Bitter melon was unknown to the mainland Japanese until very recently. Although bitter melons have been grown in southern Kyushu as well as in Okinawa, it was only after the Okinawan food boom in the late '90s that the most Japanese people came to contact with this easy-to-grow, fun-to-cook vegetable. Nowadays, though, it seems that quite a number of the mainland Japanese are addicted to the biting bitterness of bitter melons. When Patrick had a stir-fried bitter melon in oyster sauce at a restaurant in Chicago's Chinatown, he, too, got addicted.
I myself am not too big on bitter melons--or so I thought. The bitterness was a bit too much for me. But the other day, I saw a large heap of pretty good-looking bitter melons at H Mart, and decided to get one for my beloved husband (haha). Since I had some pork belly and fried tofu at hand, I decided to cook gôya champloo, an Okinawa-style stir-fried bitter melon, for dinner. (Gôya refers to bitter melon in Okinawan language/dialect.)
It turned out surprisingly well: I actually liked the dish. And it wasn't "despite" the bitterness, but "because of." It was easy to make with relatively cheap ingredients, too, and I suspect that I might start buying more bitter melon that I would have imagined just a few days ago.
Gôya Champloo (Okinawa-style stir-fried bitter melon; for two generous servings)
Cut the bitter melon lengthwise in half and remove the pulp, using a spoon. slice them into about 1/5 inch thickness. Soak the cut bitter melon in salt water, if you prefer mild bitterness. (I soaked my bitter melon pieces for about 30 minutes, and it nicely cut down on the bitterness.) Cut all the ingredients as shown above.
Heat the oil in a frying pan, and start with the pork belly. Once the pork is mostly cooked, set it aside. Add carrots to the pan, followed by bitter melon. When the vegetables are mostly cooked through, add the fried tofu. Stir-fry carefully, so the tofu won't break into tiny bits. Then put the meat back into the pan.
Season with soy sauce, dashi powder and salt. Quickly follow the seasoning with beaten egg. (Give the egg a bit of time to cook before stirring here.) Sprinkle with bonito flakes, give it one last mix and serve.
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NHK, the Japanese national TV network, broadcast a drama series set in Okinawa, and within that drama, they introduced a silly little character called "gôya man." It's an anthropomorphized bitter melon with an yellow helmet--and, well, it's pretty cute. If you feel like it, go to Japanese google and copy and paste this: ゴーヤーマン.
Pickled nozawana was one of the few things that I'd been craving for since I moved to Chicago. It's very difficult to find a fresh one, since the pickle turns sour pretty quickly and (not surprisingly) it doesn't seem to be produced in the U.S. So, I was literary elated when I found a bag of fresh-looking pickled nozawana at H Mart yesterday. It'd been more than four years since I had my last ration of this wonderful pickle.
As you can see in the photograph, fresh pickled nozawana has this beautiful, deep but vibrant green hue. When it turns sour, the green becomes dull and an unconcealable tinge of brown sets in. Not that there aren't people who prefer aged nozawana that's turned sour (quite a few Japanese people do, in fact), but I'm just not big on that sour taste in aged pickles in general.
Nozawana is a crunchy, leaf vegetable that belongs to the turnip family. For something in the turnip family, it grows rather big: a fully grown nozawana can reach three feet. Preferring chilly and misty climate of the highland, nozawana is a specialty of the village of Nozawa, and grown in the surrounding Shin-etsu region. Although I did come across a few American seed companies (such as the Kitazawa Seed Co. in California) that distributes nozawana seeds, I've never seen one being sold fresh anywhere around Chicago.
Nozawana has a distinctive flavor that's difficult to describe. (Well, well, this shows my limitation...) The closest vegetable I've had in the U.S. is the generically called "potherb" stir-fried with shredded pork, served at the Lao Szechuan (a surprisingly stylish website they have!). Whatever they're calling "potherb" has a different texture from nozawana--the one at Lao Szechuan seems denser and less crunchy, but the flavors are very close. Strange for a vegetable, both nozawana and the "potherb" have a hint of meaty umami. My amateur's guess is that they have some amino acids that produce this complex, meat-like flavor.
