Early dinner yesterday was excellent; tofu and roasted pork loin, sauced together, and served with a mound of rice. I had gone to a chachanteng, and even though that was a lunch option (lunch ends at three o'clock), I asked if it was still possible to have it. They had no issue with that request, despite the late hour, and I ate well.
I also got to observe two tourists become totally baffled at the menu, because a chachanteng is not your mother's Chinese restaurant.
Baked spaghetti? Grilled salmon? Toast?
The typical chachanteng is strictly Hong Kong, meaning that whatever can be cobbled together into a hot or fast meal is offered, including tinned luncheon meat and tomato sauce over macaroni, odd noodly combos, bland Western soups served alongside plate lunches, snacks, casseroles, and high fat high carb hotch-a-potches, all with cups of either hot strong milk-tea or coffee and milk-tea combined, your choice.
Oh, and some typical Cantonese dishes, mostly home style.
No kung pao, no general Tzo, no shrimp Rangoon.
Not an egg roll on the premises.
No sweet'n sour.
Tofu combined with fire-loin (火腩 'fo naam'; very nearly the same as 燒肉 'siu yiuk'), in almost any form, is both home cooking and conveniently fast restaurant chow.
The fired loin is roast pork with the crust all nice and crunchy, bought from a local siu-mei vendor (燒味店), the tofu is fried chunks available at any grocery. Just some assembly and saucing, and it's done.
And it's stupendous.
Here are two recipes that show how easy it is. Use both or either as guides, come up with your own variant.
火腩炆豆腐
FO NAAM MAN DAU FU
Half pound of fire belly pork (火腩), chunk-chopped.
One tub of firm tofu, sliced into two, flat-wise.
Ten cloves garlic, left whole.
One onion, chopped.
Three slices of ginger.
One TBS soy sauce.
One TBS Shaoxing rice wine (紹興酒).
One Tsp. oyster sauce (蠔油).
One Tsp. sugar.
A dash of sesame oil (麻油).
One Tsp. cornstarch dissolved in a tablespoon of water.
Lightly dust the tofu with cornstarch and a pinch of salt on all sides, fry in hot oil till golden brown. Remove, drain, and cut into large chunks.
Gild the ginger slices and whole garlic cloves. Reserve to a saucer.
Sauté the chopped onion, add the fire belly pork. When the edges turn golden add the soy sauce, Shaoxing rice wine, and a splash of water, plus the garlic and ginger. Simmer a few minutes, then put in the tofu, and stir the cornstarch solution in. Add a dash of sesame oil, serve.
[NOTES: For the Shaoxing rice wine (紹興酒 'siu hing jau') you may substitute sherry. The effect will be no different. For drinking, you may replace the sherry with Shaoxing. That, too, is good. Oyster sauce (蠔油 'ho yau') is essential, sesame oil ((麻油 'maa yau') adds fragrance.]
枝竹豆腐炆火腩
JI JUK DAU FU MAN FO NAAM
Half a pound of roast pork (火腩), chunk-chopped.
One or two sticks of dried tofu (枝竹).
One slab of firm tofu (half a tub).
Three slices ginger.
Half a head of garlic (6-8 cloves).
Three scallion, minced.
One Tbs soy sauce.
Half TBS oyster sauce.
Half Tsp. sugar.
One cup water.
One Tsp. cornstarch dissolved in a tablespoon of water.
Cook dried tofu stick in some water till soft, cut into suitable segments. Cut the firm tofu into eight chunks and fry in hot oil till golden, remove and drain.
Sauté ginger and garlic briefly. Add the sauces, sugar, and water, bring to a boil and put in the dried tofu pieces. Simmer for about three or four minutes, then add the roast pork and fried tofu and simmer just a little while longer to heat through and combine flavours. Add the cornstarch solution and the minced scallion, stir to combine, and decant to a plate.
The goal in either version is having enough moisture in the dish to glorify the rice. A very big squirt of Sriracha hot sauce (是拉差辣椒醬 'si-laa-chaa laat-chiu jeung') on the plate is, to my mind, the crowning final touch. Wah, chan hou sik!
If you really want to over-indulge, you might also put half a dozen soaked dried oysters (蠔豉 'hou si') into the pot.
Or black mushrooms (冬菇 'dong gu').
Or both.
Tofu and roast pork could be one dish among many if dining together.
May I suggest having sautéed brassica green (炒油菜 'chaau yau choi') alongside, along with some watercress soup?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Showing posts with label 五花腩. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 五花腩. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 09, 2016
Tuesday, September 02, 2014
HONG BAK VERSUS... HONG BAK; A FUKIENESE QUANDARY
A dish which spells home to most Fujianese is 'hong bak'. They can all agree that nothing else is quite so evocative. But their unanimity ends there, as they will NOT agree on what it is. Or who makes a genuine version, which, naturally, is the absolute best and quite coincidentally their very own heirloom recipe (and from a very dear aunt to boot).
Or cooked by a little food shop in their hometown, wherever that is.
Probably either in Kelantan or Sarawak.
封肉或稱焢肉
"SEALED MEAT", OR "PICKLE MEAT"
The version known as 'hong bak' (封肉) is alleged to have originated in Tung An (同安 "tang oa~"), and is considered a traditional dish from the Min Nan (閩南 "ban-lam") culinary repertoire (福建菜系，閩菜系 "hok-kian chai-he", "ban chai-he"). Tung An is to the north of the port of Hsiamen (下門 "ah mui") , and as Hsiamen ('Amoy') is where many South-East Asian Fujianese (福建人「福建郎」 "hok-kian lang") hail from ancestrally, this may be reasonably credible.
Or entirely disbelieved.
The other version, called 'hong bak' (焢肉), is more common among overseas Fujianese, and often varies considerably from recipe to recipe. Many people will add hardboiled eggs, or fresh mushrooms, or dried tofu skin. Even large cubes of tofu, which may be deep-fried beforehand.
The Peranakan along the Malacca Strait will augment the flavour with coriander seed ground into a paste with garlic, ginger, and shallots, which is sauteed in the pan before the meat is added.
The first version has a back-story, the latter versions have the weight of fond memories.
According to the accepted narrative, a scholar who had achieved a major ranking in the imperial system prepared a celebratory dish of fatty pork with mushrooms and chestnuts, cooked in cloth that held it together in a block-shape. Later versions simply placed the large chunk of meat skin-side down and fried it with sugar. At the point where the caramel might start burning, soy sauce and rice wine were added, along with chestnuts and mushrooms, plus enough water that when the pot was sealed it would gently steam till done. Properly made, the fatty flesh was tender enough to break with the diners' chopsticks.
Another tale states that a destitute man, in order to make a variation of a luxurious porridge which was traditionally served during a Buddhist parade festival, went into hock to purchase a very small but rather nice chunk of pork. Which, in the Chinese scheme of things, naturally means a cut with alternating fat and lean. He carefully coloured it by sauteeing it and adding sugar, wine, and soy sauce. When it was dark and marvelously fragrant, he put it in his family's pot of rice gruel. It made it so splendid that his neighbors came over to have some, in consequence of which his fortunes improved, and within a number of years he was reasonably well-off.
No, I have no idea when that festival takes place.
Sorry.
The reason why the character 封 is used in naming the dish is that it means to seal, like an official letter or parcel. The meat is darkly hued on one side, and left whole while cooking, creating the visual representation of a stack of documents or cahiers.
Plus, of course, it IS sealed on one side.
The word 焢, which in Hokkien (閩南語 "ban-lam gi") sounds exactly the same as 封，is a transcription of the dialect word for semi-pickling meat, thus both making it savoury and less perishable in a warm climate.
Note that 肉, which means 'meat', is pronounced 'bak' in Hokkien and other Min languages, being a phoneme derived from a different route than Mandarin 'rou' and Cantonese 'yiuk'.
Possibly related to a proto-Malayoid root-word for hog.
焢肉怎麼煮阿？
HOW TO PREPARE HONG BAK?
The Hokkiens of South-East Asia all follow a similar procedure vis a vis the meat itself, but differ enormously as regards additions, the only thing standardly being some pre-soaked black mushrooms.
My original version had the pork left whole, scored and browned on the skin-side, then seethed with a little Indonesian-style sweet soy sauce and a lot of sherry, whereupon I would add ginger slices, whole re-hydrated black mushrooms, whole star-anise, a cinnamon stick, and water to come half way up. Then I would stick it into the oven at low heat, with the lid on, for an hour or two, and ignore it while it cooked in its juices.
It always came out perfect, and butter tender.
You could easily cut it with chop-sticks.
It was a variation of the 封 style.
That was a long time ago.
譜：焢肉
RECIPE: HONG BAK
One and a half pounds of belly pork with skin on.
Half a dozen cloves garlic (or less).
Half a dozen soaked black mushrooms (or more).
Half a dozen slices ginger.
A small piece of cinnamon.
Smallish piece of dried tangerine peel (陳皮).
Two or three whole star anise.
Three TBS soy sauce.
Three TBS brown sugar.
One TBS oyster sauce.
A very hefty jigger of sherry or rice wine.
Half Tsp. ground coriander (optional).
A pinch of freshly ground pepper.
Oil.
Water.
Cut the pork into large chunks. Rub a little of the sugar on the meat, all over. Whack the garlic cloves with the flat of a cleaver to loosen the skin, which remove. Trim off the hard ends, but do not chop the garlic; it's fine the way it is.
Fry the garlic till fragrant, decant to a saucer; you'll add it back later.
On medium heat, colour the pork chunks well, allowing for a little caramelization. Now add everything else including the garlic, and enough water to nearly cover; the pot should be somewhat crowded.
Bring to a boil, turn heat low, and simmer for forty five minutes, stirring occassionally to prevent scorching.
