

Way too.

NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
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Saturday, July 12, 2014


One of the pervasive ingredients in the Cantonese kitchen of the present age is a melange of convenience. All cooks are, in essence, short-cut takers. And the substance in question is one hell of a shortcut.
Basically, it's umami up the wazoo.

Cantonese cooking requires fresh ingredients cleanly cooked, with often a touch of a concentrated seafood or savory element. Most likely you are already familiar with such things as soy sauce, oyster sauce, shrimp paste, and various dessicated ingredients like dried shrimp, oysters, and scallops.

What if you combined all of those and gave it a hip name?


It can be added to vegetable dishes, pork preparations, fried rice, and boiled noodles. And it can be made ahead. There is no need to buy bottled versions, though if you live by yourself that certainly is an avenue to explore.

Hoi mei waak gon hoi chaan
[Sea flavour OR dried sea produce]

If you live in San Francisco, there are a number of places where useful and worthwhile non-caucasoid ingredients can be found, and the staff will be happy to try to explain how to use them. Go explore.

The four main seafood stock-items (四大海味 'sei taai hoi mei') which every properly run Chinatown should have are 鮑魚 ('bau yü'; abalone), 海參 ('hoi sam'; holothurid, trepang or sea cucumber), 魚翅 ('yü chi'; shark fin, which has been outlawed in California, dammit), and 魚肚 ('yü tou'; fish maw, which is actually an air-sac or buoyancy device internal to the beast).
Collectively these are referred to as 鮑參翅肚 ('bao sam chi tou').

Other standard ingredients will also be offered, including 鹹魚 ('haahm yü'; salt fish), 蝦米 ('haai mai'; dried shrimp), 公魚仔 ('gong yü chai'; spratlings or smelt), 乾貝 ('gon pui'; dried scallop), 乾魷魚 ('gon yau yü'; dried squid), 蠔豉 ('hou si'; dried oysters) 蜇皮 ('jit pei'; jelly fish), et autres.

All of the ingredients for XO Sauce can be bought on Stockton Street or Clement, as well as shops in the outer Richmond and Sunset districts, if you live in the fog. Look for business that say 海味 or 乾海產 on the signboard.

From my quarters C'town is only a short walk away. Close enough that one can amble across the hill in the time it takes to contemplate dinner.
Personally, I believe that precisely like the properly run Chinatown should have at least one 海味店 ('hoi mei dim'), the well-ordered household must ALWAYS have a dried fish on hand.

Preferably more than one.
They're good.

食譜: XO醬
Recipe for XO Sauce

12 TBS dried scallops.
8 TBS dried shrimp.
8 TBS chilipaste (sambal ulek).
4 TBS oyster sauce.
2 TBS sugar.
2 TBS soy sauce.
1 TBS shrimp paste.
½ TBS salt.
One small onion.
One bulb of garlic (a dozen cloves, more or less).
An amount of ginger equivalent to the garlic, or more.
Half a cup cooking oil.
One TBS sesame oil.

Soak shrimp and scallops for a few hours in water, till softened. Drain, reserving liquid, and chop to a somewhat granular state, not too fine.
Mince the garlic, ginger, and onion.

In a capacious pan fry the onion till golden. Add the garlic, ginger, shrimp paste, and chilipaste. When the shrimp paste is cooked (a minute or so) and the garlic and ginger have begun to colour, add the chopped scallop and shrimp. Stir-fry till the oil comes out and the mixture is aromatic. Add everything else including the reserved liquids, and again cook till the oil comes out, thus concentrating the flavour from the soaking liquid in the mixture. Cook a little longer on low to darken, which caramelizes it slightly.
Let it cool completely, and distribute it over containers. There should be a layer of oil on top.

Place one container in the refrigerator, and the others in the deepfreeze.
If all the water has been cooked out, it will keep for several weeks in the fridge.
Use either sparingly or liberally.

Most recipes for XO Sauce will include Chinwa ham or Chinese sausage, some substitute preserved pork-belly or even bacon. Seeing as those are things which every well-stocked larder should have (erm, why do you think it's called a 'larder', eh?), it seems rather contra-indicated to dump those into the compound. Especially as moisture is the great enemy of a substance such as this.
Smoked bacon is not a bad idea, however.
It seldom is.

XO Sauce can be used much like any other cooking concentrate in Cantonese cuisine. Add it after the main ingredient, before the liquor, stock, and glaze. The idea is to imbue the fragrance in the dish, while letting moisture re-meld with the flavouring matter. One or two tablespoons is sufficient for a dish.

By itself it makes a pleasant sambal, not too hot.
Good with mixed blanched vegetables.
Or in Indo-style snacks.


Dried scallops: 乾貝 gon pui, 乾瑤柱 gon yiu chyu, 江瑤柱 gong yiu chyu. Dried shrimp: 蝦米 haa mai. Chilipaste, sambal ulek: 辣椒醬 laat chiu jeung. Oyster sauce: 蠔油 hou yau. Sugar: 糖 tong. Soy sauce: 醬油 jeung yau, 豉油 si yau. Shrimp paste: 鹹蝦醬 haam haa jeung. Salt: 鹽 yim. Onion: 洋蔥 yeung chung (可以用四、五頭小蔥). Garlic: 蒜 suen. Ginger: 薑 geung. Sesame oil: 麻油 maa yau. Chinwa ham: 金華火腿 gam-waa fo-dui. Chinese sausage: 臘腸 laap cheung. Preserved pork-belly: 臘肉 lap yiuk. Bacon: 煙肉 yin yiuk ("smoked pork"), 醃肉 yim yiuk ("preserved pork"), 鹹肉 haam yiuk ("salt pork").
Indo: 係印度尼西亞嘅荷蘭或華僑後裔,咁佢哋常常係多元文化主義啲。

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