During 2012 several essays appeared on this blog which dealt with the Mexican death sausage (Linguiça) that lurked around the corner. With which I experimented several times. Can't remember the brand.
Suffice to say that the product is no longer there.
And the shopkeeper retired.
[All posts detailing the killer wurst are here: Linguiça..]
The amount of venomous ground chili in the mostly fat ground meat mixture guaranteed "adventure". Even though I am a man who uses hot sauce and chilies on a daily basis.
[Sriracha transforms a convenience store sandwich into an exquise (!) delight.]
There is not much to recommend single life, but the change in diet is quite beneficial. There is no longer anyone urging me to eat, eat, eat, and that luscious extra piece of fatty roast duck no longer magically appears on top of my mound of unfinished rice when I'm already somewhat full. And instead of regularly heading over a hill for Indian food, I'm more likely to cook some veggies with fishpaste and chilies.
Since cutting the murgh makhni and chicken tikka masala (with fresh naan bread slathered with butter) out of my routine I have once again become the svelte young man of everyone's dreams.
Mexican death sausage was part of the journey.
[First essay about the beast here: Brutal.]
Monzer El Shawa at Sam's served its tamer cousin as his house Polish Sausage. Somehow he got the concepts "Kielbasa" and "Louisiana Hot Link" confused -- they are so very much alike -- and his customers late at night never objected. Not many of them were heading to a svelte new self, but they all loved adding scads of Sriracha to their pizza, cheese burgers, fish and chips, fries, and grilled "Polish sausage".
Et cervisiam, ingentem flumen.
Post bibens.
This morning I realized I missed both of those sausages. The supermarket down the block closed a couple of years ago, the Vietnamese shopkeepers around the corner retired, and a lot of white techno-yuppies moved into the neighborhood, so now all the nearby liquor stores also specialize in icecream, hot pockets, and frozen pizza. And salad dressing.
Aber ein mann muss sein würziges fleisch haben!
I long for a kinder, gentler, and more toxic city than the present.
Plus girlish company and dangerous meat products.
Food and love should be an adventure.
Suggestions welcome.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Showing posts with label Sriracha. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sriracha. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 18, 2017
Friday, December 16, 2016
A SOLID METER OF GOODNESS!
Barbershop fries ('frietje kapsalon') are French fries topped with grilled meat, melted cheese, and chopped dressed salad materials, served with garlic sauce and sambal. This mess on a plate was invented over a decade ago by a hair dresser who would regularly call his local fry-bar and tell them to just dump it all together, he was in hurry, and he'd be by to pick it up as soon as he finished cutting the head he was working on.
You can also add mayo.
No, don't look so snooty. It's basically very similar to a cheese steak with fries and a side salad. If fastfooderies in the city of brotherly love actually served salad. It's precisely what you need on a cold night, or after an evening jog.
Hot French fries. Grilled savoury meat sliced thin. Melted cheese. Lettuce, tomato, cucumber. Meat juices. Garlic sauce. Mayonnaise. Chili-paste.
As Eddy Couwenberg of Snackbar Kwalitaria in Breda probably believes, it's the breakfast of champions. Or it should be. He suggests you start your morning with an entire meter of it.
All hot and delicious.
The caption on the Facebook entry which shows the two servings side by side is "je kan de week natuurlijk ook beginning met een metertje kapsalon" (naturally you could also start the week with a meter of 'kapsalon').
Monday breakfast, just before you go in to the office.
It will make your next seven days beautiful.
To me it looks totes delicious.
Sriracha-worthy.
Sriracha
Optional changes I might suggest: A thick drizzle of Portuguese sauce, one or two freshly fried rashers of apple wood smoked bacon, one or two slices of grilled pineapple (fresh OR canned), lots of sliced jalapeños en escabeche, a sploodge of hot satay sauce, and sliced avocado.
Perhaps even the mushroom cream sauce from Quiznos.
Heck, all of it. Added on top.
And a huge 16 ounce mug of steaming Hong Kong style milk-tea (港式奶茶 'gong sik naai-chaa') to keep you awake. Made strong, with lots of evaporated milk. But that's just a personal feeling.
Not, strictly speaking, Dutch.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
You can also add mayo.
No, don't look so snooty. It's basically very similar to a cheese steak with fries and a side salad. If fastfooderies in the city of brotherly love actually served salad. It's precisely what you need on a cold night, or after an evening jog.
Hot French fries. Grilled savoury meat sliced thin. Melted cheese. Lettuce, tomato, cucumber. Meat juices. Garlic sauce. Mayonnaise. Chili-paste.
As Eddy Couwenberg of Snackbar Kwalitaria in Breda probably believes, it's the breakfast of champions. Or it should be. He suggests you start your morning with an entire meter of it.
All hot and delicious.
The caption on the Facebook entry which shows the two servings side by side is "je kan de week natuurlijk ook beginning met een metertje kapsalon" (naturally you could also start the week with a meter of 'kapsalon').
Monday breakfast, just before you go in to the office.
It will make your next seven days beautiful.
To me it looks totes delicious.
Sriracha-worthy.
Sriracha
Optional changes I might suggest: A thick drizzle of Portuguese sauce, one or two freshly fried rashers of apple wood smoked bacon, one or two slices of grilled pineapple (fresh OR canned), lots of sliced jalapeños en escabeche, a sploodge of hot satay sauce, and sliced avocado.
Perhaps even the mushroom cream sauce from Quiznos.
Heck, all of it. Added on top.
And a huge 16 ounce mug of steaming Hong Kong style milk-tea (港式奶茶 'gong sik naai-chaa') to keep you awake. Made strong, with lots of evaporated milk. But that's just a personal feeling.
Not, strictly speaking, Dutch.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, October 25, 2016
HOW TO LIVE LIKE A DUTCHMAN
When I first came back to the States after spending my entire youth in Holland (we had moved there when I was still a baby), American food baffled and repulsed me. The fries were limp and greasy, the beer was damn-near piss, the cheese that locals ate was nasty-tasting industrial extrudite, bread was quite utterly unmentionable, and other than McIlhenny's Tabasco there was no hot sauce. No herring. But stale weak coffee, and luncheon meats beyond the limit of human endurance.
Oh, and what Americans used for mustard was a crime against humanity.
Please imagine the horror of landing in that environment.
A gustatory and social waste land.
Berkeley.
Since those first ghastly weeks I have learned how to cope.
There is no hope for herring here, and most domestic luncheon meat is inedible. Good coffee is available where ever you find a Peet's or transplanted San Franciscans nowadays.
Some people actually make good fries. Sam's on Broadway in North Beach usually does an excellent job.
There are craft beers now, and even back then Anchor Steam was a shaft of gold when all around was dark. But you don't need beer to survive, and as Americans drink past the point of idiocy, it is best to avoid beer halls.
Good cheese could be found, but you had to search. The Cheese Board in Berkeley was a resource, since then many more California cheeses have been produced by real human beings, and for the last several years I have lived a few blocks away from Cheese Plus at Polk and Pacific.
San Francisco has sourdough, baguette, and rustic loaves.
And David Tran made a hot sauce that has conquered the world.
Sriracha.
Actually, that's just the civilized world, mostly Northern California.
His company (Huy Fong Foods, Inc.) also offers a chili garlic sauce, and a sambal oelek. They used to produce a sambal badjak too, but aficionados usually make their own by slow-frying sambal oelek or chili garlic sauce with a paste of mashed shallots, a few kemiri nuts, some fish paste, and a pinch of sugar, till oily and darkened considerably, but not nearly so dark as a typical jarred Dutch sambal goreng (mashed chili fried with shallots and fish paste till stiff and almost black).
Basically, almost any variation on a sambal can be made by using one of Huy Fong's lovely products as a building block.
Along with thick sweet soy sauce (ketjap manis) and mayonnaise, you have the fundament of Dutch cooking in the late twentieth and early twenty-first century.
You can fudge nearly everything else, or get by using local products and native vernuft, but without access to chilies, mayo, and soy sauce, you cannot live a civilized life.
American mustard is still barbaric.
Do not go too deep into the Interior; there are headhunters and trailer-park cannibals there. It's all Texas.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Oh, and what Americans used for mustard was a crime against humanity.
Please imagine the horror of landing in that environment.
A gustatory and social waste land.
Berkeley.
Since those first ghastly weeks I have learned how to cope.
There is no hope for herring here, and most domestic luncheon meat is inedible. Good coffee is available where ever you find a Peet's or transplanted San Franciscans nowadays.
Some people actually make good fries. Sam's on Broadway in North Beach usually does an excellent job.
There are craft beers now, and even back then Anchor Steam was a shaft of gold when all around was dark. But you don't need beer to survive, and as Americans drink past the point of idiocy, it is best to avoid beer halls.
Good cheese could be found, but you had to search. The Cheese Board in Berkeley was a resource, since then many more California cheeses have been produced by real human beings, and for the last several years I have lived a few blocks away from Cheese Plus at Polk and Pacific.
San Francisco has sourdough, baguette, and rustic loaves.
And David Tran made a hot sauce that has conquered the world.
Sriracha.
Actually, that's just the civilized world, mostly Northern California.
His company (Huy Fong Foods, Inc.) also offers a chili garlic sauce, and a sambal oelek. They used to produce a sambal badjak too, but aficionados usually make their own by slow-frying sambal oelek or chili garlic sauce with a paste of mashed shallots, a few kemiri nuts, some fish paste, and a pinch of sugar, till oily and darkened considerably, but not nearly so dark as a typical jarred Dutch sambal goreng (mashed chili fried with shallots and fish paste till stiff and almost black).
Basically, almost any variation on a sambal can be made by using one of Huy Fong's lovely products as a building block.
Along with thick sweet soy sauce (ketjap manis) and mayonnaise, you have the fundament of Dutch cooking in the late twentieth and early twenty-first century.
You can fudge nearly everything else, or get by using local products and native vernuft, but without access to chilies, mayo, and soy sauce, you cannot live a civilized life.
American mustard is still barbaric.
Do not go too deep into the Interior; there are headhunters and trailer-park cannibals there. It's all Texas.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, February 02, 2016
AN ACCIDENT OF CUISINE
Last year one of my friends described a restaurant dish he had eaten on the recommendation of the waiter as too gingery. The kitchen (white people, and Mexicans doing precisely and exactly what the white people had told them to do, better than an equivalent number of white people would have done) had gone overboard on the ginger, big time. He did not like it; coming from a culture that uses a lot of ginger, he felt that there were natural limits to its use. Like typical Anglos, they did not understand that.
Many white people go to excess when they bust out of their shells.
We've all met the weirdo who puts buckets of garlic in everything he cooks, as well as the people who insist the hotter the better, and repetitiously make themselves suffer in consequence.
This is often the result of bad white cooking.
I will admit that I too grew up with bad white cooking. Except for when my father took over the kitchen, or I snacked at the house of an "auntie". For "auntie", please read 'exile from Indonesia, living in the Netherlands after the revolution forced her and thousands of others to leave'. Valkenswaard had a fair number of such people (they're referred to as "Indos").
Some of them were 'uncles', of course.
Their food was fun.
Bad white cuisine can be alleviated by adding sambal (chilipaste), peanuts, fishpaste (trassi, blatjan, or petis), and a touch of garlic to almost everything.
Even tuna fish sandwiches.
Or salad.
ALTYD SAMBAL BY DE VIS
Nowadays one of my favourite dishes is pork or fish slices cooked with bitter melon and fermented black beans (dousi), served over rice with a generous shploop of Sriracha sauce. There's just something incredible crisp and fresh and greeny-green and herbal comforting bitter about bitter melon.
It's so good!
I'm also incredibly fond of seriously fatty pork chunks steamed with lots of ginger. Hot sauce -- either a homemade sambal or the bottle product from Huy Fong Foods -- plays a serious role in enjoyment of the dish.
Lovely pork siumai in Chinatown? Sriracha!
Oystersauce over vegetables?
Just add sambal.
It's not that I use huge amounts of hot sauce, but if chilies, ginger, and fish sauce suddenly became unavailable, I would feel obliged to commit serious insurrection. What kind of horrible ghastly barbaric primitive pissant place lacks those essentials?
Buncha damned Midwestern pablum snarfers!
Lutefisk!
Like anyone who grew up in the Netherlands, I still dip my French Fries in Mayonnaise. But Sriracha is also in play, and always takes the place of the ketchup which bad white people add to everything.
I have NO good words for American mustard.
That stuff is extremely vile.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Many white people go to excess when they bust out of their shells.
We've all met the weirdo who puts buckets of garlic in everything he cooks, as well as the people who insist the hotter the better, and repetitiously make themselves suffer in consequence.
This is often the result of bad white cooking.
I will admit that I too grew up with bad white cooking. Except for when my father took over the kitchen, or I snacked at the house of an "auntie". For "auntie", please read 'exile from Indonesia, living in the Netherlands after the revolution forced her and thousands of others to leave'. Valkenswaard had a fair number of such people (they're referred to as "Indos").
Some of them were 'uncles', of course.
Their food was fun.
Bad white cuisine can be alleviated by adding sambal (chilipaste), peanuts, fishpaste (trassi, blatjan, or petis), and a touch of garlic to almost everything.
Even tuna fish sandwiches.
Or salad.
ALTYD SAMBAL BY DE VIS
Nowadays one of my favourite dishes is pork or fish slices cooked with bitter melon and fermented black beans (dousi), served over rice with a generous shploop of Sriracha sauce. There's just something incredible crisp and fresh and greeny-green and herbal comforting bitter about bitter melon.