If you are using a larger casserole for cooking, you may add some wedge-cut potato or broken tofu skin sticks (腐竹) to share the juices. In that case, increase the amount of ground coriander and add a little more soy sauce.
The oyster sauce is in lieu of the dried shrimp that many people would use for a faint savory touch.
You could also dust the meat chunks with a little flour before gilding them in the pan, which would enrich and thicken the sauce, but that seems rather pointless.
A slightly thin sauce is preferable when eating Chinese food.
Serve with steamed rice, of course, and your favourite sambal on the side.
NOTE: dried tangerine peel (陳皮) is called 'chenpi' in Mandarin, 'jan pei' in Cantonese, and 'tan peh' in Hokkien. It is often used for a hint of fragrance, and is considered beneficial to the digestion and the mucous membranes. Its use is not only culinary, but also medicinal, having a mild tonifying effect. In cooking it frequently shows up in duck dishes, as well as fatty pork stews, and soups.
Look for packages that promise 新會柑 ('Hsin-hui Tangerine', "san wui gam"), as even though the fruit is too sour to enjoy, these provide the very best dried peels. Unlike most other tangerine peel, it will be a blueish-green, sometimes verging towards brown, or even black.
Good peel keeps its fragrance for a very long time.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Or cooked by a little food shop in their hometown, wherever that is.
Probably either in Kelantan or Sarawak.
封肉或稱焢肉
"SEALED MEAT", OR "PICKLE MEAT"
The version known as 'hong bak' (封肉) is alleged to have originated in Tung An (同安 "tang oa~"), and is considered a traditional dish from the Min Nan (閩南 "ban-lam") culinary repertoire (福建菜系，閩菜系 "hok-kian chai-he", "ban chai-he"). Tung An is to the north of the port of Hsiamen (下門 "ah mui") , and as Hsiamen ('Amoy') is where many South-East Asian Fujianese (福建人「福建郎」 "hok-kian lang") hail from ancestrally, this may be reasonably credible.
Or entirely disbelieved.
The other version, called 'hong bak' (焢肉), is more common among overseas Fujianese, and often varies considerably from recipe to recipe. Many people will add hardboiled eggs, or fresh mushrooms, or dried tofu skin. Even large cubes of tofu, which may be deep-fried beforehand.
The Peranakan along the Malacca Strait will augment the flavour with coriander seed ground into a paste with garlic, ginger, and shallots, which is sauteed in the pan before the meat is added.
The first version has a back-story, the latter versions have the weight of fond memories.
According to the accepted narrative, a scholar who had achieved a major ranking in the imperial system prepared a celebratory dish of fatty pork with mushrooms and chestnuts, cooked in cloth that held it together in a block-shape. Later versions simply placed the large chunk of meat skin-side down and fried it with sugar. At the point where the caramel might start burning, soy sauce and rice wine were added, along with chestnuts and mushrooms, plus enough water that when the pot was sealed it would gently steam till done. Properly made, the fatty flesh was tender enough to break with the diners' chopsticks.
Another tale states that a destitute man, in order to make a variation of a luxurious porridge which was traditionally served during a Buddhist parade festival, went into hock to purchase a very small but rather nice chunk of pork. Which, in the Chinese scheme of things, naturally means a cut with alternating fat and lean. He carefully coloured it by sauteeing it and adding sugar, wine, and soy sauce. When it was dark and marvelously fragrant, he put it in his family's pot of rice gruel. It made it so splendid that his neighbors came over to have some, in consequence of which his fortunes improved, and within a number of years he was reasonably well-off.
No, I have no idea when that festival takes place.
Sorry.
The reason why the character 封 is used in naming the dish is that it means to seal, like an official letter or parcel. The meat is darkly hued on one side, and left whole while cooking, creating the visual representation of a stack of documents or cahiers.
Plus, of course, it IS sealed on one side.
The word 焢, which in Hokkien (閩南語 "ban-lam gi") sounds exactly the same as 封，is a transcription of the dialect word for semi-pickling meat, thus both making it savoury and less perishable in a warm climate.
Note that 肉, which means 'meat', is pronounced 'bak' in Hokkien and other Min languages, being a phoneme derived from a different route than Mandarin 'rou' and Cantonese 'yiuk'.
Possibly related to a proto-Malayoid root-word for hog.
焢肉怎麼煮阿？
HOW TO PREPARE HONG BAK?
The Hokkiens of South-East Asia all follow a similar procedure vis a vis the meat itself, but differ enormously as regards additions, the only thing standardly being some pre-soaked black mushrooms.
My original version had the pork left whole, scored and browned on the skin-side, then seethed with a little Indonesian-style sweet soy sauce and a lot of sherry, whereupon I would add ginger slices, whole re-hydrated black mushrooms, whole star-anise, a cinnamon stick, and water to come half way up. Then I would stick it into the oven at low heat, with the lid on, for an hour or two, and ignore it while it cooked in its juices.
It always came out perfect, and butter tender.
You could easily cut it with chop-sticks.
It was a variation of the 封 style.
That was a long time ago.
譜：焢肉
RECIPE: HONG BAK
One and a half pounds of belly pork with skin on.
Half a dozen cloves garlic (or less).
Half a dozen soaked black mushrooms (or more).
Half a dozen slices ginger.
A small piece of cinnamon.
Smallish piece of dried tangerine peel (陳皮).
Two or three whole star anise.
Three TBS soy sauce.
Three TBS brown sugar.
One TBS oyster sauce.
A very hefty jigger of sherry or rice wine.
Half Tsp. ground coriander (optional).
A pinch of freshly ground pepper.
Oil.
Water.
Cut the pork into large chunks. Rub a little of the sugar on the meat, all over. Whack the garlic cloves with the flat of a cleaver to loosen the skin, which remove. Trim off the hard ends, but do not chop the garlic; it's fine the way it is.
Fry the garlic till fragrant, decant to a saucer; you'll add it back later.
On medium heat, colour the pork chunks well, allowing for a little caramelization. Now add everything else including the garlic, and enough water to nearly cover; the pot should be somewhat crowded.
Bring to a boil, turn heat low, and simmer for forty five minutes, stirring occassionally to prevent scorching.
If you are using a larger casserole for cooking, you may add some wedge-cut potato or broken tofu skin sticks (腐竹) to share the juices. In that case, increase the amount of ground coriander and add a little more soy sauce.
The oyster sauce is in lieu of the dried shrimp that many people would use for a faint savory touch.
You could also dust the meat chunks with a little flour before gilding them in the pan, which would enrich and thicken the sauce, but that seems rather pointless.
A slightly thin sauce is preferable when eating Chinese food.
Serve with steamed rice, of course, and your favourite sambal on the side.
NOTE: dried tangerine peel (陳皮) is called 'chenpi' in Mandarin, 'jan pei' in Cantonese, and 'tan peh' in Hokkien. It is often used for a hint of fragrance, and is considered beneficial to the digestion and the mucous membranes. Its use is not only culinary, but also medicinal, having a mild tonifying effect. In cooking it frequently shows up in duck dishes, as well as fatty pork stews, and soups.
Look for packages that promise 新會柑 ('Hsin-hui Tangerine', "san wui gam"), as even though the fruit is too sour to enjoy, these provide the very best dried peels. Unlike most other tangerine peel, it will be a blueish-green, sometimes verging towards brown, or even black.
Good peel keeps its fragrance for a very long time.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, January 13, 2014
DOUBLE HAPPINESS: MUI CHOI KAU YUK AND SUEN CHOI PAAK YUK
Over the past few weeks I've casually discussed Chinese food on this blog, and mentioned several tasty things of an odd nature. Odd, that is, to the ethnicities one might snidely call "uncomplicated-American".
Late yesterday I woke up with a start and realized that the one dish which is guaranteed to repel diet-conscious office types AND moronic football fans in equal measure is mui choi kau yuk; fatty pork and salt cabbage ("plum vegetable").
It is delicious, evocative of good things, home-style, and luxurious.
A necessary element in your life.
MUI CHOI KAU YUK 梅菜扣肉
Fatty pork with salt cabbage.
One pound pork belly meat.
Quarter to half cup mui choi (梅菜), or slightly more.
Three cloves garlic, slivered.
Several slices of ginger, slivered.
Two TBS soy sauce, plus a little extra.
One TBS rice wine or sherry.
Half TBS sugar.
Small pinch five spice powder.
Coarsely chop the mui choi, then rinse it in a sieve to remove sand. Dump it in a bowl of cold water and let it soak for an hour. Drain, then rinse, drain and rinse again. This removes the salt used to preserve it.
Set it aside.
Wash the hunk of pork belly, pat it dry with a paper towel. Use a fork to pierce the skin, then rub it with a little extra soy sauce and the pinch of five spice powder, and set it aside for half an hour.
In skillet or wok sear the chunk of pork belly on the skin side till crispy-brown, then colour it all over in the hot grease that will have rendered. Remove pork from pan.
Drain most of the grease (which can be saved or discarded, as you choose), and parch the mui choi, adding the slivered ginger and garlic half-way through. The purpose is to concentrate flavours slightly, not to fully cook the vegetable matter at this stage.
Put the pork belly in a heavy enameled sauce pan OR a clay pot, distribute the mui choi around it, and add the two tablespoons of soy sauce, the sugar, and the sherry. Put it on heat, and when it reaches boiling temperature, cover it, slip a heat absorber underneath, lower the heat to barely alive, and let it gently cook for three or four hours till the pork is quite tender. Check it occasionally to avoid scorching, and to spoon some of the liquid over the meat. Add water if necessary.
When it is done, remove from heat, and cut the pork belly chunk into finger thick chopstickable slices -- this can be done while leaving it in the pot -- dump some chopped cilantro on top, and serve.
[A slightly different version of this dish is here: mui choi kau yuk.]
