FRIED BEAR CLAW

You can always count on the Dutch to be adventurous eaters. Their scary repertoire of late night snacks that must be first consumed when plastered after partying, and then later reproduced at home if at all possible, is an ever expanding panoply.

[The term 'adventurous' can also be read to mean 'insane'.]

Years ago this became apparent when hordes of vacationing Dutchmen in Thailand demanded that the internet provide accurate recipes for Frikandel: a staf or sausage-like object of finely ground meat, extenders, and spices, which after cooking is served hot with condiments, or dressed-up in a hotdog bun.
It is about two thirds meat, the remainder being fat, starch, binders, vegetable and industrial byproducts, etcetera.
Dipped in beaten egg, then covered with fine bread or rusk crumbs.
Deep-fried till dark brown with a thin crust.
Juicy, and great with mustard.

A key ingredient, surprisingly, is ground nutmeg.

It is delicious, but not available in the U.S.

Travelling 'Ollanders were desperate.

Crazy and quite drunk as well.

At night, in Thailand.

Ummm .....

!!!


HOT, ZESTY, AND FULL OF LIFE!

Then there's the 'berenklauw'. Bear claw, literally. Thick slices of pre-cooked meatball alternating with equally thick slices of onion on a bamboo skewer, deep-fried, and served with spicy peanut sauce. And also sometimes made at home. Many Dutch households have deep-fry capability.
Without a personal deep-fryer it will be done by seething the meatball in hot fat before slicing it, and the onion rings will be browned in the remaining grease and dumped on top. As with many Dutch snacks, peanut sauce is essential.
So is the presence, in both ball and sauce, of chili pepper, often used in its native guise of 'sambal', that being the mashed up bright red paste available in every Dutch grocery or supermarket. Huy Fong, makers of Sriracha, provide a splendid sambal oelek here in California, and there are diverse brands imported from Asia and Den Haag.

The appearance of the browned meatbal wedges resembles a splayed bear paw, hence the name. There is NO actual bear in the dish. I stress this, because many English speakers are frightful literalists.


Below is a quick recipe for peanut sauce. I shan't give instructions for meatballs, as you can simply make your own version, modifying grandma's recipe with a pinch of five spice, nutmeg, and sambal, as necessary.
But do use fatty meat; that lean crap ain't worth eating.


PINDA SAUS

Four TBS smooth peanut butter.
Three TBS cane sugar.
Two TBS soy sauce.
One TBS sambal.
One onion, minced.
Two to four cloves garlic, minced.
Pinch of ground coriander.
One cup of water.
Dash of oil for the pan.

Saute the onion till well gilded. Add sambal and ground coriander, fry till fragrant, add all other ingredients except the water, stir to incorporate. Then gently bit by bit start adding the water. Be careful, as the peanut sauce can be burning hot and may spatter painfully. It is ready when it has become a smoothly pourable gloop. Serve warm.
A squeeze of lime juice may be added.

[Peanut sauce recipes are also here: queer Dutch condiment.]


As far as presentation, the less said about how the fried bear claw is served in a snackbar after the bars close, the better. Suffice to mention that fries are part of the program. Personally I prefer a mound of rice with my two skewers, and chunks of cucumber on the side.
As well as a dash of fish sauce.


ETYMOLOGICAL NOTES

Pinda derives via Sranantongo (a creole language in Dutch Guyana) from West African (Niger-Congo) terms for peanut, probably either Kongo 'mpinda' or Gabonese 'péndá'. A similar word is used in some parts of the former British West-Indies.

Sambal is cognate with Sinhalese 'sambol', probably deriving from an early Trade Malay term for chilipeppers. In modern usage both of these words refer to a condiment made by mashing red peppers, but in Dutch, Malay, and Indonesian usage 'sambal' also applies to cooked side dishes in which the spiciness is the defining element.
Technically, the Texan chili con carne (without beans) is a fairly mild sambal. Or an overcooked relative of rendang, made with prut.
Kind of like 'hachee'.



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DOUBLE HAPPINESS: MUI CHOI KAU YUK AND SUEN CHOI PAAK YUK

Over the past few weeks I've casually discussed Chinese food on this blog, and mentioned several tasty things of an odd nature. Odd, that is, to the ethnicities one might snidely call "uncomplicated-American".
Late yesterday I woke up with a start and realized that the one dish which is guaranteed to repel diet-conscious office types AND moronic football fans in equal measure is mui choi kau yuk; fatty pork and salt cabbage ("plum vegetable").

It is delicious, evocative of good things, home-style, and luxurious.
A necessary element in your life.


MUI CHOI KAU YUK 梅菜扣肉
Fatty pork with salt cabbage.

One pound pork belly meat.
Quarter to half cup mui choi (梅菜), or slightly more.
Three cloves garlic, slivered.
Several slices of ginger, slivered.
Two TBS soy sauce, plus a little extra.
One TBS rice wine or sherry.
Half TBS sugar.
Small pinch five spice powder.

Coarsely chop the mui choi, then rinse it in a sieve to remove sand. Dump it in a bowl of cold water and let it soak for an hour. Drain, then rinse, drain and rinse again. This removes the salt used to preserve it.
Set it aside.

Wash the hunk of pork belly, pat it dry with a paper towel. Use a fork to pierce the skin, then rub it with a little extra soy sauce and the pinch of five spice powder, and set it aside for half an hour.

In skillet or wok sear the chunk of pork belly on the skin side till crispy-brown, then colour it all over in the hot grease that will have rendered. Remove pork from pan.
Drain most of the grease (which can be saved or discarded, as you choose), and parch the mui choi, adding the slivered ginger and garlic half-way through. The purpose is to concentrate flavours slightly, not to fully cook the vegetable matter at this stage.

Put the pork belly in a heavy enameled sauce pan OR a clay pot, distribute the mui choi around it, and add the two tablespoons of soy sauce, the sugar, and the sherry. Put it on heat, and when it reaches boiling temperature, cover it, slip a heat absorber underneath, lower the heat to barely alive, and let it gently cook for three or four hours till the pork is quite tender. Check it occasionally to avoid scorching, and to spoon some of the liquid over the meat. Add water if necessary.

When it is done, remove from heat, and cut the pork belly chunk into finger thick chopstickable slices -- this can be done while leaving it in the pot -- dump some chopped cilantro on top, and serve.

[A slightly different version of this dish is here: mui choi kau yuk.]


Fatty meat with cabbage is typically a winter delight, sure to please friends and family if they are sensible people, and quite utterly horrifying to most suburbanites.

So, to expand your repertoire with a dish in the same earthy vein, which is also superb and yummy, here's a recipe for a northern Chinese favourite which is nearly as popular among southerners nowadays.
Both dishes should be accompanied by rice.
Plenty of steamed rice.
And chili paste!


SUEN CHOI PAAK YUK 酸菜白肉
Sour cabbage and white-cooked pork.

One package of North-East style sour cabbage (東北酸菜).
Scant pound of fatty pork.
One or two enoki clumps, trimmed and sliced.
A small handful of dried tofu sticks.
Two TBS rice wine or sherry.
A few thick slices of ginger, slivered.
One or two garlic cloves, slivered.
Two chopped scallion.
Half TBS chili paste.
A pinch of five spice powder.
Drops of sesame oil.
Drops of tabasco.
Cilantro.

