LITTLE CART NOODLES -- 車仔麵 CHE JAI MIN

One of the frequent inclusions in a bowl of late night goodness is cubed gelled pig blood, along with fried pork skin. Obviously that ain't gonna work for most of us pale-complected folk. Sure, if we were British, we'd happily eat it -- the English consume such things as black pudding and fried sliced haggis, along with Spam and baked beans in a can, so they're genuinely out there with their own cuisine -- but the overwhelming majority of Wasps worldwide are North Americans. The strangest parts of the pig that we are accustomed to are Vienna Sausage and fake tofu.
Plus surgical sutures, and Spam.

Cart noodles -- chejai min (車仔麵) in Cantonese -- originated in fly-by-night food stands in Hong Kong, and as the authorities over the years strove to raise hygiene standards while simultaneously finding a way to get illicit food-entrepreneurs onto the official tax roles and off the streets, the quality improved and the variety expanded. The common nickname for their offerings had been 垃圾麵 ('laap-saap min'; garbage noodle), which in the tortuous accents of mainlanders from who-knows where beyond 羅湖 ('lo-wu'; the most traversed border crossing between HK and 'that other place') became 嗱喳麵 ('naa-chaa min'), which doesn't signify anything but is a baby-talkish phoneticisation.
Now it's simply cart noodle.
It's also soul-food.
Classic.

In the fifties and sixties, even as late as the seventies, the food scene in Hong Kong at the lower economic levels often involved small carts, and hardworking gentlemen ready to run like the dickens if the cops showed up to shut them down. Their regular customers knew them, and would warn them if a raid was likely. "Gotta go, return the bowl next time!"
The authorities frowned on free-lance road-side cooking.
Despite having their own favourites locally.
When off work, and at home.

Some of the people who went into the cart-noodle business had doubtful antecedents, and were surprisingly deft with the cleaver. You might not want to know how that came about. Salt of the earth types, trying to make an honest living.


Rice noodles, the fundament of the dish, are easy to prepare; just a hot-water bath for a minute or two and they're tender. Fried weird stuff keeps for a few hours, and strange cullings from the slaughterhouse are always cheap. The people who lived in the jam-packed housing estates and worked in the factories weren't looking for high-cuisine, they just wanted sustenance. But, being Chinese, and more particularly Cantonese (ie.: "zest-obsessed"), they demanded something with oomph. Good oomph. Lay on the flavour!
By no means necessarily nutritious.
Something with texture and taste.
Often lacking in English cuisine.
See aforementioned beans.

Noodles. Broth. Protein. Toothsomeness.

The kind of thing which you eat while pensively reading the newspaper, or quickly prepare before your favourite fifty part soap-opera with all the weeping women starts.

[Favourite fifty part, weeping women: Chinese soap-operas can be divided into three types: Hong Kong made productions, in which five generations struggle, get married, commit grand larceny, have affairs, and generally carry on with vigour and rambunction. 
Taiwanese series: a slice of emotionally unstable life in contemporary times, involving money, cheating spouses (male), mahjong, and strange clothing or make-up. Mainland stories: period costume, vast armies, historical characters or plots, and epic scenery chewing. All three types incorporate righteousness (whether demonstrated or lamentably missing), family drama (that's where the weeping comes in), and food. Weeping and food can be said to be the constants of good entertainment. Everyone likes to see dinner and emotional wreckage.]

You might take a coworker with kissable soft cheeks and dreamy eyes out for a snack, or head over to an eatery with tiddly friends after a night of carousing. Also super-delicious after a long day at work.
Comforting. Casual. Slapdash happy food.

Sik faan, y'all.


LITTLE CART NOODLES -- 車仔麵 CHE JAI MIN

The earliest types combined curried fish balls, pork blood cubes, and fried skin in a simple broth, often with one or two chunks of turnip (蘿蔔 'lo baak') or a stalk or two of vegetable - either Chinese broccoli (芥蘭 'gaai laan') or little white cabbage (小白菜 'siu baak choi').
Competition and an operatic sense of gustativity increased the number of choices. At present, with most of the places that serve quick dishes now located indoors, the variety is enormous.