Fatty meat with cabbage is typically a winter delight, sure to please friends and family if they are sensible people, and quite utterly horrifying to most suburbanites.
So, to expand your repertoire with a dish in the same earthy vein, which is also superb and yummy, here's a recipe for a northern Chinese favourite which is nearly as popular among southerners nowadays.
Both dishes should be accompanied by rice.
Plenty of steamed rice.
And chili paste!
SUEN CHOI PAAK YUK 酸菜白肉
Sour cabbage and white-cooked pork.
One package of North-East style sour cabbage (東北酸菜).
Scant pound of fatty pork.
One or two enoki clumps, trimmed and sliced.
A small handful of dried tofu sticks.
Two TBS rice wine or sherry.
A few thick slices of ginger, slivered.
One or two garlic cloves, slivered.
Two chopped scallion.
Half TBS chili paste.
A pinch of five spice powder.
Drops of sesame oil.
Drops of tabasco.
Cilantro.
Rinse and drain the sour cabbage, chop it coarsely. Scrub the lump of pork, brown it on the skin side to form a nice dark crust, then dump it in a pot of boiling lightly salted water along with some of the scallion and ginger, and simmer it for two hours. Take it out and let it cool.
Soak the tofu sticks till soft, drain, and cut into long chunks.
Heat a little oil in wok or skillet, gild the ginger and garlic to aromatize. Add the scallion, soon followed by the chili paste, then the rice wine or sherry to sizzle. Dump this into a roomy clay pot or enameled stew-pan, with the five spice powder. Add the tofu sticks, cut enoki, and the cabbage, with water to cover and a splash of the pork simmering liquid.
Cook for about ten minutes.
Slice the now cooled and fully cooked pork into thickish slices, add to the pot, with more liquid; the soupiness of the dish will be part of the pleasure. Cook another five or ten minutes.
Dash in a little sesame oil and tabasco, cilantro on top, and serve.
NOTES:
Pork belly, or 'fatty pork', is usually called ng-faa naam (五花腩 five flower pork brisket) in Chinese markets. The layers of intense fat and reddish lean meat alternate beautifully, and you should select what suits you. Bear in mind that there is supposed to be a balance, which is what makes it so versatile and delicious.
Plum vegetable (梅菜 'mui choi') is a small brassica preserved with salt.
I usually buy the canned version.
Five spice powder (五香粉 'ng heung fan') is made of star-anise (八角 'baat gok'), fennel seed (小茴香 'siu wui heung'), cassia bark (肉桂、玉桂 'yuk gwai'), fagara pepper corns (花椒 'faa chiu'), and cloves (丁香 'ding heung').
Enoki (金針菇 'gam jam gu') are thin pale yellow mushrooms that are sold in lumps growing from a single spore-clump. You don't need much in 酸菜白肉 as they are included merely for a bit of contrast. Wash them first, trim off the base, and just dump them in.
Dried tofu sticks (腐竹 'fu juk') are strips of the congealed skin that results when boiling soy milk, collected and hung up to dry. This product absorbs flavours most marvelously, is highly nutritious, and adds a very enjoyable textural element to stews.
Sour cabbage (酸菜 'suen choi') is a common type of pickled cabbage, tangy and slightly sour. After a brief blanching, the halved or quartered vegetable is packed into brine with a weight on top and left to ferment for at least three weeks. It can be eaten raw but is usually combined with fatty meats, which is a particularly good combination; the two items balance each other.
Available in vacuum sealed packs of around a pound, also larger packs of a kilo. Buy the smaller packs -- 200 grammes to 300 grammes.
North-Eastern style sour cabbage (東北酸菜 'tung paak suen choi') is stronger in taste, and has some chili added for oomph.
Sambal, or chili paste (辣椒醬 'laat chiu jeung') is the one indispensable substance that you should have on hand at all times. Mashed hot peppers with a little salt, maybe a touch of vinegar or lime juice added. Rather than making it yourself, simply purchase a jar of it in C'town or the Tenderloin, and stick it in your refrigerator. It is surprising how fast it disappears;
I think the raccoons are stealing it.
If you plan on visiting England it might be wise to actually make some of it yourself to pack in your carry-on luggage: fresh habaneros, ground toasted dried Thai birdseyes or chile d'arbol for a bit of bulk, salt, vinegar, and oil. The last three in equal measure, just enough to make it smooee, but not gloppy. The salt and vinegar will preserve it for at least several weeks, and the inclusion of habanero makes it hot enough that your hosts may not even notice that you slipped a tiny little smear onto your plate to assist you in downing their fine cuisine.
慢慢食 ('maan maan sik': bon gusto).
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Late yesterday I woke up with a start and realized that the one dish which is guaranteed to repel diet-conscious office types AND moronic football fans in equal measure is mui choi kau yuk; fatty pork and salt cabbage ("plum vegetable").
It is delicious, evocative of good things, home-style, and luxurious.
A necessary element in your life.
MUI CHOI KAU YUK 梅菜扣肉
Fatty pork with salt cabbage.
One pound pork belly meat.
Quarter to half cup mui choi (梅菜), or slightly more.
Three cloves garlic, slivered.
Several slices of ginger, slivered.
Two TBS soy sauce, plus a little extra.
One TBS rice wine or sherry.
Half TBS sugar.
Small pinch five spice powder.
Coarsely chop the mui choi, then rinse it in a sieve to remove sand. Dump it in a bowl of cold water and let it soak for an hour. Drain, then rinse, drain and rinse again. This removes the salt used to preserve it.
Set it aside.
Wash the hunk of pork belly, pat it dry with a paper towel. Use a fork to pierce the skin, then rub it with a little extra soy sauce and the pinch of five spice powder, and set it aside for half an hour.
In skillet or wok sear the chunk of pork belly on the skin side till crispy-brown, then colour it all over in the hot grease that will have rendered. Remove pork from pan.
Drain most of the grease (which can be saved or discarded, as you choose), and parch the mui choi, adding the slivered ginger and garlic half-way through. The purpose is to concentrate flavours slightly, not to fully cook the vegetable matter at this stage.
Put the pork belly in a heavy enameled sauce pan OR a clay pot, distribute the mui choi around it, and add the two tablespoons of soy sauce, the sugar, and the sherry. Put it on heat, and when it reaches boiling temperature, cover it, slip a heat absorber underneath, lower the heat to barely alive, and let it gently cook for three or four hours till the pork is quite tender. Check it occasionally to avoid scorching, and to spoon some of the liquid over the meat. Add water if necessary.
When it is done, remove from heat, and cut the pork belly chunk into finger thick chopstickable slices -- this can be done while leaving it in the pot -- dump some chopped cilantro on top, and serve.
[A slightly different version of this dish is here: mui choi kau yuk.]
Fatty meat with cabbage is typically a winter delight, sure to please friends and family if they are sensible people, and quite utterly horrifying to most suburbanites.
So, to expand your repertoire with a dish in the same earthy vein, which is also superb and yummy, here's a recipe for a northern Chinese favourite which is nearly as popular among southerners nowadays.
Both dishes should be accompanied by rice.
Plenty of steamed rice.
And chili paste!
SUEN CHOI PAAK YUK 酸菜白肉
Sour cabbage and white-cooked pork.
One package of North-East style sour cabbage (東北酸菜).
Scant pound of fatty pork.
One or two enoki clumps, trimmed and sliced.
A small handful of dried tofu sticks.
Two TBS rice wine or sherry.
A few thick slices of ginger, slivered.
One or two garlic cloves, slivered.
Two chopped scallion.
Half TBS chili paste.
A pinch of five spice powder.
Drops of sesame oil.
Drops of tabasco.
Cilantro.
Rinse and drain the sour cabbage, chop it coarsely. Scrub the lump of pork, brown it on the skin side to form a nice dark crust, then dump it in a pot of boiling lightly salted water along with some of the scallion and ginger, and simmer it for two hours. Take it out and let it cool.
Soak the tofu sticks till soft, drain, and cut into long chunks.
Heat a little oil in wok or skillet, gild the ginger and garlic to aromatize. Add the scallion, soon followed by the chili paste, then the rice wine or sherry to sizzle. Dump this into a roomy clay pot or enameled stew-pan, with the five spice powder. Add the tofu sticks, cut enoki, and the cabbage, with water to cover and a splash of the pork simmering liquid.
Cook for about ten minutes.
Slice the now cooled and fully cooked pork into thickish slices, add to the pot, with more liquid; the soupiness of the dish will be part of the pleasure. Cook another five or ten minutes.
Dash in a little sesame oil and tabasco, cilantro on top, and serve.
NOTES:
Pork belly, or 'fatty pork', is usually called ng-faa naam (五花腩 five flower pork brisket) in Chinese markets. The layers of intense fat and reddish lean meat alternate beautifully, and you should select what suits you. Bear in mind that there is supposed to be a balance, which is what makes it so versatile and delicious.
Plum vegetable (梅菜 'mui choi') is a small brassica preserved with salt.
I usually buy the canned version.
Five spice powder (五香粉 'ng heung fan') is made of star-anise (八角 'baat gok'), fennel seed (小茴香 'siu wui heung'), cassia bark (肉桂、玉桂 'yuk gwai'), fagara pepper corns (花椒 'faa chiu'), and cloves (丁香 'ding heung').
Enoki (金針菇 'gam jam gu') are thin pale yellow mushrooms that are sold in lumps growing from a single spore-clump. You don't need much in 酸菜白肉 as they are included merely for a bit of contrast. Wash them first, trim off the base, and just dump them in.
Dried tofu sticks (腐竹 'fu juk') are strips of the congealed skin that results when boiling soy milk, collected and hung up to dry. This product absorbs flavours most marvelously, is highly nutritious, and adds a very enjoyable textural element to stews.