Guessing aside, nozawana is just really tasty. If you find one on a restaurant's menu or in a Japanese grocer's fridge, grab and try it. I'd planned an American-style dinner for yesterday, but the nozawana changed it all: I had to have rice, with the nozawana, so I did. Ah, I could have eaten the whole bag in one sitting, with maybe three bowls of rice! I didn't need anything else (although I did behave myself and had a balanced meal). I hope Patrick wasn't too taken aback by my uncharacteristically ferocious defense when he tried to snatch the last piece of nozawana--I just had to have that one, too. It's mine. It's all mine...
My happiest day would be when one of the area farmers start growing nozawana and sell them in farmers' markets...
Continue reading "(My Personal) Pickled Nozawana Craze"It's probably been fifteen or so years since the Japanese found the joy of combining the traditional flavors of soy sauce, sugar and fish stock with the all-encompassing richness of mayonnaise. I remember how (pleasantly) surprised I was when I first had a bite of mayonnaise-based salad made with burdock and carrots; it tasted somewhat like the conventional kimpira gobo (shredded burdock and carrots cooked with soy sauce and sugar), but the mayonnaise made it entirely new. It was almost Western, a far cry from what to my child's eyes appeared to be a shabby, unexciting veggie dish that made it on to the dinner table almost weekly. Of course, the addictive taste of the fat in mayonnaise was what captivated my then-childish palate, but the combination was widely embraced by the Japanese, young and old, male and female.
The burdock salad, purchased from a then-sprouting convenience store for a quick picnic lunch some fifteen years ago, blurred the boundary between Japanese nimono-style dishes and Western salads in my head for ever. And evidently the same thing happened on a much larger scale. Today, when you visit delis in "depa-chika" (large-scale food courts in the basements of department stores--a fantasy land for any foodie indeed), you'll see lots of crossover dishes like the mayonnaise-based burdock salad. Some use traditional vegetables in a new way (eating daikon raw, as a salad, for example, used to be unthinkable, but now it's a mundane dish) while others combine Japanese and Western flavors and methods. I'm not sure which of the two countries--U.S. or Japan--is more intent in creating new food trends, but surely Japanese vegetable dishes have undergone a tremendous expansion in the last decade. What used to be unthinkable merely ten years ago are now commonplace, and quite a few home cooks are still experimenting with the inspiration they get from commercially produced noubeau Japanese. (Note to self: I should look through some Japanese cookbooks here and see if any of these new ideas show up in them.)
Using a lotus root in a "salad" would be unthinkable for my heptagonalian grandmother (although she might enjoy it once she tried; she's quite adventurous when it comes to food). For her (and for me for a long time), lotus roots are something that we'd find either in kimpira or in nimono (mainly root veggies and sometimes chicken simmered together in soy sauce, sugar and fish stock). But now, I make lotus root salad, as a part of my mundane dinner table, and often to present leftover nimono with a more enjoyable flair.
Lotus Root and Hijiki Salad (for two)
This recipe calls for some leftover "hijiki no nimono," but if you don't have it at hand, you can substitute it with the same amount of rehydrated hijiki and vegetables of your choice (like carrots and beans). If you do this, you might want to increase the amount of noodle soup mix a bit.
First, peel the lotus root. I always use a peeler because the lotus root has a uniquely brittle texture that makes it difficult to peel it with a knife (plus the holes inside mean that if I peel too thick, I'll make holes on the surface). Cut it lengthwise and slice into 1/10 inch thickness (see the photo above for an idea). As you cut the lotus root, throw the pieces into a bowl of water to prevent discoloration.
In a saucepan, boil some water. When the water is bubbling, add lotus root pieces and boil for five minutes. Drain.
In a bowl, mix lotus root, hijiki no nimono, green onion, noodle soup mix and mayonnaise. Sprinkle with sesame seeds and serve.