What might be called meat:

魚丸 'yü yeun'; fish balls.
炸魚蛋 'jaa yü yuen'; fried fish balls.
墨魚丸 'mak yü yuen'; cuttlefish balls.
魚片 'yü pin'; sliced fish.
魷魚 'yau yü'; cuttlefish.
牛丸 'ngau yuen'; beef meatballs.
豬肉丸 (貢丸) 'chü yiuk yuen' ('gung yeun'); pork meatballs.
紅腸 'hong cheung'; cervelaet.
煙肉 'yin yiuk'; bacon.
豬紅 'chü hong'; gelled pork blood.
豬皮 'chü pei'; pork skin.
豬大腸 'chü taai cheung'; pork chittlin.
豬肝 'chü gon'; pork liver.
雞中翼 'gai jung yik'; chicken wing.
雞翼尖 'gai yik jim'; chicken wingtip.
牛柏葉 'ngau baak yip'; beef tripe.
牛腩 'ngau laam'; sliced sirloin.
燒賣 siumai.
雲吞 wonton.
蟹柳 'haai lau'; surimi.

Noodle choices:

河粉 'ho fan'; rice noodles.
公仔麵 'gung jai min'; instant noodles.
粗麵 'chou min'; Shanghai noodles (thick wheat-flour noodles).
伊麵 'yi min'; yee-mien.
烏冬 'wu dung'; udon.

Sauce-additions and soup stock:

沙嗲汁 'saa de jap'; satay sauce.
咖喱汁 'gaa lei jap'; curry sauce.
清湯 'ching tong'; clear stock.
牛腩汁 'ngau laam jap'; beef broth.
酸辣湯 'suen laat tong'; hot and sour soup.
麻辣湯 'maa laat tong'; over the top peppery soup.

Vegetables:

芽菜 'ngaa choi'; bean sprouts.
芥菜 'gaai choi'; mustard green.
芥蘭 'gaai laan'; Chinese broccoli.
小白菜 'siu baak choi'; small bokchoi.
蘿蔔 'lo baak'; Chinese turnip.
冬菇 'dung gu'; black mushroom.

Frequent garnishes:

韭菜 'gau choi'; garlic-chives (almost always added).
芫茜 'yuen sai'; cilantro.

Most of the time customers will have three or four things they want in their noodle soup, a vegetable will often be added on the assumption that you won't mind if the bowl looks a little more full and visually appealing, and there will be a few gratuitous condiments on the table.
If you cannot make a choice, simply go with what the proprietor recommends.

特別 'dak bit'; special, unusual, unique; often the best offerings. 
招牌 'jiu paai'; house specialty, or what they're really famous for. 

[Thus: 特別粉, 招牌粉 ('dak bit fan', 'jiu paai fan') house special noodles.]


GOT CURRY PASTE?

Casual snack noodles are a way of life. People will make this at home, when they don't feel like cooking. All you need is something rather like stock or broth, rice flour noodles, and take-out (燒味 or 滷味) nearby.
Some fish balls, a few slices of roast duck or pork, maybe something unmentionable in polite society, ginger, and a stalk or two of gailan.
Heat it up, then sit in front of the tube watching trashy teevee.

Later, you might change back into street clothes and go out.
See what the heathens down on Polk Street are up to.
Wander across Nob Hill with a pipe.


Everything tastes better with hotsauce.
Especially wearing pajamas.
Remember that.