Rinse and drain the sour cabbage, chop it coarsely. Scrub the lump of pork, brown it on the skin side to form a nice dark crust, then dump it in a pot of boiling lightly salted water along with some of the scallion and ginger, and simmer it for two hours. Take it out and let it cool.

Soak the tofu sticks till soft, drain, and cut into long chunks.

Heat a little oil in wok or skillet, gild the ginger and garlic to aromatize. Add the scallion, soon followed by the chili paste, then the rice wine or sherry to sizzle. Dump this into a roomy clay pot or enameled stew-pan, with the five spice powder. Add the tofu sticks, cut enoki, and the cabbage, with water to cover and a splash of the pork simmering liquid.
Cook for about ten minutes.

Slice the now cooled and fully cooked pork into thickish slices, add to the pot, with more liquid; the soupiness of the dish will be part of the pleasure. Cook another five or ten minutes.

Dash in a little sesame oil and tabasco, cilantro on top, and serve.



NOTES:

Pork belly, or 'fatty pork', is usually called ng-faa naam (五花腩 five flower pork brisket) in Chinese markets. The layers of intense fat and reddish lean meat alternate beautifully, and you should select what suits you. Bear in mind that there is supposed to be a balance, which is what makes it so versatile and delicious.

Plum vegetable (梅菜 'mui choi') is a small brassica preserved with salt.
I usually buy the canned version.

Five spice powder (五香粉 'ng heung fan') is made of star-anise (八角 'baat gok'), fennel seed (小茴香 'siu wui heung'), cassia bark (肉桂、玉桂 'yuk gwai'), fagara pepper corns (花椒 'faa chiu'), and cloves (丁香 'ding heung').

Enoki (金針菇 'gam jam gu') are thin pale yellow mushrooms that are sold in lumps growing from a single spore-clump. You don't need much in 酸菜白肉 as they are included merely for a bit of contrast. Wash them first, trim off the base, and just dump them in.

Dried tofu sticks (腐竹 'fu juk') are strips of the congealed skin that results when boiling soy milk, collected and hung up to dry. This product absorbs flavours most marvelously, is highly nutritious, and adds a very enjoyable textural element to stews.

Sour cabbage (酸菜 'suen choi') is a common type of pickled cabbage, tangy and slightly sour. After a brief blanching, the halved or quartered vegetable is packed into brine with a weight on top and left to ferment for at least three weeks. It can be eaten raw but is usually combined with fatty meats, which is a particularly good combination; the two items balance each other.
Available in vacuum sealed packs of around a pound, also larger packs of a kilo. Buy the smaller packs -- 200 grammes to 300 grammes.
North-Eastern style sour cabbage (東北酸菜 'tung paak suen choi') is stronger in taste, and has some chili added for oomph.


Sambal, or chili paste (辣椒醬 'laat chiu jeung') is the one indispensable substance that you should have on hand at all times. Mashed hot peppers with a little salt, maybe a touch of vinegar or lime juice added. Rather than making it yourself, simply purchase a jar of it in C'town or the Tenderloin, and stick it in your refrigerator. It is surprising how fast it disappears;
I think the raccoons are stealing it.

If you plan on visiting England it might be wise to actually make some of it yourself to pack in your carry-on luggage: fresh habaneros, ground toasted dried Thai birdseyes or chile d'arbol for a bit of bulk, salt, vinegar, and oil. The last three in equal measure, just enough to make it smooee, but not gloppy. The salt and vinegar will preserve it for at least several weeks, and the inclusion of habanero makes it hot enough that your hosts may not even notice that you slipped a tiny little smear onto your plate to assist you in downing their fine cuisine.



慢慢食 ('maan maan sik': bon gusto).



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A RATIONAL APPROACH TO THE FIRST HOUR OF THE DAY

One of the things I keep forgetting is that mother nature is a marvelous designer. When a seed, or pip (of, for instance, a plant), is supposed to be spread hither and yon by the animals that eat the tempting fruit, it will stand to reason that said seed be indigestible.
And it is altogether logical that this so.
Naturally inherent in the paradigm.


NEVER resist paradigmatic natural inherence!


I recently had stirfried bitter melon and chicken over rice. It wasn't the bitter melon that cause my paradigm issue. Nor the chicken. A live chicken is a remarkably stupid animal, and it is both right and good that chickens should be eaten. People who make pets out of chickens are misguided, and one does well not to sit down when visiting such individuals.
Chicken affection has ulterior motives, I'm certain.
Best kill and eat the nasty little cretins.
Before they do that to you.


The bitter melon dish was most exceedingly delicious.
Especially once I added the chilipaste.
In which there were seeds.


Life, at times, can be surprising. The philosophical man is prepared for every eventuality, and accepts whatever fate throws his way. Maintain the proper perspective. One must above all remain flexible.


Nature and I have a partnership.


I sit in awe of nature's beauty.



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FEELING PLEASANTLY ANTIQUE

One of the last times I saw my friends Henri and Suzanne before I left Valkenswaard for Berkeley was in neither place.
The centre of Valkenswaard ('Grote Markt') did not have the really ancient trees and the genuine Indonesian Restaurant occupying a dominant location as a few other towns, and had started modernizing, meaning that there were more bars than any other form of business.
It was not nearly as appealing for a long quite lunch as some other places.

We took the train somewhere else. Not far, but it would have been a two or three hour bicycle trip, and it threatened to rain. Besides, the owner of the restaurant we intended to visit was kin, in a way. Henry and Suzanne had not been born in the old country -- their parents had been forced out in the fifties -- but they and the restaurant man spoke the same language. Not standard Malay, which later became Bahasa Indonesia, but something a little wilder, more eastern. Yes, standard Malay also, because many of the transplantees and their families in the Kempen knew that language. But in the sixties and seventies odd linguistic strata were still evident.

[Transplantees: people who had left Indonesia when that country became independent. Many were Dutch legally if not entirely by descent, others did not have much or any Dutch blood at all. Most were too educated and too associated with the old regime to still be much welcome in the islands of their birth; the nationalists had since the Japanese occupation tried to erase as much of the Netherlandish overlay as possible. During the fifties and the sixties the local societal webbing and woofing got a lot worse. The term for such people in Holland nowadays is Indos, but up until the seventies, calling someone an Indo was considered depreciating. Some did not consider themselves 'Indo' in any way at all. Two of my classmates in high school, for instance, spoke barely a word of 'Indonesian' (Malay), but dreamed in the Hakka tongue of the mining settlements in Borneo. They were very white in that regard.]

Henri was back from college for a week, Suzanne would be at Leiden University after summer, and I was going to return to the United States in August. My exile was ending, and I both dreaded and welcomed the prospect of becoming more of what I was.

So it seemed perfectly appropriate to leave Valkenswaard for the day, and have a long lunch in a restaurant where another world was remembered.
At least one table leg elsewhere, so to speak.