It's so good!
I'm also incredibly fond of seriously fatty pork chunks steamed with lots of ginger. Hot sauce -- either a homemade sambal or the bottle product from Huy Fong Foods -- plays a serious role in enjoyment of the dish.
Lovely pork siumai in Chinatown? Sriracha!
Oystersauce over vegetables?
Just add sambal.
It's not that I use huge amounts of hot sauce, but if chilies, ginger, and fish sauce suddenly became unavailable, I would feel obliged to commit serious insurrection. What kind of horrible ghastly barbaric primitive pissant place lacks those essentials?
Buncha damned Midwestern pablum snarfers!
Lutefisk!
Like anyone who grew up in the Netherlands, I still dip my French Fries in Mayonnaise. But Sriracha is also in play, and always takes the place of the ketchup which bad white people add to everything.
I have NO good words for American mustard.
That stuff is extremely vile.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, November 09, 2014
SCREAMING SOBBING INCONSOLABLE TEARS
A friend mentions that eating orange chicken at Panda Express caused a nearby infant to wail. The little tyke was utterly terrified. Howled fit to lift the roof. Which is a strange reaction to someone else enjoying a succulent Chinese meal, but as I have never been to Panda Express and seldom eat suburban gloop, I'll just assume that that is normal.
Neither Panda Express nor its soulmate P. F. Chang's are anywhere near Chinatown. Not geographically, not philosophically. Yet typical American Chinese food is probably the greatest Californian contribution to the national palate of all time. Who doesn't like infinite variations on sweet and sour sauce over crispy chewy mouthfuls? It's universal.
"Then, without breaking her gaze, her face screws up into a little mask of terror and she bursts into screaming, sobbing, inconsolable tears."
Good-o.
American Chinese food is the kind of hearty fare that kept generations of goldminers alive, and sustains everyone in the fly-overs who gets sick and tired of chain restaurant burgers. Or just sick.
It goes without saying that orange chicken bears almost no resemblance to its nearest Chinese relative, 陳皮雞 ('chan pei kai'), which is usually made with chicken wings gilded in a little oil, then sauced with good Chekiang vinegar, sugar, water, and rehumidified dried orange peel.
The principle behind the original is layered flavours intensified for a fragrant - tangy - savoury effect, rather than boneless protein drenched in a sauce that goes well with rice for white people.
White people like sauce. Grits and gravy, rosbif au jus, patat frites with mayonnaise, herring in sour cream, zesty remoulade, dips, stews, thick soups, and that strange big bucket muck that goes on hamburgers.
It's instinctive; they're storing up fat for the zombie apocalypse.
White folks know all about zombies.
I also make orange chicken.
The all-American version.
Yum babies, over rice.
ORANGE CHICKEN
One Lbs boneless skinless chicken cut into strips.
Two egg whites.
Two Tbs. corn starch.
Two Tbs. sherry.
Half cup orange juice.
Quarter cup chicken stock.
One Tbs. soy sauce.
One Tbs. vinegar.
One Tbs. sugar.
Squirt of Sriracha.
One Tsp orange zest.
One Tsp. dried chili flakes.
Garlic and ginger, minced.
One scallion, minced.
Whip the egg white, cornstarch, and sherry till frothy. Dump the chicken bits into this and make sure every piece is well covered. Stick it in the refrigerator for twenty minutes. Then take it out, re-stir briefly, drain the liquid. Dredge the chicken bits well in cornstarch, shake off the excess, and fry in the wok with plenty oil till golden. Remove and drain.
Pour most of the oil out of the wok. Heat the wok and add the minced garlic, ginger, and dried chili flakes. Pour in all the liquids to seethe, add the sugar and zest and a squirt of Sriracha, reduce till near-syrupy. Dump in the chicken, toss to coat, and turn out onto a plate.
Garnish with the minced scallion.
Serve with rice.
If you need more sauce, add a squirt of Sriracha to your food.
Sriracha is one of the very best sambals ever invented.
It also is a California thing: created in 1980 by a Chinese refugee from Vietnam, named after a city with which it has no relation or connection whatsoever, sold up and down the West Coast and now increasingly available for your pleasure in lunch counters, hamburger joints, taco restaurants, soup kitchens, oyster bars, and fine grill rooms galore.
Equally great on pizza, fish, eggs, or beefsteak.
Dare I suggest that the only additional thing that could improve orange chicken would be two or three crispy rashers of bacon?
And, maybe, more hot sauce.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Neither Panda Express nor its soulmate P. F. Chang's are anywhere near Chinatown. Not geographically, not philosophically. Yet typical American Chinese food is probably the greatest Californian contribution to the national palate of all time. Who doesn't like infinite variations on sweet and sour sauce over crispy chewy mouthfuls? It's universal.
"Then, without breaking her gaze, her face screws up into a little mask of terror and she bursts into screaming, sobbing, inconsolable tears."
Good-o.
American Chinese food is the kind of hearty fare that kept generations of goldminers alive, and sustains everyone in the fly-overs who gets sick and tired of chain restaurant burgers. Or just sick.
It goes without saying that orange chicken bears almost no resemblance to its nearest Chinese relative, 陳皮雞 ('chan pei kai'), which is usually made with chicken wings gilded in a little oil, then sauced with good Chekiang vinegar, sugar, water, and rehumidified dried orange peel.
The principle behind the original is layered flavours intensified for a fragrant - tangy - savoury effect, rather than boneless protein drenched in a sauce that goes well with rice for white people.
White people like sauce. Grits and gravy, rosbif au jus, patat frites with mayonnaise, herring in sour cream, zesty remoulade, dips, stews, thick soups, and that strange big bucket muck that goes on hamburgers.
It's instinctive; they're storing up fat for the zombie apocalypse.
White folks know all about zombies.
I also make orange chicken.
The all-American version.
Yum babies, over rice.
ORANGE CHICKEN
One Lbs boneless skinless chicken cut into strips.
Two egg whites.
Two Tbs. corn starch.
Two Tbs. sherry.
Half cup orange juice.
Quarter cup chicken stock.
One Tbs. soy sauce.
One Tbs. vinegar.
One Tbs. sugar.
Squirt of Sriracha.
One Tsp orange zest.
One Tsp. dried chili flakes.
Garlic and ginger, minced.
One scallion, minced.
Whip the egg white, cornstarch, and sherry till frothy. Dump the chicken bits into this and make sure every piece is well covered. Stick it in the refrigerator for twenty minutes. Then take it out, re-stir briefly, drain the liquid. Dredge the chicken bits well in cornstarch, shake off the excess, and fry in the wok with plenty oil till golden. Remove and drain.
Pour most of the oil out of the wok. Heat the wok and add the minced garlic, ginger, and dried chili flakes. Pour in all the liquids to seethe, add the sugar and zest and a squirt of Sriracha, reduce till near-syrupy. Dump in the chicken, toss to coat, and turn out onto a plate.
Garnish with the minced scallion.
Serve with rice.
If you need more sauce, add a squirt of Sriracha to your food.
Sriracha is one of the very best sambals ever invented.
It also is a California thing: created in 1980 by a Chinese refugee from Vietnam, named after a city with which it has no relation or connection whatsoever, sold up and down the West Coast and now increasingly available for your pleasure in lunch counters, hamburger joints, taco restaurants, soup kitchens, oyster bars, and fine grill rooms galore.
Equally great on pizza, fish, eggs, or beefsteak.
Dare I suggest that the only additional thing that could improve orange chicken would be two or three crispy rashers of bacon?
And, maybe, more hot sauce.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, April 12, 2014
SRIRACHA HOT SAUCE FACTORY IS A PUBLIC NUISANCE TO IRWINDALE -- IRWINDALE IS MOSTLY NUTS
Sometimes your day starts on an "interesting" note, and just goes on from there. And, if you are Jewish, your day started only one or two hours ago, at sundown, so there is still a long way to go. Tzeit fir motzei shabbes oneg.
For one thing, your day today probably started with hot food.
Not lukewarm and full of slow-cooked beans.
Cholent has soul, but it palls.
Not even going to mention the vegan reconstructionist lesbian liberation Jewish wymyn's collective and their gluten-free wheatgrass tofu version of cholent; there are just some limitations that make the chumrah obsession of Hareidi circles seem amateurish.
This blogger, as you may shper, seldom indulges in cholent; I've made it several times, though not for shabbes, and I even brought it to an office party once because I have a sense of humour.
Cholent, and possibly also the anarcho-femynyst animal-rights equivalent without meat or peanuts, can be improved considerably by having a big bottle of hotsauce on the tish.
Some people, however, do not want you to have that luxury.
They would rather make you suffer. Considerably.
And they'll do anything to effect that.
The city of Irwindale.
SRIRACHA FACTORY DECLARED A PUBLIC NUISANCE
A California city has declared a factory which produces a popular Asian-style hot pepper sauce a public nuisance, after area residents complained of the odour.
The city of Irwindale on Wednesday night gave Sriracha sauce maker Huy Fong Foods 90 days to curb the odours.
The declaration allows city officials to order changes should such odours remain after the deadline.
[Source: BBC article: http://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-26975852.]
When Huy Fong Foods Incorporated moved their factory to Irwindale last year, local bosses must have smelled a pot of gold. Since then, they have been involved in an unending campaign of harassment that resembles nothing so much as a clumsy shakedown attempt, trying to force the company to invest an enormous amount of money in an air purifier.
Back in 1980, David Tran started producing a condiment consisting of fresh hot peppers ground-up with vinegar, garlic, salt, and sugar. In those days, if you liked spicy foods, living in California was being an exile from everything that made life worthwhile, because you just couldn't get anything decent to eat. I remember dining at Alice Water's famous restaurant, wondering if that's all there was and craving a bit of spice.
I plotted to sneak my own chilipaste in, but feared that Berkeley's food-Nazis would cry foul. Both sambal and mayonnaise were considered heathen back then.
One of those condiments still is.
David Tran altered the paradigm. By the mid-eighties, instead of spending ten bucks on a several-year old jar of imported paste patronizingly sold in the "ethnic" section of a supermarket, you could find sambal oelek, sambal badjak, Vietnamese Chili Garlic Sauce, and squeeze bottles of the only sane squirtable sauce to use instead of ketchup in your local Chinese stores, and even humble burger joints would have Sriracha in their condiment bar.
Life had improved immensely, and civilization seemed possible.
Not at all likely, given that there were still Texans and Midianites in the world, but possible.
Sure, I like Tabasco. But it's best for fried eggs and hash browns. And the traditional coffee shop breakfast of eggs and pork sausage with a big mound of rice and various fried crud is not an everyday indulgence. Ever since I was in the single digits, sambals had added colour and depth to my life. Coming back to the U.S. and discovering that good food made one a freak was a shock.
All the ingredients that I wanted were not at the Solano Avenue Safeway or the Berkeley Co-op.
Ketoembar. Djintan. Bidji Sawi. Trassi. Petis. Sereh. Lengkoewas. Daoen Toelsi. Daoen Ketoembar. Ketjap Manis. Tjabeh. Temoe Koentji.
And most of all, sambal sambal sambal sambal sambal!
Eventually one discovers that coriander, cumin, mustard seed, shrimp paste, fish sauce, lemon gras, galangal, basil leaf, cilantro, sweet soy sauce, chilies, and krachai ARE available, if one only knows where to look, but where the hell is the chili paste? A man has just gotta have some sambal!
Civilized life without chilipaste is impossible.
A lack of sambal inspires madness and war.
Sambal is the glue that holds it together.
DAVID TRAN IS A NATIONAL TREASURE,
IRWINDALE ISN'T.
Huy Fong no longer makes sambal badjak -- wich is no great loss, because if you fry an entire jar of sambal oelek with one or two large minced onions, garlic, and a tablespoonful of shrimp paste, till it is dark brown and the oil comes out you have pretty much the same thing -- but their current range of products contains all the ingredients necessary to survive in the vast interior of this continent.
"Flexing muscle and thumbing Huy Fong in the eye"
Irwindale, population 1400 inbred souls, cares not one whit that without Sriracha hot sauce, heads would roll, pitchforked mobs may riot, and the Jacquerie will burn the castle down, in many places across the civilized world. The quill and gall-ink wielding litigationists of Irwindale merely seek to shake the company down and make them pay for the temerity of re-locating to Irwindale and bringing the twentieth century with them.
It's time for the bigwigs and shakers in San Francisco to step in and move heaven and earth to get Huy Fong to relocate to the Bay Area. Facilities, necessary permits, and a subsidy for employee housing expenses. We are more cosmopolitan than Irwindale, and Willie Brown knows that. If Willie Brown and his heavy weight political henchwoman Rose Pak can make it happen, we'll vote for their candidates next election no questions asked.
We shan't even write-in the name of Leland Yee.
We promise. Scout's honour.
The Bay Area needs Huy Fong; we are a culinary mecca.
The entire damn' world needs Huy Fong.
Cholent needs Huy Fong.
It's a mitzvah.
AFTERWORD
The interesting note mentioned earlier that started my day was reading on the BBC website that doctors have incubated vaginas in a lab. It's a brave new world out there. I never would have imagined that such a thing would ever be possible.
"The vaginas were carefully grown in a bioreactor until they were suitable "
Anyhow, that reminded me of the BBC article about Irwindale.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
For one thing, your day today probably started with hot food.
Not lukewarm and full of slow-cooked beans.
Cholent has soul, but it palls.