ADDENDUM

An explanation of the sauces & stocks used:

沙嗲汁 'saa de jap'; satay sauce. This was invented by the Javanese shortly after both peanuts (from Africa) and New World crops (such as chilies) were introduced by the Portuguese and Dutch four centuries ago. At its simplest, it is toasted or fried peanuts ground fine, mixed with a little sugar and chili, and cooked to a thick gloop. The Chinese know two versions: old-school Chinese satay sauce (usually 沙茶醬 'sa chaa jeung') was brought back by Fujianese (Hokkienese) returning to home, and has a pronounced dry shrimp and fish-paste saveur. Hong Kong has been exposed to that, but what they are more familiar with is the intensely peanutty version introduced by the Hokkien refugees from Indonesia who settled in North Point after the fifties and sixties -- called 沙爹醬 ('sa de jeung'). It's rather similar to what you will find in Holland, but not very much like the anemic Thai interpretation or the shallow Singaporean-Malay style. It can be spicier than other South-East Asian types, which makes it perfect as a cooking ingredient. Note that both 沙茶醬 and 沙爹醬 are pronounced the same in Hokkien ('sa-te cheo'), but not Cantonese. Yet their fundamental sameness despite differences is recognized.

咖喱汁 'gaa lei jap'; curry sauce. Pretty much the same as "Portuguese Sauce" (葡汁 'po jap'; molho português), which is a Maccanese commercial preparation consisting of coconut milk, starch, and curry powder. Chinese curry powder usually contains, in order, the following (among others): chili powder (辣椒粉 'laat jiu fan'), turmeric (薑黃 'geung wong'), star anise (八角 'baat gok'), Chinese cinnamon (cassia, 桂皮 'gwai pei'), dried ginger (乾薑 'gon geung'), Szechuan pepper (花椒 'faa chiu'), and clove (丁香 'ding heung').

清湯 'ching tong'; clear stock. A cooking stock made by first blanching pork and chicken bones, rinsing them, then simmering them in water for a few hours. Blanching and then rinsing yields a clearer cleaner broth, with less or no scum that needs skimming off. Often some roasted dried flounder (左口魚 'jorhau yü', 大地魚 'daaidei yü') or dried shrimp (蝦米 'haa mei') is added for a bit of depth. Sometimes the broth is made entirely from chicken, but that is rare.

牛腩汁 'ngau laam jap'; beef broth. Basically beef bouillon made with lean meat.

酸辣湯 'suen laat tong'; hot and sour soup. A chicken stock zipped up with a splash of vinegar, some Szechuan bean sauce (豆瓣酱 'douban jeung'), a generous amount of white pepper, and a little dry chili.

麻辣湯 'maa laat tong'; over the top peppery soup. Originally a mildly spicy broth, nowadays increasingly often a barely edible liquid that includes diluted hot sauce in copious amount.


Final note: You will have wondered, perhaps, why beancurd is nowhere mentioned as a possible ingredient. That is because Hong Kong people do not consider it a fit inclusion. Happy warm noodle snacks do not contain tofu. Adding it causes nightmares.
Unless you are a vegetarian or a Berkeleyite.
In which case you shouldn't be here.
This post is not for you.
So very sorry.




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DON'T OFFEND THE RABBIT!

For some reason I myself don't understand, I went to have a caffeinated beverage at the Caffe Trieste in North Beach. And I'm glad I did.
Years ago I would go there nearly every day for a latte in the morning, because it was conveniently close and they really are the only place in San Francisco that can make a latte -- not entirely sure what all those other places do, but calling a mildly flavoured wussy warmed milk drink a latte does not make it so -- however I rarely visit the Trieste nowadays.

No, I still like the place. It's the customers that I object to.
I just don't have much tolerance for "artistic" types.
North Beach still has far too many of those.
It's a Bermuda Triangle of attitudes.


There were three other people sitting near me, two of whom were deep in conversation. The third was happily relating to her bunny rabbit, and studiously ignoring the adults.
Precisely that made me notice them. Cute little girl, big blue rabbit.
You don't often see a bunny rabbit wearing a ballerina dress.