Remarkable for a town far in the south, almost isolated from the modern world, Valkenswaard had much that subconsciously reminded one of Indonesia. After the war a number of people had arrived there, and while local society remained somewhat closed, it did welcome them. The cigar factories still used leaf from Djember and Bondowoso, the coffee everyone drank from dawn till midnight tasted still of the lost empire, and a number of the local people had served in the Preanger during the troubles. Poverty had sent local sons all over Europe and the East, many families had an uncle or cousin who used odd locutions, probably every household had something that recalled the Orient.

Valkenswaard even had some musicians that played Indo Rock.
Boisterous, melodic. Reminiscent of krontjong.

Other villages in the Kempen were similar. Cigar factories. Veterans. Mercantile people. And transplantees.


The "elsewhere" we visited that day had once had a cigar factory too, and a graduate of the Technische Hogeschool Bandoeng (Institut Teknologi Bandung - Technical University of Bandung) had opened a restaurant serving Dutch-Indonesian food there. He was a classmate of Henri and Suzanne's uncle, both men had worked with thousands of others on a railway in Sumatra.

After the war, they returned to their city looking out over the water north of 'returning plank', and discovered that it had changed. More Muslims, more Malays, more Madurese; along with destroyed oil installations and bridges. As engineers, they were perfectly suited to help rebuild it. But the world was a much different place by then.
When Henri's father finally came back from Semarang, all of them decided to leave.
Things were no longer the same.

['Returning Plank': Balik Papan. Semarang: where a P.O.W. camp had been.]

That afternoon there were eight of us at the restaurant named after a famous shopping street in Bandung.
Henri, Suzanne, and myself. The owner, his wife, a waiter, and two people in the kitchen in addition to the wife. She spoke to them in Cantonese, to her husband in Indonesian, and to us in Dutch.

Four people who had lived through the war. Three who had only heard about it secondhand. Two that had been in camps.
But, given that particular time and place, and that all of us had roots elsewhere, the war still seemed a significant factor, more than thirty years after it ended.

Our speech, naturally, was "mixed".

As was the food.

A lovely white-cooked chicken dish -- not the Chinese chicken with ginger shreds and green onion, but a pale and slightly sweet compound of breasts and livers in coconut milk -- a dark almost black beefy offering, and a golden bamboo shoot and dried fish gulai, which was actually a version of ebere without the pork.
Plus crunchy vegetables to dip in hot sauce, and a clear soup with tamarind and lemon grass.

Coffee and tobacco afterwards.

Douwe Egberts coffee with condensed milk. Pungent bolknak cigars from Hofnar.
Peter Stuyvesant cigarettes (or were they Caballero?), and pipe-tobacco from a black and white tin.


"How are your parents?"
[Ei, Apak Amao mo, ma-ano dema? Sarwa bate sametek?]

"Oh, they're fine. They send their regards."
[O, dema bate bate sahadja, mag-ngirim salam pa' kuwang, ya.]

"How's your uncle's gout?"
[Bagemano sakit-yikit nya pamongmo?]


Odd, that after much rich food, gout should come up.
Somehow it just didn't seem right. Natural, yes, but not right.
I also remember wondering at the expression 'sakit-yikit'. It struck me that it was a term I had never heard before, ere I understood that it was merely a borrowing from Dutch.
Jicht (ph: 'yikht').

[This was years before I got to feel gout firsthand; like the war, it was something I only knew from hearing.]

Gout is probably a lot more common in Indonesian circles now than it was several decades ago, as eating habits have changed. What were once foods limited to festivals are now so widely available that middle-class children may at times resemble beach balls, much like in Holland and America at present. And pudginess is considered a virtue.
But before prosperity made us fat, our diets were much healthier.

In Indonesia, the women of Sunda and North-East Borneo were always considered beautiful, with clear glowing skin and bright expressive faces, because they ate so many vegetables.
Crisp greens dipped in fresh chilipaste, vegetable curries coloured with turmeric, ginger and green herbs in soups and stews.
Not very much meat.
Fresh fish.

In the Netherlands at that time, the repatriated veterans and colonial administrators wanted the rich coconut curries, fried dishes, and roasted meats they remembered from their insular East Indies environment, the exiled Indos longed for the water spinach (蕹菜 eng tsae, kangkong), longbeans (豆角 tau kok, 菜豆 tsae tau, atawa katjang manjang), amaranthus leaf (莧菜 hin tsae, daon bayem), fresh chilies (辣椒 loat tseo, tjabe hijo), and basil (九層塔 kau tsang tak, daon tulasi) of home.

Over all this, the fragrances of chilipaste (sambal), dried fish (ika karing, daeng) and shrimp-dew (patis), lime juice (tjeap limo), tamarind (asem djawa, atawa buwa tjaramanggi, tan wae kampal), coconut (kalapa, niyog; but more often the milk - santen - and the raspings - katjurokan kalapa).
Lemongrass (sere), ginger (djae, haleya), galangal (umbe langkuwas, langkwang), cilantro (ijo katumbar), Chinese keyes (kantjor, tamo kuntji, atawa umbe wangi).


Most Indonesian restaurants in North Brabant were actually Chinese, with a menu that offered food that neither the staff nor the kitchen really even understood. A few represented Javanese tastes -- often run by little old aunties and uncles from somewhere near Bogor or Surabaya -- and one or two catered to the ex Ambon military.
All of them had sate, and semur, gule and kare, lumpia, saoto, gado gado, besengek, ayam taliwang, and babi panggang, babi taotjo, babi ketjap, babi tomat.
That's skewers of small grilled meat chunks with peanut sauce, soy and onion braised meat, yellow soup curry and hot brown dry curry, small eggrolls, soup with meat and potato or rice-stick noodle, blanched vegetables with peanut sauce, spicy Javanese chicken stew, fiery Menadonese chicken, roast pork, beanpaste pork, soy pork, and pork with tomatoes and chili.

Pork is not really an Indonesian favourite, at least not in Java and Sumatra, where most of the people live and almost everyone is Muslim.
But Hindus, Christians, Chinese, and Tribals all love it.
As do restaurant owners and Dutch people.

For the best truly authentic food, you went to Den Haag or Amsterdam.

Or places run by retired exiles: the uncles and the aunties.

There were few such in the hinterlands.


But you probably cooked at home, even if all you wanted was bami goreng and gule ayam, or simply ketoprak, rendang, and a bit of rice.

My tastes have expanded since I left Valkenswaard, but I still cook at home. Especially if I want to remember. Things like Suzanne's ready wit, or Henri's smile -- her faint hint of girlish perfume (Joy, by Jean Patou), his subtle odour of cigars -- and above all the light of Northern Europe, strong coffee and amber tea, old camphor wood cabinets, as well as the whisper of sandalwood (keeps away bugs), and diluted lime juice or green tea used to soften the hair of the ladies in Indo households.
These elements are all revived when I have Indonesian dishes.
Which I cook myself. Because no one else does these.

[How do I know what perfume Suzanne wore? Simple. I asked. It was available at a store on the Grote Berg in Eindhoven, as well as a place on the Rechte Straat near the 18 September Plein.
I bought her some for her birthday that last year. Of course I remember.]