Sour cabbage (酸菜 'suen choi') is a common type of pickled cabbage, tangy and slightly sour. After a brief blanching, the halved or quartered vegetable is packed into brine with a weight on top and left to ferment for at least three weeks. It can be eaten raw but is usually combined with fatty meats, which is a particularly good combination; the two items balance each other.
Available in vacuum sealed packs of around a pound, also larger packs of a kilo. Buy the smaller packs -- 200 grammes to 300 grammes.
North-Eastern style sour cabbage (東北酸菜 'tung paak suen choi') is stronger in taste, and has some chili added for oomph.
Sambal, or chili paste (辣椒醬 'laat chiu jeung') is the one indispensable substance that you should have on hand at all times. Mashed hot peppers with a little salt, maybe a touch of vinegar or lime juice added. Rather than making it yourself, simply purchase a jar of it in C'town or the Tenderloin, and stick it in your refrigerator. It is surprising how fast it disappears;
I think the raccoons are stealing it.
If you plan on visiting England it might be wise to actually make some of it yourself to pack in your carry-on luggage: fresh habaneros, ground toasted dried Thai birdseyes or chile d'arbol for a bit of bulk, salt, vinegar, and oil. The last three in equal measure, just enough to make it smooee, but not gloppy. The salt and vinegar will preserve it for at least several weeks, and the inclusion of habanero makes it hot enough that your hosts may not even notice that you slipped a tiny little smear onto your plate to assist you in downing their fine cuisine.
慢慢食 ('maan maan sik': bon gusto).
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, February 23, 2013
SUDDEN CHINESE DINNER
The past few days I have been thinking about food. In hot juicy detail. It's far better than sex, and can be shared with more people. The same, obviously, goes for talking about the subject. Though if you wish to take this blogpost as a lascivious leer or soft romantic smile from a stranger, go right ahead.
I shall not stop you. Please also imagine me as talk dark and handsome while you're at it.
[Full literary disclosure: in complete contrast to the imagined hot and hunky stranger above, the actual blogger here is five foot eight and a half, of a rather Caucasian hue in general, with a trim beard and moustache which are distressingly more salt than pepper. Streaks of silver in the hair at the temples. Middle-aged -- handsomely mature by his own dodderingly misguided reckoning, but probably a super-annuated old fossil in the eyes of anyone under thirty -- and much more like a scholarly gnome or distant relative of Gandalf than the studly vampire lover of your fantasies.]
Now, while you are looking all blurfle-eyed and blushing, day-dreaming of the eternally youthful hero of Twilight or the vibrant and sweating habitués of The Raven in Toronto, amid scenes of pounding music, I shall describe some dishes I haven't made in quite a long while, as I seldom cook anymore.
But they would go well together at a small dinner.
薑蔥炆雞丁GEUNG-CHUNG MAN KAI DING
Ginger-scallion simmered chicken chunks
One pound chicken on the bone, whacked into chopstickable pieces.
Three scallions, sectioned.
Sliced ginger.
4 TBS sherry.
2 TBS soy sauce.
1 TBS sugar.
Wash and dry chicken, dust with a teaspoon of cornflour, add a dash of oil and toss to coat. Stirfry in scant oil to firm up. Decant temporarily to a plate.
Sauté ginger and scallion till fragrant, add chicken to the pan along with the sherry, soy sauce, sugar, and a splash of water. Simmer on low for ten to fifteen minutes.
Put in a shallow bowl to serve.
炸汁蝦 JAA JAP HAA
Fried sauced shrimp
One pound of medium prawns.
Three scallions, chopped.
A little minced ginger.
Two TBS sherry.
One Tsp. sugar.
A little hot chili paste.
Pinches of salt and ground white pepper.
Drops of sesame oil.
Batter:
One egg white.
One TBS cornflour.
Rip off the legs of the prawns, de-shell, and remove the vein. Rinse, dry. Whisk the egg white and cornflour smooth, dip the prawns, and deep fry in hot oil till golden. Note that if you have a wok, this will require less oil and be easier to do. Remove and drain on paper towels.
Sauté ginger and scallion till fragrant. Add the sherry, sugar, chili paste, pinches and drops, plus a little water. Cook till it starts to become glazy, add the prawns, and toss to coat.
Decant onto a plate.
鹹魚炆豬肉 HAAHM YÜ MAN CHÜ YIUK
Salt fish and fatty pork in clay pot
One pound of streaky belly pork (naam yiuk 腩肉).
Less than a fifth that amount salt fish, judged by eye.
Four or five whole shallots, peeled.
Four or five cloves garlic, left whole.
Some sliced ginger.
Quarter cup sherry.
One TBS fish sauce (yü lou 魚露).
One TBS sugar.
Blanch the pork whole fully till firmed up, drain and rinse under cold water. Dry it, and cut it into chunks. Soak and drain the salt fish, dice it small. And note that it is supposed to be a contributing flavour, not a dominant ingredient. Fry the pork with the ginger and whole garlic cloves till slightly golden, and decant to a clay pot.
Fry the dried fish similarly and add to the clay pot. Put the shallots in also, add the sherry, fish sauce, and sugar, and half a cup of water. Put the clay pot on low heat, and simmer gently for one and a half hours.
Before taking it off the flame, stir in a handfull of spinach leaves to wilt.
NOTE: Regarding the salt fish, it is best to use specimens which are solid, firm, and entirely unfermented (sat yiuk haahm yü 實肉鹹魚).
But these may be very hard to find in C'town.
By far the most common types of dried fish (described as "moldy perfume salt fish" - mui heung haahm yü 霉香鹹魚) are fully fermented products, delicious and perfect for eating during warm weather, which have been implicated in a higher incidence of naso-pharyngeal cancers in Southern China.
Cantonese people love that scrumptious salty-fishy taste, and consume more of it than anyone else (you knew there was a reason why you liked their food).
If you don't have any dried fish in your larder, you can modify the recipe above by using shrimp paste (haahm haa jeung 鹹蝦醬) instead.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I shall not stop you. Please also imagine me as talk dark and handsome while you're at it.
[Full literary disclosure: in complete contrast to the imagined hot and hunky stranger above, the actual blogger here is five foot eight and a half, of a rather Caucasian hue in general, with a trim beard and moustache which are distressingly more salt than pepper. Streaks of silver in the hair at the temples. Middle-aged -- handsomely mature by his own dodderingly misguided reckoning, but probably a super-annuated old fossil in the eyes of anyone under thirty -- and much more like a scholarly gnome or distant relative of Gandalf than the studly vampire lover of your fantasies.]
Now, while you are looking all blurfle-eyed and blushing, day-dreaming of the eternally youthful hero of Twilight or the vibrant and sweating habitués of The Raven in Toronto, amid scenes of pounding music, I shall describe some dishes I haven't made in quite a long while, as I seldom cook anymore.
But they would go well together at a small dinner.
薑蔥炆雞丁GEUNG-CHUNG MAN KAI DING
Ginger-scallion simmered chicken chunks
One pound chicken on the bone, whacked into chopstickable pieces.
Three scallions, sectioned.
Sliced ginger.
4 TBS sherry.
2 TBS soy sauce.
1 TBS sugar.
Wash and dry chicken, dust with a teaspoon of cornflour, add a dash of oil and toss to coat. Stirfry in scant oil to firm up. Decant temporarily to a plate.
Sauté ginger and scallion till fragrant, add chicken to the pan along with the sherry, soy sauce, sugar, and a splash of water. Simmer on low for ten to fifteen minutes.
Put in a shallow bowl to serve.
炸汁蝦 JAA JAP HAA
Fried sauced shrimp
One pound of medium prawns.
Three scallions, chopped.
A little minced ginger.
Two TBS sherry.
One Tsp. sugar.
A little hot chili paste.
Pinches of salt and ground white pepper.
Drops of sesame oil.
Batter:
One egg white.
One TBS cornflour.
Rip off the legs of the prawns, de-shell, and remove the vein. Rinse, dry. Whisk the egg white and cornflour smooth, dip the prawns, and deep fry in hot oil till golden. Note that if you have a wok, this will require less oil and be easier to do. Remove and drain on paper towels.
Sauté ginger and scallion till fragrant. Add the sherry, sugar, chili paste, pinches and drops, plus a little water. Cook till it starts to become glazy, add the prawns, and toss to coat.
Decant onto a plate.
鹹魚炆豬肉 HAAHM YÜ MAN CHÜ YIUK
Salt fish and fatty pork in clay pot
One pound of streaky belly pork (naam yiuk 腩肉).
Less than a fifth that amount salt fish, judged by eye.
Four or five whole shallots, peeled.
Four or five cloves garlic, left whole.
Some sliced ginger.
Quarter cup sherry.
One TBS fish sauce (yü lou 魚露).
One TBS sugar.
Blanch the pork whole fully till firmed up, drain and rinse under cold water. Dry it, and cut it into chunks. Soak and drain the salt fish, dice it small. And note that it is supposed to be a contributing flavour, not a dominant ingredient. Fry the pork with the ginger and whole garlic cloves till slightly golden, and decant to a clay pot.
Fry the dried fish similarly and add to the clay pot. Put the shallots in also, add the sherry, fish sauce, and sugar, and half a cup of water. Put the clay pot on low heat, and simmer gently for one and a half hours.
Before taking it off the flame, stir in a handfull of spinach leaves to wilt.
NOTE: Regarding the salt fish, it is best to use specimens which are solid, firm, and entirely unfermented (sat yiuk haahm yü 實肉鹹魚).
But these may be very hard to find in C'town.
By far the most common types of dried fish (described as "moldy perfume salt fish" - mui heung haahm yü 霉香鹹魚) are fully fermented products, delicious and perfect for eating during warm weather, which have been implicated in a higher incidence of naso-pharyngeal cancers in Southern China.