Lotus roots have a delightful crunch when lightly cooked. In fact, I think the best way to eat lotus roots is to enjoy that crunch, which is so often lost when the lotus roots show up in traditional nimono dishes that involve long and slow simmering. Although this salad-style preparation is very new in the scope of the Japanese cooking, I suspect this might be one of the best--or at least one of the fittest for the contemporary Japanese taste.
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* When buying lotus roots, look for ones without dark, soggy patches on the skin. Fresh ones are mostly uniform in color (sometimes with tiny speckles scattered evenly). Looking at the cut surface often helps: if the cut surface is dried up and/or soggy and brown, the lotus root probably isn't very fresh. If the store has them in sizes too large for you, try breaking them at the joints. (I'm a little fond of the "pop" they make when they snap...) To make your peeling job easier, choose one that's more or less straight, without too many dents and bumps, too!
I have a sneaking suspicion that I've been writing this blog as if I were a knowledgeable expert of Japanese cooking--which I'm definitely not. I somehow learned to cook in my mom's kitchen, first by watching her cook, then "helping" her cook (this was more likely to be "interfering" with her cooking, in retrospect), and finally cooking things on my own from time to time so that my mom could take a day off (although she had to wash all the utensils and dishes afterward; I never learned the good cook's trick of washing soiled pots and pans as I cook). Doing so, I picked up a lot of the basics of Japanese home cooking, but naturally, I missed a lot of it, too. A part of the blame lies with my mom's (naturally) limited repertoire, while another falls on myself, who didn't pay enough attention (or wasn't in the kitchen at all) when my mom was cooking some of her dishes.
One such staple that had been missing from my knowledge was "hijiki no nimono." A short, deer-tail-shaped seaweed, hijiki is most traditionally simmered ("nimono") with root vegetables like carrots and burdock, thin fried tofu and shiitake mushrooms (and sometimes soy beans). Although I love hijiki no nimono, I never learned to cook it. Strangely enough, it was after I moved out of Japan to Chicago that I got motivated enough to figure out how to cook the seaweed.
Having my mom around was definitely handy. I just had to ask her how she does it, although her direction was, as is always the case with experienced cooks' directions, a hair too vague: "enough soy sauce mixed with a little bit of sugar--well, it depends on how you like it, too" wasn't exactly precise. But having eaten the simmered seaweed many times in my life, and having cooked other Japanese food of similar flavor profile, I did get a useful enough idea of the cooking method out of her direction. The first batch I made was on the salty side (and the volumetric expansion of the dried hijiki when rehydrated rather startled me; I ended up making a gallon of hijiki that time) , but the second batch, which I made last night, was pretty good, um, both in flavor and volume. For an expat, being able to reproduce one's favorite foods from the home country is almost a survival skill mainly boosting one's emotional well being, so I'm happy.
Hijiki no Nimono (Japanese hijiki seaweed simmered with root vegetables)
This should last in the fridge for five days or so. (I'd say a week, but I don't want to be sued or anything...) When I get tired of eating the same thing every day, I mix it with scrambled eggs, or with steamed rice. Hijiki's umami works great in these leftover killers.
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* If you've had "inari zushi" or simply "inari," you've seen the "abura-age." It's the brown-colored pouch that wraps the sushi rice. For some reason, no general (i.e., non-Japanese) Asian grocer seems to carry this item, even though many of them carry the thicker version called "atsu-age." Unless you're an ultra-purist, you can substitute the elusive abura-age with the more common "atsu-age." Or, as a tasty alternative, chopped up fish cakes sometimes show up in this dish.
** If you don't have a Japanese soup mix at hand, use 1 tablespoon each of soy sauce and sugar instead. Soup mixes contain "umami" ingredients, but since hijiki, as a seaweed, contains a similar "umami" essence, soup mix isn't a must for this recipe.
