Last weekend, we had a little overnight trip to Door County. The fall colors were starting to set in in some places, and the lake water was amazingly clear. We drove around, enjoying the crisp, autumnal air, spent a few calming moments on a serene cobblestone beach, admired the Milky Way with our mouths open, and generally got refreshed. It makes me feel old to say that I really loved Door County, but I did.
On the way back to Chicago from the tip of the peninsula, we stopped at a farm market, operated by the Seaquist Orchards, and picked up half a peck of honey crisp apples. They were so sweet and crisp--as their name implies--that they had the same power to tempt us to eat them impulsively as chocolates and cookies do. Though I'm not a big fruit eater in my normal life, those apples made me one, if temporarily. I've had them piled up on the dining table, and they're already down to two-. (Apparently it's the case with other people, too, for we saw quite a few farm markets and pick-your-own orchards on the peninsula emphasizing honey crisps on their signs.)
The apples are so good we've been eating them fresh, but I did play with them once. Using some leftover wonton wrappers, I made appetizer/dessert wontons.
I'd come across an interesting idea of using shichimi, Japanese seven-spice mix, in sweet desserts, and I'd wanted to try it. (Unfortunately I don't remember where I read about that idea.) The spicy kick and the citrusy aroma of the shichimi I had at hand seemed perfect for pairing with apples, so I jumped at the opportunity. For the filling base, I mixed softened cream cheese, some sugar and a pinch of shichimi. To bridge the spice mix and the apple, I decided to fold in a thin slice of ginger in each wonton. After wrapping the shichimi cream cheese mixture, diced apples and ginger slices, I shaped the wontons into small parcels, and deep-fried them till crispy.
The result: I could have used a lot more shichimi. When I taste-tested the shichimi-sprinkled cream cheese before frying, it had an unmistakable aroma and heat of the shichimi. But apparently the frying process made much of that heat and aroma evaporate into thin air, and the finished wontons had only the slightest hint of shichimi left. This was a disappointment, but there was a nice surprise as well: the ginger slices lightened (jazzed up, might I say?) the whole thing fantastically. I thought the ginger would be a nice, refreshing touch in this fat-heavy combination of cream cheese and deep-frying, but the ginger worked even better than I expected. Cooking also brought out the tartness in the apple that wasn't very pronounced when eaten fresh.
We had the wontons as an appetizer, but this would be a nice dessert, maybe paired with vanilla ice cream (drool...). Next time I make this, I'll use a lot more shichimi and see how that works.
Pear tomatoes from my mom's backyard and a handful of Thai-flavored cashews...
Chop up the cashews, toss with halved tomatoes, and let them rest for fifteen minutes in the fridge, and you have Thai cashew tomato salad. Work time? Two minutes. Juice from the tomatoes work as the liquid base for the dressing, for which the seasoning comes from the lime- and chili-flavored nuts. Brought to you by Trader Joe's spicy concoction, Thai Lime Chili Cashews. (Hey, I'm not getting commission from Joe or anything...)
I didn't even know the existence of the village of Westmont until very recently, but ever since I read about the suburban community west of Chicago on Drivethru (scroll down to Gino's comment), I'd been very curious. Apparently, there's a significant Taiwanese population in Westmont, which gave rise to something called "International Mall." I learned, from stray online bits, that the International Mall has a decent Taiwanese supermarket and a food court that offers weekend breakfast. Reading one reviewer on Yelp, who says the weekend breakfast is the "closest thing to an authentic Chinese breakfast" beside sailing across the Pacific to Asia, I almost drooled onto my keyboard: fried dough dipped in sweetened soy milk... chive buns... it sounded too good to be true. I just had to go.
The problem is that it's so out of the way, if not far away. By the intersection of Routes 83 (Kingrey) and 34 (Ogden), the Mall is at least 45 minutes drive from where I live. Driving out there just to get breakfast seemed, as appealing as an authentic Taiwanese breakfast was, a bit much. So, when we decided to spend what was possibly the last day of summer exploring the nearby Morton Arboretum, I grabbed the occasion. Drawing the plan couldn't have been easier: we'd catch the fried dough breakfast at the Mall, drive fifteen minutes to the Arboretum and spend a quiet day communing with the artificial nature.
Once at the Mall, we checked out the Whole Grain Fresh Market on the eastern end. Though much smaller if compared to Jewel and other chain supermakets, the place was overwhelming: an entire aisle was dedicated to noodles of different ingredients, shapes and sizes while another was occupied by more Chinese dried goods than you can imagine. Cookies and sweets spilled out of the two rows of shelves dedicated to them, and were pressing onto a few shelves in the front. At least 20 different kinds of rice--red rice, black sweet rice, black wild rice, Jasmine rice, short grain rice, long grain sweet rice...--were prominently featured by the entrance. But the most overwhelming was the collection of mostly Chinese sauces that occupied a whole aisle. Many of the sauces were familiar to us (sa cha djan, to ban djan, chi ma djan, etc.), but so many others were utterly mysterious and esoteric.
We picked up a few confectionery ingredients (black sesame powder, almond powder and black sugar) and a few Chinese cookies. One of them, the abalone-shaped cookies, had quite an interesting ingredients list that included shallots and Chinese spices. The unique, sweet-and-salty flavor of the cookies went surprisingly well with jasmine tea. (I had them with and without the tea, and discovered that enjoying them with tea is the way to go.) I'm not sure if I would know that it was the shallots if it weren't on the ingredients list, but the cookies do carry a faint, fleeting aroma of the shallots, making it quite unusual in the U.S., I'm sure.
The cookies were interesting and quite tasty, but there were reasons for not picking up other things at the market. For one, it was too hot in the car for anything requiring refrigeration to survive for too long, but for another, the market's fresh produce and meats could have been fresher. "H Mart definitely elevated our expectations from ethnic markets," Patrick said, and I agree.
In the light of the freshness, variety and quantity of the produce, meat and fish at H Mart, the Whole Grain Fresh Market was sub-par. (Ethnic markets do face the indomitable challenge of a smaller clientele and a slower turnover rate as a result, which favors the behemoths like the H Mart--I know. But still, selling moldy mushrooms and gray beef didn't appeal to me too much.) Even with the occasional organic produce (as to be expected from their name evoking such organic-centered places as Whxxe Foods and Wxxd Oats, I suppose), I wasn't impressed by the Whole Grain market on this regard. But it's okay--the true joy of the International Mall was its food court.
To be continued (because I'm mean).
Continue reading "Going Out West: International Mall in Westmont"I was a weird kid who loved to flip through my mom's old cookbooks. She didn't have too many, perhaps three or four in all, that she had picked up in the early days of her married life in the mid-'70s in Tokyo. Looking at them now, most of the dishes featured in these old cookbooks have almost no appeal to my (spoiled) eyes. The presentation is painfully outdated (thick stoneware plates with brown lines around the edge--an unmistakable mark of the '70s), and what must have been exotic dishes, made with what little imported ingredient available at the time, now appear lacking in authenticity. The strangely genteel instructions, combined with the kind explanations of exotic ingredients and novel preparations (that have since become mundane) are almost quaint.