MANOK MAPUOG
Coconut milk white chicken

One chicken cut into 6 or 8 pieces.
One onion, minced.
Six kemiri (candlenuts), lightly toasted.
Six cloves garlic, slivered.
A slice or two ginger.
One TBS. ground coriander.
Half Tsp. each: ground cumin, white pepper.
Small piece of cinnamon.
Two stalks lemon grass; bruised, folded, tied.
Whole green chilies.
Three cups coconut milk.
Three cups clear stock.
Pinches of salt and sugar.

Fry onion limp-translucent, add the garlic, ginger, and powdered spices. Gild very lightly. Now add everything except the chicken and whole chilies and simmer for an hour.
After this add the chicken and cook on low heat for about forty five minutes, then add the whole chilies and leave on the flame fifteen minutes more.

Remove the chicken to a dish, take out the whole chilies and piece of cinnamon, and reduce the liquid to a velvety consistency. Pour it over the chicken, and garnish with a few fresh basil leaves.


GULE KAMBING
Curry lamb

One and a half pounds lamb, cut into chunks.
One onion, chopped.
Thumb-length ginger, minced.
Two or three cloves garlic, ditto.
Half TBS. ground coriander.
Half Tsp. each: paprika, turmeric, dry ginger.
Quarter Tsp. each: cayenne, ground pepper, mace.
A stalk of lemon grass.
A stick of cinnamon.
A bay leaf.
Three cups coconut milk.
One and a half cups water.
Quarter cup broken cashews.
Squeeze of lime juice.
Jigger of Louisiana hot sauce.

Grind powdered spices with the cashews to a paste, add the onion, garlic, and ginger, and mix - mash - grind till smooth.
Fry the spice paste till the oil separates, add the meat and stir to coat. Braise a bit, and keep stirring, to prevent burning at the bottom of the pan. Loosen the crusty bits as needed.
Add the remaining flavourings and about a third of the liquids (except the lime juice and hot sauce), cook into the oil comes out, then add the rest. Simmer for about half an hour to forty five minutes.
Stir occasionally to prevent scorching.
Squeeze the lime and jigger the hot sauce over before serving.


MANOK KUNIT
Yellow curry chicken

Half a chicken, in four pieces.
One onion, minced.
One or two cloves garlic, minced.
A little ginger, ditto.
Three kemiri (candlenuts); lightly toasted, ground smooth.
One TBS. sambal ulek.
One Tsp. tamarind paste.
One Tsp. each: ground coriander, turmeric, dry ginger.
Half Tsp. each: sugar, shrimp paste.
Generous pinch ground cumin.
A stalk of lemon grass.
One cup coconut milk.
Dash of amber fish sauce.

Gild the onion, garlic, and ginger. Add the kemiri, sambal, shrimp paste, and spices, stirfry till fragrant. Then add the chicken, lemon grass, and coconut milk. Cook till the chicken is tender and the oil starts coming out, about forty minutes. Add the sugar and fish sauce, and cook a few minutes more.


EBERE
Meat and bamboo shoots in rich sauce

Pound and a half of chunked goat.
Cup and a half of julienned bamboo shoots.
One carrot, also julienned.
A small onion, minced.
Some minced garlic and chili.
One or two TBS. sambal ulek.
One Tsp. ground coriander.
Half Tsp. each turmeric, dry ginger, ground cumin.
Cup and a half coconut milk.
Cup of stock or water.
Dash soy sauce.
Squeeze of lime juice.

Frazzle the onion garlic and ginger with a little of the coconut milk until the oil comes out and the mixture gilds. Add the powdered spices, sambal, and goat, plus a splash more coconut milk. When the oil comes out again, add the remaining coconut milk and the water. Simmer for an hour. Then add the bamboo shoot, carrot, soy sauce, and the squeeze of lime juice, cook half an hour more.


BABUI MAKETJAP
Soy-sauce pork

One pound pork loin, chunked.
One or two stalks scallion, cut into small lengths.
A thumb-length ginger, coarse slivered.
One Tsp. sambal ulek
One or two star anise.
Quarter cup soy sauce.
Two TBS. sugar.
Half cup water.
Jigger sherry.

Salt and pepper the pork lightly. Stirfry the scallion and ginger in oil till fragrant, add the meat and sauté to colour. Add everything else and simmer for half and hour or so. The sauce should be velvety, but not treacly.


PATJOKAN LIMO
Lemon pickle-relish

One cup white vinegar.
Half cup water.
Quarter cup sugar.
Two TBS. salt.
Half Tsp. turmeric.
Pinch paprika (for colour).
Three large lemons.
Three small green chilies.

Blanch lemons and chilies. Remove seeds, and chop.
Mix everything in a large jar.
Age a week, shake regularly.
Use a little for a startling condimental addition.


RUDJAK
Sour and hot dressed salad.

Two TBS. each: lime juice, tamarind liquid, amber fish sauce, smooth peanut butter.
One TBS. each: brown sugar, Louisiana hot sauce, sambal ulek.
Hot water as needed for diluting, and a few drops of oil for smoothness.
Whisk together till smooth.

Serve as a dip, or use as dressing, for raw and blanched vegetables and sour fruits, with shrimp chips, fried tofu squares (tauhu pong), and slices of hard-boiled egg.


SARUNDENG BAWANG
Crispy coconut and onion garnish

One cup grated coconut.
One finely slivered shallot.
Two TBS. lime juice
One TBS. amber fish sauce.
One Tsp. sugar.
A few drops Louisiana hotsauce.
Pinches ground coriander and turmeric.

Mix it all together well. Let stand an hour or two. Spread thinly on an oiled baking tray, and toast it for two hours at slightly below 300 degrees Fahrenheit. If necessary, decant it to a skillet and toast it golden brown afterwards by hand. Keeps for a few weeks.
Use it to add textural excitement on top of curries.

[A version of serundeng with cashews is here: sarundeng kadjo. It can also be made with rehydrated laver (seaweed), at which point you have something that you will eat huge handfuls of in front of the teevee late at night.]


Note that lemon grass can be found in many Asian markets, sambal ulek is plain red chili paste as manufactured by Huy Fong Foods in Irwindale -- as well as other companies, and you can also substitute similar products -- and good amber fish sauce comes from Thailand or Vietnam. Avoid the Filipino versions; they're chemically unstable.
Kemiri nuts (Aleurites moluccana) are often used in Indonesian cuisine. They add a saveur of their own, and help unify emulsive sauces. But you can substitute many other nuts for a similar effect, entirely excepting kluwak (Pangium edule ), which has its own unique function within the Indies kitchen.


Customarily, freshly chopped cucumbers, a clear soup, simple and cooked sambals, and rice are part of the meal. Cucumbers lessen the effect of hot weather as well as gastric distress from too much sambal. Often some blanched or quick stir-fried vegetables will also be served.
Amounts of sambal ulek are suggestions.
Feel free to increase.


AFTER WORD

I remember that afternoon fondly. Suzanne was more sparkling than ever, and her brother Henri seemed pleased and proud that his sister was such a nice young lady. Over the next several hours he had three cigars, I smoked my pipe constantly, and Suzanne manfully put up with our smelly habit.