Not even going to mention the vegan reconstructionist lesbian liberation Jewish wymyn's collective and their gluten-free wheatgrass tofu version of cholent; there are just some limitations that make the chumrah obsession of Hareidi circles seem amateurish.
This blogger, as you may shper, seldom indulges in cholent; I've made it several times, though not for shabbes, and I even brought it to an office party once because I have a sense of humour.
Cholent, and possibly also the anarcho-femynyst animal-rights equivalent without meat or peanuts, can be improved considerably by having a big bottle of hotsauce on the tish.
Some people, however, do not want you to have that luxury.
They would rather make you suffer. Considerably.
And they'll do anything to effect that.
The city of Irwindale.
SRIRACHA FACTORY DECLARED A PUBLIC NUISANCE
A California city has declared a factory which produces a popular Asian-style hot pepper sauce a public nuisance, after area residents complained of the odour.
The city of Irwindale on Wednesday night gave Sriracha sauce maker Huy Fong Foods 90 days to curb the odours.
The declaration allows city officials to order changes should such odours remain after the deadline.
[Source: BBC article: http://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-26975852.]
When Huy Fong Foods Incorporated moved their factory to Irwindale last year, local bosses must have smelled a pot of gold. Since then, they have been involved in an unending campaign of harassment that resembles nothing so much as a clumsy shakedown attempt, trying to force the company to invest an enormous amount of money in an air purifier.
Back in 1980, David Tran started producing a condiment consisting of fresh hot peppers ground-up with vinegar, garlic, salt, and sugar. In those days, if you liked spicy foods, living in California was being an exile from everything that made life worthwhile, because you just couldn't get anything decent to eat. I remember dining at Alice Water's famous restaurant, wondering if that's all there was and craving a bit of spice.
I plotted to sneak my own chilipaste in, but feared that Berkeley's food-Nazis would cry foul. Both sambal and mayonnaise were considered heathen back then.
One of those condiments still is.
David Tran altered the paradigm. By the mid-eighties, instead of spending ten bucks on a several-year old jar of imported paste patronizingly sold in the "ethnic" section of a supermarket, you could find sambal oelek, sambal badjak, Vietnamese Chili Garlic Sauce, and squeeze bottles of the only sane squirtable sauce to use instead of ketchup in your local Chinese stores, and even humble burger joints would have Sriracha in their condiment bar.
Life had improved immensely, and civilization seemed possible.
Not at all likely, given that there were still Texans and Midianites in the world, but possible.
Sure, I like Tabasco. But it's best for fried eggs and hash browns. And the traditional coffee shop breakfast of eggs and pork sausage with a big mound of rice and various fried crud is not an everyday indulgence. Ever since I was in the single digits, sambals had added colour and depth to my life. Coming back to the U.S. and discovering that good food made one a freak was a shock.
All the ingredients that I wanted were not at the Solano Avenue Safeway or the Berkeley Co-op.
Ketoembar. Djintan. Bidji Sawi. Trassi. Petis. Sereh. Lengkoewas. Daoen Toelsi. Daoen Ketoembar. Ketjap Manis. Tjabeh. Temoe Koentji.
And most of all, sambal sambal sambal sambal sambal!
Eventually one discovers that coriander, cumin, mustard seed, shrimp paste, fish sauce, lemon gras, galangal, basil leaf, cilantro, sweet soy sauce, chilies, and krachai ARE available, if one only knows where to look, but where the hell is the chili paste? A man has just gotta have some sambal!
Civilized life without chilipaste is impossible.
A lack of sambal inspires madness and war.
Sambal is the glue that holds it together.
DAVID TRAN IS A NATIONAL TREASURE,
IRWINDALE ISN'T.
Huy Fong no longer makes sambal badjak -- wich is no great loss, because if you fry an entire jar of sambal oelek with one or two large minced onions, garlic, and a tablespoonful of shrimp paste, till it is dark brown and the oil comes out you have pretty much the same thing -- but their current range of products contains all the ingredients necessary to survive in the vast interior of this continent.
"Flexing muscle and thumbing Huy Fong in the eye"
Irwindale, population 1400 inbred souls, cares not one whit that without Sriracha hot sauce, heads would roll, pitchforked mobs may riot, and the Jacquerie will burn the castle down, in many places across the civilized world. The quill and gall-ink wielding litigationists of Irwindale merely seek to shake the company down and make them pay for the temerity of re-locating to Irwindale and bringing the twentieth century with them.
It's time for the bigwigs and shakers in San Francisco to step in and move heaven and earth to get Huy Fong to relocate to the Bay Area. Facilities, necessary permits, and a subsidy for employee housing expenses. We are more cosmopolitan than Irwindale, and Willie Brown knows that. If Willie Brown and his heavy weight political henchwoman Rose Pak can make it happen, we'll vote for their candidates next election no questions asked.
We shan't even write-in the name of Leland Yee.
We promise. Scout's honour.
The Bay Area needs Huy Fong; we are a culinary mecca.
The entire damn' world needs Huy Fong.
Cholent needs Huy Fong.
It's a mitzvah.
AFTERWORD
The interesting note mentioned earlier that started my day was reading on the BBC website that doctors have incubated vaginas in a lab. It's a brave new world out there. I never would have imagined that such a thing would ever be possible.
"The vaginas were carefully grown in a bioreactor until they were suitable "
Anyhow, that reminded me of the BBC article about Irwindale.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT
Sometimes stuff shows up in my inbox that has no conceivable spammatic content, being, more or less communications from a reader-base that wishes to talk without revealing themselves to the general public, or which believes that their query has no interest for many others.
I cater to both types. I may not answer immediately, as several folks in Germany and the Netherlands now realize, but I do eventually answer.
Please note: if there were evidence that the querent was a young female adult who had Wind-In-The-Willowish fantasies about enjoying a cup of coffee with the Badger of Nob Hill, or wished to read Conrad and Faulkner in his presence while quietly enjoying his stimulating company -- which has been described as 'comforting', 'wicked', 'nurturing' and 'life-affirming', in a civilized animal (mustelid) sort of way -- I might respond considerably sooner. Vibrant female persons, between twenty and forty, who are smaller than a badger, and shorter too, get my complete attention.
I am quite fond of weasels, stoats, and martens.
Pole cats and lithe carnivores.
As well as otters.
One person, whom I shall identify as "The February 11th Maccabee", whose original question is partially answered 'here', recently asked if there was a hotsauce which was spicier than Sriracha.
"By the way, do you know if a company makes a sauce as good as the red rooster Sriracha, but hotter? I've found that whatever I'm trying to flavor tastes too much of Sriracha by the time I've added enough for it to be spicy, so that I've had to use two hot sauces! Perhaps the most popular company has an extra-spicy version?"
Sriracha (滙豐食品公司 Huy Fong Foods Corporation) does not make anything stronger. But naturally I remember two sauces that use Habanero chilies: Melinda's, and Dave's.
HOWLING AT THE MOON
["The merciless peppers of Quetzal-Tenango, grown deep in the jungle by inmates of a Guatemalan insane asylum."]
I first encountered Dave's Insanity Sauce several years ago, when Duckwhistle Chin was gloating over his most recent acquisition. He happily let me have a taste, and I marveled at it's intensity. Yes, that is a rather spicy item. It burns. He knew I liked being kicked in the mouth, so he was pleased that I appreciated his sauce as an excellent addition to hamburgers or stewed stringy inedible marshbirds.
While we were talking, we decided that the Redheaded Stepchild, in charge of human resources (and possibly the sheep dip) needed to be exposed to Dave's. So we went into the room where he sat, and innocently told him that we had a sauce we thought he might like, if he ever ventured into spicy territory, but we weren't sure. It might not be flavourful enough. We were hesitant. He probably eschewed such childish things.
We layed it on thick. The Redheaded Stepchild swallowed it up, because we were appealing to his ego and his manly self-image. He was ready to try our humble offering, but he wanted us to go first, just to prove it wasn't poisoned.
Duckwhistle downed a modest spoonful. I did likewise.
Then the Redheaded Stepchild demonstrated what a super hero he was by taking a big gulp.
He had barely said "nah, this ain't ..." when his face turned fire-truck red, and he started sputtering. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't help coughing like a cat with hairballs, an asthmatic infant gasping for air, an inveterate cigarette smoker horking up a lung, or a lion seal bellowing down at the pier. For ten whole minutes. Discreetly and diplomatically he lay down on the floor and contorted.
Duckwhistle and I sat there with stone faces.
Duckwhistle has very little capacity to register capsaicin. Some people are like that. And for myself, I've learned that when a point is to be made, I can ignore almost any amount of pain.
It's good, trust me.
Zen.
When he had finally recovered enough to stop spluttering and convulsing, the Redheaded Stepchild swore that he would never speak to us again, we were evil, positively demented and daemonic, the worst computer engineer and credit dude respectively ever in the whole universe, this was a dark day, he wouldn't forget, and he would get even.
The next week he was boasting to the geeks in the back about this fabulous hot sauce he had discovered, why, it was amazing.
A brilliant discovery. He deserved praise.
Unfortunately, he broke his promise to never speak to us again.
Kept asking us in private how we did it.
We never told.
There are other hotsauces that use extra hot peppers. There are even condiments that use the Bhut Jolokia (ghost pepper) from Assam, a mutant that looks totally innocent and ornamental, but which packs in a fire three to five times hotter than Habanero.
One sauce that has gotten rave reviews is Habanero Hotsauce by Blackmarket Hotsauce dot com. They make an entire range of interesting condiments, and are fresh and zesty.
For further happy exploration among the oral nitroglycerin, go to the list at Insane Chicken, and scope out the impressive selection.
It's from 2012, so some of the sauces may no longer be made.
No, I haven't tried them all. Not even most of them.
I do make my own hot preparations, though.
When I can find fresh habaneros.
Now, returning to the concept of a small woman with a book and badger fetish, who lives somewhere Nob, Russian, or Telegraph hills, I cannot tell you how much the concept captures my interest. If she were to also be a cigar smoker, or at the very least did not mind the fine aromas of pipes and cheroots, I would be thrilled beyond measure. Correspondence may lead to lunch, almost definitely to coffee or tea and cookies.
I knew some restaurants that do good fish.
As well as clay pot cooking.
Most of them have bottles of Sriracha.
But we could bring our own.
AFTERWORD
I rearranged my humidors yesterday. It turns out I have far too many cigars. Including several fine pre-revolutionary Nicaraguans, and some long cheroots from the Philippines that were made to order. I smoked three cigars; a thin Dutchman, a Dominican robusto, and a double corona.
The last two sticks while taking a walk, as it was too close to my apartment mate's estimated time of return to risk doing so indoors. Even though I shut her door tightly when she leaves in the morning, and open all the windows, she still gets a bit miffed if she smells the fancy fragrances.
Fortunately the weather is pleasant enough to wander.
Smoking that substance Californians hate.
Scaring women and horses.
And children.
Precious(!) children.
Mustn't forget the children.
The nasty little f*^kers are our future.
Yes, I really am up at 3:40AM, think about cigars and hotsauce.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I cater to both types. I may not answer immediately, as several folks in Germany and the Netherlands now realize, but I do eventually answer.
Please note: if there were evidence that the querent was a young female adult who had Wind-In-The-Willowish fantasies about enjoying a cup of coffee with the Badger of Nob Hill, or wished to read Conrad and Faulkner in his presence while quietly enjoying his stimulating company -- which has been described as 'comforting', 'wicked', 'nurturing' and 'life-affirming', in a civilized animal (mustelid) sort of way -- I might respond considerably sooner. Vibrant female persons, between twenty and forty, who are smaller than a badger, and shorter too, get my complete attention.
I am quite fond of weasels, stoats, and martens.
Pole cats and lithe carnivores.
As well as otters.
One person, whom I shall identify as "The February 11th Maccabee", whose original question is partially answered 'here', recently asked if there was a hotsauce which was spicier than Sriracha.
"By the way, do you know if a company makes a sauce as good as the red rooster Sriracha, but hotter? I've found that whatever I'm trying to flavor tastes too much of Sriracha by the time I've added enough for it to be spicy, so that I've had to use two hot sauces! Perhaps the most popular company has an extra-spicy version?"
Sriracha (滙豐食品公司 Huy Fong Foods Corporation) does not make anything stronger. But naturally I remember two sauces that use Habanero chilies: Melinda's, and Dave's.
HOWLING AT THE MOON
["The merciless peppers of Quetzal-Tenango, grown deep in the jungle by inmates of a Guatemalan insane asylum."]
I first encountered Dave's Insanity Sauce several years ago, when Duckwhistle Chin was gloating over his most recent acquisition. He happily let me have a taste, and I marveled at it's intensity. Yes, that is a rather spicy item. It burns. He knew I liked being kicked in the mouth, so he was pleased that I appreciated his sauce as an excellent addition to hamburgers or stewed stringy inedible marshbirds.
While we were talking, we decided that the Redheaded Stepchild, in charge of human resources (and possibly the sheep dip) needed to be exposed to Dave's. So we went into the room where he sat, and innocently told him that we had a sauce we thought he might like, if he ever ventured into spicy territory, but we weren't sure. It might not be flavourful enough. We were hesitant. He probably eschewed such childish things.
We layed it on thick. The Redheaded Stepchild swallowed it up, because we were appealing to his ego and his manly self-image. He was ready to try our humble offering, but he wanted us to go first, just to prove it wasn't poisoned.
Duckwhistle downed a modest spoonful. I did likewise.
Then the Redheaded Stepchild demonstrated what a super hero he was by taking a big gulp.