Cantonese people love that scrumptious salty-fishy taste, and consume more of it than anyone else (you knew there was a reason why you liked their food).
If you don't have any dried fish in your larder, you can modify the recipe above by using shrimp paste (haahm haa jeung 鹹蝦醬) instead.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, February 03, 2013
SEA CUCUMBER REVISITED
Over a year ago I detailed how to prepare sea-cucumber. This past Friday, an anonymous commenter wrote: "Add sliced pork to the dish above for extra delicious!"
Indeed! Adding pork to any dish involving sea-cucumber is a fine idea. One of the most traditional combinations involves sea-cucumber, black mushrooms, and pork knuckle.
It's particularly good, I have been told, for people with arthritis or stiff joints, as well as young mothers.
Not being a young mother, I will just have to take their word for it. As you may guess, a fifty-three year-old pipesmoking bachelor (me) is not likely to become a young mother anytime soon. The obstacles are daunting.
Arthritis, however, is a possibility.
Not a problem at this point.
Occasional twinges.
Rarely occur.
海參燜豬手 (HOI SAM MUN JU SAU)
PORK KNUCKLE & SEA CUCUMBER
Two sea cucumbers; soaked, cleaned, thickly sliced.
More than a pound of pork knuckle.
Ten dried black mushrooms (冬菇), soaked and sliced.
Garlic and ginger, slivered.
Two tablespoons rice wine or sherry.
One tablespoon soy sauce.
One tablespoon oyster sauce.
One tablespoon sugar.
Pinch of five spice powder.
Pinch of ground pepper.
First blanch the pork knuckles in boiling water to remove scum for about ten minutes. Then rinse them thoroughly under cold water. Heat a dash of oil in a pan and add the garlic and ginger. Once they start colouring, add the sliced black mushroom and the rice wine or sherry. When the liquid is nearly gone, add the sliced sea cucumber, stir briefly, and pour in water to cover. Don't include the pork knuckles yet, but add everything else. Simmer for twenty minutes, then add in the pork knuckles, and simmer on very low heat for two hours, or longer. Make sure that this dish is 'soupy', as the combination of the sea cucumbers and pork knuckles with their gravy over rice is wonderful.
"Add pork, for extra delicious!"
The next dish is somewhat different, yet rather similar.
It features many of the same ingredients.
And is just as good.
蒸海參扣肉 (JING HOI SAM KAU YUK)
SLICED PORK & SEA CUCUMBER
Two sea cucumbers; soaked, cleaned, thickly sliced.
Half a pound of five flower pork (五花腩).
Six black mushrooms (冬菇), soaked and sliced.
Plenty of slivered ginger - two thumbs.
Two TBS rice wine or sherry.
Half to one TBS shrimp paste (鹹蝦醬).
One Tsp. sambal ulek or raw chili paste.
Generous pinch of sugar.
Medium pinch of corn flour.
Small pinch five spice powder.
Blanch the piece of pork in boiling water for five minutes, blanch the sea cucumber also, but only briefly. Rinse the pork under cold water so that it can be cut into pieces of roughly the same size as the sea cucumber, which you will have simply drained. Mix the pork with the shrimp paste, sambal ulek, sugar, corn flour, and five spice powder in a broad shallow bowl, and when the sea cucumber is cool enough to handle, add it too. Strew the slivered ginger over the top.
Bring the water in your steamer to a roiling boil, place the bowl inside, and steam on high for two hours. Garnish with fresh cilantro after removing from the steamer.
The juices especially are delicious with your rice.
This isn't the most low-fat dish on the planet. So serve it with some nice lan sam (蘭芯) or mustard greens (芥菜), and plenty of tea to assist digestion.
NOTE: You can either follow the directions I outlined in my earlier article for soaking sea cucumber in preparation for these dishes, or ask your merchant.
Not all sea cucumber is the same, and some take longer to soften, sometimes up to six or seven days.
Remember to change the water twice per day.
I usually go for those that are about as long as my hand in their dry state, and look repulsive and rather blackish. They tend to be easiest to clean.
AFTER WORD 後記
Relating to Chinese festive occasions, such as the New Year (春節, 初一), which will be on Sunday February 10th. in 2013, any dish that features sea cucumber is extremely appropriate. The term 'hoi sam' (海參) is a very close homophonic duplicate of 'happiness' (開心) in Cantonese.
I suggest preparing it either for New Years Eve, at the great family get-together to end the old year, (年夜飯 nien yeh fan), or a few days later, when you can cook and clean again. The eighth day (Feb. 17th, 2013) is the perfect date for an "open the year" feast.
If you made 好事發財 (ho si fat choi: dried oyster with hair vegetable -- 'good affairs and attaining prosperity'), you already have either the streaky pork belly (五花腩 ng fa nam) or the pig's knuckles (豬手 ju sau) on the table. So it might be best to simply prepare the sea cucumber according to the recipe given in that earlier article.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It's particularly good, I have been told, for people with arthritis or stiff joints, as well as young mothers.
Not being a young mother, I will just have to take their word for it. As you may guess, a fifty-three year-old pipesmoking bachelor (me) is not likely to become a young mother anytime soon. The obstacles are daunting.
Arthritis, however, is a possibility.
Not a problem at this point.
Occasional twinges.
Rarely occur.
海參燜豬手 (HOI SAM MUN JU SAU)
PORK KNUCKLE & SEA CUCUMBER
Two sea cucumbers; soaked, cleaned, thickly sliced.
More than a pound of pork knuckle.
Ten dried black mushrooms (冬菇), soaked and sliced.
Garlic and ginger, slivered.
Two tablespoons rice wine or sherry.
One tablespoon soy sauce.
One tablespoon oyster sauce.
One tablespoon sugar.
Pinch of five spice powder.
Pinch of ground pepper.
First blanch the pork knuckles in boiling water to remove scum for about ten minutes. Then rinse them thoroughly under cold water. Heat a dash of oil in a pan and add the garlic and ginger. Once they start colouring, add the sliced black mushroom and the rice wine or sherry. When the liquid is nearly gone, add the sliced sea cucumber, stir briefly, and pour in water to cover. Don't include the pork knuckles yet, but add everything else. Simmer for twenty minutes, then add in the pork knuckles, and simmer on very low heat for two hours, or longer. Make sure that this dish is 'soupy', as the combination of the sea cucumbers and pork knuckles with their gravy over rice is wonderful.
"Add pork, for extra delicious!"
The next dish is somewhat different, yet rather similar.
It features many of the same ingredients.
And is just as good.
蒸海參扣肉 (JING HOI SAM KAU YUK)
SLICED PORK & SEA CUCUMBER
Two sea cucumbers; soaked, cleaned, thickly sliced.
Half a pound of five flower pork (五花腩).
Six black mushrooms (冬菇), soaked and sliced.
Plenty of slivered ginger - two thumbs.
Two TBS rice wine or sherry.
Half to one TBS shrimp paste (鹹蝦醬).
One Tsp. sambal ulek or raw chili paste.
Generous pinch of sugar.
Medium pinch of corn flour.
Small pinch five spice powder.
Blanch the piece of pork in boiling water for five minutes, blanch the sea cucumber also, but only briefly. Rinse the pork under cold water so that it can be cut into pieces of roughly the same size as the sea cucumber, which you will have simply drained. Mix the pork with the shrimp paste, sambal ulek, sugar, corn flour, and five spice powder in a broad shallow bowl, and when the sea cucumber is cool enough to handle, add it too. Strew the slivered ginger over the top.
Bring the water in your steamer to a roiling boil, place the bowl inside, and steam on high for two hours. Garnish with fresh cilantro after removing from the steamer.
The juices especially are delicious with your rice.
This isn't the most low-fat dish on the planet. So serve it with some nice lan sam (蘭芯) or mustard greens (芥菜), and plenty of tea to assist digestion.
NOTE: You can either follow the directions I outlined in my earlier article for soaking sea cucumber in preparation for these dishes, or ask your merchant.
Not all sea cucumber is the same, and some take longer to soften, sometimes up to six or seven days.
Remember to change the water twice per day.
I usually go for those that are about as long as my hand in their dry state, and look repulsive and rather blackish. They tend to be easiest to clean.
AFTER WORD 後記
Relating to Chinese festive occasions, such as the New Year (春節, 初一), which will be on Sunday February 10th. in 2013, any dish that features sea cucumber is extremely appropriate. The term 'hoi sam' (海參) is a very close homophonic duplicate of 'happiness' (開心) in Cantonese.
I suggest preparing it either for New Years Eve, at the great family get-together to end the old year, (年夜飯 nien yeh fan), or a few days later, when you can cook and clean again. The eighth day (Feb. 17th, 2013) is the perfect date for an "open the year" feast.
If you made 好事發財 (ho si fat choi: dried oyster with hair vegetable -- 'good affairs and attaining prosperity'), you already have either the streaky pork belly (五花腩 ng fa nam) or the pig's knuckles (豬手 ju sau) on the table. So it might be best to simply prepare the sea cucumber according to the recipe given in that earlier article.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, July 27, 2012
MUI CHOI KAU YUK - STEAMED SALT VEGETABLE MEAT
Late last year I wrote about an ingredient which sometimes dismays folks from the more hinterland areas of this great country of ours: Sea Cucumber.
Which, of course, is not a vegetable, as the name would suggest, but a very primitive ocean dweller with a marvelous ability to absorb sauces.
Like many Chinese favourites, it's also very much a textural thing.
In the same category of tooth-yieldy goodness, and often just as startling to many non-Chinese, is something that can best be described as 'gelled fat'.
Which is utterly delicious.
Pig belly bacon with Chinese sauerkraut.
Sounds almost German, doesn't it?
Plum-cabbage steamed pork is a beloved dinner dish from Penang to Honolulu; from 'wah, sedap sekali' to 'ono to da max!' Naturally it is common all over China too.