"It's that place that used to do pies on Washington, you know, Sun Wah Kue. They do noodles now"

My ears perked up. The restaurant the woman mentioned happens to be a favourite lunch spot of mine - San Sun Restaurant. What had been there for many years was an old-time Chinatown standard that many people still remember.
Sun Wah Kue (新華僑餐廳) was famous for their orange pie, as well as fried chicken and daily lunchcounter-type specials. Their apple pie was probably the best in the city. You could sit there for hours drinking coffee and reading the newspapers on a wet day. Heaven.
Unfortunately they closed down a long time ago.

San Sun (三陽咖啡餐屋) moved into that location last year. They have an extensive menu, but what they do best is phở.

"Robert LIKES noodles!"

That was the little girl's first contribution to the conversation. The man looked startled, and said "her name is Robert? What kind of stupid name is that for a girl?!?"
It was probably the ballerina dress that confused him. Boys rarely wear those.
The little girl indignantly replied "Robert is a MAN!"
"Why is he wearing those clothes then?"
"They're nice!"
"Hah, he looks silly."

"NO HE DOESN'T!!!"

"Whatever."

The man and the woman continued their discussion, and the little girl again gave her full attention to her bunny. I could hear her murmuring, and even though I wasn't trying to listen in, I distinctly heard her extracting a promise from Robert that uncle George would NEVER get noodles again. Ever!

Especially not on Easter!

At this point I was fascinated. The idea that there is a big blue rabbit (in a ballerina dress) who goes around gifting noodles on Easter is enchanting.
Who wouldn't want festive pasta instead of eggs?
Boiled eggs, feh!
I was beginning to feel sorry for uncle George, who wasn't going to get anything at a time when everyone else would be enjoying their noodles.

Sometimes you just have to stare off into space while dawdling immensely over your hot beverage. Pretend like you aren't even aware of what's going on around you. Like a little girl assuring her bunny rabbit (Robert) that uncle George was, in all ways, a real "dick head".

"Melanie! Don't say such things!"

"It wasn't me, it was Robert!"

"One of these days I'm going to wash his mouth out with soap!"

"No noodles for you!"

The woman was completely nonplussed. Clearly she didn't know that her daughter's stuffed animal went around giving everyone noodles at Eastertime.
How ignorant can you get? I mean really!
After extracting a commitment from Melanie to NOT say THAT word again, even if she was 'quoting Robert', a very bad bunny by the way, she returned her attention to the man identified as 'uncle George'.

Who was still quite unaware that he wouldn't get noodles.


Probably because he's a dick head.


On the other hand, I'm looking forward to Easter.
I like noodles.



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WHAT SHALL I DO ON MONDAY?

If you see a fine figure of a man in Chinatown tomorrow, that will be me.
The office will be closed in connection with President’s Day. Naturally I will head in to the financial district at some point, stopping in C’town for snackipoos, and dinner later.
Should you notice me, feel free to speak, as I do not bite.
In fact I would love to stop and chat.

And note that by “fine figure of a man” is meant a trim masculine person of medium height, with a small beard and streaks of silver in my hair, possibly smoking a pipe at that time. A mature individual, with sparkly eyes behind reading specs that ride low on my nose.
I wear the glasses primarily because I do not wish to smack myself in the face with a coffee cup. By the time you are my age, it becomes difficult to focus on stuff less than a foot away from the face.
Such as, for instance, a fast-moving coffee cup.
Or rice bowl.
Yep, got warm rice all over my nose once.
It entirely changed my perception of dinner that day.


BREAKFAST, LUNCH, AND TEA TIME

Strolled into a favourite restaurant around four thirty, and left half an hour later full of noodles, soup, and Vietnamese drip-coffee. First food since a snack standing at the kitchen sink late last night, but nowadays one actual meal a day is sufficient. Especially if it is a nice one.
I can mentally revisit fine food or good company for hours afterwards, and though I’m writing this after nine in the evening, I can still acutely remember the happy sense of expectation while raising slick toothsome noodles to my mouth earlier in the day.
The staff there recognize me now, and in conversation they and I mix Cantonese and English either way.
They’re good people. Hard-working, hospitable, intelligent.
It is wonderful to be there.