It was evidently not so for the ten-year-old me, for quite a few of the entries have marks--ranging from simple circles to stars and flowers--that I penciled in as I leafed through these cookbooks. My hope was that my mom would look at the marks, realize that I wanted to try those particular dishes, and cook them for me. That rarely happened, for my mom was not an eager cook (though she was and is a good one), but a few of the recipes she did try stuck around, in one form or the other.
One such is the Toban Djan Pumpkin, a dish that blurs the boundary between the Japanese home cooking and the Chinese cooking. It takes one of the staple veggies in Japanese cooking--pumpkin--and combine it with a Chinese chili bean paste. Back when the recipe was included in the cookbook, toban djan (Lee Kum Kee makes one) was probably not an everyday condiment in a normal Japanese housewife's kitchen. (Accordingly, the editor of the cookbook accompanied the recipe with a little expose of what it is.) Toban djan was beyond my ten-year-old culinary imagination, so I didn't mark it as "I want." Then, years later, when I was flipping through the cookbook (again), I found the recipe. Being a lazy ass, I asked my mom to try it (even though I was more than old enough to cook it myself), and this time she did.
It was so good that it's been in our repertoire ever since. We've both tinkered with the recipe over time, and our version features celery, which was not in the original recipe but gives an indispensable flavor twist to the dish in my opinion.
Toban Djan Pumpkin (for two)
Remove the pulp from the pumpkin and cut it into thin, bite-sized chunks (see the photo). Slice the celery diagonally.
In a pan, heat some oil and fry minced ginger and toban djan. (Be careful not to inhale the über-spicy toban djan fume--I accidentally did once, and it was pretty agonizing.) When the ginger and toban djan start to emit that appetizing aroma, add celery, then pumpkin and stir-fry, till the vegetables have turned a little translucent and have a nice coat of aromatic oil.
Add water, bouillon powder, sugar and green onions and simmer till most of the water is gone. I usually keep the lid on during this process, but when I want the water to evaporate faster (say, before the pumpkin lose all its shape), I take it off.
The heat of the toban djan compliments the earthy sweetness of the pumpkin, while (I thin) the celery and ginger somehow bridge the two very different flavors. It's good right off the stove, but it's also wonderful chilled on hot summer evenings--a good reason to make more than one serving and refrigerate! My mom used to be a bit taken aback by how her gluttonous daughter (thats me, yeah) kept looking through the same four or five cookbooks all the time, but thanks to my gluttonous obsession, we now have a pretty good pumpkin recipe to spice up our autumn table.
Below is the "before" photo of the beautiful Japanese kuri pumpkin.
Continue reading "When a Child's Obsession Pays"This is the second half of my two-part review/applause of Le Lan, a French-Asian restaurant in River North. The first half is here.
For entrée, Patrick's blue nosed grouper wrapped in banana leaf was the winner. To begin with, it was an eye candy: the deep green of the fresh banana leaf, vermilion of the Thai red curry sauce and creamy yellow of the fingerling potatoes danced in a large, simple, white bowl. Yet the flavors were sweeter (figuratively, that is) than the look. The grouper was firm and supple, the fingerling potatoes earthy and sweet. The Thai red curry might have been the best I've ever had. And I spent about one fifth of my life in Bangkok. (Well, that was when I was a skinny little kid, but still.)
My choice from the day's specials was an interesting one: grilled scallops in smoked tomato sauce, served with coarsely minced pork belly. The scallops, though fresh and naturally sweet, were far too salty for my taste. The absolute redemption was the pork belly and the smoked tomato sauce. Combined together, the paté like pork belly and the smoky tomato sauce tasted like a very good barbecue; only that the pork had never been on a Weber grill. "It's a deconstructed BBQ," we laughed, while admiring the almost magical non-BBQ BBQ on our tongue. Despite the excess salt in the scallops, the dish was delicious, and made me want some freshly steamed white rice (which is a compliment in a Japanese context).
The dessert was a feast in itself. Our Tuesday prix-fixe included dessert, so we ordered one each; pineapple napoleon for Patrick, Vietnamese coffee cake for me. And on top of these, the restaurant gave us an off-the-menu crème brûlée with a nice message scribbled across the plate with chocolate. The three previous courses weren't humongous, so we had enough room for our own desserts, but the complimentary dessert was a bit much (although the gift made me very grateful). Of course we finished it all--it was one of the best crème brûlées in my life; rich but light, sweet but refreshing.
Patrick's pineapple napoleon was actually made with layers of wanton with very fine custard cream. The caramelized pineapple bits were very good, and the sweet-tartness went wonderfully with the suggested port (I forgot the name), but what totally made this playful dessert was the aromatic sage sorbet. My Vietnamese coffee cake was more substantial than Patrick's dessert. Three small squares of coffee cake (baked with Chinese five spice mix) were accompanied by thick zig-zag of chocolate mousse, which was fantastic. As a chocolate mousse addict, I had to restrain myself hard so that I won't start doing my happy dance, right there in front of everyone (though our server witnessed a bit of that earlier). Here and there in the chocolate mousse track was bits of caramelized hazelnuts and pecans--I could eat those crunchy, nutty, bitter little things all day long!
When we stepped out into the evening, the gray sky harbored some threats of impending storm. We strolled up Clark Street for a couple of blocks, waited for a bus for a while, and decided that the occasion was special enough to justify a taxi splurge. From the Lake Shore Drive, we could see a huge number of white boats--some tiny, others sizable--heading toward the Navy Pier area, where pre-July-4th fireworks were in preparation. The beaches were similarly jam-packed with people waiting for the fireworks. The taxi driver and Patrick discussed the congregation of the boats for a while. I went through our fantastic dinner in my head, and hoped that Le Lan would be around years to come, so we'd be able to make the yearly visit our gluttonous romantic ritual.
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Le Lan
749 N. Clark St., Chicago, IL
312.280.9100
Le Lan's Tuesday prix-fixe is such a deal. At $38, you get a soup or salad (which are as inspired as any entrée--no standard-issue "house salad" here), an entrée and a dessert. A simple addition of these three courses could cost more than $45 off the normal menu. We added an appetizer (Wagyu carpaccio), two glasses of wine, a glass of port to the prix-fixe, and came out with a tab of around $125 before tip. Tuesday is the day at this superb French-Asian restaurant.
With something to celebrate, Patrick and I made a hasty reservation (about three hours before the actual dinner time) at Le Lan, a French-Asian fusion restaurant in River North, a day before the Independence Day. The restlessness for the beer-and-grilling celebration ahead was already in the air when I rode the Red Line to downtown. I waited for Patrick for a while in front of a hot dog shop next door, feeling somewhat like a prosxxtute in my Chinese dress--just because I'm not used to wearing a dress, I think. When he showed up, we walked into the narrow yet airy dining room.