The uncle and his wife happily listened in on the juveniles, sometimes adding a comment. Perhaps it somehow reminded them of somewhere else, a different time and place. Youth, cleverly mixed languages, witty conversation, and spicy food.
Was it perhaps an echo of a city far away, and the people who had once lived there?
Outside it was raining. Not the hard downpours of winter, but a steady drubbing amid the green green leaves of the tall trees surrounding the square, muffling the sounds of traffic and whatever else.
Lights were on; you need lamps in Holland when it rains to drive away the gloom. And brightness adds cheer.

Later, when the rain lessened, we walked back to the station.
Henri and I let Suzanne use the only umbrella, resisting her demands that we all stay under it. The wetness was minor, and real men do not mind a little moisture.

Despite the long exposure to tobacco smoke, I could still notice the faintest hint of her perfume. How delightful, how feminine.


I wonder what would have happened if I had gone back in the eighties.
At that time it did not seem like such a good idea, and since then I have gotten acclimatized so thoroughly that leaving the Bay Area never even crosses my mind.
But I rather miss the weather, as well as the smells.
And above all, some of the people I knew.
Their fragrance remains strong.




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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 the blackmail brouhaha, or the vast reservoirs of selfish stupidity of the goombas who run Irwindale, can be voiced here: 'City Manager'.
Remember to be polite.




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CHICKEN CURRY

People all have certain memories that spell home, often related to food and physical comfort. For my father, as an example, a long soak in the tub with a tea tray alongside was an essential weekend ritual. Walking past the bathroom, I could hear the rustle of paper -- either the local news sheet, or the Saturday Evening Review -- and mingled with the whisps of tobacco smoke there would be lingering hints of Assam and soap. The occasional clink of porcelain. Late afternoon on Saturday or Sunday meant that the old man was "occupied".
Please do not disturb unless the world is ending.
And something can be done about it.
If not, deal with it later.

In consequence of that, you might well think that my mental sense of home involves smelling a middle-aged man immersed in water, with tea and a pack of smokes. Well, yes......... But I am the only middle-aged man in my life, and I neither smoke nor drink tea in the tub. It's just quiet time. The long moment when the world slows down, the sun crystallizes in the airwell, and dust motes dance.

Twiddling toes in warm soapy water is good for the soul.

My apartment mate does the same, and I now know enough to head somewhere else while she's soaking. Even though we're no longer a couple, haven't been for years, the image of her in warm water is perhaps not what I need to visualize.


At such times I might consider going off to get a bite to eat instead. Thinking of certain foods and smells instead induces peacefulness, and some things just scream home-comfort.
Tea and toast. Cinnamon. Scotch whisky. Marmalade.
Pipe tobacco. Fresh coffee. Coconut cookies.
Soup. Noodles. Hot chicken curry.
Chicken curry noodle soup.


CURRY CHICKEN AND RICE STICK NOODLES

Brown a large chopped onion in oil or bacon fat, add minced ginger and garlic halfway through, and add spices in stages when they have started to colour. First four teaspoons of ground coriander, then one teaspoon each of turmeric and ground cumin. When all this is nice and fragrant, decant to a bowl, and in the remaining oil gently gild large chunks of chicken (bone in), about a pound and a half.

When nicely soft golden, add the onion mixture, a hefty tablespoon or two of hot chili paste, some cracked peppercorns, a small piece of cinnamon stick, and, if you have it, a fresh stalk of lemon grass. Plus chicken stock and coconut milk to very generously cover, about two cups each. And a very hefty squeeze of lime or lemon juice.

Simmer on low for less than an hour. Adjust the taste at end with a sprinkle of salt and the merest pinch of sugar. If you used fish-paste and a dash of shrimp sauce, as many South East Asians would, the salt is unnecessary.

Putting cooked potato chunks into the soup at this point is a good idea. Dumping in several whole green chilies at the very beginning of the simmer time is also splendid; they will yield their fragrance but hardly any heat, and they look festive. As does the generous strewing of fresh cilantro mere seconds before turning off the heat.

Apportion the wet curry-soup to individual bowls, leaving plenty of room. Add some chunks of peeled cucumber.

Boil the rice stick noodles as you normally would, merely three minutes or so. When done, rinse under cold to stop the cooking, and dump a clump on top of each serving.


There will be enough for two or three people. If you are alone, use only the amount of curry, cucumber, and cilantro for one person, and put the rest in the refrigerator for tomorrow or the next day.


For a truly degenerate bachelor experience, eat in front of the teevee when Fox News or the Real Housewives are on, muttering "shut up you clods" while slurping. Dump crumbled cashews on top of your noodles, and the chicken bones on an old newspaper.


There is no small naked woman in the bath.
And the world is manifestly not ending.



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HOT-FINGERED ITALIAN

A good friend gave me fresh chilies from his garden recently. He's been growing several varieties this summer, from quite hot to rather a bit hotter. They're red and ripe now.

So naturally I've been eating at home a bit more. Cooking gives me the opportunity to nibble on juicy fragments of pepper to figure out what else should go in the dish to alleviate or ameliorate.
Very hot chilies require "more".
Both more experimental nibbling -- ooh, spicy! -- as well as more cream and juices.

It's the closest the single man can come to sex in San Francisco.


"Tell me what you eat and I'll tell you what you are."
---Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin


Lest you now squawk indignantly and question my assertion (chilies = orgasm), objecting that A) there is no evidence that they are just as good or even in the same ballpark what a thoroughly RIDICULOUS comparison, and B) San Francisco is just filled to the rafters with women what one earth is wrong with me why aren't I getting any, let me hasten to point out that for years before my second bachelorhood commenced I was deeply involved with chilies so I know what I'm talking about and at least now I can cook without any sensible restraint whatsoever ooh hot yum yum, AND when it comes to relationships one absolutely must employ intelligence and discretion, and NOT get involved with women who aren't precisely and exactly suitable and admirable.


So, chilies then. Come here my little firecracker.


I rather wonder what notorious single man and effete food-snob Brillat-Savarin would have made of yesterday's dinner.


Italian sausage.
Spinach.
Coconut milk.
Yoghurt.
Diverse hot chilies.
Green curry paste.
Slivered ginger.
Olive oil.
Amber fish sauce.
Peanut butter.
Hot sauce.
Soy sauce.
Lime juice.
Fresh ground pepper.


More or less greatest quantity to least, sautéed and simmered.
Then mixed with rotini, and eaten with great enjoyment.

I think he would have said that I'm Italian.
Yes, that's it. The pasta made it obvious.


Who the heck names their child 'Anthelme'?!?



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THE UNMARRIED MAN'S GUIDE TO FINE DINING

Last week I published an episode of 'Feral Bachelor Chow', that being an unintentionally ongoing series about this blogger's casual approach to dinner since breaking up with Savage Kitten three years ago.
Now, bear in mind that I like to cook, and I really enjoy interesting and tasty food. But when you're only cooking for one person, and you are somewhat disturbingly conscious of the fact that there is no one to eat with, there is scant inspiration to sweat the details, or spend much time in the kitchen.