One slight problem.......

They have wide screen televisions hanging from the ceiling. Two of these show alternating views from the security cameras - the street in front, the alleyway beside, a shot from the door area, a focus on the register and counter, the dining hall with cheerful people - and one of them shows pictures of their food.
Beautiful evocative glowing portraits. Of. Food.
Yummy looking food.
Food porn.

Kung pao chicken (宫保鷄丁 gung po kai ding). Fried fish balls (炸魚蛋 za yu daan). Bitter melon fish slices over rice (涼瓜魚片飯 leung gwa yu pien fan). Beef ball noodle soup (牛丸湯 ngau wan tong). Pan-fried noodles with satay sauce chicken (沙茶雞肉炒河 sa tsa kai yiuk chao ho). Pork kidney with ginger and scallion (姜葱腰花 geung tsung yiu faa). Shrimp satay sauce noodle (沙茶蝦球 sa tsa haa kau). Hot and sour chicken (酸辣鷄球 suen laat kai kau). Oyster sauce steamed lettuce (蠔油生菜).
Plus numerous rice plates.It was all very lovely.

This was the first time that the screen had been directly in my line of sight.
I was RAVENOUS by the time my soup came. Even thinking of ordering some fried fish balls.
Which would have naturally lead to a far greater ingestion of Sriracha hotsauce.......
And perhaps ANOTHER ice coffee.
Fortunately I restrained myself. Manfully.
Tomorrow will be a better day because of it.
Heck, wide open, with multiple possibilities.


Might even go there tomorrow and order the fried fish balls.
Za yu daan look like an excellent breakfast, although a whole serving could be too much for just one person.
Yes, there might be other folks at the office tomorrow (not very likely), but though they are nice enough, they aren't very adventurous eaters; I've heard them talk.
Fish balls and Sriracha, followed by shrimp satay noodles and oyster sauce lettuce, would probably frighten them.
So I had better not ask any of them to join me there.
I would rather not eat with timorous people.

Still thinking about what to do tomorrow.
Good food, naturally, is an important part of the picture.

Warm glistening noodles, firm textures, fragrant soup.
Listening in on the conversation of others.
An environment where eating is fun.
Plus strong sweet ice coffee.
Alone, but cheerful.

Fish balls.

Noodles.

Mmm.


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LEFT-OVER TURKEY: CHEUNG FAN, RICE FLOUR NOODLES IN SOUP, AND JOOK

Here it is, barely twenty four hours after you feasted on turkey with a number of other things - too much food, your stomach feels a wee bit stressed - and you're wondering what you can do to make some of the left-overs disappear.
And how to be kind to your stomach (see previously mentioned stress).

It's a valid question.

You can make cheung fan.


火雞腸粉
SHEET NOODLES THAT 'POETICALLY' RESEMBLE INTESTINES

Cheung fan (腸粉) are soft fresh sheets of rice flour batter steamed till set with a little filling - shrimp, beef, pork, or whatever - then folded over, drizzled with a little soy sauce and sesame oil, minced scallion to garnish.
Cut into segments of folded roll and dipped in a little hot sauce, mmmm, tasty!
Very heaven.

In commercial establishments, a sheet of cloth is tightly stretched over a rectangular steamer and wetted. Then the rice flour batter is shplooped upon it, smeared flat, a little bit of filling material is strewn over one side, and within mere moments the cloth is lifted with the skin adhering and another put in place and wetted. Meanwhile a deft hand with a spatula separates the already steamed skin, dexterously jiggling it into a loosely folded wedge or roll. It is sliced across into segments, garnished, and promptly served.

At home it is not made thus, because you do not have a large rectangular vat of fiercely boiling water with a perforated metal plate on top.

But you have a steamer.

So what you can do is use pie pans instead of taught wetted cloth, either lightly oiled or with a little Pam sprayed on. The steaming time is a little longer, because your cheung fan will be thicker. And instead of nice sharp-edged rectangular rolls, yours will be a little thicker around the middle.
If no pie pans, salad plates will also do - the result will be cute little cheung fan, quite suitable as a mid-day snack.