Perhaps more than anything else it makes people want to live near a Chinatown, because the correct cut is seldom available anywhere else.
梅菜扣肉 MUI CHOI KAU YUK
1¼ to 1¾ Lbs. ng-fa naam (五花腩 five flower pork brisket).
Three scallion, two inch lengths.
Three slices of ginger.
Three cloves garlic, smashed.
A large handful of mui choi (梅菜 plum vegetable).
One whole star-anise (baat gok 八角).
A pinch of five spice powder ((五香粉 ng-heung fun).
4-5 TBS. soy sauce.
2 TBS. sherry.
1 TBS. sugar.
Note that mui choi comes in semi-dry vacuum sealed packs as well as canned in brine. So the quantity necessary is best estimated at one quarter to one third of the meat after soaking and rinsing. Or more, depending on your own preference.
The brine version is easier for guesswork, but not necessarily recommended.
Either can be used.
Soak the mui choi for an hour or so in plenty of water, then rinse very thoroughly, drain, and squeeze out excess liquid. This removes sand, grit, and salt.
Chop it small.
Scrub the skin side of the meat with salt to clean it, then simmer it whole for ten minutes in water with the ginger and scallion to pre-cook and 'melt' some of the fat. Remove, drain, dry. Reserve a little of the liquid for the sauce.
Use an ice-pick or a sharp fork to prick holes in the skin, rub a little soy sauce over that side only, and let it sit for a while.
Heat oil in a skillet and carefully slide the meat in, skin-side down. Beware of the oil erupting - it is best to have a spatter-guard or a lid handy. Fry the meat till the skin-side is nicely darkened, almost mahogany.
Remove, drain, and let cool.
When the meat is cold enough to handle, slice it inch-thick across, each piece having all layers including the skin.
Arrange it in a broad bowl, skin-side up. Whisk the soy sauce, sherry, and sugar together and pour HALF of this over the meat, along with the star anise and pinch of five spice powder. Put the bowl in the steamer, and steam for an hour.
Now gild the garlic in a modicum of oil, add the chopped mui choi to parch. Pour in the other half of the soy sauce - sherry - sugar mixture, plus any liquid saved from the blanching at the beginning, and bring to a boil.
Pour this over the meat, making sure that most of the mui choi goes around the meat rather than on top.
Steam for another thirty minutes, or somewhat longer.
A little chopped scallion and shredded ginger to finish, and it can be served.
Some mui choi kau yuk, a big bowl of rice to sop up the juices, and a simple vegetable dish on the side: very heaven.
AFTERWORD
The preparation above is just one example of what one can do with a nice fatty slab of five flower stomach. Multiple variations are possible, the key thing being to melt some of the fat out, and let the meat become soft through long cooking. Steamed with ginger and fish paste, for instance, or extra garlic and scallion added, along with dried mushrooms.
Also on a bed of shredded greens, with some rice wine and oyster sauce, and a pinch white pepper. Even just plonked in a pot with little pre-prep at all and cooked with fermented black beans and chilipeppers so that the result is gloriously greasy.
Hakka Chinese often incorporate naam yu (南乳) into the sauces or marinades for such dishes. Usually one cube is sufficient for about half a pound of meat.
As you can guess, I like it with a nice shploop of chili sauce (sambal).
That is actually how I like many things.
I'm a bit degenerate that way.
Bon appétit.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which, of course, is not a vegetable, as the name would suggest, but a very primitive ocean dweller with a marvelous ability to absorb sauces.
Like many Chinese favourites, it's also very much a textural thing.
In the same category of tooth-yieldy goodness, and often just as startling to many non-Chinese, is something that can best be described as 'gelled fat'.
Which is utterly delicious.
Pig belly bacon with Chinese sauerkraut.
Sounds almost German, doesn't it?
Plum-cabbage steamed pork is a beloved dinner dish from Penang to Honolulu; from 'wah, sedap sekali' to 'ono to da max!' Naturally it is common all over China too.
Perhaps more than anything else it makes people want to live near a Chinatown, because the correct cut is seldom available anywhere else.
梅菜扣肉 MUI CHOI KAU YUK
1¼ to 1¾ Lbs. ng-fa naam (五花腩 five flower pork brisket).
Three scallion, two inch lengths.
Three slices of ginger.
Three cloves garlic, smashed.
A large handful of mui choi (梅菜 plum vegetable).
One whole star-anise (baat gok 八角).
A pinch of five spice powder ((五香粉 ng-heung fun).
4-5 TBS. soy sauce.
2 TBS. sherry.
1 TBS. sugar.
Note that mui choi comes in semi-dry vacuum sealed packs as well as canned in brine. So the quantity necessary is best estimated at one quarter to one third of the meat after soaking and rinsing. Or more, depending on your own preference.
The brine version is easier for guesswork, but not necessarily recommended.
Either can be used.
Soak the mui choi for an hour or so in plenty of water, then rinse very thoroughly, drain, and squeeze out excess liquid. This removes sand, grit, and salt.
Chop it small.
Scrub the skin side of the meat with salt to clean it, then simmer it whole for ten minutes in water with the ginger and scallion to pre-cook and 'melt' some of the fat. Remove, drain, dry. Reserve a little of the liquid for the sauce.
Use an ice-pick or a sharp fork to prick holes in the skin, rub a little soy sauce over that side only, and let it sit for a while.
Heat oil in a skillet and carefully slide the meat in, skin-side down. Beware of the oil erupting - it is best to have a spatter-guard or a lid handy. Fry the meat till the skin-side is nicely darkened, almost mahogany.
Remove, drain, and let cool.
When the meat is cold enough to handle, slice it inch-thick across, each piece having all layers including the skin.
Arrange it in a broad bowl, skin-side up. Whisk the soy sauce, sherry, and sugar together and pour HALF of this over the meat, along with the star anise and pinch of five spice powder. Put the bowl in the steamer, and steam for an hour.
Now gild the garlic in a modicum of oil, add the chopped mui choi to parch. Pour in the other half of the soy sauce - sherry - sugar mixture, plus any liquid saved from the blanching at the beginning, and bring to a boil.
Pour this over the meat, making sure that most of the mui choi goes around the meat rather than on top.
Steam for another thirty minutes, or somewhat longer.
A little chopped scallion and shredded ginger to finish, and it can be served.
Some mui choi kau yuk, a big bowl of rice to sop up the juices, and a simple vegetable dish on the side: very heaven.
AFTERWORD
The preparation above is just one example of what one can do with a nice fatty slab of five flower stomach. Multiple variations are possible, the key thing being to melt some of the fat out, and let the meat become soft through long cooking. Steamed with ginger and fish paste, for instance, or extra garlic and scallion added, along with dried mushrooms.
Also on a bed of shredded greens, with some rice wine and oyster sauce, and a pinch white pepper. Even just plonked in a pot with little pre-prep at all and cooked with fermented black beans and chilipeppers so that the result is gloriously greasy.
Hakka Chinese often incorporate naam yu (南乳) into the sauces or marinades for such dishes. Usually one cube is sufficient for about half a pound of meat.
As you can guess, I like it with a nice shploop of chili sauce (sambal).
That is actually how I like many things.
I'm a bit degenerate that way.
Bon appétit.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
HAKKA ON BROADWAY - LAMENT
Years ago the Mon Kiang (梅江飯店) on Broadway was a regular stop on my culinary perambulations. Unfortunately they are no longer the same restaurant at all, having changed hands, definitely changed style.
It is a very great loss.
[Mon Kiang was just below Stockton, opposite where Hing Lung is now, next to a place which sold dimsum to go. At that time it was far better than any other restaurant on Broadway between Columbus and Powell. Even the Golden Key, and most certainly that famous restaurant that all the white folks love - you know the one I mean.]
I particularly remember several delightful dishes that this Hakka institution used to feature - wine lees chicken, salty fried fatty pork, red fermented bean curd pork belly, salt-baked chicken, and pork-fat noodles, as well as for a while an absolutely stellar stuffed beancurd.
The odd thing is I started eating there before I spoke Chinese. Well, other than the standard mis-pronounced "ni hao" (howdy), "wo hsi-wang la de" (I like spicy), "hsieh hsieh ni" (thanks), and "tsai lai yi wan" (another bowl, please). None of which they understood.
I may have previously mentioned my ghastly accent in Chinese? In that day and age it was far far worse, even in textbook Mandarin (which I will still not admit to speaking, seeing as my pronunciation remains pretty darn futile).
[I could already write quite a bit, but there were (and still are) many characters that I knew the meaning of, but not the sound. Not all phonetic elements hold true, some aren't even close.]
I really wish I had been able to speak Cantonese then like I do now - I would've been able to ask them about their food, rather than merely guessing what they did, with what ingredients, and how.
I particularly miss their "plum vegetable knock meat" - 梅菜扣肉 (mui tsoi kau yiuk).
Unlike the ghastly rendition at so many Cantonese establishments, where the gravy is gloopy and murky, their version was juicy, tender, nicely sauced.......
I've been imitating it ever since.
Pork belly really needs to be treated carefully - the flesh should be melting, but the fat jellified rather than greasy in texture. Just the merest surface tension to the layers of yellow fat between the succulent meat. And the mui tsoi (梅菜 = actually salt-preserved Tientsin cabbage, used to accompany rich meats as a condimental ingredient) needs to be both rinsed and parched for optimum flavour. Rice wine is also an essential component to the dish.
All of these things come together best if the fat has not been allowed to pool, which is where pre-gilding and sealing the hunk of flesh comes in.
[I make a mean Tung Po Yiuk (東坡肉), by the way. Black mushrooms, scallion, ginger, sherry, and a touch of soy sauce - sealed claypot, very low heat. The same idea yields a superior pot-roast.]
I once ate at Mon Kiang with Manindra and Jones - they loved the place!