As I mentioned last time, it's mostly mix and match.

Yesterday evening's quick repast might have been better left unmixed, and unmatched. Though not a single one of the ingredients is to blame. Excellent products tastefully combined, and beautiful to look at.
Took about fifteen minutes to throw together.
I should've thrown it out instead.
But it was delicious.

Penne pasta.
Israeli couscous.
Green curry paste.
Yellow curry paste.
Chili paste.
Olive oil.
Little pork meatballs with cayenne.
Chopped baby bokchoi.
Kasondi pickle.
Ginger.
Garlic.
Yoghurt.
Coconut milk.
Splash of Bourbon.
Squeeze of lime juice.
Dash of hot sauce.
Three pickled Habaneros.

I added that last ingredient because after combining the cooked meatballs in their tasty yoghurt curry sauce with the pasta and couscous, it all seemed a little wishy-washy. Not assertive enough.
The Habaneros made it plenty assertive.


Readers will kindly note the posting time of this essay.
[6:06 AM. West-Coast Time.]

If anyone asks me to cook for them, I promise to leave the chilipaste, hotsauce, and pickled Habaneros at home. I'll rely on your selection of condiments.

I think I still need to fine-tune the exact quantities. I sort of did it by eye, while reading a book by Jan De Hartog.
Perhaps more yoghurt, less kasondi.
And a pinch of salt.

Thoughts by concerned culinarians are welcomed.
What do you think?

Some sliced cucumber on the side?
Beets?




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CURRY - WHAT DOES THAT MEAN TO YOU?

To many English people, nothing speaks so strongly of home as 'curry'. Which most of them never cook themselves (English can't cook; it's a genetic condition), but purchase instead from dubious restaurants run by Bengali immigrants. The two great national dishes of Britain are mystery meat Vindaloo for the yobbos and Chicken Tikka Masala for the middle-classes.
Both are actually very fine preparations, but they don't resemble Indian food very much. In point of fact, neither does Indian food.

Naan was invented by Persian speakers, kulcha ditto, and most famous "North Indian" dishes derive from the cuisine of Northwest Pakistan and Afghanistan. The tandoor, it will be recalled, was created in Central Asia by the Turkic nomads.
Roghan Josh ("grease frazzle stew") is an Afghan dish from Kashmir.
Chilies were native to Central America, cloves and nutmeg are of Indonesian origin, pepper is Tamil, Vindaloo is a bastardised Portuguese preparation further bolicksed up by Brits and restaurateurs, and rich creamy spiced-up sauces are not really common in Indian households, except among the gross pudge-pot matrons of Delhi.
Which is an absurd enclave to begin with.

Many Indians nowadays do actually enjoy a spot of 'curry' with their sarson da saag, dhal, raita, achar, and roti. And almost anything tastes better with some chilies and dark-toasted cumin. Even Chicken Tikka Masala!
Possibly excepting laddoos and sevian ki kheer, but much further research is needed.

Ghee, of course, is the great purifier and can be added to anything.
......Rivulets of golden ghee, over velvety curves, mmmmm......
...............It's clean, I tell you, clean!


Curry powder is not Indian either, but originated in the spice trade. In India it's closest relative is conceivably Tamilian sambhar powder, but the proportions of spices used to compound the product are much more Sinhalese - Malay - Indonesian in inspiration.
The consumers of curry powder, traditionally, have been English.
Refer back to snarky comment concerning genetic condition.

Two parts coriander powder, one part turmeric, one part ground toasted cumin, and one part or a hell of a lot more of fried mustard seed.
Plus other spices, in either minute or insane quantities.
Fenugreek, cayenne, cinnamon, cardamom.
More coriander won't do any harm -- a popular Delhwi meat dish bases its appeal entirely on coriander, black pepper, and green cardamom -- but increasing the proportions of turmeric and cumin (especially raw) leads to rather dubious results. Turmeric mellows upon exposure to heat and looses that earthy bitterness it has when raw, and cumin in large quantities can end up brutally dominant.


WHEN IN DOUBT, BHUNA TILL YOU DROP!

Essential to almost any curry is onion fried brown and mashed up, along with additional flavours such as methi, garlic, and ginger. Indonesians will add galangal and lemon grass, along with shrimp paste and sometimes an inordinate amount of fresh red chilipaste, and nearly everywhere rich grease and a minor souring agent are also added. The browned onion gives body to the sauce. The basic spices provide the fundament of the flavour, additions tweak it, and ghee, cream, coconut milk, tamarind, tomato, katambi (cocum), et mult altres will fine-tune taste and mouthfeel, as well as determining whether it goes with breads or rice. Both in North India and the Indonesian areas ground-up nuts may be added for extra richness. Almonds, chilgoz, and pistacchios among Hindustani speakers; peanuts, cashews, candlenuts, kluwak (pangium edule) in Java and Sumatra. Thais, Balinese, and others, also include diverse bitter fragrant kaempferia roots.
The total effect need not be strong; curry can be mild.
Whether it is soupy or dry is up to the cook.
Accompaniments vary by cuisine.

Start with the onion. Add the spices. Extend the sauce.
Add a little more spice at the end. Serve.
Provide other dishes alongside.
Wets, dries, crunchies.
Plus a starch.
Simple.


*-----Sambal, Sriracha hot sauce, krupuk, srundeng, onion salad, chutney-----*


Ground coriander is almost always part of the programme. Turmeric need not be, and cumin likewise might be missing. Almost all other spices will be a decision of the moment. Additions to the sauce are a natural inspiration, garnishes such as fried shallots, crumbled nuts, crispy crap, or minced fresh herbs, provide a lovely touch.


While the English and Dutch consider beer and ale the natural drinks to enjoy with their curries, that probably isn't a good idea. Indians might serve a buttermilk beverage, Indonesians and the Malays put a tureen with soup or singgang on the table for diners to wet their rice or drink from a separate bowl. Beer, as everyone who has been in rumbles with Northern Europeans knows, inflames the bestial passions and makes their breath profoundly rancid. As well as promoting digestive issues such as stupidity, gout, and dyspepsia.


Avoid beer. Have a glass of sherry instead.



*-----Sonf, mitha paan, succade, murabbat sfarjali, badha peg, oporto-----*




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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.


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MORE ABOUT THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES

After a repast consisting of a steamed chicken bun and cheung fan, I pulled out a pipe and some of Greg Pease's latest (Navigator) and was packing the bowl in anticipation of a long dawdling amble down Stockton Street.
Still had coffee left, so it would be a few more minutes.

An elderly woman at the counter had ordered a bowl of noodles with meat chunks on top, and when it came, enthusiastically set about dolling it up with ground white pepper, hot sauce, and hoisin jeung. Bear in mind that this particular place until recently did not have Sriracha ("cock sauce") in the plastic squeeze bottle, but simply had jars of sambal oelek on their condiment trays.
The hoisin was also an innovation.

[Cock-sauce: the affectionate nickname for SriRacha hotsauce manufactured by Huy Fong Foods Corporation (滙豐食品公司) in Rosemead, Southern California.]