What I didn't realize while in Japan was how many aromatic ingredients the Japanese traditional cooking relies on. When I thought of Japanese cuisine, I usually wouldn't think of herbs and spices--I was more inclined to associate them with exotic cuisines like Thai and Indian, not my mundane Japanese food. But living in a foreign country, where the mainstay of Japanese herbs and spices are hard to come by, has made me realize that there are, indeed, a lot of aromatics involved in the Japanese cooking. And by gory, good ones are hard to find.
Ginger is probably the easiest to find, although the "shin-shoga," fresh ginger shoot just growing out of a thin, not-yet-plump ginger root (that looks a bit like fa fingerling potato)--a delicacy that powerfully signifies the advent of early summer--seems impossible to find. Dried spices like sansho (prickly ash) are also stocked in Japanese markets. When it comes to fresh herbs, things get a bit tougher. Fresh herbs--like cilantro-like mitsuba, sharp and tangy kinome (young leaves of sansho; prickly ash), and pale but potent myoga--are sometimes found in Mitsuwa, a large, suburban Japanese market, but they're invariably expensive and I can't say they're the freshest of all. Citrus fruits are the worst: the USDA doesn't seem to like the idea of importing of citrus fruits of any kind from abroad (which is not surprising, considering the danger of the citrus canker). So, if I wanted yuzu, sudachi, or kabosu, which all have generically citrusy yet unique flavors, I don't have any choice but to go for overpriced and odd-tasting bottled juices.
Until very recently, shiso was one of the elusive herbs. (It's the green leaf with rugged edges and pointed tip that you sometimes find on your sushi plate.) Granted, many Japanese people grow their own shiso (including my green-thumbed mom whose green genes I don't seem to have inherited), and I could grow my own--if only the apartment were a bit sunnier. Granted, too, shiso is available at Mitsuwa for not so bad of a price at about $1 for 10 leaves. But somehow, getting the shiso from Mitsuwa doesn't seem to work for me. Perhaps it's the precise calculation that each leaf costs 10 cents that makes me reluctant to use them extravagantly. Combined with their short shelf life (about three days before dark marks appear), my strange reluctance to use them in large quantities often leaves three or four dark, soggy leaves perishing in my fridge. So, as much as I like their minty and floral aroma, I've mostly stayed away from shiso. Until recently, that was.
When I was studying the perky herbs in the Tai Nam food market on Broadway the other day, I saw a bag of "pink mint" and picked it up. On the front, the leaves were green; on the back, purple. They looked like a smaller and little bit sturdier version of the beloved shiso leaves. I snuck a glance up and down the aisle, and seeing that there weren't anyone around, I pinched the tip of a leaf that was sticking out of the package. Sure enough, the leaf smelled exactly like shiso. I picked up a package, biked home and started cooking. This time, with a large bowl full of pseudo-shiso bursting out of the tight plastic bag, I felt I could be extravagant with them.
I had a handful of shiitake mushrooms and about half a pound of ground chicken in the fridge. An idea quickly formed in my head. I started by chopping up a generous--truly generous--amount of pink mint. The back side of the leaves were beautiful--its purple, tinged with green and a hint of gold, was almost ethereal. I admired the color for a moment, then mixed the chopped shiso leaves with ground chicken, an egg, some corn starch, sesame oil, salt and pepper. Stuffed onto the shiitake mushrooms and sautéed in a pan, the shiso-infused chicken meatballs became a refreshing and satisfying entrée. For the sauce, I mixed equal parts of soy sauce and mirin with a chopped pickled plum. There was so much pseudo-shiso that I even used them for garnish (gasp!). It felt good to use my favorite Japanese herb without worrying about the cost and calculating how many there are left in the fridge.
As it turned out later, pink mint (or tia to in phonetic Vietnamese) was a popular Vietnamese herb among the ex-pat Japanese people craving for the familiar taste of shiso. It was kind of funny to see so many food blogs scattered all over the world--from Bangkok to Paris--by Japanese cooks substituting shiso with tia to. So many of them expressed delight when finding this superb substitute for the familiar herb, often after a long search and an even longer dry spell. Though I don't know any of the bloggers personally, I felt a strange connection, maybe even a camaraderie of some sort, with the fellow ex-pats. All thanks to my unplanned move to a foreign country full of ethnic immigrants.