Even though they came from entirely different food backgrounds, the food was that good. They loved the fatty pork. They loved the chicken. They loved the mustard greens. The shrimp! The fried crunchy whatever the heck that was. They loved the preserved vegetable soup!
There was more love that evening than at a Valentine's orgy.
We ate and ate for over an hour.
We were younger then.
It was one of the few times I've been giddy on food alone.
The essence of Hakka cuisine (客家菜) is making the most out of fairly pedestrian ingredients by judicious use of flavourings like nam-yu (red-fermented beancurd), mui tsoi, chili peppers, wine lees, and even fresh herbs. But largely the entire spectrum of Chinese salt-cured and preserved ingredients.
Plus pigs-trotters and pork belly.
It's hearty, yet not unrefined. Good honest food, prepared in appetizing ways.
A bit salty at times....... as is suitable for hardworking folks with gusto.
Just have some more rice and hotsauce to balance the food.
They changed years ago. More than many restaurants, the old Mon Kiang is a restaurant I truly miss. Broadway is much the poorer for their departure.
[The restaurant that is in that location now goes by the same English name, but the Chinese name is something else entirely: 住家食方 (jiu-ga sik-fong) - "residential food place". They deal in take-out dishes at the lower end of the scale, and have nothing on the menu that even remotely qualifies as Hakka food. The term 食方 (sik-fong) does not have connotations of civilized eating, being a rather casual and slangy term. 'Diner' is probably the closest approximate in English.]
We need another Hakka restaurant in Chinatown, dammit!
There's apparently a Hakka place out in the avenues. Cabrillo at forty-fifth.
It's supposed to be good.
Wanna go?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It is a very great loss.
[Mon Kiang was just below Stockton, opposite where Hing Lung is now, next to a place which sold dimsum to go. At that time it was far better than any other restaurant on Broadway between Columbus and Powell. Even the Golden Key, and most certainly that famous restaurant that all the white folks love - you know the one I mean.]
I particularly remember several delightful dishes that this Hakka institution used to feature - wine lees chicken, salty fried fatty pork, red fermented bean curd pork belly, salt-baked chicken, and pork-fat noodles, as well as for a while an absolutely stellar stuffed beancurd.
The odd thing is I started eating there before I spoke Chinese. Well, other than the standard mis-pronounced "ni hao" (howdy), "wo hsi-wang la de" (I like spicy), "hsieh hsieh ni" (thanks), and "tsai lai yi wan" (another bowl, please). None of which they understood.
I may have previously mentioned my ghastly accent in Chinese? In that day and age it was far far worse, even in textbook Mandarin (which I will still not admit to speaking, seeing as my pronunciation remains pretty darn futile).
[I could already write quite a bit, but there were (and still are) many characters that I knew the meaning of, but not the sound. Not all phonetic elements hold true, some aren't even close.]
I really wish I had been able to speak Cantonese then like I do now - I would've been able to ask them about their food, rather than merely guessing what they did, with what ingredients, and how.
I particularly miss their "plum vegetable knock meat" - 梅菜扣肉 (mui tsoi kau yiuk).
Unlike the ghastly rendition at so many Cantonese establishments, where the gravy is gloopy and murky, their version was juicy, tender, nicely sauced.......
I've been imitating it ever since.
Pork belly really needs to be treated carefully - the flesh should be melting, but the fat jellified rather than greasy in texture. Just the merest surface tension to the layers of yellow fat between the succulent meat. And the mui tsoi (梅菜 = actually salt-preserved Tientsin cabbage, used to accompany rich meats as a condimental ingredient) needs to be both rinsed and parched for optimum flavour. Rice wine is also an essential component to the dish.
All of these things come together best if the fat has not been allowed to pool, which is where pre-gilding and sealing the hunk of flesh comes in.
[I make a mean Tung Po Yiuk (東坡肉), by the way. Black mushrooms, scallion, ginger, sherry, and a touch of soy sauce - sealed claypot, very low heat. The same idea yields a superior pot-roast.]
I once ate at Mon Kiang with Manindra and Jones - they loved the place!
Even though they came from entirely different food backgrounds, the food was that good. They loved the fatty pork. They loved the chicken. They loved the mustard greens. The shrimp! The fried crunchy whatever the heck that was. They loved the preserved vegetable soup!
There was more love that evening than at a Valentine's orgy.
We ate and ate for over an hour.
We were younger then.
It was one of the few times I've been giddy on food alone.
The essence of Hakka cuisine (客家菜) is making the most out of fairly pedestrian ingredients by judicious use of flavourings like nam-yu (red-fermented beancurd), mui tsoi, chili peppers, wine lees, and even fresh herbs. But largely the entire spectrum of Chinese salt-cured and preserved ingredients.
Plus pigs-trotters and pork belly.
It's hearty, yet not unrefined. Good honest food, prepared in appetizing ways.
A bit salty at times....... as is suitable for hardworking folks with gusto.
Just have some more rice and hotsauce to balance the food.
They changed years ago. More than many restaurants, the old Mon Kiang is a restaurant I truly miss. Broadway is much the poorer for their departure.
[The restaurant that is in that location now goes by the same English name, but the Chinese name is something else entirely: 住家食方 (jiu-ga sik-fong) - "residential food place". They deal in take-out dishes at the lower end of the scale, and have nothing on the menu that even remotely qualifies as Hakka food. The term 食方 (sik-fong) does not have connotations of civilized eating, being a rather casual and slangy term. 'Diner' is probably the closest approximate in English.]
We need another Hakka restaurant in Chinatown, dammit!
There's apparently a Hakka place out in the avenues. Cabrillo at forty-fifth.
It's supposed to be good.
Wanna go?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, October 31, 2008
PONG TEH
WET WEATHER STEW
It always surprises me how much the first rain of the season improves San Francisco. For several months we become used to the dense fragrance of the city, then a bit of rain washes it all away, and the air smells earthy and fresh again. It is a blessing.
Today is not cold, nor particularly wet. In fact, it feels rather like a smooth summer day, albeit one in a far moister climate than here. A warmer climate, too. And it smells like it also.
--- --- ---
Two dozen years ago, in a city inhabited mostly by Chinese.
Downstairs is a Kopi Tiam - a small restaurant specializing in coffee, milk-tea, snacks (including 香饼 Heung Peng - filled sweet buns), and a few home-style dishes. This one also had 肠粉 (Cheung Fan - steamed rice sheet noodles with savoury fillings), which I remember particularly because that is what I had for breakfast - they're very good if you drank too much the night before.
Unless you drench them with chilipaste and dark vinegar. Which I did. My stomach told me I was an idiot the rest of the morning.
After breakfast I went out and was rained upon. The water came down in a steady hard drizzle that cooled the air and made everything smell clean. There were many vehicles, few actual pedestrians. And despite the precipitation it seemed very bright outside.
By two o'clock I was desperate for something to settle my stomach, and I returned. Common sense dictated 河粉汤 (Ho Fan T'ng - river noodles in chicken and ginger broth with fresh herbs).
So naturally I made the worst choice possible and had something rich and heavy instead.
One of the dishes which has the soulfood ta'am for many people of Chinese ancestry in Malaysia, Singapore, and Indonesia is a Hokkien dish that can be made with either chicken or pork. Or chicken AND pork. People with kashrus concerns will probably not want to consider the pork version. But do not worry - it tastes fine made with chicken, and you could even use duck. If the meat is fatty, serve a fresh pickle alongside. It is a very lovely dish.
PONG TEH
One pound fatty pork (ng-faa yiuk, 五花肉), cut in large cubes.
Sixteen dried black mushrooms, soaked in water to soften, then de-stemmed.
Two cups sliced bamboo shoots.
One onion, chopped fine.
Half a dozen cloves garlic, crushed.
A small thumb of fresh ginger, also crushed.
One tablespoon taucheo (salted yellow soybean, 豆瓣酱), mashed smooth.
Two tablespoons sherry or rice wine.
Two tablespoons ketjap manis (Dutch or Indonesian sweet soy sauce), plus a dash regular soy sauce.
Three cups water.
Three whole star anise.
A piece of cinnamon (approx one inch).
One or two whole cloves.
First gild the onion, then add the garlic and ginger. When the garlic starts to turn add the taucheo and sherry and seethe a bit, then add the meat chunks and colour on all sides. Now add the mushrooms, bamboo shoots, and ketjap manis. Stir for a few minutes, add the whole spices and water. Simmer on low for about an hour and a half. Garnish with sliced chilies. Serve with steamed rice and warm crusty French bread for sopping.
Note: if you cannot find bamboo shoots (where ARE you living?!?!), you may substitute potatoes cut in chunks. Add them later, about half-way through cooking, as they will fall apart otherwise. Personally, I feel that doing so is simply making another version of Irish Stew. A fine product in its own right, which I almost never touch. I do not live in Ireland, and my mule has not passed away.
Another note: For a really Cantonese flavour, add a small jigger of oyster sauce. All treif tastes better with oyster sauce. And hot sauce.
--- --- ---
The kids of the family that owned the kopi tiam sat at a table in the back, doing their homework and being quiet, while the customers sat nearer the front, and enjoyed the cooling breeze - the entire front was open, like most such shop-house businesses.
From my table along the wall I could observe the entire place - the pimply young man with an oversized leather biker jacket out front, the Cantonese housewife talking animatedly with (in other words, shrieking at) the owner directly opposite, the elderly skeleton sipping hot milk-tea while reading his newspaper with one foot up on his chair at the middle table, and the three kids in the back, obediently bent over their books.
No fuss, no misbehaviour, no noise. Cute kids - so studious, so well-behaved!
But such deception.
All three of them had skinned knees, and dirt-scuffs on their school clothes.