He had barely said "nah, this ain't ..." when his face turned fire-truck red, and he started sputtering. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't help coughing like a cat with hairballs, an asthmatic infant gasping for air, an inveterate cigarette smoker horking up a lung, or a lion seal bellowing down at the pier. For ten whole minutes. Discreetly and diplomatically he lay down on the floor and contorted.
Duckwhistle and I sat there with stone faces.
Duckwhistle has very little capacity to register capsaicin. Some people are like that. And for myself, I've learned that when a point is to be made, I can ignore almost any amount of pain.
It's good, trust me.
Zen.
When he had finally recovered enough to stop spluttering and convulsing, the Redheaded Stepchild swore that he would never speak to us again, we were evil, positively demented and daemonic, the worst computer engineer and credit dude respectively ever in the whole universe, this was a dark day, he wouldn't forget, and he would get even.
The next week he was boasting to the geeks in the back about this fabulous hot sauce he had discovered, why, it was amazing.
A brilliant discovery. He deserved praise.
Unfortunately, he broke his promise to never speak to us again.
Kept asking us in private how we did it.
We never told.
There are other hotsauces that use extra hot peppers. There are even condiments that use the Bhut Jolokia (ghost pepper) from Assam, a mutant that looks totally innocent and ornamental, but which packs in a fire three to five times hotter than Habanero.
One sauce that has gotten rave reviews is Habanero Hotsauce by Blackmarket Hotsauce dot com. They make an entire range of interesting condiments, and are fresh and zesty.
For further happy exploration among the oral nitroglycerin, go to the list at Insane Chicken, and scope out the impressive selection.
It's from 2012, so some of the sauces may no longer be made.
No, I haven't tried them all. Not even most of them.
I do make my own hot preparations, though.
When I can find fresh habaneros.
Now, returning to the concept of a small woman with a book and badger fetish, who lives somewhere Nob, Russian, or Telegraph hills, I cannot tell you how much the concept captures my interest. If she were to also be a cigar smoker, or at the very least did not mind the fine aromas of pipes and cheroots, I would be thrilled beyond measure. Correspondence may lead to lunch, almost definitely to coffee or tea and cookies.
I knew some restaurants that do good fish.
As well as clay pot cooking.
Most of them have bottles of Sriracha.
But we could bring our own.
AFTERWORD
I rearranged my humidors yesterday. It turns out I have far too many cigars. Including several fine pre-revolutionary Nicaraguans, and some long cheroots from the Philippines that were made to order. I smoked three cigars; a thin Dutchman, a Dominican robusto, and a double corona.
The last two sticks while taking a walk, as it was too close to my apartment mate's estimated time of return to risk doing so indoors. Even though I shut her door tightly when she leaves in the morning, and open all the windows, she still gets a bit miffed if she smells the fancy fragrances.
Fortunately the weather is pleasant enough to wander.
Smoking that substance Californians hate.
Scaring women and horses.
And children.
Precious(!) children.
Mustn't forget the children.
The nasty little f*^kers are our future.
Yes, I really am up at 3:40AM, think about cigars and hotsauce.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
START HOARDING SRIRACHA
Earlier this year, the makers of Sriracha Hotsauce -- more beloved than ketchup and mustard combined -- moved from Rosemead to a bigger facility in Irwindale. Since then, the ungrateful sods who live in Irwindale have been bellyaching about burning eyes, throat irritation, and headaches brought on by the chili fragrance coming from the plant.
In the jaundiced and pepper-loving eyes of this blogger, Sriracha is a national treasure, so all those wussy whitebread Irwindalites should just shut up and choke on it.
A factory that turns out two hundred thousand bottles of crimson gold each day brings infinite happiness to millions, who otherwise would have to suffer the agonies of tasteless waspy food in the American hinterlands.
Besides, chilies are a potent source of vitamin C.
There are several important health benefits.
Improve your life, and your attitude.
Chili makes Texas bearable.
Suck it up.
"Inspectors from the South Coast Air Quality Management District checked out the plant twice with no citations made and the factory never received complaints during its 30-year residency in Rosemead"
[Source: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/foodbeast/sriracha-ceo-warns-a-fact_b_4175853.html?utm_hp_ref=los-angeles&ir=Los+Angeles.]
The miserable cretins who run the city of Irwindale have filed suit to halt production. At least for the foreseeable future, while a solution to the problem of wussy neighbors is found. Given that life in the United States is tolerable ONLY because of saintly chili condiment producers such as the Tran family, whose products bring light and joy and the blessing of civilization to the dark and miserable hinterlands of Texas, Connecticut, and New Jersey (and other locales whose names we can't remember), it is inevitable that a cessation of bottling for even one day will have a profound impact.
"If the city shuts us down, the price of Sriracha will jump up a lot"
[Sriracha CEO and founder David Tran]
Not having questioned the "experts" in Irwindale who are strongly suggesting that the Trans lay out over half a million dollars for a "recommended" cleansing system, I do not know what's going on in their heads. Being a cynic, I naturally suspect a shakedown. Stranger things have happened. This is the United States, and gangsterism in city halls is not unknown. Several vile East-Coast burgs have been controlled by criminal enterprises for years. Both Chicago and New York are infamous for endemic and pervasive corruption. So the idea that someone well-connected to a relative of a bigwig in Irwindale, in a truly remarkable coincidence, either sells or installs "cleansing systems", is not entirely unrealistic.
I refuse to even consider the "testimony" or "complaints" that are alleged to have come from nearby residents. Just like the time my apartment mate fled the kitchen coughing and choking theatrically, while I was making a charred chili condiment, I must assume that it's merely smoke and thunder, no real substance. She recovered within days, and her consumption of peppery substance has shot up dramatically in the two decades since. Why, she'll even add a teaspoon of one of my sauces to a large pot of stew!
Before, she handled the bottle with tongs!
How could I eat that stuff?
Degenerate!
Products which you may have trouble finding till Irwindale comes to its senses include:
Sriracha: Sriracha is made from sun ripen chilies which are ground into a smooth paste along with garlic and packaged in a convenient squeeze bottle. It is excellent in soups, sauces, pastas, pizzas, hot dogs, hamburgers, chowmein or on anything else to give it a delicious, spicy taste. Like all our sauces, we use only the highest quality ingredients and never any artificial colors or flavorings.
Available in 17 oz. and 28 oz. bottles.
Chili Garlic: Chili Garlic is a tempting blend of coarsely ground chilies and garlic. The delicious flavor of the sauce complements everything from a cracker to poultry to soups. It has a full-bodied flavor that will make your mouth water.
Available in 8 oz., 18oz., and 8.75 lbs. sizes.
Sambal Oelek: Sambal Oelek is made of chilies with no other additives such as garlic or spices for a more simpler taste. Use this sauce to add heat to a dish without altering the other delicate flavors.
Available in 8 oz., 18 oz., and 8.50 lbs. sizes.
Instructions for mail-ordering are here: Order Information
THE SQUEEZE
There are substitutes, of course. It is likely that at some point I'll walk into one of my favourite places in Chinatown, and instead of the bright red bottle with the proud rooster and the cheerful green cap, I'll see some product from Hong Kong, the mainland, or Malaysia, on the tables.
The imitation from Hong Kong is actually rather good.
But why give those others any business at all?
Sriracha was invented here in the U.S.
David Tran is one of ours.
Sriracha is mom, the flag, and apple pie.
Irwindale. Whoever heard of such a thing?
Forsooth!
AFTER WORD
Indicating how serious this threat by the odious oafs who run Irwindale (population: 1422) is, even the BBC has an article about this news.
Quote:
The city of Irwindale has asked a judge to prevent Huy Fong Foods from making the spicy condiment until the factory submits plan to reduce the smell.
Huy Fong representatives have said they are actively trying to fix the problem and have received no citations.
Sriracha sauce is sold around the world, and there was even a recent Sriracha festival in LA.
End quote.
[Source: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-us-canada-24737588.]
Any bottleneck or delay will be a profound hardship. Several of the people who live in residential hotels on Broadway, in the Tenderloin, and south of Market Street, depend upon the stuff. Many other San Franciscans rely on it to make lunch in the Financial District exciting, or even edible.
There are more of us than the entire city of Irwindale.
We have pitchforks.
NOTE: Any thoughts you have about theblackmail brouhaha, or the vast reservoirs of selfish stupidity of the goombas who run Irwindale, can be voiced here: 'City Manager'.
Remember to be polite.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
In the jaundiced and pepper-loving eyes of this blogger, Sriracha is a national treasure, so all those wussy whitebread Irwindalites should just shut up and choke on it.
A factory that turns out two hundred thousand bottles of crimson gold each day brings infinite happiness to millions, who otherwise would have to suffer the agonies of tasteless waspy food in the American hinterlands.
Besides, chilies are a potent source of vitamin C.
There are several important health benefits.
Improve your life, and your attitude.
Chili makes Texas bearable.
Suck it up.
"Inspectors from the South Coast Air Quality Management District checked out the plant twice with no citations made and the factory never received complaints during its 30-year residency in Rosemead"
[Source: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/foodbeast/sriracha-ceo-warns-a-fact_b_4175853.html?utm_hp_ref=los-angeles&ir=Los+Angeles.]
The miserable cretins who run the city of Irwindale have filed suit to halt production. At least for the foreseeable future, while a solution to the problem of wussy neighbors is found. Given that life in the United States is tolerable ONLY because of saintly chili condiment producers such as the Tran family, whose products bring light and joy and the blessing of civilization to the dark and miserable hinterlands of Texas, Connecticut, and New Jersey (and other locales whose names we can't remember), it is inevitable that a cessation of bottling for even one day will have a profound impact.
"If the city shuts us down, the price of Sriracha will jump up a lot"
[Sriracha CEO and founder David Tran]
Not having questioned the "experts" in Irwindale who are strongly suggesting that the Trans lay out over half a million dollars for a "recommended" cleansing system, I do not know what's going on in their heads. Being a cynic, I naturally suspect a shakedown. Stranger things have happened. This is the United States, and gangsterism in city halls is not unknown. Several vile East-Coast burgs have been controlled by criminal enterprises for years. Both Chicago and New York are infamous for endemic and pervasive corruption. So the idea that someone well-connected to a relative of a bigwig in Irwindale, in a truly remarkable coincidence, either sells or installs "cleansing systems", is not entirely unrealistic.
I refuse to even consider the "testimony" or "complaints" that are alleged to have come from nearby residents. Just like the time my apartment mate fled the kitchen coughing and choking theatrically, while I was making a charred chili condiment, I must assume that it's merely smoke and thunder, no real substance. She recovered within days, and her consumption of peppery substance has shot up dramatically in the two decades since. Why, she'll even add a teaspoon of one of my sauces to a large pot of stew!
Before, she handled the bottle with tongs!
How could I eat that stuff?
Degenerate!
Products which you may have trouble finding till Irwindale comes to its senses include:
Sriracha: Sriracha is made from sun ripen chilies which are ground into a smooth paste along with garlic and packaged in a convenient squeeze bottle. It is excellent in soups, sauces, pastas, pizzas, hot dogs, hamburgers, chowmein or on anything else to give it a delicious, spicy taste. Like all our sauces, we use only the highest quality ingredients and never any artificial colors or flavorings.
Available in 17 oz. and 28 oz. bottles.
Chili Garlic: Chili Garlic is a tempting blend of coarsely ground chilies and garlic. The delicious flavor of the sauce complements everything from a cracker to poultry to soups. It has a full-bodied flavor that will make your mouth water.
Available in 8 oz., 18oz., and 8.75 lbs. sizes.
Sambal Oelek: Sambal Oelek is made of chilies with no other additives such as garlic or spices for a more simpler taste. Use this sauce to add heat to a dish without altering the other delicate flavors.
Available in 8 oz., 18 oz., and 8.50 lbs. sizes.
Instructions for mail-ordering are here: Order Information
THE SQUEEZE
There are substitutes, of course. It is likely that at some point I'll walk into one of my favourite places in Chinatown, and instead of the bright red bottle with the proud rooster and the cheerful green cap, I'll see some product from Hong Kong, the mainland, or Malaysia, on the tables.
The imitation from Hong Kong is actually rather good.
But why give those others any business at all?
Sriracha was invented here in the U.S.
David Tran is one of ours.
Sriracha is mom, the flag, and apple pie.
Irwindale. Whoever heard of such a thing?
Forsooth!
AFTER WORD
Indicating how serious this threat by the odious oafs who run Irwindale (population: 1422) is, even the BBC has an article about this news.
Quote:
The city of Irwindale has asked a judge to prevent Huy Fong Foods from making the spicy condiment until the factory submits plan to reduce the smell.
Huy Fong representatives have said they are actively trying to fix the problem and have received no citations.
Sriracha sauce is sold around the world, and there was even a recent Sriracha festival in LA.
End quote.
[Source: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-us-canada-24737588.]
Any bottleneck or delay will be a profound hardship. Several of the people who live in residential hotels on Broadway, in the Tenderloin, and south of Market Street, depend upon the stuff. Many other San Franciscans rely on it to make lunch in the Financial District exciting, or even edible.
There are more of us than the entire city of Irwindale.
We have pitchforks.
NOTE: Any thoughts you have about the
Remember to be polite.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, October 13, 2013
MIDNIGHT SNACK
I missed the last bus, so I took a zig-zaggy way home. The direct route would have had me huffing up a steep slope, and there was plenty of time. So instead of heading directly up Sacramento or California Street, I wandered from Kearney Street to Grant Avenue, cut up to Waverly at Clay, then traversed Portola ("Old Chinatown Lane") from Washington to Jackson, crossed Stockton, and turned right into Trenton Street.