I don't like oysters.
In fact, it's probably safe to say that I positively hate them.
Not that I've ever gotten sick from one, but I'm repulsed by the bitter, briny taste of their slimy guts. I can't eat them in any way--deep-fried, cooked with rice, in a hot pot, let alone raw.
So, I don't know why I decided to pick up a tin of smoked oysters at the Tai Nam Food Market yesterday. I was wandering up and down their maze-like aisles filled with exotic food stuffs--like canned shrimp paste, shredded young coconuts meat in syrup, a dozen different rice papers. Then I saw tins of oysters. Some were as is, others were treated: cured, salted, and smoked. Somehow, I wanted one. I didn't know what I would do with it, but before I knew it, the tin was in the basket. I really don't know why.
I wandered around some more (actually for an hour or so--the place is a wonderland!), got a Vietnamese lunch box at Ba Le Sandwich Shop on Broadway, had it on the beach, and biked home. Then I had to face the small, nonthreatening-looking tin of oysters. What would I do with it? To make matters worse, Patrick isn't big of oysters, either. I should open the tin and see what it tastes like, I thought, but didn't have the balls to do it. The tin sat on the kitchen counter as I googled "smoked oyster" in the dining area. Having had virtually zero experience with oysters (let alone a good one), I needed some idea of what flavors would go well with the oysters. Someone baked the oysters in its shell with Vietnamese chili sauce, quail eggs and scallions. That sounded good. Someone else baked a flan with smoked oysters and parmesan cheese. That might work, too. Yet another made a pasta with oyster cream sauce. Hmm.
Then the idea struck. A double oyster linguini! I'd picked up a pack of exceptionally perky oyster mushrooms at the same market. I could pair the oysters with oyster mushrooms. Ha. Obviously I was in a rare, bold mood for a dish based purely on a (bad) joke. Cream sauce should work fine with both the oysters and the mushrooms, but I needed something punchy, something that'd stand up against the oysters' strong flavor. Black peppers? Garlic? But they didn't seem to be the one, although I did end up using them in the final product. Further googling didn't yield too many useful suggestions, so I was left to my own devices.
I opened the can and was amused to see its content faithfully mirroring the rather unappetizing graphic on the box. Inside, greenish brown baby oysters about half the size of my thumb were squished against each other in three neat rows. The texture seemed to be very close to that of cooked liver (something else I'm not terribly fond of). Am I being too daring? I wondered. All the recent news of Chinese poisonous products--food or not--started circling around in my head. What do I do? For an answer, I stared at the oysters. Look thy enemy in the eye, and thou shall defeat it, right?
The oysters were preserved in cotton seed oil, which bore a yucky green tint from the oyster juice. The oil might contain the strongest flavor of the oysters; something a real oyster lover would treasure, I thought, but since we weren't the most enthusiastic lovers of oysters, I figured I could drain the oil to tame the flavor. I rinsed the oysters with a bit of leftover whiskey, hoping that the whiskey might add some interesting flavor compatible with the oysters, while rinsing off the excess pungency.
Following the usual steps for a cream-based sauce, I made the double-oyster pasta in about fifteen minutes. In the final product, I didn't taste much of the whiskey, but rinsing part seemed to have worked pretty well; the oysters had become surprisingly edible. There was a hint of their oceanic and bitter flavor, but it was tame enough that we, the two oyster haters, could actually enjoy the sauce infused with oysters. The smoky note, which became the primary flavor, also helped tame the wild oysters for us. We surprised ourselves that we could actually enjoy oysters, but there was room for improvement. There was something lacking in the pasta. I thought something more spicy--like crushed chili pepper or even curry powder--might liven up the complex but somewhat flat sauce. Patrick thought more cream might be good. Writing this now, I wonder something even crazier--like cherry--might work with them or not. Though my first experiment wasn't a success to be announced with fanfare, I'm definitely going to play with this cheap ingredient more. (A tin costs about $1.50.) When winter comes, I might try Patrick's other suggestion: a seafood chowder with the smoked oysters added to the base as a smooth purée.