Two hours earlier I had seen the nine year old chasing a boy down the street, screaming at the top of her lungs 'faan-pei ngoo-ah' (give it back), while trying to whack him with a bamboo pole. Classmates scattered before them as he tried to escape with her school bag. The little spit-fire eventually caught him.
She's probably grown up to be a real tiger by now.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It always surprises me how much the first rain of the season improves San Francisco. For several months we become used to the dense fragrance of the city, then a bit of rain washes it all away, and the air smells earthy and fresh again. It is a blessing.
Today is not cold, nor particularly wet. In fact, it feels rather like a smooth summer day, albeit one in a far moister climate than here. A warmer climate, too. And it smells like it also.
--- --- ---
Two dozen years ago, in a city inhabited mostly by Chinese.
Downstairs is a Kopi Tiam - a small restaurant specializing in coffee, milk-tea, snacks (including 香饼 Heung Peng - filled sweet buns), and a few home-style dishes. This one also had 肠粉 (Cheung Fan - steamed rice sheet noodles with savoury fillings), which I remember particularly because that is what I had for breakfast - they're very good if you drank too much the night before.
Unless you drench them with chilipaste and dark vinegar. Which I did. My stomach told me I was an idiot the rest of the morning.
After breakfast I went out and was rained upon. The water came down in a steady hard drizzle that cooled the air and made everything smell clean. There were many vehicles, few actual pedestrians. And despite the precipitation it seemed very bright outside.
By two o'clock I was desperate for something to settle my stomach, and I returned. Common sense dictated 河粉汤 (Ho Fan T'ng - river noodles in chicken and ginger broth with fresh herbs).
So naturally I made the worst choice possible and had something rich and heavy instead.
One of the dishes which has the soulfood ta'am for many people of Chinese ancestry in Malaysia, Singapore, and Indonesia is a Hokkien dish that can be made with either chicken or pork. Or chicken AND pork. People with kashrus concerns will probably not want to consider the pork version. But do not worry - it tastes fine made with chicken, and you could even use duck. If the meat is fatty, serve a fresh pickle alongside. It is a very lovely dish.
PONG TEH
One pound fatty pork (ng-faa yiuk, 五花肉), cut in large cubes.
Sixteen dried black mushrooms, soaked in water to soften, then de-stemmed.
Two cups sliced bamboo shoots.
One onion, chopped fine.
Half a dozen cloves garlic, crushed.
A small thumb of fresh ginger, also crushed.
One tablespoon taucheo (salted yellow soybean, 豆瓣酱), mashed smooth.
Two tablespoons sherry or rice wine.
Two tablespoons ketjap manis (Dutch or Indonesian sweet soy sauce), plus a dash regular soy sauce.
Three cups water.
Three whole star anise.
A piece of cinnamon (approx one inch).
One or two whole cloves.
First gild the onion, then add the garlic and ginger. When the garlic starts to turn add the taucheo and sherry and seethe a bit, then add the meat chunks and colour on all sides. Now add the mushrooms, bamboo shoots, and ketjap manis. Stir for a few minutes, add the whole spices and water. Simmer on low for about an hour and a half. Garnish with sliced chilies. Serve with steamed rice and warm crusty French bread for sopping.
Note: if you cannot find bamboo shoots (where ARE you living?!?!), you may substitute potatoes cut in chunks. Add them later, about half-way through cooking, as they will fall apart otherwise. Personally, I feel that doing so is simply making another version of Irish Stew. A fine product in its own right, which I almost never touch. I do not live in Ireland, and my mule has not passed away.
Another note: For a really Cantonese flavour, add a small jigger of oyster sauce. All treif tastes better with oyster sauce. And hot sauce.
--- --- ---
The kids of the family that owned the kopi tiam sat at a table in the back, doing their homework and being quiet, while the customers sat nearer the front, and enjoyed the cooling breeze - the entire front was open, like most such shop-house businesses.
From my table along the wall I could observe the entire place - the pimply young man with an oversized leather biker jacket out front, the Cantonese housewife talking animatedly with (in other words, shrieking at) the owner directly opposite, the elderly skeleton sipping hot milk-tea while reading his newspaper with one foot up on his chair at the middle table, and the three kids in the back, obediently bent over their books.
No fuss, no misbehaviour, no noise. Cute kids - so studious, so well-behaved!
But such deception.
All three of them had skinned knees, and dirt-scuffs on their school clothes.
Two hours earlier I had seen the nine year old chasing a boy down the street, screaming at the top of her lungs 'faan-pei ngoo-ah' (give it back), while trying to whack him with a bamboo pole. Classmates scattered before them as he tried to escape with her school bag. The little spit-fire eventually caught him.
She's probably grown up to be a real tiger by now.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, October 02, 2008
HEART ATTACK ON A PLATE II
Years ago, when I worked at the restaurant, I would often hear the owner waxing poetic about the marvelous benefits of Indian food. It was a miracle of good diet, healthy, good for the heart, delicious, and a supreme mark of an ancient and refined culture.
Plus many more superlatives. It's good for you!
I once heard him launch into this shpiel to a customer who was waiting for a take-out order. While he lyrically sang the healthful praises of his favourite cuisine, I glanced at the customer's bill..........
Murgh Makhni, Chicken Tikka Masala, and Garlic Naan - two versions of chicken drenched in butter sauce, plus bread slathered with melted butter.
The restaurant, as far as I know, did not serve anything that lacked ghee except for drinks and kachumber salad. A triple bacon-cheese burger would've been healthier than a serving of the two most popular dishes - murgh makhni and chicken tikka masala. Both of these are made by taking chunked cooked chicken and serving it in a sauce composed of butter, cream, tomato, and spices. Lots of butter. Half a stick each at least. Do you feel your arteries solidifying yet? That crackling sound is your crystallized blood-vessels crinkling as you bend over with heart-pains. You'll keep forever with that amount of wax in your veins.
Indian Restaurant Food is hardly the healthgiving benevolent cuisine that you have been told.
Not that it makes much difference to me, as one of my favourite dishes qualifies as a heart-destroying artery clogger of bio-war proportions.
RANDANGAN BABUI
[Dutch east Indies style seethed pork]
Two pounds pork belly (the cut known in Chinatown as 五花 腩 - ng-fa naam - five flower fatty abdominal meat).
Two TBS wet shrimp paste (the nice purple stinky stuff available in C'town called 鹹蝦醬 - haam haa jeung - salty shrimp sauce).
Four or five cloves garlic, and equivalent amount ginger, chopped up.
A dash of dark vinegar.
A dash of soy sauce.
A teaspoon or two of sugar.
Don't bother cutting up the nice streaky meat, just put it into a pot with all the other ingredients and water to cover. Bring to a boil, simmer for an hour and a half - the liquid will reduce much, and some of the fat will render. Take the lump of meat out and let it dry and cool. The cooking juices may be reserved for a dipping sauce, with lots of mashed hot chilies added after skimming off the fat.
Cut the meat into thick flat chunks. Seethe these in oil (low-heat fry) till nicely golden. Turn over carefully, and do the same to the other side. Garnish with cilantro and scallion.
Note that this is an extremely rich ('greasy') dish. It need not be eaten by itself, but can be served as one dish out of many on the table. If the pork is seethed till dark, it keeps without refrigeration for a day or two at least. Chopped up it is a nice addition to noodle soups or simmered vegetables. Always have lime wedges on the side.
Your doctor does NOT want to hear about it.
Plus many more superlatives. It's good for you!
I once heard him launch into this shpiel to a customer who was waiting for a take-out order. While he lyrically sang the healthful praises of his favourite cuisine, I glanced at the customer's bill..........
Murgh Makhni, Chicken Tikka Masala, and Garlic Naan - two versions of chicken drenched in butter sauce, plus bread slathered with melted butter.
The restaurant, as far as I know, did not serve anything that lacked ghee except for drinks and kachumber salad. A triple bacon-cheese burger would've been healthier than a serving of the two most popular dishes - murgh makhni and chicken tikka masala. Both of these are made by taking chunked cooked chicken and serving it in a sauce composed of butter, cream, tomato, and spices. Lots of butter. Half a stick each at least. Do you feel your arteries solidifying yet? That crackling sound is your crystallized blood-vessels crinkling as you bend over with heart-pains. You'll keep forever with that amount of wax in your veins.
Indian Restaurant Food is hardly the healthgiving benevolent cuisine that you have been told.
Not that it makes much difference to me, as one of my favourite dishes qualifies as a heart-destroying artery clogger of bio-war proportions.
RANDANGAN BABUI
[Dutch east Indies style seethed pork]
Two pounds pork belly (the cut known in Chinatown as 五花 腩 - ng-fa naam - five flower fatty abdominal meat).
Two TBS wet shrimp paste (the nice purple stinky stuff available in C'town called 鹹蝦醬 - haam haa jeung - salty shrimp sauce).
Four or five cloves garlic, and equivalent amount ginger, chopped up.
A dash of dark vinegar.
A dash of soy sauce.
A teaspoon or two of sugar.
Don't bother cutting up the nice streaky meat, just put it into a pot with all the other ingredients and water to cover. Bring to a boil, simmer for an hour and a half - the liquid will reduce much, and some of the fat will render. Take the lump of meat out and let it dry and cool. The cooking juices may be reserved for a dipping sauce, with lots of mashed hot chilies added after skimming off the fat.
Cut the meat into thick flat chunks. Seethe these in oil (low-heat fry) till nicely golden. Turn over carefully, and do the same to the other side. Garnish with cilantro and scallion.
Note that this is an extremely rich ('greasy') dish. It need not be eaten by itself, but can be served as one dish out of many on the table. If the pork is seethed till dark, it keeps without refrigeration for a day or two at least. Chopped up it is a nice addition to noodle soups or simmered vegetables. Always have lime wedges on the side.
Your doctor does NOT want to hear about it.
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