Right outside the eastern side of the Ping Yuen West housing project, there were two orbs at waist level.
[Sacramento Street: 唐人街 (or 沙加緬度街 past 美臣街). California Street: 加利福尼亞街. Kearney Street: 乾尼街. Grant Avenue: 都板街. Waverly: 天后廟街. Clay Street: 企李街. Portola Alley: 舊華埠巷. Washington Street: 華盛頓街. Jackson Street: 積臣街. Stockton Street: 市德頓街, Trenton Street: 登頓街. Ping Yuen West: 西平原.]
Two glowing orbs.
Curious.
浣熊!
I looked at the raccoon. The raccoon looked at me. I stepped back a few paces, and filled a pipe. The raccoon observed. I lit the pipe. The raccoon was alarmed at the flare, then calmed down when the flame died. Just in case the animal was still disconcerted, I took another step backward. The raccoon cautiously resumed wrestling with the lid of the refuse disposal unit, occasionally glancing over in my direction.
Don't worry, small furry person, I have a pipe! You can enjoy all of that yourself, there is no need to share. Honestly.
My oral fixation is satisfied.
Eat!
I have no idea what the creature found in there. But whatever it was, it smelled fecund. Rich, robust, and fruity. Rather like a good Virginia flake tobacco. Perhaps I should offer to share my smoke?
Fish heads; that accounts for the aroma of Perique.
There should be a late-night eatery in Chinatown, run by a Cantonese relative of Gandalf, so that a middle-aged Dutch American and a young raccoon might have a bite together.
Something with noodles.
See, you hold the chopsticks like so; use your first digit for leverage, because you do not actually have opposable thumbs, what with being a raccoon and all. That's just the way it is. Then angle your second and third digits against the pieces of bamboo, and with deft pinching motions you can lift the morsels to your mouth.
Have you ever had charsiu? I really think you'll like it.
Be cautious with the Sriracha hotsauce.
Unless you've had it before.
It's... peppy.
The raccoon would likely need at least three(!) telephone books on the seat to reach up to the table. But it would probably love the lights, and shiny surfaces. Along with the quietness, and the fact that Gandalf understands the existential hunger furry creatures feel.
As well as their liking for noodles.
After our snack, we'll share some tobacco.
The raccoon finished rooting around, came down from the garbage can and stared up at me for a few seconds, then turned around and slipped through the fencing into the courtyard of Ping Yuen.
I tapped out my pipe, and continued up Pacific.
Not now, but one of these days.
Noodles.
*浣熊 (woon hong): the wash bear.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Right outside the eastern side of the Ping Yuen West housing project, there were two orbs at waist level.
[Sacramento Street: 唐人街 (or 沙加緬度街 past 美臣街). California Street: 加利福尼亞街. Kearney Street: 乾尼街. Grant Avenue: 都板街. Waverly: 天后廟街. Clay Street: 企李街. Portola Alley: 舊華埠巷. Washington Street: 華盛頓街. Jackson Street: 積臣街. Stockton Street: 市德頓街, Trenton Street: 登頓街. Ping Yuen West: 西平原.]
Two glowing orbs.
Curious.
浣熊!
I looked at the raccoon. The raccoon looked at me. I stepped back a few paces, and filled a pipe. The raccoon observed. I lit the pipe. The raccoon was alarmed at the flare, then calmed down when the flame died. Just in case the animal was still disconcerted, I took another step backward. The raccoon cautiously resumed wrestling with the lid of the refuse disposal unit, occasionally glancing over in my direction.
Don't worry, small furry person, I have a pipe! You can enjoy all of that yourself, there is no need to share. Honestly.
My oral fixation is satisfied.
Eat!
I have no idea what the creature found in there. But whatever it was, it smelled fecund. Rich, robust, and fruity. Rather like a good Virginia flake tobacco. Perhaps I should offer to share my smoke?
Fish heads; that accounts for the aroma of Perique.
There should be a late-night eatery in Chinatown, run by a Cantonese relative of Gandalf, so that a middle-aged Dutch American and a young raccoon might have a bite together.
Something with noodles.
See, you hold the chopsticks like so; use your first digit for leverage, because you do not actually have opposable thumbs, what with being a raccoon and all. That's just the way it is. Then angle your second and third digits against the pieces of bamboo, and with deft pinching motions you can lift the morsels to your mouth.
Have you ever had charsiu? I really think you'll like it.
Be cautious with the Sriracha hotsauce.
Unless you've had it before.
It's... peppy.
The raccoon would likely need at least three(!) telephone books on the seat to reach up to the table. But it would probably love the lights, and shiny surfaces. Along with the quietness, and the fact that Gandalf understands the existential hunger furry creatures feel.
As well as their liking for noodles.
After our snack, we'll share some tobacco.
The raccoon finished rooting around, came down from the garbage can and stared up at me for a few seconds, then turned around and slipped through the fencing into the courtyard of Ping Yuen.
I tapped out my pipe, and continued up Pacific.
Not now, but one of these days.
Noodles.
*浣熊 (woon hong): the wash bear.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, October 07, 2013
I AM OSCAR
"Uncle Van Der Pervert", little children might ask me, "how do you stay so healthy and trim?" And they'll loudly wonder at the magic of it, knowing that I seldom seriously cook anymore, and tend toward very casual dining.
"I mean, you eat all kinda weird crap, and we worry about the fragile digestive system of a man in his early fifties who seemingly avoids fresh fruit and wholesome activities!"
Whereupon I would hasten to reassure them that the weird crap is not always part of my diet; why, there are days when I eat perfectly normal food! Please ignore the instance when I conceived that very old dry salami should make a perfect yoghurt salad (it did -- I added some chopped green chilies and left-over celery), or the many ghastly experiments with the Mexican Death Wurst (of which two inches still repine in the deep-freeze, waiting for the end-times).
Let us instead stress that on Saturday evening I ate only healthy stuff.
Basil leaf chicken (香花草鷄球) over rice. Which contained onion, bell pepper, green chilies, basil, and fresh chicken, plus a modicum of stock and rice wine. The rice was white (not the weird brown stuff). With a fierce jigger of Sriracha hot-sauce and a few dashes of chili pepper vinegar, it was delicious!
Both the Vietnamese ice coffee and the complimentary tea gave a necessary touch of hydration and wake-me-up-againity.
Altogether surely an extremely healthy meal.
香花草鷄球飯 HEUNG FAA CHO GAI KAU FAAN
In Chinese, basil is either 紫蘇葉 (ji sou yip) or 羅勒 (lou laak). But on the menus of Vietnamese-Chinese restaurants, it may be called 香花草 (heung faa cho). The first name means 'purplish spice-herb leaf', the second literally means 'birdnet strangle', and is probably a time-hallowed transcription of a vernacular name (many such terms exist, often with exceedingly odd meanings), and the third is descriptive: fragrant flower grassy-herb.
Hospitable environment, nice people. They probably think I must be a little odd, seeing as I often eat there, and always dine alone.
Men of my age in their world are not supposed to be single.
But they've never asked prying questions, though I was once required to explain pipes and pipe tobacco......
講明好簡單嘅， 高級煙斗用嘅煙草， 有香有醇， 甜甜潤潤。 味道香甜， 弗吉尼亞州嘅大黃色葉， 感覺如錦。 香馥， 因為土耳其煙。 煙熏味， 係拉塔基亞葉。
['Gong-ming hou gan-tan ge, kou-kap yin-tou ge yin-cho, yau heung yau seun, tim-tim yuen-yuen. Mei-to heung tim, Fatgatneiyaa chau ge taai wong-sik yip, gam-gok yiu kam. Heung-fuk, yanwai Touyigei yin. Yinfan-mei hai Laaitaapkeiyaa yip.'
"Simple explanation, high quality pipe tobacco has fragrance and richness, and is both sweet and mellow. The sweet taste derives from Virginia bright leaves, which feel silky to the touch. There is resinous perfume because of Turkish tobacco. The smokiness is Latakia leaf."]
I may have bollixed that up to a fare-thee-well, as it is quite unlikely they understood what the heck I was saying. Communication, unfortunately, is all about communication.
* * * * *
On Sunday evening, however, I was too tired to head into Chinatown; it had been a very long day. Two severe pipe stems, plus Ashton, Alec Bradley, Ghurka, Avo Uvezian, and a stab at the PerDomo section.
So I simply threw together something that seemed quite logical and sensible at the time: a custard bun sliced in half, with Braunschweiger, cheese, and sliced cucumber. Because the mayonnaise was running low, I added a touch of yoghurt and Crystal hot sauce.
I think it worked, sort of, not sure.
Can't really remember.
Custard and hot sauce compliment each other.
Yoghurt and cucumber will make it healthy.
Ate it off a paper plate in front of the computer, wearing pajama pants and an undershirt. Had a cigar to cap it off.
After several cups of tea I was fast asleep.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"I mean, you eat all kinda weird crap, and we worry about the fragile digestive system of a man in his early fifties who seemingly avoids fresh fruit and wholesome activities!"
Whereupon I would hasten to reassure them that the weird crap is not always part of my diet; why, there are days when I eat perfectly normal food! Please ignore the instance when I conceived that very old dry salami should make a perfect yoghurt salad (it did -- I added some chopped green chilies and left-over celery), or the many ghastly experiments with the Mexican Death Wurst (of which two inches still repine in the deep-freeze, waiting for the end-times).
Let us instead stress that on Saturday evening I ate only healthy stuff.
Basil leaf chicken (香花草鷄球) over rice. Which contained onion, bell pepper, green chilies, basil, and fresh chicken, plus a modicum of stock and rice wine. The rice was white (not the weird brown stuff). With a fierce jigger of Sriracha hot-sauce and a few dashes of chili pepper vinegar, it was delicious!
Both the Vietnamese ice coffee and the complimentary tea gave a necessary touch of hydration and wake-me-up-againity.
Altogether surely an extremely healthy meal.
香花草鷄球飯 HEUNG FAA CHO GAI KAU FAAN
In Chinese, basil is either 紫蘇葉 (ji sou yip) or 羅勒 (lou laak). But on the menus of Vietnamese-Chinese restaurants, it may be called 香花草 (heung faa cho). The first name means 'purplish spice-herb leaf', the second literally means 'birdnet strangle', and is probably a time-hallowed transcription of a vernacular name (many such terms exist, often with exceedingly odd meanings), and the third is descriptive: fragrant flower grassy-herb.
Hospitable environment, nice people. They probably think I must be a little odd, seeing as I often eat there, and always dine alone.
Men of my age in their world are not supposed to be single.
But they've never asked prying questions, though I was once required to explain pipes and pipe tobacco......
講明好簡單嘅， 高級煙斗用嘅煙草， 有香有醇， 甜甜潤潤。 味道香甜， 弗吉尼亞州嘅大黃色葉， 感覺如錦。 香馥， 因為土耳其煙。 煙熏味， 係拉塔基亞葉。
['Gong-ming hou gan-tan ge, kou-kap yin-tou ge yin-cho, yau heung yau seun, tim-tim yuen-yuen. Mei-to heung tim, Fatgatneiyaa chau ge taai wong-sik yip, gam-gok yiu kam. Heung-fuk, yanwai Touyigei yin. Yinfan-mei hai Laaitaapkeiyaa yip.'
"Simple explanation, high quality pipe tobacco has fragrance and richness, and is both sweet and mellow. The sweet taste derives from Virginia bright leaves, which feel silky to the touch. There is resinous perfume because of Turkish tobacco. The smokiness is Latakia leaf."]
I may have bollixed that up to a fare-thee-well, as it is quite unlikely they understood what the heck I was saying. Communication, unfortunately, is all about communication.
* * * * *
On Sunday evening, however, I was too tired to head into Chinatown; it had been a very long day. Two severe pipe stems, plus Ashton, Alec Bradley, Ghurka, Avo Uvezian, and a stab at the PerDomo section.
So I simply threw together something that seemed quite logical and sensible at the time: a custard bun sliced in half, with Braunschweiger, cheese, and sliced cucumber. Because the mayonnaise was running low, I added a touch of yoghurt and Crystal hot sauce.
I think it worked, sort of, not sure.
Can't really remember.
Custard and hot sauce compliment each other.
Yoghurt and cucumber will make it healthy.
Ate it off a paper plate in front of the computer, wearing pajama pants and an undershirt. Had a cigar to cap it off.
After several cups of tea I was fast asleep.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, August 08, 2013
SURREAL? PERHAPS. BUT IT'S ANNOTATED!
Bachelors are well-known for doing depraved things late at night.
Bad decisions will be made, and regretted the next morning. Such as feasting on a peanut butter and salami sandwich on toasted sourdough, with a thick shmear of Indian pickle. It was supposed to be a French Dip, but there was no roast beef in the house, hence the substitution, and in lieu of jus (as in "au jus"), I simply used a bowl of Louisiana hotsauce.
It seemed like a really good idea at the time.
But I should've known better.
At three A.M.
I'm blaming the restaurant where I had breakfasted the previous afternoon. Being somewhat ravenous at the time, all constraints flew out the window, which was a pattern that continued throughout the evening.
Sometimes a plate of yi-min hits the spot. Really hits the spot.
Especially when augmented with SriRacha Hotsauce.
Which they have at that restaurant.