Our dinner in the green-themed stylish restaurant was beyond great; many of the dishes were epitomes of sophisticated mingling of different cuisines, executed with incredible expertise. Especially before the dinner rush hit, the service was extremely friendly and nearly impeccable. I didn't bring my camera so I can purely enjoy the meal, so there won't be any photographs, but I'll try to describe the dishes as best I could.
For our occasion, the restaurant gave us free glasses of champaign (I forgot what brand) to start us up. The champaign was dry yet flavorful, more to my taste than my wine of choice, Kung Fu Girl Riesling, which was a bit on the sweet side. (Yes, I admit I fell for the funny name.) Champaign was followed by a small, rectangular dish with two tiny steamed buns. The buns were shaped like cinnamon rolls, with what I believe to be Sichuan peppercorns sprinkled on top. A sweet, flavorful dipping sauce accompanied the buns. I tasted ten men djan (Chinese sweet miso), a bit of vinegar, soy sauce and maybe sugar. The steamed buns were absolutely adorable: white, smooth skin, fluffy inside and such a tiny size.
Though we went for the $38 Tuesday prix-fixe menu, which includes a soup or salad, an entrée and a dessert, we were too curious to skip the renowned Wagyu Beef Carpaccio. The award-winning carpaccio was a neatly arranged, paper-thin cuts of wagyu, with microscopic pieces of jicama, courtons, chives (a hair-thin kind we call "asatsuki" in Japan, I think), trout roe and red peppercorn sprinkled on top. Next to the beef slices were three triangles of scallion pancakes and a splash of balsamic vinegar. Although the sweet-and-nutty scallion-and-dried-shrimp pancakes might have overwhelmed the wagyu at times, balsamic vinegar worked wonderfully with the beef. We mainly ate the scallion pancakes alone, occasionally wiping the sweet-and-tart balsamic vinegar with them. With the sesame-oil flavored pancakes, the balsamic vinegar behaved like aromatic vinegar (香醋, aged and fermented vinegar with dark amber color, often used as dipping sauce for steamed buns). I loved the addition of asatsuki as well, for it reminded me of flavors I used to in Japan. Also the occasional trout roes changed the melt-in-your-mouth beef flavor into something more oceanic--a fun twist.
Patrick ordered seared tuna salad with pickled daikon vinaigrette. The tuna on a glass plate was very fresh, firm and flavorful--nothing like the nightmarish tuna from a few weeks ago elsewhere. The marinated Japanese cucumbers and wakame (seaweed) was a nice touch, but what impressed me the most was the vinaigrette. Though the use of pickled daikon in vinaigrette was a novel idea, the stock base they used in the vinaigrette tasted just like the bonito and kombu stock the respected Japanese restaurants make every day. Called dashi, this stock can be extremely satisfying even with a smallest amount of added condiments, if done right. And Le Lan did it right. Clean, subtle yet flavorful, his might have been the best dashi I've tasted outside of Japan.
I picked an heirloom tomato salad, which may have been my favorite of all the courses, though the competition was tough. Three slices of different tomatoes were topped with sautéed pea pod (which I think was 十六ササゲ, a type of cowpea in edible pod), poached shrimps, eggplants, and sprigs of mint and other herbs. What blew me away was the eggplant. Infused with nam pla (Thai fish sauce) and sugar (maybe palm sugar?), the creamy eggplant pieces melted in my mouth, accentuating the delightful acidity of the tomatoes. I could eat a bowl of rice with just three pieces of this eggplant--which is a great compliment if you're a Japanese cook. With colorful tomatoes (each with distinct flavor), eggplant and peas, this was a wonderful salad at the height of the summer harvest season. (And again, I was pleasantly surprised to see how Le Lan's cooks could combine so many different Asian ingredients cooked so many different ways in a single dish and still hold everything together!)
Obviously I'm still halfway through the meal--but I think this is long enough, so I'll return tomorrow with the second half of the wonderful dinner.
Young garlic stalks bring us the sense of early summer. They are the tender stem of the flowering part of the garlic plants that grow exponentially in this season. Their season is so short that whenever I see them, I cannot resist buying them. They're tasty in stir-fries, but they can also be made into a refreshing ethnic salad. My mom gave me this recipe; I don't know where she got it, but it's most likely been handed to her by one of her friends who likes to experiment. It's a very simple recipe similar to the now-familiar cucumber salad, but the fresh, green flavor of the young garlic stalks seems to be more pronounced in this salad than in stir-fries.
Thai Garlic Stalk Salad(for two)
Boil the garlic stalks until they're tender (but not mushy or soggy). Add a pinch of salt, if you like, to the boiling water to prevent discoloration. Rinse them under cold, running water. Meanwhile, mix Thai sweet chili sauce and Nam Pla in a bowl. Toss the garlic stalks in the sauce, place in individual bowls and sprinkle with chopped peanuts.
I've seen some Japanese cook bloggers make the sweet chili sauce from scratch. I don't think I can be that slow-foodesque (thus I have the category "cheat cuisine"), but I do admire their ambition. According to one of my favorite food bloggers (an older husband-and-wife collaboration with beautiful food porn shots and witty writing well-versed in Japanese traditional comedy), sweet chili sauce could be made with tamarind, sugar, Nam Pla, garlic and To Ban Djan (Chinese chili sauce). Wow. I might try this sometime, but for now, I'd just stick to the sauce out of a bottle...
Ma Po Tofu is an ubiquitous staple in Chinese restaurant in Japan. From dingy, family-run eateries to upscale restaurants, every Chinese restaurant seems to have this dish on the menu. The Japanese like this aromatic and spicy tofu concoction from Sichuan so much that there are a wide range of ready-made sauce mix for Ma Po Tofu available in supermarkets. As a result (?), I'm quite fond of the dish, and sometimes get craving for it.
Culinary history has it that Ma Po Tofu was first created by a common Chinese wife as a cheap yet filling dish during the Qing Dynasty. Its Japanese incarnation features cubed tofu, which is stir-fried in a thick and spicy sauce with ground pork and green onions. The signature aroma and tongue-numbing spiciness of the original Chinese version derive from two different spices--red chili (usually in the form of To Ban Djan and Sichuan peppercorn--but the Japanese version often skimps on Sichuan peppercorn to suit the less spice-resistant Japanese palate.
We spent the morning running some errands today, and when we got home a few hours past noon, I had a mild craving for the dish. Luckily, I had a package of tofu, ground pork and spices, so I decided to make Ma Po Tofu for lunch. For some reason, though, I didn't feel like eating the brown gravy (which is what Ma Po Tofu usually looks like), so I made a few adjustments to accommodate my weird temporary aversion to brownness. Because I omitted most of the brown ingredients (soy sauce and oyster sauce), the dish came out much lighter both in color and in flavor. I think this might be a good Ma Po Tofu derivative for a hot summer day. If you're interested in a recipe closer to the original Chinese dish, though, Food Network has a decent-looking recipe here, in a section appropriately titled "Budget Gourmet."