Now they probably go through crate after crate of Sriracha; they may have to raise their prices slightly to cover the expense.
But it's probably pleased any number of repeat patrons. All over Chinatown, Mr. Tran's bottle is capturing hearts and minds. At present you see it in cha chanteng, regular restaurants, snack food places, and even dim sum houses.
The sauce is quite addictive.


OH!

Judging by the humongous amount the woman was sploodging on her noodles, she was a hard-core chili junkie. Remarkable for a Chinatown lady of her generation, but it may explain why she was eating by herself. Oh, the secret shameful passion, oh the orgiastic overload! Oh the sheer intemperance of her actions!
Lady, you're older than me! You should be calmer and more restrained!
Not given to such outrageously over-the-top indulgence.
It's shocking, is what it is! Think of the children!
Oh and by the way - enjoy your meal.
I used as much on my bun.
Good stuff, eh?

I may have mentioned in the past that I like watching women eat. Particularly if they're Cantonese, because unlike White women, who always have that air of "I'm gonna get fat! if I eat something nice" usually coupled with perfectly Wasp tastes, Cantonese women want to have fun with their food. Oh boy Jesus yes.
They may have yielded the best morsels to their brothers and elders while growing up, and if they have husbands, boyfriends, or lovers, the pattern still holds.
But when they're noshing by themselves there is absolutely no filter.
Mine, dammit, and I'm going to enjoy every frickin bite!

One imagines a happy forest creature dancing with chopsticks held aloft around a steaming bowl of meaty goodness. Yay! Yay! Yay!

Someday I will have to ask an office lady in the financial district whether she truly likes that bowl of limp lettuce with flavourless overcooked shredded chicken breast and a drizzle of low-fat raspberry balsamic hooha, or if it's merely filler for an empty spot in her stomach and her soul.
Sweetheart, if you REALLY want salad, have something made with mayonnaise, chunks of smoked pork, garlic, and anchovies. And warm potatoes. Don't worry about what your breath smells like, you're going back to the office, and I hope you ain't planning to kiss anyone till evening. Not while you're at work.
Take a cigar and a cup of espresso too, while you're at it.
Enjoy life. Instead of stressing with the lettuce.

Nah, I cannot see a suburbanite dancing with chopsticks. They're mostly dried-up inside anyway, no gusto for life, and certainly none for food.

But auntie over there, however...........

If she were not nearly so antique, I would've asked her out on a date.

If only to observe while she tackled another bowl of noodles.

In any case, I ordered a second cup of coffee.


Anybody who can look at food with an expression that says she's truly glad to see it, hello old friend how splendid to find you again, has a face worth watching.


It's something very Cantonese.

Other typical facial expressions that appeal are bemusement, the look of happy flabbergastion when unexpectedly discovering something nice, gleeful alertness at witnessing another person making a scene -- Ooh boy! Free entertainment! -- and sometimes, hurt vulnerability, such as hid in the faces of Cherie Chung (鍾楚紅) and Leslie Cheung (張國榮) in many of their most memorable film moments.
I've seen that last on other faces. It's wrenching.
Always subconscious, never deliberate.
A wounded quality laid bare.
Très séduisante.


Spent a pleasant hour after lunch wandering around C'town with my pipe, people watching. Finished up at Naam Hoi Sam Yung Hang (南海参茸行), where I bought some loose leaf tea: 特級烏龍和野山黄金菊 (top quality oolong and wild golden chrysanthemum). Didn't get the hairy crab king this time.

[南海参茸行: 南海集團参茸行有限公司 NAM HAI CORPORATION, 919 Grant Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94108. PH: 415-397-3678. Herbal preparations, patent remedies, and tea.]

Nam Hai has been around far, far longer than all those cutesy-poo tea boutiques where the tourists are given a superficial lesson in Chinese culture, along with sips of overpriced lower-grade muck, and the opportunity to acquire a rather poor quality tea-set: small purple clay pot and four teenie cups. Plus teas to match.
All oh so unique.

There did not used to be so many of those shops. Now there are over a dozen of them, all selling the same merchandise. Stuff that only dumb people would buy.
A selection of strangely flavoured fruity teas and truly mediocre leaves.
Smile, nod, bow, thank you very much please come again!

Real people drink real tea.
And put chili sauce on their food.
What's the point of living without zest?

I think it's time to baptise my newest small teapot.
Bought it a while back. I have a modest collection of such.
It is pointless owning teapots unless you are going to use them.



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THE NOODLY YUMMINESS!

He waited a long time at the increasingly crowded bus stop. Muni always took such a while. But it was still better than setting off uphill, as the moment you reached the crest, you could see that if you had just taken a few minutes more pause at the bottom, you would have caught a bus.

Finally a conveyance trundled into view. Along with a throng of others he swarmed on board. All the seats were taken, all the space in the aisles was packed. He found himself wedged between an elderly codger - who really SHOULD have been sitting - and two tykes of maybe five or six years of age. He didn't mind the tight squeeze, as he could always start biting people if it became too much.
But he had self control. Exemplary self-control.
It was that which kept him out of trouble.


He observed the children with interest. Both of them, the boy as well as the girl, had Hello Kitty backpacks. The boy was pleasingly round-headed, the little girl had what looked like the thickest, softest, featheriest hair in a big bushy tail. It was very lovely. He felt that he was entitled to admire tails. His own was not quite so bouncy, and he kept it tucked under his trenchcoat so that no one would step on it.

The girl observed him with equal interest. It was disconcerting, as he preferred not to be noticed very much. She stared intently, and he couldn't quite meet her gaze. What was she looking at?
Was she admiring his pelt? Did she want to skin him for a warm coat, or just run her hot little human hands through his soft, soft chest fur?
He really wouldn't mind the latter. It was paler than on the back and sides, where the banding started, and he liked being rubbed there, or even skritched under his chin. Little children could sometimes be so innocently affectionate to raccoons.


He was looking forward to getting to Stockton Street. Soon he would be wandering around, drinking in the sights and smells, and looking for a good place to have noodles. Wheat flour maybe, with bits of roast pork and chopped scallion. Or a bowl of egg noodles in soup, with tangy shreds of pickled vegetable and slivers of animal protein. Too hot to eat immediately, but he'd grab some ice cubes from the glass of water to cool down the broth. Fried thick rice stick, perhaps. With a dash of soy sauce and chili it would be delicious! His whiskers quivered with anticipation, and he vibrated with excitement.
A big blonde woman whose leg he inadvertently touched when the bus jostled interrupted her whiny cell-phone monologue to glare at him disapprovingly. Clearly she felt that this was her personal ride, and being surrounded by other individuals was too much. Especially wild animals!
She didn't say anything, though. If she had, he would've scratched her.

Finally the bus crossed Stockton, and stopped opposite the herb and dried seafood emporium with the green awning. Massively the vehicle's contents erupted onto the street, a swarm of people descending through both doors, nearly stampeding on their way out. Possibly they too were upset at the blonde baggage and her drearily repetitive telephonic yacking, couldn't wait to get away from the bitch.