阿姨, 我好鍾意食辣嘅, 你可唔可以攞嗰個瓶辣醬畀我？
Ah Yi, ngo hou jung-yi sik laat ge, nei ho m-ho yi lo ko-go ping laat-jeung bei ngo?
["Auntie, I really like eating spicy food, could you bring me that bottle of hot sauce?"]
The great thing about yi-min noodles (伊麵) is the chewy texture, and dry-fry (幹燒 gon-siu) yi-min with roast duck (火鴨絲炆伊麵 fo-ngaap si mun yi min) is extremely satisfying. Little bits of juicy bird, chunks of baby bokchoi, and a big, big, BIG! sploodge of hotsauce (辣醬 laat jeung).
Sheer heaven.
Quite the perfect preamble to a night of smoking a pipe till three in the morning, and other constructive pursuits.
Which the poor German tourists at the next table did not realize. Or they wouldn't have had so much difficulty with the menu.
At one point, a courteous middle-aged Gentleman left his own table and came over, offering to help them and explain what all the listed items were, saying that the restaurant served home-style food, and the waitress wasn't entirely fluent in English. Which is more or less true, but she certainly wasn't the only one with that problem.
阿生啊，嗰啲德國遊客都唔識講英文。
Ah-sang ah, ko di tak-kwok yau-haak do m-sik-kong yingman.....
["Oh mister, those German tourists ALSO don't speak English."]
Their difficulties continued, as they were completely baffled by his sincere wish to render assistance and make their stay in Chinatown smooth and enjoyable, but they eventually ended up with a selection of good food.
And the two kids did a credible job with their chopsticks, utilizing more digits than just thumb and index.
Very fastidious and elegant.
Of course, they did not have yi-min. Glopped with SriRacha.
Very temperate of them.
The problem with dining alone is that possibilities are limited. Hence my choosing a plate of yi-min (伊麵) over a more balanced meal with greater variety. The hotsauce, you will understand, functioned as the vegetable component. It was chock-full of fibre and vitamin C.
SriRacha is excellent salad dressing, btw.
It's truly perfect for smokers.
We need vitamins.
I grasp that the two children probably don't smoke (yet), but their parents had that rascally European look, and without a doubt lit up ferociously after the children were asleep. Or even the moment they left the restaurant.
Much later, after finding out that "English Crust" had gotten involved with a blonde woman several years older than him (老來嬌 lou loi kiu; refer back to bachelors being well-known for depravity after dark), K-chai and I discussed paneer, that being Indian-style cheese. It is made by adding an acidulant to warm milk, then pouring the milk into fine-mesh cheesecloth after it has curdled. The resultant loose lump of cheese will be squooze out and pressed under a weight for a few hours, before being fried and spiced. Either to be eaten as is, as a late night snack with that bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label that all Punjabis love, or added to creamed spinach (saag paneer), or even creamed mustard greens (sarson da saag). Delicious with hot buttered makki di roti and a big glass of whipped dahi.
Naturally there should be fresh chilies on the side.
Perfect bachelor food.
I was on my fifth pipe of the evening by then. K-chai was enjoying a Havana. Someone else was smoking a Rocky Edge Candela. I may have seen an Epernay Illusione elsewhere in the room.
English Crust was happy as a clam.
The bachelor life suits him.
Good cigars.
For some reason when I got home I was ravenous again. Something was gnawing at my stomach. I held off as long as possible, but five hours later I could not resist anymore. It's surprising how fast yi-min is metabolized.
Or whatever it is that digestive systems do.
Dried Italian Salami. Peanut butter.
Both kasondi and thokku.
Louisiana hotsauce.
Both the dream-state while I was sleeping, and the entire morning today, have been surreal. Flecks of movement at the edge of vision. Rumbling effects in the old bachelor digestive system. Twinges. A profound urge to stick myself in a bucket of yoghurt (dahi, thanda thanda dahi).
I envy those German tourists from last night.
And their smooth enjoyable stay.
Yoghurty to tha max.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Bad decisions will be made, and regretted the next morning. Such as feasting on a peanut butter and salami sandwich on toasted sourdough, with a thick shmear of Indian pickle. It was supposed to be a French Dip, but there was no roast beef in the house, hence the substitution, and in lieu of jus (as in "au jus"), I simply used a bowl of Louisiana hotsauce.
It seemed like a really good idea at the time.
But I should've known better.
At three A.M.
I'm blaming the restaurant where I had breakfasted the previous afternoon. Being somewhat ravenous at the time, all constraints flew out the window, which was a pattern that continued throughout the evening.
Sometimes a plate of yi-min hits the spot. Really hits the spot.
Especially when augmented with SriRacha Hotsauce.
Which they have at that restaurant.
阿姨, 我好鍾意食辣嘅, 你可唔可以攞嗰個瓶辣醬畀我？
Ah Yi, ngo hou jung-yi sik laat ge, nei ho m-ho yi lo ko-go ping laat-jeung bei ngo?
["Auntie, I really like eating spicy food, could you bring me that bottle of hot sauce?"]
The great thing about yi-min noodles (伊麵) is the chewy texture, and dry-fry (幹燒 gon-siu) yi-min with roast duck (火鴨絲炆伊麵 fo-ngaap si mun yi min) is extremely satisfying. Little bits of juicy bird, chunks of baby bokchoi, and a big, big, BIG! sploodge of hotsauce (辣醬 laat jeung).
Sheer heaven.
Quite the perfect preamble to a night of smoking a pipe till three in the morning, and other constructive pursuits.
Which the poor German tourists at the next table did not realize. Or they wouldn't have had so much difficulty with the menu.
At one point, a courteous middle-aged Gentleman left his own table and came over, offering to help them and explain what all the listed items were, saying that the restaurant served home-style food, and the waitress wasn't entirely fluent in English. Which is more or less true, but she certainly wasn't the only one with that problem.
阿生啊，嗰啲德國遊客都唔識講英文。
Ah-sang ah, ko di tak-kwok yau-haak do m-sik-kong yingman.....
["Oh mister, those German tourists ALSO don't speak English."]
Their difficulties continued, as they were completely baffled by his sincere wish to render assistance and make their stay in Chinatown smooth and enjoyable, but they eventually ended up with a selection of good food.
And the two kids did a credible job with their chopsticks, utilizing more digits than just thumb and index.
Very fastidious and elegant.
Of course, they did not have yi-min. Glopped with SriRacha.
Very temperate of them.
The problem with dining alone is that possibilities are limited. Hence my choosing a plate of yi-min (伊麵) over a more balanced meal with greater variety. The hotsauce, you will understand, functioned as the vegetable component. It was chock-full of fibre and vitamin C.
SriRacha is excellent salad dressing, btw.
It's truly perfect for smokers.
We need vitamins.
I grasp that the two children probably don't smoke (yet), but their parents had that rascally European look, and without a doubt lit up ferociously after the children were asleep. Or even the moment they left the restaurant.
Much later, after finding out that "English Crust" had gotten involved with a blonde woman several years older than him (老來嬌 lou loi kiu; refer back to bachelors being well-known for depravity after dark), K-chai and I discussed paneer, that being Indian-style cheese. It is made by adding an acidulant to warm milk, then pouring the milk into fine-mesh cheesecloth after it has curdled. The resultant loose lump of cheese will be squooze out and pressed under a weight for a few hours, before being fried and spiced. Either to be eaten as is, as a late night snack with that bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label that all Punjabis love, or added to creamed spinach (saag paneer), or even creamed mustard greens (sarson da saag). Delicious with hot buttered makki di roti and a big glass of whipped dahi.
Naturally there should be fresh chilies on the side.
Perfect bachelor food.
I was on my fifth pipe of the evening by then. K-chai was enjoying a Havana. Someone else was smoking a Rocky Edge Candela. I may have seen an Epernay Illusione elsewhere in the room.
English Crust was happy as a clam.
The bachelor life suits him.
Good cigars.
For some reason when I got home I was ravenous again. Something was gnawing at my stomach. I held off as long as possible, but five hours later I could not resist anymore. It's surprising how fast yi-min is metabolized.
Or whatever it is that digestive systems do.
Dried Italian Salami. Peanut butter.
Both kasondi and thokku.
Louisiana hotsauce.
Both the dream-state while I was sleeping, and the entire morning today, have been surreal. Flecks of movement at the edge of vision. Rumbling effects in the old bachelor digestive system. Twinges. A profound urge to stick myself in a bucket of yoghurt (dahi, thanda thanda dahi).
I envy those German tourists from last night.
And their smooth enjoyable stay.
Yoghurty to tha max.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, July 03, 2013
CHIHUAHUA, WITH A SIDE OF MAYONNAISE
She had a hot beverage, and no one was going to take it away, bitches. Hers. All hers. She had had to fight darn well everyone at the caffeine counter for it, disabling not a few, but now she had it, and she was safe where no one could follow: behind the wainscoting, in the hollow between the walls. She curled her furry tail around her and admired her prize. The steaming pint glass was nearly as tall as she was. Lovingly she gazed up at the rim, planning how to reach the precise angle at which her snout could lean over and take a gulp. First up on the piece of wood, then onto the broken ledge. But it was still too hot.
Better wait. More good things needed to be got.
She had seen those dumb bunny rabbits with their baskets of hot hors d'oeuvres over at the vendor near the stairs. There were several stoats, some felines (including a handsome-looking tomcat with tight TIGHT haunches), a lynx (probably a foreigner), and that rancid Chihuahua that always slobbered at her in between. Fortunately she only shared one class with him. She was certain that a critical reading of Asian American literature was entirely beyond him, he had only signed up for the lectures because he was desperate for nookie. Hah! None of the women in that room, human or bestial, had even the slightest interest in him. He would have had more luck in remedial English, with the bunnies and the blondes! Stupid mutt.
BAD DOG! NO BISCUIT!
At just the right moment she shot out of the hole, between the table legs, past the stoats -- they looked up startled, maybe they should get her into the track team, damn she was fast -- over the felines and the sexy tomcat, who were too busy ripping apart a deep-fried fieldmouse to pay attention, past the lynx with his cream of wheat, and, with one mighty kick against the ribcage of the stupid Chihuahua, who yelped and whimpered in a blind panic at the unseen assault, cleared the edge of the furthest table. Now the target was within view. A hot basket of Crab Rangoon, with bottles of spicy mustard and Sriracha hotsauce next to the potted plant.
She landed on the counter, composed herself, and walked over to the girl at the register.
"Hello Mabel", she said, "could I please have some of those?" Mabel happily rang up one order, and asked her if she wanted sweet and sour sauce, or thick soy. "Neither, don't you remember that I like spicy?" "Oh yeah", said Mabel, "lots of red and a squeeze of yellow".
Mabel had chided her the last time, giving the opinion that she would not be surprised if someday the weasel's little fuzzy stomach exploded. Only 'mak-sei-go-yan' should eat so much hot sauce. She herself preferred a touch of mayo on Crab Rangoon, along with French fries. Mabel was American born, and a little depraved. Mathilda (the weasel) had seen little miss Mabel (the human) jump into a lobster tank once in Chinatown to arm-wrestle a gigantic New-Englander. She had then left with both of his claws, grinning.
Old man Wong drained the fried objects and dumped them into the paper-lined basket. "Dim-ah, siu-jeh, ho loi m-kin, hah" (hey sis, howzit, long time no see). She politely responded "Wong-sang, nei ho" (hello mr. Wong), before grabbing the basket and taking a running leap off the counter. Same route as before, but now she had the advantage of height. Passed over a table of fifteen watt Christian kids from the Valley, onto the stool where the lynx had sat with his cream of wheat -- the bowl was licked clean, she noticed -- and right next to the tomcat. She wuzzawuzzed his ears quickly, before scooting between the felines and their third mouse cadaver. Everything buffalo style, with blue cheese and celery stalks. They never ate the celery, but occasionally batted it around the floor or hit rabbits with it. The stoats saw her coming and scattered.
She got back to her hiding place in the wall at just the right moment.
The hot beverage had cooled to perfect temperature.
Perched on the ledge, she took a sip.
It was delicious!
An hour later, stuffed and happy, she wandered into Doctor Lee's "introduction to Asian American literature". The Chihuahua looked scared when she took a seat near him, and decided that really, he should sit elsewhere. Anywhere else. Like right next to the short Chinese girl with the bottle bottom glasses. The girl glared at him, grimaced, and swatted him with a rolled up newspaper, hissing "chau kwai mat, hui sei ah nei!". He left and found an empty desk next to the garbage can.
After class was over, Mathilda noticed that the garbage can was overturned. So like a stupid dog. Couldn't resist the temptation! He just had to play with smelly crap. He was probably covered with banana peels and scraps of candied rat. A randy creep, smelling appropriately.
Oh well, at least he hadn't humped any legs during the lecture.
Chihuahuas have no brains, nor any self control.
One of these days he would go too far.
She'd really bite him fiercely.
Scratch his eyes out.
She was waiting.
Any excuse.
Still two more years till she graduated. It would be a long time.
Maybe she might have some fun while she stayed at State.
The school still didn't have any blood sports yet.
Perhaps she should try to get a team going.
The Chinese girls would be perfect.
Especially miss Mabel Wong.
Incredibly fierce.
Terrifying.
AFTER WORD
Back in the nineties I audited a class on Asian American Lit at San Francisco State. No, I wasn't desperate for nookie, do I look like a damned Chihuahua to you? My squeeze-bit at the time was still working on her first degree, and it was lovely meeting her for lunch in the basement of the student union. But the food down there was more than a little strange.
That was where I first ran into 'crab raccoon'. Canned crab meat and cream cheese wrapped in a wonton skin and deep-fried.