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Tai Nam Food Market
4925 N. Broadway, Chicago, IL
Chili, originally grown in Latin America and "discovered" by the European invaders during the 15th and 16th centuries, is probably one of the most widespread ingredients in the world. It seems that a myriad of different chili "peppers" are cultivated and used pretty much everywhere in the world. (Though chili is often called a pepper, the two species aren't related.) Japan is not an exception; since the introduction of the red chili in the late 16th century, the spicy fruit has become an indispensable part of the Japanese traditional cuisine. According to an Wikipedia article, soon after its introduction to Japan, chili replaced black peppers, which had been introduced from Persia via China and widely used as the source of spicy heat. The fact that black peppers were more commonly used for seasoning udon noodles seem rather odd to the modern Japanese ears, because we're now so used to using chili for that purpose that using black pepper in udon almost sounds exotic and innovative.
Red chili gave rise to a very popular spice mix, "shichimi to-garashi." "Shichimi" means "seven flavors," while "to-garashi" means "foreign spicy stuff." In a culinary tradition that doesn't have too many other spice mixes, shichimi (as it's often called) is a curiosity. Because red chili was imported as a medicine, the shichimi was born in a pharmaceutical district of Tokyo called Yagenbori. ("Yagen" is a mortar that apothecaries used to grind medicinal herbs and spices.) In 1625, an apothecary mixed red chili with Szechuan peppers, mandarin orange peels, black sesame, poppy seeds, etc., all of which had purported medicinal value, to create a condiment with a health appeal. Thus created, shicnimi became a mainstay in the urban Edo culture where people sprinkled it generously in their soba noodles for an extra kick. I use shichimi in miso soup, especially when it contains chicken or pork; on soba and udon; and most frequently on kimpira veggies.
Amazingly enough, after nearly 400 years, the descendants of the original shichimi maker are still in the same business in Asakusa district of Tokyo. Their spice store, Yagenbori Nakajima Shoten, is considered to be one of the three most revered shichimi producers in Japan. Unfortunately, most people, including myself, rely on national brands like S&B, photographed above, for everyday use, but the flavors and aromas are much stronger in the freshly ground and freshly mixed shichimi sold at traditional shichimi stores.
When Patrick and I visited Sanja Matsuri (a huge, energetic festival in Asakusa) last year, we saw a stall selling the traditional shichimi. With boxes of colorful ingredients--red chili, golden sesame seeds, green nori and so on--and the old vendor guy in a traditional artisan outfit, the stall made me feel as if I'd slipped into the bustling streets of Edo, 300 years ago. The wonderful thing about these traditional stores and stalls is that you can have them make your shichimi according to your own taste. If you want it more citrusy, they'll add more orange peel. If you like heat, they'll increase the ratio of red chili. Furthermore, each store has its own recipe: Yawataya Isogoro in Nagano prefecture, for example, uses ginger and shiso, which gives their mix a refreshing fragrance. I believe there is a permanent stand along the Nakamise mall that leads up to the Asakusa Temple (Senso-ji), so if you'd like a taste of traditional Japanese spice mix, and happen to be in Japan, check out that store. Otherwise, shicnimi is available in small jars at Japanese grocery stores, and many of the Asian grocers as well.
If you've ever been to grocery stores that cater to East Asian people, you might have seen a peculiarly long root vegetable called burdock. Called "gobo" in Japanese, burdock roots are one of the staple vegetables on Japanese tables. Burdocks have a wonderfully earthy, slightly pungent flavor that anything else I know has. This strong flavor seeps out, as burdocks cook with other veggies or meats, and permeates the entire dish. Burdocks have a texture similar to parsnips', and when cooked quickly, burdocks retain their crispiness.