Greener Ma Po Tofu (for two mild appetites)
For the sauce, mix the following together beforehand:
First, drain the tofu by wrapping it in paper towel on a plate. I recommend using American-made tofu for this dish, because Japanese ones tend to retain more moisture and take more time to properly drain (plus they are more fragile). Chop up the green onions, Asian chives, ginger and garlic. Heat 1 tablespoon of sesame oil in a large enough pan (or in a wok, if you have one) and fry the aromatics till they start to emit their awesome fragrance. Add ground pork and fry till it's cooked. Season with salt and pepper.
Cut the tofu into 1/2-inch cubes. (If you get a Japanese tofu, this step gets trickier: because Japanese tofu is so fragile, it often requires that you place it on your palm and cut it by gently pushing a knife through, without forward or backward motion. Get a firm American tofu to avoid this excitement.) Add the cubed tofu in the pan and gently stir-fry for a few minutes so that you won't break up the tofu too much. Give the pre-mixed sauce a final stir (corn starch is quick to settle on the bottom) and pour it in the pan. You might want to turn the heat down a bit to let the sauce simmer to its appropriate thickness. Meanwhile, ground the Sichuan pepper. When the sauce is at the right consistency (not runny, but not blobby, either), drizzle one tablespoon of sesame oil and sprinkle the Sichuan pepper. Mix lightly, and serve.
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Spice House (with multiple locations) has excellent Sichuan peppercorns. This aromatic spice adds a wonderfully refreshing fragrance to everything from Asian cole slow to chilled shrimp noodles. At $2.09 for a small jarful (1 oz), it's worth the investment.
During the season, I get my supply of Asian chives from the organic Henry's Farm in Evanston Farmers Market, but they're also available in Asian grocery stores like my perennial favorite H Mart.
It's hot. I know it's not that hot, relatively speaking, but I feel pretty hot. I suppose I've become sufficiently Chicagonized...
It's so hot that our dinner table frequently features chilled noodles. I used to buy pre-made package of chilled noodles (called "hiyashi chuuka," meaning "chilled Chinese noodles") from Mitsuwa, but recently I've been experimenting from scratch. My staple sauce for Chinese fusion chilled noodles has been varying mixtures of aromatic herbs and spices in soy sauce, vinegar and a bit of sugar and sesame oil, but recently I tried a different, less saucy version.
I used the shrimp noodles from the Viet Hoa Plaza (link via Chicagoist). These thin wheat noodles contain powdered shrimp, and release a subtle, oceany flavor when cooked. Because I wanted to make the sauce a lot simpler than my usual fair, I figured that extra shrimpy flavor in the noodles would be a nice addition.
Chilled Shrimp Noodles in Oyster Sauce with Sichuan Peppercorn (for two; approximate amount, as usual)
It seems too simple to proudly present as a recipe... All you need to do is to boil the shrimp noodles, rinse them under cold running water (to give them a nice, resilient texture) and toss them in the sauce. The only twist I gave was a mixture of ground Sichuan (Szechuan or Szechwan) peppercorn and red chili peppers; I used a pinch each and pounded them in a mortar with a pestle. (For a Szechuan cole slow I made with this aromatic spice, see this post.)You can add whatever veggies you'd like to serve with it, but for this meal, I used a tomato and a few scallions.
The combination of two ocean-derived flavors--oyster sauce and shrimp noodles--turned out to be pretty good. Since most oyster sauces have sweetness added, this deceivingly simple list of ingredients can create a fairly complex mix of flavors. I really liked the dish; it was a nice departure from my usual fair of soy sauce, vinegar and lots of garlic and ginger. I'm definitely making this again this summer.
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Our Sichuan Peppercorn came from the always reliable Spice House.
1512 N. Wells St., Chicago, IL
312-274-0378
On Memorial Day, the aroma of char-grilled burgers wafting from our neighbors' backyard (all the way up to our third-floor apartment!) was a torture. It made us crave for a few little things, all of which were denied for one reason or the other: a cute little Weber grill (no place to store), a place to grill (back porch too small, smoke detector too sensitive), etc., etc....
We thought about going to the Moody's and have a beer or two with their burgers in the outdoor patio, but this was a bad idea, too. I had a bunch of super-fresh veggies we got from the Evanston Farmers Market on Saturday, and considering I wouldn't be cooking on Tuesday, I wanted to use them now. Oyster mushrooms, in particular, were screaming to be cooked while still perky. Plus I had a chunk of fatty pork ribs (deboned) from Mitsuwa, and there was a dish I wanted to try with it. (What I did with the oyster mushrooms, I'll post tomorrow.)
The recipe (link in Japanese) I followed was Vietnamese, but a very similar dish, called "kakuni," exists in the traditional cooking of Kagoshima, a southern prefecture on the island of Kyushu in Japan. An excellent producer of the renowned Kurobuta (Berkshire black) pork, it is no surprise that Kagoshima has developed this simple but delectable dish of fatty pork simmered in soy sauce and raw cane sugar. Kakuni was never a part of my Tokyo-born mom's repertoire, but ever since I had a collapse-under-my-chopsticks tender kakuni in an izakaya (Japanese style tapas bar), I've been a faithful lover of this simple dish. (Kakuni goes superb with shochu, barley- or sweet potato- based liquor, another Kagoshima specialty. And thus, kakuni is often found on izakaya menus.)
The only reason I forwent Japanese recipe over the Vietnamese one is that I wanted to experiment more with the Vietnamese coconut caramel that I picked up a few weeks ago (and made an awesome fried rice). I was stunned to find the god-awful amount of sugar the recipe required, but since it was the first time I cook this dish myself, I faithfully followed the sucroseful recipe for two:
1. Marinate chunks of deboned pork ribs in 1 tablespoon of Nam Pla (or Nuoc Mam), 1 tablespoon of sugar, 1 tablespoon of caramel sauce, a clove of minced garlic and black pepper. Let it sit in the fridge for an hour.
2. Sautée the pork in a frying pan so that all the exterior is nicely browned.
3. Pour the remaining marinade into a pot. Add 3 tablespoons of Nam Pla, 2 tablespoons of sugar, one dried hot pepper, and place the pork in the pot. Add some water so that the pork chunks are half immersed in the sauce. Simmer for an hour or so.