Done well, I imagine it can be quite delicious.
I've always liked the ambiance of universities. The virtually deserted libraries, the folding tables out front with totally blinkered activists and idealists, the offensive and rude thug-jugend from a ghastly place with well-deserved inferiority complexes and a chip underneath the ugly scarves on their shoulders, the sweetly shy girl-students on their way to becoming the accounting major who saves civilization, boys who excel in sports, beer, and pizza........
Professors who love their subject, and can't understand why it isn't the most popular course of study in school, why in their day, sir, back in their day.......
Still. Crab Raccoon. I always imagined this to be a masked furball with a mallet, a bib, and a finger-bowl, fastidiously ripping limbs one by one off the boiled beast, cracking them, and dipping the silky white meat into mayonnaise. A veritable San Franciscan among the raccoons, smuggling his bottle of Chardonnay into the student union and sharing it with other animals, in little Dixie cups.
I was rather disappointed.
I would go back, but I no longer have a squeeze-bit, and people might think I was desperate. And there are not nearly enough animals at San Francisco State. Besides, the food in the basement of the student union is probably all vegan or sustainably green shit by now, crab meat is SO destructive of the rainforest, and cream cheese is very white.
I probably wouldn't enjoy it anymore.
And there would be nobody to eat lunch with.
Crab Raccoon. Sriracha hotsauce.
Plus a dab of mustard.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Better wait. More good things needed to be got.
She had seen those dumb bunny rabbits with their baskets of hot hors d'oeuvres over at the vendor near the stairs. There were several stoats, some felines (including a handsome-looking tomcat with tight TIGHT haunches), a lynx (probably a foreigner), and that rancid Chihuahua that always slobbered at her in between. Fortunately she only shared one class with him. She was certain that a critical reading of Asian American literature was entirely beyond him, he had only signed up for the lectures because he was desperate for nookie. Hah! None of the women in that room, human or bestial, had even the slightest interest in him. He would have had more luck in remedial English, with the bunnies and the blondes! Stupid mutt.
BAD DOG! NO BISCUIT!
At just the right moment she shot out of the hole, between the table legs, past the stoats -- they looked up startled, maybe they should get her into the track team, damn she was fast -- over the felines and the sexy tomcat, who were too busy ripping apart a deep-fried fieldmouse to pay attention, past the lynx with his cream of wheat, and, with one mighty kick against the ribcage of the stupid Chihuahua, who yelped and whimpered in a blind panic at the unseen assault, cleared the edge of the furthest table. Now the target was within view. A hot basket of Crab Rangoon, with bottles of spicy mustard and Sriracha hotsauce next to the potted plant.
She landed on the counter, composed herself, and walked over to the girl at the register.
"Hello Mabel", she said, "could I please have some of those?" Mabel happily rang up one order, and asked her if she wanted sweet and sour sauce, or thick soy. "Neither, don't you remember that I like spicy?" "Oh yeah", said Mabel, "lots of red and a squeeze of yellow".
Mabel had chided her the last time, giving the opinion that she would not be surprised if someday the weasel's little fuzzy stomach exploded. Only 'mak-sei-go-yan' should eat so much hot sauce. She herself preferred a touch of mayo on Crab Rangoon, along with French fries. Mabel was American born, and a little depraved. Mathilda (the weasel) had seen little miss Mabel (the human) jump into a lobster tank once in Chinatown to arm-wrestle a gigantic New-Englander. She had then left with both of his claws, grinning.
Old man Wong drained the fried objects and dumped them into the paper-lined basket. "Dim-ah, siu-jeh, ho loi m-kin, hah" (hey sis, howzit, long time no see). She politely responded "Wong-sang, nei ho" (hello mr. Wong), before grabbing the basket and taking a running leap off the counter. Same route as before, but now she had the advantage of height. Passed over a table of fifteen watt Christian kids from the Valley, onto the stool where the lynx had sat with his cream of wheat -- the bowl was licked clean, she noticed -- and right next to the tomcat. She wuzzawuzzed his ears quickly, before scooting between the felines and their third mouse cadaver. Everything buffalo style, with blue cheese and celery stalks. They never ate the celery, but occasionally batted it around the floor or hit rabbits with it. The stoats saw her coming and scattered.
She got back to her hiding place in the wall at just the right moment.
The hot beverage had cooled to perfect temperature.
Perched on the ledge, she took a sip.
It was delicious!
An hour later, stuffed and happy, she wandered into Doctor Lee's "introduction to Asian American literature". The Chihuahua looked scared when she took a seat near him, and decided that really, he should sit elsewhere. Anywhere else. Like right next to the short Chinese girl with the bottle bottom glasses. The girl glared at him, grimaced, and swatted him with a rolled up newspaper, hissing "chau kwai mat, hui sei ah nei!". He left and found an empty desk next to the garbage can.
After class was over, Mathilda noticed that the garbage can was overturned. So like a stupid dog. Couldn't resist the temptation! He just had to play with smelly crap. He was probably covered with banana peels and scraps of candied rat. A randy creep, smelling appropriately.
Oh well, at least he hadn't humped any legs during the lecture.
Chihuahuas have no brains, nor any self control.
One of these days he would go too far.
She'd really bite him fiercely.
Scratch his eyes out.
She was waiting.
Any excuse.
Still two more years till she graduated. It would be a long time.
Maybe she might have some fun while she stayed at State.
The school still didn't have any blood sports yet.
Perhaps she should try to get a team going.
The Chinese girls would be perfect.
Especially miss Mabel Wong.
Incredibly fierce.
Terrifying.
AFTER WORD
Back in the nineties I audited a class on Asian American Lit at San Francisco State. No, I wasn't desperate for nookie, do I look like a damned Chihuahua to you? My squeeze-bit at the time was still working on her first degree, and it was lovely meeting her for lunch in the basement of the student union. But the food down there was more than a little strange.
That was where I first ran into 'crab raccoon'. Canned crab meat and cream cheese wrapped in a wonton skin and deep-fried.
Done well, I imagine it can be quite delicious.
I've always liked the ambiance of universities. The virtually deserted libraries, the folding tables out front with totally blinkered activists and idealists, the offensive and rude thug-jugend from a ghastly place with well-deserved inferiority complexes and a chip underneath the ugly scarves on their shoulders, the sweetly shy girl-students on their way to becoming the accounting major who saves civilization, boys who excel in sports, beer, and pizza........
Professors who love their subject, and can't understand why it isn't the most popular course of study in school, why in their day, sir, back in their day.......
Still. Crab Raccoon. I always imagined this to be a masked furball with a mallet, a bib, and a finger-bowl, fastidiously ripping limbs one by one off the boiled beast, cracking them, and dipping the silky white meat into mayonnaise. A veritable San Franciscan among the raccoons, smuggling his bottle of Chardonnay into the student union and sharing it with other animals, in little Dixie cups.
I was rather disappointed.
I would go back, but I no longer have a squeeze-bit, and people might think I was desperate. And there are not nearly enough animals at San Francisco State. Besides, the food in the basement of the student union is probably all vegan or sustainably green shit by now, crab meat is SO destructive of the rainforest, and cream cheese is very white.
I probably wouldn't enjoy it anymore.
And there would be nobody to eat lunch with.
Crab Raccoon. Sriracha hotsauce.
Plus a dab of mustard.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, March 28, 2013
TAMARIND CHUTNEY
Some relishes and spicy pickle preparations are universally useful.
A simple tamarind chutney also falls into this category. No, it cannot be employed for Papal blessings or rubbed on arthritic joints with any hope of successfully solving the problem. But it is rather good, it keeps well, and adds a bit of sparkle to any meal.
It is sour, mildly spicy, slightly sweet.
PATJERI ASEM, PATJERI KAMPAL
[TAMARIND CHUTNEY]
One cup of very thick tamarind water.
One medium yellow onion, minced.
Two TBS chili paste (sambal oelek).
Two TBS slivered fresh ginger.
One TBS brown sugar.
One Tsp. ground coriander.
One Tsp. salt.
A scant amount of oil.
Heat a pan and lightly gild the minced onion in the oil.
Add the ginger and garlic, saute briefly, add coriander powder and chilipaste and stir to incorporate. When the fragrance has increased, add the other ingredients, and simmer until it is considerably thickened. Let it cool, transfer to a jar, and refrigerate till next week.
The visual appeal is greatly enhanced, in the minds of some people, by adding a drop of red or orange food-colouring. I myself am not so sure of that, as it makes it look deceptively like sweet-sour sauce or tomato condiments such as American ketchup, and tjeap kwartir.
Note that sambal oelek is the basic building block of much that is good in the world. With its companion sambal badjak, it should never be absent from your kitchen.
A good source in the United States is Huy Fong, makers of SriRacha. Imported brands are Koningsvogel and Conimex, both based in the Netherlands.
It is also quite easy to make at home. Just pound a bunch of red ripe hot peppers with a little salt. Scoop the resultant paste into an appropriate vessel, then use a squeeze of lime juice to wash the remaining pulpy goodness from the pounder.
Thick tamarind water is made by mashing tamarind pulp with twice the volume of hot water, working it over with your hand as soon as it is cool enough to do so. After thoroughly mooshing it up, let it stand a while, then rub it through a tea strainer to leave seeds and strings of pulp behind.
In Indonesia, tamarind is Asam Djawa: Javanese sour.
Asem is the Indo-Dutch spelling.
In Tamarao it is Buwa Kampal.
Patjeri is a cooked relish.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A simple tamarind chutney also falls into this category. No, it cannot be employed for Papal blessings or rubbed on arthritic joints with any hope of successfully solving the problem. But it is rather good, it keeps well, and adds a bit of sparkle to any meal.
It is sour, mildly spicy, slightly sweet.
PATJERI ASEM, PATJERI KAMPAL
[TAMARIND CHUTNEY]
One cup of very thick tamarind water.
One medium yellow onion, minced.
Two TBS chili paste (sambal oelek).
Two TBS slivered fresh ginger.
One TBS brown sugar.
One Tsp. ground coriander.
One Tsp. salt.
A scant amount of oil.
Heat a pan and lightly gild the minced onion in the oil.
Add the ginger and garlic, saute briefly, add coriander powder and chilipaste and stir to incorporate. When the fragrance has increased, add the other ingredients, and simmer until it is considerably thickened. Let it cool, transfer to a jar, and refrigerate till next week.
The visual appeal is greatly enhanced, in the minds of some people, by adding a drop of red or orange food-colouring. I myself am not so sure of that, as it makes it look deceptively like sweet-sour sauce or tomato condiments such as American ketchup, and tjeap kwartir.
Note that sambal oelek is the basic building block of much that is good in the world. With its companion sambal badjak, it should never be absent from your kitchen.
A good source in the United States is Huy Fong, makers of SriRacha. Imported brands are Koningsvogel and Conimex, both based in the Netherlands.
It is also quite easy to make at home. Just pound a bunch of red ripe hot peppers with a little salt. Scoop the resultant paste into an appropriate vessel, then use a squeeze of lime juice to wash the remaining pulpy goodness from the pounder.
Thick tamarind water is made by mashing tamarind pulp with twice the volume of hot water, working it over with your hand as soon as it is cool enough to do so. After thoroughly mooshing it up, let it stand a while, then rub it through a tea strainer to leave seeds and strings of pulp behind.
In Indonesia, tamarind is Asam Djawa: Javanese sour.
Asem is the Indo-Dutch spelling.
In Tamarao it is Buwa Kampal.
Patjeri is a cooked relish.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, February 24, 2013
RING OF FIRE, RING OF FIRE
There are times when one has to soberly face stark reality. Grasp the bull by the horns, admit frailty, and deal with the truth. Which is that my judgement may be lopsided, once in a while. Especially after smoking several pipes at the cigar bar. The phrase that comes to mind is "what the heck was I thinking", followed almost immediately afterwards by "boy was I ever stupid!"
No, I did not go home with a floozie who stank of seegers.
Didn't even flirt with a large-breasted woman.
Behaved entirely like a gentleman.
I went home with "dos, con todo".
Preceded by "por favor".
Muchas gracias.
Two bacon-wrapped hotdogs, with the works: mayo, mustard, ketchup, grilled onions, and chiles jalapeños en escabeche. Which I took home, because I do not like to eat on the street surrounded by drunken yobbos. Not being either of those qualifiers, their company cannot thrill.
When I got to the apartment, I realized that I had been an extremely temperate man all evening, having dawdled over two whisky-waters for many hours. Yes, several pipes -- but those were taken calm and slow. Nothing excessive there. And I hadn't even oogled the large breasted woman. With the ruby-hued lipstick, smiling eyes, and pretty purple cocktail dress. Which was just a wee bit too short, and showed off ALL of her very curvy thighs.
Pantyhose holds everything together, I assume.
Didn't even pay her any attention.
I am a pipe-smoker.
Once I put the two tinfoil wrapped bacon-dogs on the kitchen counter, that temperance went right out the window. I felt that they needed something extra, and the exact ticket was in the refrigerator.
[What more suitable for the Chinese New Year Season than something festive and orange? It's a good luck colour that suggests happiness. And it was abundantly in evidence last night as marching bands, grammar schools, and floats sponsored by commercial entities wound their way down Kearny Street in the annual extravaganza hosted by Southwest Airlines.
I was otherwise engaged, but I was well aware of the colour appropriate for the event.
That shade of brilliant orange is one of the most beautiful things to meet the eye. ]
Mezzetta brand pickled Habaneros.