He held back a bit, waiting for the most desperate individuals to stampede out first. Didn't want anyone stepping on him. The two little children got off at the same time. As they headed down Clay Street with their mom, the little girl looked back at him.
She had beautiful eyes, gentle and alert.
He felt certain he would see her again.
She might be taller than him by then.

Ten minutes later he was happily scarfing down a big, BIG plate of fat fried rice stick noodles with scallion, extra ginger, and juicy slivers of beef. Yes, a dash of soy sauce and a glop of chili paste for added flavour. Dang this was good! This was worth the wait! This, in all ways, represented a slice of life worth living!
He beckoned the waitress over and ordered a big glass of tea with lots of condensed milk and tapioca pearls over ice, and happily twiddled his clawed toes while continuing his assault on the plate of chow fun. He liked crowded bustling places like this.
Mmmmm, ginger!

Life was good. Life was exceedingly good indeed.
Cities were fine places for raccoons.


He'd wander around a bit after eating, and scare some of the tourists.
Then he'd climb up the hill at twilight, and head home.
Perhaps overturning a garbage can on the way.
Traditional and expected of folks like him.
Besides, it startled the local cats.

Fun stuff, indeed.
Life is a tail.




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IT'S WHERE YOUR HEAD IS AT

In the year that my father passed away I rediscovered Amsterdam.  That is actually not quite correct; I had rediscovered it several times before.  But when I went back to Holland to see my dad before he died, I had been gone for over a decade.  It was a welcome homecoming.
Since then Amsterdam, more than the south (Brabant and Limburg) has represented another home.  The area around Eindhoven has little left to offer, as everyone I knew there has either left this earth or left that place: there is no real reason to revisit the Kempen anymore.
But Amsterdam is always there. 
Amsterdam is a personality, a city, a familiar atmosphere.
A place where the head is, and the heart must follow.

In my teenage years I 'rediscovered' the city nearly every year.  Always I liked visiting the flower market first, followed by spending the entire rest of the day strolling through the city, browsing antique stores and curio shops, having coffee and snacks, drinking in the feel of the metropolis.

It's partly the trees. 
The city is dense with them, they shade the streets and muffle the sounds.
That, more than anything else, makes the place other-wordly.
It's like being in a private universe.
Leaf-speckled patterns.

When I visited my father that last time, I dawdled for four hours in Amsterdam before taking the train to the south.  I had not been around Dutch-speakers since the day I left twelve years before.  Let me just drink in what it feels like.
I discovered that I was one of the very few Dutch-speakers in town.  When I asked someone where a particular street was, he apologetically admitted that he too was visiting, and only spoke English. 
Several other tourists, hearing me speak the local tongue, promptly asked me for directions.
I must have rather disappointed them.  Sorry.

During the next several weeks I went back to Amsterdam a number of times.
As I have in the years since.


READ...

I am particularly fond of the area around the Spui Plein. There's the Atheneum bookstore on the corner of Spui Street, the Cafe Luxembourg with the desultory and undiplomatic waiters, Cafe Beiaard around the corner with a much warmer staff, as well as several other cafes nearby where one may read the livres purchased at the weekly book market held every Friday amidst the trees surrounding the square. Which, surely, is the major reason to come. The printed matter you will find represents all the languages of Europe, and several beyond - Amsterdam has been a trading city for eons, and this is where the fleets that fought the Spanish in Asia and South America came from; for over three centuries it was the centre of the spice trade.

In the immediate area of the Spui Plein are a number of antiquarian booksellers where treasures may be found, not very far away at all is Scheltema Holkema Vermeulen, which is another famous bookstore, and snacks as well as very nice formal meals can be had at various eateries and restaurants. 
The streets are shaded by ancient growth, and it's a relatively short stroll to other squares.

Many tourists only known the Leidsche Plein.  They shoot down the Leidsche Straat from the train station, and promptly swarm into the Bulldog to lose their minds on hashish. Thank heavens they never buy maps, stay on focus, and have no interest in anything else. 
Their 15 watt presence would darken the mood elsewhere.
Such as areas merely half a block away along the various canals.
Leafy spots, curio shops, bookstores, and antiques.
Plus comfortable cafes and eateries.

The Rembrandt Plein by comparison sees hardly any outsiders, and I doubt that anywhere nearby sells spacecake to young Americans. There's an English pub there, but its clientele and mood are profoundly Dutch.  Clean, bright, old-fashioned.  If I remember correctly they even have the rugs on the tables in lieu of damask, as many traditional drinking establishments in the Netherlands do.
The Rembrandt Plein is tree-lined, there are many antique store in walking distance.
I recall it as perpetually sunny - just haven't been there on rainy days.


AND EAT!

While Dutch food has always been infinitely better than what is available across the channel, the most exciting dining is at Indonesian restaurants. 
Indo food is a cuisine whose roots in Holland were planted centuries ago, when returnees from the tropics and newly available spices met head on. The exiles loved being home again, loathed the rediscovered Dutch climate, and longed for something exciting to eat.  Over the next several generations, the use of strong flavourings and subtle additions gradually found a place, eateries were opened up that catered to the Indies-gasten, and substitutions for ingredients not yet available added a different signature to several dishes.
After the war the flood of returning colonials added vigour, and, as a welcome change from the scarcity of the German years, East Indies food took off like a rocket.
Nowadays you can hardly find a Dutch kitchen without a spectrum of spices, condiments, sauces, and hotpastes whose origin lies halfway around the world.
For many ex-Indies folks, this was the taste of home.  They grew up eating it, and in fact had never been to the Netherlands till Sukarno expelled them.

Imagine......
A meat stew made dark with earthy kluwak nuts, next to something brilliant yellow, coconutty.  Red red hotsauce with a touch of fermented fish in a little saucer - the condiment - as well as grilled lamb skewers, slightly charry, with a drizzle of thick dark sauce.  A plate of blanched vegetables with some spicy peanut sauce. Shrimp stir-fried with chilipaste and kangkong.
Fish soup with tamarind, tomato, and fresh crunchy herbs.  Little fried snackipoos, and a spicy vegetable coconut mixture.  Raw veggies with a fiery dip.  A bowl of crunchy stuff to add on top.
Rawon, gulai, sambal, sate kambing, petjil, sambal goreng udang, ikan singgang, emping, urap urap, lalap, serundeng (these are all things I still cook at home, btw).
Everything in small portions, as it is the variety that counts. 
Followed by strong coffee, and a very thin slice of an incredibly rich and delicious cake, moist and aromatic: spekkoek ("bacon cake"), so named because of its appearance, being paperthin layers of brown and white batter alternating - one sweet with a faint faint hint of pandan, the other richly zapped up with cinnamon, nutmeg, clove, and cardamom.
Delicious.

[Spekkoek is something that really needs to be made by an auntie. It just tastes better that way.
I rarely do it myself.]

Then past golden-glowing windows home to the hotel, along streets darkened further by leaves and trees, but retaining the warmth of day long past dusk.

Holland is a wet and fecund place.  Green things thrive. 
Because of all the trees, Amsterdam smells good.
But that might still be the aroma of spices.



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