I boiled two eggs and grilled (without oil) some sliced sweet potatoes and added them into the simmering pot at the end of the cooking time, but this is a tasty but dispensable flourish if in a pinch. (The original recipe only calls for pork and eggs. The idea of sweet potatoes came from the fact that Kagoshima, the birthplace of kakuni, also produces a lot of sweet potatoes, only some of which are brewed into shochu.) As the kakuni simmered down, the wonderfully rich aroma of fish sauce and caramel filled the kitchen and then the dining room, and mostly dispelled the annoyingly enticing smell of the backyard barbecue. I quickly made a few other dishes with the fresh veggies from the farmers market, and by 5:30, we were enjoying the fatty pork and sweet potatoes. By 6, we were happily intoxicated. Intoxicated enough, indeed, to watch an episode of A-Team, which both of us adored as kids. But alas, a bottle of Stella Artois was not nearly enough to stop me from remarking: "I have no idea why I loved this show! This is awful!"
We promptly switched to a few episodes of The Black Adder. No barbecue, but it was a good Memorial Day feast. At least there weren't any severed enemy heads on our table...
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Takkatsu is the best place to sample how good Kurobuta can be in a breaded-and-fried form. (Full review coming soon, since we love this place.)
161 W. Wing St., Arlington Heights, IL
847.818.1860
Yes, ferns are edible. Well, some of them are.
Japanese people used to forage for wile mushrooms and plants in the good ol' days. Now, with too many people living too far away from the mountains, there are packages of pre-poached wild plants available at supermarkets. Some of them are mixtures: several different kinds of ferns, baby bamboo shoots and some mushrooms. Others are single-species, the most common of this being the royal ferns ("zenmai" in Japanese).
Koreans also make use of the royal ferns for their tasty namul (variously seasoned vegetables). So, it shouldn't have been such a surprise to find a package of pre-poached zenmai in the refrigerated section of the H Mart, but I was surprised when I did. It was a delightful surprise, though, because I love zenmai with fried tofu. I picked one up, and went home, already tasting the (imaginary) taste of this traditional Japanese dish.
When we were still in Japan, my mom sometimes got a big bunch of zenmai from her friends with connections with people in the country, most likely their aging parents or their siblings who stayed in the rural hometown. When she did, she would boil the stems of zenmai in water with baking soda to wash out the harsh, tongue-biting flavor. Then she'd dry them, occasionally rolling them under her palms to tenderize them. When she needs the zenmai later, she'd just have to rehydrate them. All this, of course, is a lot of work. This is where the pre-poached ones come in handy.
Your best bet is to blanch the pre-poached zenmai before use. This gets rid of the possibly odd flavor that it might have acquired while in the package. Squeeze the water out of the zenmai, and boil it for a minute or so. Drain. An important step here is to take a few ladles of boiling water before you put the zenmai in, and pour it over abura-age (thin fried tofu), to rinse off the excess oil.
To make my favorite zenmai dish, you use the method called "itame-ni." "Itame" refers to stir-frying, while "ni" refers to simmering in thin sauce. Stir-frying before simmering adds nice richness to the otherwise very light dish. So, start with frying chopped ginger in sesame oil. When the wonderful aroma of ginger starts to rise from the pot, add (boiled and strained) zenmai. Stir-fry it for a few minutes, until the zenmai is lightly coated with oil. Add small pieces of abura-age, and pour a few tablespoons of all-purpose fish stock. Let it simmer for a while.
Abura-age is that thin, fried bag of tofu that holds the sushi rice in Inari-zushi. I haven't seen them anywhere other than Japanese markets, but they may be available in other Asian markets as well. For some reason, they aren't as popular as the thick fried tofu, which could also be used for this dish. When using the thick fried tofu, don't forget to rinse off the oil, too!
All-purpose fish stock is usually sold with the label of "soup base for noodles" in Japanese and other Asian markets. (I've also seen an overpriced version at the Southport Grocery as well; it must be making its way into the mainstream market.) It's basically a mixture of bonito and/or konbu stock, soy sauce and sugar. Given its versatility and long fridge life, it's probably worth keeping at hand if you're interested in cooking Japanese.
Back to the "zenmai itame-ni..."
It keeps in the fridge for about five days. The pre-poached version has less of the wild, earthy flavor of the zenmai, but it's still quite good--even soothing for an exiled Japanese soul--with the familiar mix of bonito stock, soy sauce and sugar. Good with sake, this dish is also a "rice thief," as we call dishes that entice you to eat more rice with it.
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H Mart
801 Civic Drive, Niles, IL
Southport Grocery
3552 N. Southport Ave., Chicago, IL
773.665.0100
I recently discovered an "atomic bomb of Vietnamese cuisine," as Patrick has put it.
We picked up the condiment in question in the South East Asian aisle at our beloved H Mart. When I spotted its rather simple label that said "Coconut Thin Sauce," I figured it would taste like coconut, which I absolutely adore ever since my childhood in the tropical Bangkok. The ingredients list was überclean: coconut, and water. It was cheap, too, at $1.19 for a little squeeze bottle. So we picked one up. Why not?
When we got home, I squeezed a drop of the sauce onto my palm and licked it. The sauce was pretty thick; I don't know why it's called "thick" sauce. It didn't taste like coconut, either. All the coconut flavor must have wafted out when the coconut juice was simmered down to its thick, brown reduction, I thought. Although the sauce was not what I'd expected it to be, it had an awesomely complex flavor of very good caramel sauce. Curious, I went online. According to the explanation on a Vietnamese cook's food site, Nuoc Mau Dua (as it's called in Vietnamese) is a caramel sauce widely used in Southern Vietnamese cuisine.
So what to do with this sauce?
I had half a head of purple cabbage approaching a sorry state in the fridge, so I decided to make fried rice with it. For seasoning, I simply mixed about a generous tablespoon of the coconut thin sauce with a bit less amount of Nam Pla (Thai fish sauce). The Nam Pla I have (from the Thai Kitchen brand) is extremely salty, so you might need more if you have a less salty version--just taste test the sauce before adding it to the food.
I sautéed minced garlic in oil, added cabbage, and stir-fried it for a few minutes. I spooned some sauce into a beaten egg and added that to the pan, while stirring. In went the rice, chopped green onions and cilantro, and when the rice grains were nicely separated from each other, I poured the sauce over everything. An appetizing aroma of bittersweet caramel and Nam Pla immediately rose to my nostrils, but it wasn't done yet. I turned the heat off, and crushed some roasted soy beans (in lieu of peanuts) to sprinkle over the fried rice.
I probably shouldn't be giving so many pats on my own back, but good god, it was divine. The bitterness of the caramel sauce added that extra depth that's hard to achieve in an amateur's kitchen. (I've used the combination of sugar and Nam Pla many times, but the caramely goodness just can't be beat with this very similar yet very different combination.) The fried rice tasted like it had been cooked in a real Vietnamese restaurant. I wish I had dried mini shrimps and real peanuts (instead of soy nuts) for real South East Asian flair, but even without these flavor enhancers, the coconut thin sauce more than held up this simple dish.