I decided not to slice them. The last time I sliced chilies, I accidentally rubbed my eye-lids. You can imagine the result. So, no slicing, lest things go wrong.
It's a question of common sense, really.
MEZZETTA BRAND
HABANERO PEPPERS
Ingredients: Chiles Habaneros, agua, vinagre, sal, cloruro de calcio, bisulfato de sodio, agregado como establizadore do color, FD&C amarillo #5, curcuma.
Serving size: About 4 peppers (30g)
Refrigerate after opening / Refrigerese despues de abrir
Delicious in any language.
Temperance means only one serving.
Restraint is my watchword, so I limited myself to precisely one.
Earlier in the day I had eaten bittermelon stirfried with chicken and blackbean sauce for dinner, which always requires about five or six tablespoons of Sriracha for the perfect taste. This was after a mid-day snack of Doritos salsa verde flavored tortilla chips™ , which I had dipped in actual fresh salsa verde. Delicious! But it was small, I did not eat even half the bag. A mere taste, so as not to ruin my appetite.
Temperance. Restraint. And common sense.
Whole peppers. Two of them. On each dog.
Did I mention that I had smoked several pipes yesterday while at the cigar bar? That fact is crucial to an understanding of the mental processes. Nicotine is a stimulant, you see, and present in higher doses in flue-cured tobaccos and Burley than in Oriental mixtures. I alternated back and forth between a very nice aged flake (flue-cured) and Old Joe Kranz (Burley and Red Virginia).
I also had two or three glasses of coffee ice to cleanse my palate.
I may have been a wee bit over-confident.
Overstimulated, in any case.
Six bowls full.
The hot dogs tasted fine.
I've been up since five AM. On my sixth tall glass of yoghurt whipped into a soothing beverage with milk, sugar, and water. I have felt porcelain twice already this morning. And I'll be back.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
No, I did not go home with a floozie who stank of seegers.
Didn't even flirt with a large-breasted woman.
Behaved entirely like a gentleman.
I went home with "dos, con todo".
Preceded by "por favor".
Muchas gracias.
Two bacon-wrapped hotdogs, with the works: mayo, mustard, ketchup, grilled onions, and chiles jalapeños en escabeche. Which I took home, because I do not like to eat on the street surrounded by drunken yobbos. Not being either of those qualifiers, their company cannot thrill.
When I got to the apartment, I realized that I had been an extremely temperate man all evening, having dawdled over two whisky-waters for many hours. Yes, several pipes -- but those were taken calm and slow. Nothing excessive there. And I hadn't even oogled the large breasted woman. With the ruby-hued lipstick, smiling eyes, and pretty purple cocktail dress. Which was just a wee bit too short, and showed off ALL of her very curvy thighs.
Pantyhose holds everything together, I assume.
Didn't even pay her any attention.
I am a pipe-smoker.
Once I put the two tinfoil wrapped bacon-dogs on the kitchen counter, that temperance went right out the window. I felt that they needed something extra, and the exact ticket was in the refrigerator.
[What more suitable for the Chinese New Year Season than something festive and orange? It's a good luck colour that suggests happiness. And it was abundantly in evidence last night as marching bands, grammar schools, and floats sponsored by commercial entities wound their way down Kearny Street in the annual extravaganza hosted by Southwest Airlines.
I was otherwise engaged, but I was well aware of the colour appropriate for the event.
That shade of brilliant orange is one of the most beautiful things to meet the eye. ]
Mezzetta brand pickled Habaneros.
I decided not to slice them. The last time I sliced chilies, I accidentally rubbed my eye-lids. You can imagine the result. So, no slicing, lest things go wrong.
It's a question of common sense, really.
MEZZETTA BRAND
HABANERO PEPPERS
Ingredients: Chiles Habaneros, agua, vinagre, sal, cloruro de calcio, bisulfato de sodio, agregado como establizadore do color, FD&C amarillo #5, curcuma.
Serving size: About 4 peppers (30g)
Refrigerate after opening / Refrigerese despues de abrir
Delicious in any language.
Temperance means only one serving.
Restraint is my watchword, so I limited myself to precisely one.
Earlier in the day I had eaten bittermelon stirfried with chicken and blackbean sauce for dinner, which always requires about five or six tablespoons of Sriracha for the perfect taste. This was after a mid-day snack of Doritos salsa verde flavored tortilla chips™ , which I had dipped in actual fresh salsa verde. Delicious! But it was small, I did not eat even half the bag. A mere taste, so as not to ruin my appetite.
Temperance. Restraint. And common sense.
Whole peppers. Two of them. On each dog.
Did I mention that I had smoked several pipes yesterday while at the cigar bar? That fact is crucial to an understanding of the mental processes. Nicotine is a stimulant, you see, and present in higher doses in flue-cured tobaccos and Burley than in Oriental mixtures. I alternated back and forth between a very nice aged flake (flue-cured) and Old Joe Kranz (Burley and Red Virginia).
I also had two or three glasses of coffee ice to cleanse my palate.
I may have been a wee bit over-confident.
Overstimulated, in any case.
Six bowls full.
The hot dogs tasted fine.
I've been up since five AM. On my sixth tall glass of yoghurt whipped into a soothing beverage with milk, sugar, and water. I have felt porcelain twice already this morning. And I'll be back.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, January 31, 2013
THE REMEMBERED LUNCH
The restaurant was half empty when she sat down, the mid-day rush had not yet begun. After carefully studying the menu, she chose a bowl of wonton noodle soup, and a side order of stir-fried mustard green stalks. Then, having dispensed with the essential preamble to lunch she drank a bit of tea and looked around with bright intelligent curiosity. She had never been here before.
That is to say, she came here once a very long time ago, when it was still a neighborhood standard. But when she started working downtown, she passed by one day and noted the decline. Like many old establishments, the spark of inspiration disappeared, and the owners coasted onward to a disinterested retirement.
Eventually it got sold, then gutted, remodelled, painted.....
An entirely new modern kitchen installed.
Hot-pot place on second floor.
For evenings only.
She had forgotten about the high ceiling. Many older buildings here had those high ceilings, as there was always a mezzanine loft above the business floor for storage, and often, living quarters. Her uncle's grocery store had had precisely the same thing. Back in the fifties he and his wife had lived there, but by the time her first cousin was born they had moved to a flat uphill, beyond Powell Street. As children she and her cousins had played above the store, sometimes disturbing boxes and releasing a cloud of dust over the racks on the ground floor. It always upset her auntie when that happened, and they'd be chased out into the street or forced to do their homework.
Two wide screens. One in the middle of the wall along the side, one above a front window. She presumed the one above the window had been placed there so that whoever was at the counter could follow the soap opera that was playing. It looked frightful. An elderly woman in period costume was weeping and flailing her arms, while a pie-faced maiden of thirtyfive-playing-sixteen stood by helplessly, looking theatrically anguished. And goobus-innocent to the point of slack-jaw.
She surmised that this was the smarmy good-girl daughter-in-law.
Far too pampered-looking to be the maid servant.
Not angry enough to be a daughter.
Her food came, and enthusiastically she dug in, yanking the yellow noodles fiercely up, skein dripping, to enjoy them while they were still al dente. Wonton noodle soup can also be served with rice-stick, if one has a calmer temperament. But tradition dictates thin fresh wheat noodles, added on top, barely cooked. Eat them fast! Con brio. It's sheer goodness!
While chewing she beckoned the waitress over and requested a dish with some extra oyster sauce. She loved oyster sauce. And she couldn't believe that it had not been invented several centuries ago.
Surely the combination of condensed savouriness and dense pourable darkness was ancient! It seemed like such an intuitive concept. Concentrate a wonderful flavour, and use it to intensify everything!
Dip the mustard green stalk, then bite and crunch. Another. Then dip one of the lovely dumplings. Lunch, away from the throng on Kearny Street near Bush, was something to be savoured. How much better if surrounded by an environment that represented home.
And eight lovely wontons! The broth, too, was excellent, but the dumplings were the star of the show. Fresh shrimp, barely chopped, bit of pork, handmade skins. Smooth, slick, sweet and juicy and savoury and textural at the same time. A hint of fragrance from the chopped garlic chives floating in the bowl. And perfect thin noodles to fill you up.
The plate of green stalks made it a balanced meal, the added oyster sauce satisfied the little girl within.
Without asking, the waitress refreshed her tea.
On screen, the dowager howled about ruination.
An old lady at the counter ordering food to go gave animated instruction on precisely how the fish should be cooked, and be sure to use ONLY fatty meat in the black mushroom duck combo - I very much like fatty!
Two tables over, a fat faced boy brat was objecting vociferously to his parents demand that he eat some more saang choi -- hate it, hate it, HATE it -- but the parents insisted.
At the table near the door, a painter in overalls lovingly absorbed a plate of fried porkchop and "Italian noodles", plus another cup of milk-tea, extra sweet please.
She dipped the last stalk in the oyster sauce.
Mmmmmmmmmm!
Heaven.
* * * * *
Personally, I'm not so much an oyster sauce kind of guy. Sure, I like it, but it's something which I'd put on fried eggs (along with a dash Tabasco). And who orders a plate of fried eggs at a cha-chanteng? On the other hand, I've had their salt and pepper fried spare ribs, and asked them to bring me Sriracha -- they've got several bottles in the glass-fronted refrigerator at the wait station.
But mustard green stalk IS very good. And all crunchy cooked vegetables taste better with mr. Lee Kum-Shueng's marvelous invention.
Actually, so does a good beefsteak.
They've go that too.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
That is to say, she came here once a very long time ago, when it was still a neighborhood standard. But when she started working downtown, she passed by one day and noted the decline. Like many old establishments, the spark of inspiration disappeared, and the owners coasted onward to a disinterested retirement.
Eventually it got sold, then gutted, remodelled, painted.....
An entirely new modern kitchen installed.
Hot-pot place on second floor.
For evenings only.
She had forgotten about the high ceiling. Many older buildings here had those high ceilings, as there was always a mezzanine loft above the business floor for storage, and often, living quarters. Her uncle's grocery store had had precisely the same thing. Back in the fifties he and his wife had lived there, but by the time her first cousin was born they had moved to a flat uphill, beyond Powell Street. As children she and her cousins had played above the store, sometimes disturbing boxes and releasing a cloud of dust over the racks on the ground floor. It always upset her auntie when that happened, and they'd be chased out into the street or forced to do their homework.
Two wide screens. One in the middle of the wall along the side, one above a front window. She presumed the one above the window had been placed there so that whoever was at the counter could follow the soap opera that was playing. It looked frightful. An elderly woman in period costume was weeping and flailing her arms, while a pie-faced maiden of thirtyfive-playing-sixteen stood by helplessly, looking theatrically anguished. And goobus-innocent to the point of slack-jaw.
She surmised that this was the smarmy good-girl daughter-in-law.
Far too pampered-looking to be the maid servant.
Not angry enough to be a daughter.
Her food came, and enthusiastically she dug in, yanking the yellow noodles fiercely up, skein dripping, to enjoy them while they were still al dente. Wonton noodle soup can also be served with rice-stick, if one has a calmer temperament. But tradition dictates thin fresh wheat noodles, added on top, barely cooked. Eat them fast! Con brio. It's sheer goodness!
While chewing she beckoned the waitress over and requested a dish with some extra oyster sauce. She loved oyster sauce. And she couldn't believe that it had not been invented several centuries ago.
Surely the combination of condensed savouriness and dense pourable darkness was ancient! It seemed like such an intuitive concept. Concentrate a wonderful flavour, and use it to intensify everything!
Dip the mustard green stalk, then bite and crunch. Another. Then dip one of the lovely dumplings. Lunch, away from the throng on Kearny Street near Bush, was something to be savoured. How much better if surrounded by an environment that represented home.
And eight lovely wontons! The broth, too, was excellent, but the dumplings were the star of the show. Fresh shrimp, barely chopped, bit of pork, handmade skins. Smooth, slick, sweet and juicy and savoury and textural at the same time. A hint of fragrance from the chopped garlic chives floating in the bowl. And perfect thin noodles to fill you up.
The plate of green stalks made it a balanced meal, the added oyster sauce satisfied the little girl within.
Without asking, the waitress refreshed her tea.
On screen, the dowager howled about ruination.
An old lady at the counter ordering food to go gave animated instruction on precisely how the fish should be cooked, and be sure to use ONLY fatty meat in the black mushroom duck combo - I very much like fatty!
Two tables over, a fat faced boy brat was objecting vociferously to his parents demand that he eat some more saang choi -- hate it, hate it, HATE it -- but the parents insisted.
At the table near the door, a painter in overalls lovingly absorbed a plate of fried porkchop and "Italian noodles", plus another cup of milk-tea, extra sweet please.
She dipped the last stalk in the oyster sauce.
Mmmmmmmmmm!
Heaven.
* * * * *
Personally, I'm not so much an oyster sauce kind of guy. Sure, I like it, but it's something which I'd put on fried eggs (along with a dash Tabasco). And who orders a plate of fried eggs at a cha-chanteng? On the other hand, I've had their salt and pepper fried spare ribs, and asked them to bring me Sriracha -- they've got several bottles in the glass-fronted refrigerator at the wait station.
But mustard green stalk IS very good. And all crunchy cooked vegetables taste better with mr. Lee Kum-Shueng's marvelous invention.
Actually, so does a good beefsteak.
They've go that too.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
AND THANK ME FOR SHARING!
So, what did this Dutch American do to celebrate our great victory last night over the forces of barbarism and ignorance? Did I run through ...