CHEUNG FAN BATTER

One cup plain rice flour.
Quarter cup tapioca flour.
Two TBS cornstarch.
Two TBS oil.
Half a teaspoon salt.
Cold water.

Sift dry ingredients together. Slowly stir water into it, add the oil, and keep adding more water while stirring till you have a batter that looks like heavy cream - approximately 1¾ to 2¼ cups water in all.
Let it stand an hour, re-stir. It is now ready for use.

Grease a pie pan, ladle in enough batter to thinly cover the bottom, and place in the steamer. After about a minute to a minute and a half, add the filling along one side. Steam for another four to six minutes, depending on how thick your layers are. Remove the pie pan from the steamer, and prepare a second pan while the first one cools.
As soon as you have added a filling to the second cheung fan, separate the first one from its pan with a flexible spatula, rolling as you go. Proceed in this manner till all the batter is used up. There should be about eight or nine cheung fan stacked on the plate when you're done. Drizzle a little sesame oil over for fragrance, slash into segments to show the filling, and garnish with minced scallion.


CHEUNG FAN FILLING

Well, yesterday was Thanksgiving, so some minced cooked turkey comes to mind. Even though very few Chinese people would think of that - more on what Chinatown folks would do with left-over turkey later.
The traditional fillings are thin slivers of of beef (remember to rinse a bit, or soak in a little rice wine briefly to remove that charnel-house fragrance that adheres to the meat), or very fresh shrimp, peeled and veined, or even minced fresh cilantro, which will lend a soft fruity-herby-floral tone to the noodly sheets.
Chopped char-siu or rehumidified dry shrimp also can.

But you could experiment. I often use dried mushroom and codfish silk jerky re-humidified and chopped, with an equal amount of lap cheung (臘腸), and a bit of finely minced of ginger.
The filling should be slightly savoury, slightly sweet, nicely fresh tasting, and not too much. Only a tablespoon or two per noodle sheet.


NOTE: The amount of tapioca flour can be reduced, replaced with a quantity of glutinous rice flour, or it may even be increased slightly. It depends on the mouthfeel that you wish to achieve. An all rice flour batter yields a noodle that isn't very interesting and lacks the tacky toothsomeness that you like. The oil which is added to the batter sweats out slightly during steaming, thus making it easier to lift the cheung fan off the cooking surface.

The same batter can be used for Teochew-style char kwee teow ('fried cake noodle': 炒粿條). Just steam the sheets without any fillings, peel them off the surface, and cut them into broad strips. After cooling they may be used for stir-fried rice noodles with clams, shrimp, and oysters, and bean sprouts. Use pork fat to fry it for that authentic Teochew flavour. Add minced scallion (or chives) and a thin omelette cut into strips, plus some sweet soy sauce and chili paste, and serve it hot from the pan.


火雞粉湯
RICE FLOUR NOODLES IN SOUP

Last night you probably dumped turkey carcass bits and bones into a cauldron with a stalk of celery and an onion to simmer. If you left it on the stove for a few hours you now already have a respectable broth, with ONE minor problem: a certain cloudiness. For a nice clear soup, strain it well. There is no orthodox way to do so.
I use the regular strainer, leaving the solids in the pot, then carefully repeat the process with a tea strainer - the same process also works for bacon grease, by the way.

Rice flour noodles, whether the thin rice stick (mai fun 米粉), or the thick kind (ho fun 河粉) which are called 'river noodles', need very little preparation. All that is really required is a rinse, and brief period in boiling water, and draining, after which they can be dumped in a bowl. Then you inundate them with hot broth.

The key thing is that what you then add to them is simple, flavourfull, and clean tasting. On the day after Thanksgiving, naturally you would use chunks and thick ripped shreds of bird, with cilantro (yuen sai 芫茜) and chopped scallion (ching tsong 青葱). Lots of cilantro - it's good for the stomach.
Some very finely minced ginger is also a splendid idea, as well as one or two grinds of white pepper.