Apparently the Vietnamese cooks often keep a jar of (either home-made or store-bought) caramel sauce at hand, and that's what they use for their magnificent ginger chicken in clay pot (Gai Kho). I'm definitely going to try making that soon, for it's one of Patrick's favorite foods in the world (and I'm yet to try it). Nuoc Mau Dua is cheap, just about the easiest to use, and packed with butt-kicking flavor bursts, so I'm going to keep it around in my increasingly condiments-cluttered small kitchen.
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H Mart
801 Civic Center Drive, Niles, IL
847.581.1212
I got mine at the H Mart, but I'm sure the sauce is available in many Asian grocery stores that cater to the Vietnamese clientele. Viet Hoa Plaza at 1051 W. Argyle St. might be your good bet, too.
Monday was our first summer day, with the temperature in the mid-80s. The sky was blue with a few thunderstorms in the horizon. It was too nice of a day to waste indoors, working at computers. So we decided to pack a picnic lunch and spend our lunch hour at the lake.
I had a small red cabbage, half a carrot, and a bunch of snow peas (among other things) in the fridge, and I'd also wanted to experiment with cole slow with an Asian twist. Back in April, when Tom and I had an Iron Chef Battle (the not-so-secret ingredient was garlic), Tom made a fabulous Asian slow, and I had that in mind.
Recently Tom had also given me a portion of Szechuan Peppercorn from Spice House, so I decided to use it as the flavor backbone. Often used in Ma Po Tofu, Szechuan peppercorns have moderate heat and wonderfully refreshing, slightly minty aroma. This was actually my first time to see them in their original shape (I'd only seen them in ground form), and I really liked the reddish shell with subtle bumpy texture and the creamy green seed that showed between the cracked halves of the shell. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to remove the shells. Out of sheer laziness, I decided to just ground the whole thing, removing only a few conspicuous twigs from the ground peppers.
I shredded all the veggies, and made the vinaigrette:
1 table spoon of olive oil
1 table spoon of vinegar
1 chunk of ginger, minced
1 pinch of Szechuan peppercorns, ground
2 tea spoon of soy sauce
2 tea spoon of sugar
When I tasted the vinaigrette right after mixing, olive oil dominated everything else--even the Szechuan peppercorns. Since I thought the flavors might settle better as the veggies soak up the vinaigrette and the flavors from the veggies in turn seep into the dressing, I tossed the veggies in the vinaigrette and let the slow sit in the fridge for a while. Meanwhile, I baked the (frozen, out-of-the-box) battered cod in the oven and also warmed two pieces of French peasant bread. When, after about 20 minutes, I took out the bowl of cole slow from the fridge, the olive oil had been tamed by other flavors. Hooray!
We packed our lunch, stuffed a backpack with a beach towel, two cans of soda and eating utensils, and headed for the Evanston beach. It was a quiet day at the beach, and we managed to secure a park table. It might have been a bit too windy--while we ate, the tree above us kept adding its leaves and bark pieces to our salad--but it was nice to be out. A little boy raced on the lake shore path back and forth, back and forth, on his colorful training bike, while his mom read by the small mobile crib of his little sister. An older couple were having their brown-bag lunch at the table next to ours, and a young couple sweettalked, leaning on a rock. (It was so relaxing that I forgot to take a picture of the finished lunch box!)
We had to head back soon, but if we hadn't had to, we would have spent the whole afternoon there on the green grass, reading and talking. The Japanese say "I feel like my hair is being pulled back" when she doesn't want to leave, and it was one of those "hair being pulled back" moments.
Saturday night, after a Chinese feast for lunch, we knew we shouldn't be hungry. But being gluttonous foodies, we found ourselves slightly snacky around 7:30. I didn't want anything too heavy, but I didn't want to snack on things like chips or cookies (both of which we have plenty at hand, despite our rational side telling us not to). And we had an open bottle of white wine in the fridge. That needed to be consumed before it turns sour. So I quickly made a few veggie-based munchies to go with the Chardonnay.
Curried Tomato and Egg Salad
I used six of the mini Roma tomatoes from Whole Foods for this, but any one large tomato of preferably a sweeter kind should work just fine. Boil two eggs and let them cool. Meanwhile, cut the tomatoes into bite-sized chunks. Dressing is a mixture of mayonnaise, lemon juice, salt, pepper and Ras El Hanout that I used for this fish dish. When the eggs are not too hot, peel the shell and cut them into wedges. Mix all the ingredients in a bowl, chill and serve.
I also added some Caribbean Calypso spice mix from the Spice House, but it had lost most of its orangy zestiness (been sitting in the cupboard for too long). I still think that the orange flavor might be good with the Arabic curry, so the next time I make this, I'll add some flesh orange zest (or get fresh Calypso mix).
Quick Japanese Cucumber Pickle
This is a quickie. All you need for this recipe is some sesame oil and what's called "ponzu." Ponzu is a traditional Japanese condiment that combines soy sauce, fish stock and citrus juice. It has a wonderfully refreshing flavor of a Japanese citrus called "yuzu" (although the ones available in the U.S. seem to substitute this distinctive citrus with lemon), and the fish stock adds nice depth to any dish. Bottled ponzu tends to be on the sharp side, but hey, I can't make it from scratch every day (that would involve finding the elusive yuzu, making stock from bonito flakes and konbu, and other time-consuming steps), so I rely on the less-than-perfect ready-made ones. Ponzu can be used as salad dressing or dipping sauce for broiled fish, but today, I used it for this quick pickle.
To make this light pickle ("asa-zuke" in Japanese), cut the cucumbers into bite-sized bits and sprinkle some salt on them. After a few minutes, gently squeeze the excess water out of the cucumber, and pour some ponzu over them. Drizzle a touch of sesame oil, and let it sit in the fridge for ten to fifteen minutes. When the cucumber bits are slightly brown from ponzu, it's ready to serve. Today, I used some cilantro for garnish.
The ivory-colored dish in the front is the oven-roasted russet potatoes with garlic and rosemary, which came out wonderful. I should have made more of those, but then again, the idea was to eat light after an indulgent lunch, so a potato and a half for the two of us was just fine.
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A Seattle Times article describes a Seattle-based chef's experiment with ponzu, and is much better at explaining what the condiment tastes like than I am.
For Patrick's birthday, my parents had planned a Chinese lunch on Saturday. We dropped the stuff we got from the annual organic plant sale in my parents' backyard and drove off to the restaurant in Glenview.
"Their food is really authentic," my mom raved in the car. "It may not be as good as in Chinatown, but you wouldn't think it's a restaurant in a suburban mall." Even with her rave review, I was skeptical, and so was Patrick, who politely kept his mouth shut. But we were to be pleasantly surprised. The food at the restaurant owned by a Taiwanese family, misleadingly named Szechwan North, was fantastic.
It was before noon when we walked into the dimly lit, overly decorated restaurant (there was a giant jade sculpture of a dragon-shaped sailing ship, about three feet tall, in the entrance, to give you an idea). A middle-aged man with decidedly unfashionable glasses came out from the back, and greeted my father, who immediately struck up a conversation. They both spoke stuttering English, but seemed to be having fun. The man told us (via my father) that he was from Taiwan, but named the restaurant Szechwan North because of the name recognition. My father told him that he'd been to Taiwan several times on business, and mentioned the name of an entertainment district in Taipei, which cracked up the restaurant owner. After a bit more of lively conversation, my father got beer for all of us, and the owner disappeared to the kitchen, still smiling.
The disappearance of the owner was immediately followed by an appearance of a similarly middle-aged woman in a white shirt and black apron. Strikingly red lipsticks seemed a little out of place on her otherwise childlike face. She hastily gave us menus, placed plates and chopsticks on our table, promised us to come back with water and disappeared quickly. Then, another woman, this time in a loose, white, collarless shirt and with her long hair tied into a pony tail, approached our table.
To my surprise, she started to explain what she had at hand for the day. She could steam a fresh, two-pound water pike she just purchased this morning and dress it with her special sauce. We should add a plate of stir-fried pea sprouts, she said, which she also got this morning. We nodded our heads in agreement, half perplexed by the burst of attention we were unexpectedly receiving. To those main courses, we added a bunch of goodies and waited with excitement. The brisk recommendations by the staff made it feel like we came to our regular hangout, where chefs and staff knew what we liked and cooked to our taste. The only thing we ordered right off the menu was our appetizer.
My parents got hot and sour soup, and the younger generation (us) got chicken corn soup. Both were excellent. The hot and sour soup was hot and sour (duh), but it didn't have the nasty, stinging sourness that I'm not very fond of. Our chicken corn soup was a true comfort food, with the slight sweetness of the corn and the robust flavor of from the chicken. I loved the thick texture of the soup as well.
This is the only thing we ordered off the menu: scallion pancakes. The thin wheat pancakes had bits of scallions inside (could have been more), and were served with sweetened soy sauce and hot chili sauce. I think the pancakes were baked with sesame oil, and the combination of the sesame oil and the sweet soy sauce was fantastic in a junk-foodish way.
The female cook (or the woman we assumed to be one) seemed to know that Japanese people tend to order stir-fried noodles at Chinese restaurant. So she included a combo noodles in our main courses. The noodles was the least impressive of the dishes we had at Szechwan North, but that's not to discredit the noodles. They were decent noodles, but the competition was way too harsh for them.
To accommodate Patrick's deep love of black bean sauce, the chef cooked up stir-fried beef with black bean sauce. A dish not on the menu, it had plenty of succulent beef pieces along with fresh onions and scallions. The pungent flavor of the black bean sauce was balanced out with the soy sauce, fresh garlic and ginger, and some sugar. It was one of the best black bean sauce beef in my life. (The dish in the back is the pea sprouts--lightly stir-fried with chicken broth, ginger and garlic. It is truly amazing what a satisfying dish this could be, considering how simple it is...)
Then came the main course--the steamed water pike.
The cook herself delivered the fish, cut the tender fish with a fork and a spoon, and distributed the pieces to our ready plates. When she said she was going to steam the pike, I was slightly apprehensive: I've had enough bland steamed fish in my life. But it turned out that the fish was deep-fried before it was steamed, just to give it the kick of oil (which we're all addicts of) and to coat it with a layer of flour. This extra layer of flour worked as a sort of sponge that picked up the sauce, which otherwise would slide right off the fish. The sauce contained large chunks of ginger, scallions and whole cloves of garlic, and the fish was covered with yellow chives, cilantro and green onions. These aromatic ingredients eliminated the fishy odor that the pike might have had once in his afterlife and worked well with the soy-sauce-based brown sauce.
Mr. Pike disappeared pretty quickly, leaving only his cheek-less head wondering where the rest of his body went. (He was cheek-less because cheeks are often the tastiest part of a fish's body. They tend to be much more succulent and firm than any other parts of the body.)
The tab came out to be about $100 for the four of us (including alcohol and tip). According to my parents, they don't always shower you with recommendations and other assistance. We might have bee just really lucky, coming to it when it was empty; people who came after us were given regular menus and were pretty much left to their own. So, the two recommendations when visiting Szechwan North are A) go there for lunch, and go there early to catch their "we're so bored, we want customers to chat with" mood, and B) if you're lucky enough to get this kind of attention, follow their advice, and don't hesitate to ask for stuff you like (like Patrick did).
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Szechwan North
2857 Pfingsten Rd., Glenview, IL
847.272.0007
I've been locked up in the apartment, writing my last term papers for a few days now. Yesterday, I skipped lunch. I was completely papered out and didn't feel like cooking anything. That was a bad idea--by the time Patrick came home, I was pretty grumpy. Even worse, I forgot that it was Patrick's birthday. (Low blood sugar can do a multitude of harm to you...it's not that I stopped loving my lovely boyfriend...you're reading this, Patrick, right?) At any rate, no lunch is a bad idea particularly for me.
So, today, not to repeat the same mistake within 24 hours, I decided to make something quick for lunch. I remembered that we had a large bag of frozen Kimchi (or Kimchee--spicy Korean pickled cabbage) dumplings in the freezer. The dumplings came from our friend H Mart in Niles, a gigantic Korean supermarket with rows after rows of frozen Korean and Chinese dumplings we have yet to try. I also had half a daikon radish and a handful of wakame (Japanese seaweed you most likely find in your miso soup), so I went for a quick dumpling soup.
Because I'm a lazy chef (especially when I'm cooking for only myself), I didn't bother making my own broth. I simply boiled some water and threw in a teaspoon of Chinese chicken soup mix (the red can in the photo). This brand isn't my favorite--this soup has an unpleasant odor of (probably) chicken, and the artificial flavoring in it tastes like, well, artificial flavoring. So I added a bit of minced ginger to tame those unwelcome flavor elements.
Then I cut up the daikon into thin, fan-shaped bits, threw them in, and while they danced in the hot water, I chopped up some green onions. I also washed the preserving salt off the fresh wakame and cut them into small pieces. When the daikon bits were close to being done, I took out a few frozen dumplings and slid them into the boiling soup. (It takes about 6-7 minutes for the dumplings to cook from the frozen state.)
Toward the end, I added the green onions and wakame bits, ground some black pepper into the pot, and drizzled a bit of sesame oil (a must for any Korean dish!). All in all, it took me about twenty minutes from the start to the end, and that includes the time-consuming photographing part, so you can safely bet on cooking this delicious soup within fifteen minutes.
The dumplings could have been a bit spicier, but otherwise, it was a very satisfying meal. My brain is up and running again, and I won't forget Patrick's birthday--only that it'll be a year from today! I'll have to keep my brain well-fed for quite a long time now...
The salmon pink of the kimchi showed beautifully through the half-translucent skin of the dumplings. Yum!
I seem to be alive and fine, so it is now confirmed that Thai eggplants aren't poisonous. Hooray! (For context, see the previous post.)