Why rice noodles instead of wheat, egg, or Italian pasta noodles? Because like the sheet noodles mentioned above, they comfort the stomach.
You need this; you ate too much yesterday.


火雞粥
TURKEY JOOK - COMFORTING GLOOP

Jook (粥), also called congee, is rice porridge. Simple, yet satisfying. But just like the two previous items, it is best to combine everything right before serving - merely jumbling stock, rice, meat scraps, and whatever into a pot and praying for a tasty outcome doesn't work - doing so may make excellent cat food, but not stuff that a human should eat.

Prepare the stock separately, strain, and simmer down to concentrate the flavour.

Then measure out the rice: between a twelfth of the volume of the liquid, to as much as one eighth. Less rice in proportion will yield a thinner soup, more will give you a thicker porridge.
Rinse the rice thoroughly, put it in a heavy pot on high with water to cover, and cook till the grains have swollen and look like roiling clouds (and this explains why you needed to concentrate the stock - you're using plain water to precook the rice, some of the liquid will be taken up).
Drain off the excess water, then place a heat diffuser between the bottom of the po and the flame, add the turkey stock, and turn it low.
Stir regularly to keep the porridge from burning.
You must it cook till the grains have partially fallen apart and the jook is smooth, which will take a few hours.

A totally unorthodox shortcut is to turn off the heat immediately after the rice has swollen and become soft. Let it cool to a temperature for comfortable handling, then whirr it in the blender till reasonably smooth. After which proceed as usual.
It will require far less stirring and simmering, and the chance of burning the bottom of the pot is enormously lessened.

In either case, add large boneless scraps of turkey, plus a few pieces of chopped carrot, about half an hour before the end.

To serve, bowl it up, and put some chunks of bird with the nicely roasted skin on top, plus a little chopped scallion for colour.
Add a few drops of Chinese sesame oil (ma-yau 麻油) for fragrance, and perhaps a dash of soy sauce.


NOTE: There are many yummy additions to plain jook that you will find in Chinatown - pork slivers and preserved egg (pei dan sau yiuk juk 皮蛋瘦肉粥), pork and dried oysters (ho-si sau yiuk juk 蠔豉瘦肉粥), or fresh sliced raw fish that poaches perfectly in the heat of the porridge (yi-pien juk 魚片粥), blanched chicken curls porridge (gai kau juk 雞球粥), slivered pig liver (chu gon juk 猪肝粥), even cooked beef bits.
For a paradoxically luxurious quick lunch, try abalone and chicken jook (bao yu kwat kai juk 鮑魚滑雞粥), jook with roast duck (fo ngaap juk 火鴨粥), or fresh shrimp jook (sang gwan ha kau juk 生滾蝦球粥).

All of these are perfect cold weather or late night soup.


Further note: 生滾 (sang gwan), meaning ' fresh boiled', indicates that the shrimp, fish, or pork is cooked in the heat of the porridge.



MERELY A SUGGESTION......

If you were wondering what to do while your mom and all your aunties go shopping-crazy down in Union Square today - something that actually bores you rigid - now you know.
Prepare something delicious, and leave plenty for them when they return.
It will fool them into thinking that you can cook, actually really well too! Perhaps they can find a man crazy enough to marry you even if you did major in Mediaeval Studies (history of the First Crusade, thesis on Arabic borrowings into the Lingua Franca, emphasis on terminology for Frankish cannibalism at the siege of Maarrat en-Nouman)!

And while you've got them snookered, you plot your escape.
Hmmmm, saved-up funds, job lined up in the Romance Language Department of a college somewhere in Kansas, sleeping bag, books shipped overland, and that nice dashing short intellectual with the goatee and the sad mysterious past.........

You'll have to know how to prepare tasty food anyway, there's nothing good to eat in Kansas.



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