To celebrate my continuing life, I'll share a recipe for a super-easy and refreshing cucumber salad. I believe my mom got the recipe from one of her tennis friends, whose carpenter husband was extremely demanding when it came to quickly producing yummy little dishes for his drinking pleasure. He must have been one of those classic Japanese husbands who flips over the low dining table when he doesn't like the food served. Bowls of rice and mis soup flying everywhere while the horrified yet obedient wife apologizes, kneeling on the tatami-matted floor...
Now, enough of that stereotypical sxxt, and for the cucumber salad. You MUST use Japanese or Persian cucumbers for this recipe. The American cucumbers don't have enough moisture, and their skin is too tough for this dish. Now, cut the cucumbers into small logs, and place them in a bowl. Pour about a tablespoon of soy sauce and a little bit of sesame oil over the cucumbers and stir them so all the pieces are coated with the marinade. Let them sit in the fridge for twenty to thirty minutes. And voila, you have my mom's cucumber salad right there.
It's so easy and tasty that this has become one of our summer staples. For me, it brings me the soothing image of a lazy summer evening, chatting with my family on the wooden veranda while a mosquito coil keeps off the annoying insects. (Our modern house in Japan didn't have a wooden veranda, and a mosquito coil would be just too feeble a force before a battalion of fierce, rural mosquitoes, but it's fantasy that counts, right?)
You can add a pinch of red hot pepper (or a few drops of hot pepper oil) if you like it hot. Goes great with beer, too!
In case you're wondering... the bowl I used for the photo is a sesame-grinding bowl that I stole from my mother's kitchen. It's sort of like a mortar, except that the inside of the bowl has rugged furrows so that you can grind the sesame (and sometimes other things like shrimps or wild yam--and yes, we wash it throughly!) with a wooden pestle. A pestle made of Sansho, prickly ash, is considered the best because the fragrance of the wood is transferred to the ground sesame as the bowl's surface scrapes off a bit of the pestle each time you use it. Next time I go to Japan, I'm planning to get one of those.
I came home from the Writing Center work early today, and found Patrick working at his computer. It was about lunch time. Since I had a few Thai eggplants at hand, I decided to make Thai-flavored quick lunch for the two of us. (The small roundish veggies with beautiful green net pattern are the Thai eggplants, available in some ethnic groceries. We got ours at the H Mart.) To the ingredients in the photo, I added a bunch of cilantro, a bit of ginger and chicken thigh. I prefer chicken thigh in stewed dishes, because thighs have more flavor--I know that extra flavor comes from the extra fat, but, hey, if you eat meat, eat the tasty part, that's my philosophy.
So I cut up the veggies and the chicken, and heated the coconut oil (the part that separates from the solid white mass in a can of coconut milk) in a pot, then threw in the ginger bits. When the oil was hot, I sautéed the chicken, added the veggies and stir-fried them until they were slightly cooked. Then I added the remaining can of coconut milk (stirred) and a generous spoonful of green curry paste. It took about twenty minutes for the ingredients to cook, which was enough time to cook the jasmine rice and brown rice. I added a bit of brown rice, just because we were low on jasmine rice. Just before serving (and photographing, of course), I added a bit of nam pla (Thai fish sauce) and a pinch of sugar to boost the flavor.
The curry turned out fine, but there was a surprise. It was my first time to cook with Thai eggplants, so I figured I would use them just as I do with Japanese or Italian ones. When I bit into the soft flesh of the eggplant, though, I noticed that it was much more bitter than the ones I was used to. The bitterness almost felt biting. Could this be poisonous? I thought. Maybe there was a specific procedure to drain of it its poisonous content, like one need to do with some ingredients. Uh-oh, are we going to have horrible stomach aches later?
I ran to the computer and looked up the Thai eggplants before we ate too much of it. To my relief, none of the entries said anything about them being poisonous or requiring some esoteric procedure to tame them. Some Japanese people like to let their slices of eggplants swim in cold water for a while before cooking them (to release the bitterness), so I figured the Thai eggplants have more of that bitter stuff than the Japanese ones. In fact, once we got used to the bitterness, it became sort of addictive. It's been only a few hours since we ate all our eggplant curry, so it remains to be seen if we'll get sick or not, but I'm pretty certain we'll be fine.
If this blog suddenly gets abandoned, maybe that's when you know you should be careful about those Thai eggplants.
Having found a nice fillet of red snapper at the H Mart (a gigantic Korean supermarket in Niles), I decided to plan the day's dinner around the snapper.
For seasoning, I tried the Ras El Hanout mix from Spice House. Directly translated to "the best of the shop," Ras El Hanout (رأس الحانوت) is a slightly floral blend of mainly Indian spices like cardamom, nutmeg, cinnamon and chili pepper. It's widely used in Middle East and North Africa--Ras El Hanout is an indispensable spice mix for lots of Moroccan meat dishes, and sometimes is used in almond pies and couscous. I wouldn't have known its existence, if Tom hadn't given me a small pouch of it a few months back. Ever since I huffed the mix, I've been in love with its subtle complexity and versatile use. (Plus it's close enough to the Japanese curry mix that I'm used to, so it's easier for me to figure out what the Ras El Hanout might be good with.) So, I rubbed the Ras El Hanout, salt and pepper onto the fillets, and lightly dusted them on both sides to give them crispy edges, then sautéd them in olive oil and rosemary.
For the side, I did a crossover dish: Japanese ingredients cooked Western way. I cut up about two inches of Daikon radish, a medium-sized golden Yukon potato and a handful of snow peas. Daikon and potatoes were then thrown into garlic butter in a pot. When the two veggies were slightly browned here and there, I added just enough water to cover the pieces, stirred in a pinch of chicken bouillon, and simmered them for a while. When it's just about done, I added the snow peas and a few sage leaves (from the baby sage plant growing in our container garden by the living room window) and cooked them on low heat.
As it turned out, the nameless veggie dish was better than the red snapper (though I might be biased--I love veggies). The slight hint of sage and the earthy bitterness of the fat, squat Korean daikon was a perfect combination. Butter added just enough richness to the mix--I could eat that all day long!
Although the Ras El Hanout is usually used for meat dishes, it worked fine on the red snapper. Tradition has it that Ras El Hanout is an aphrodisiac, but I didn't feel any hornier after eating the snapper than before. Maybe I should have been more generous about the amount of the spice (haha). Or maybe the spice mix made the snapper horny: its flesh had wonderful firmness to it, something that's pretty difficult to find around Chicago (supermarkets don't seem to know how to handle their fish here!). With a glass of Chardonnay (using it to make sauce for the fish provided us a good excuse to open it) and slices of Tuscan bread, it was a satisfying meal.
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H Mart
801 Civic Center Drive, Niles, IL
847.581.1212
© Copyright 2007 - All Rights Reserved. Don't even think about trying it!