Today, I had a bit of leftover beef turning unappetizing gray in the fridge, so I decided to make "kimpira gobo" with a fresh burdock root and the beef. In a nutshell, kimpira gobo is a side dish made with burdocks and carrots, quickly fried and flavored with sesame oil, soy sauce and sugar. Although it doesn't always use meat, kimpira gobo would be a good disguise for the not-so-fresh-anymore beef, because it also uses ginger and aromatic red chili mix called "shichimi."
Kimpira Gobo (Quick-Fried Japanese Burdock)
To prepare the burdock, you don't have to peel it. Indeed, with its tough texture, it might be pretty difficult to peel it (I've never tried). Instead, you can just wash it vigorously with the rough side of a Scotch-bright type of sponge, until the soil-colored outer skin has been scrubbed off. (Compare the colors of the burdocks in the two photos.)
The traditional way to cut burdocks for kimpira gobo is either to thinly julliene it or to shave it into tiny leaf-shaped pieces (this method is called "sasagaki," meaning "shredded like bamboo leaves"). Since I'm pretty bad at doing the "sasagaki" method, I usually julienne my burdocks. This time, though, I used the "rangiri" method, which maximizes the flavor-intaking surface area (see the photo). You place the knife at a low angle, and roll the burdock about 70 degrees before you make the next cut. (This sounds so precise and scientific, but it really isn't!) Cut whatever beef you had at hand into little bits, if it's not ground.
Heat the sesame oil in a small saucepan and fry the chopped ginger until it starts to release its distinctive aroma. Add beef and fry, and when it's about done, add burdock and fry over medium heat, stirring constantly. After about five minutes, add the soy sauce and sugar and mix well. Turn the heat down and cover the pan to let it simmer for another five minutes. (The steam cooks the burdock through.) When the burdock is cooked through, sprinkle some shichimi or red chili pepper flakes and sesame seeds (if you'd like).
Hey, this isn't going to make a meal, you might say. And you're right. Kimpira gobo alone isn't going to make a meal. It's going to be a part of a meal with probably rice, miso soup, maybe a broiled fish, and perhaps another veggie dish (like the easy cucumber salad I wrote about here). Since kimpira gobo keeps in the fridge for nearly a week, Japanese cooks simply pulls it out every once in a while to add a dish to the meal. They usually have multiple backup dishes like this (called "sozai" or more politely "osozai") to fall back on. When their family starts to complain about the monotony, they might chop it up and mix it in Japanese-style omelette (called "tamagoyaki") or use it to make seasoned rice (called "takikomi gohan" or "maze gohan"). For weekend breakfast, I like to make scrambled eggs with it.
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Burdock buying tip: Many of the burdocks available here have grown too much and/or have been too long out of the soil. These have much tougher texture and are better avoided. For a fresher and more tender one, look at the cut bottom of the burdocks and choose one without a brown "ring" inside--this brown ring appears when the burdock gets old. If the flesh has started to break up in the middle, don't buy it--it'll be stringy.
Where did the shiitake mushrooms go? The last time I saw them, they were happily waiting for their time in a brown bag on the counter top. They were now nowhere to be seen. Did I throw them away by mistake? I didn't remember doing that, but since I know my formidable power of forgetfulness, I figured I tossed out the brown bag without thinking much about it.
"I think I threw out the shiitake mushrooms by mistake," I told Patrick, who was reading something about the Mac's developer conference on Monday. "It's so stupid; I don't even remember doing that, but the bag isn't here, so I think I did it."
"Was that in a paper bag, on the counter?" asked Patrick. He sounded a little anxious. Yeah, I said. "I think I tossed it in the trash," he confessed. "I thought that was the bag of the muffins we ate for breakfast."
He shook the brown bag before tossing it, but the slightly dry, rustling noises of the shiitake mushrooms convinced him that they were the paper muffin cups. Ouch.
So, there went the main ingredient for our Spaghetti Giapponese con Fungi--the easy dinner I planned for the evening. This flavor loss was significant, but I still had some oyster mushrooms and normal white mushrooms, so I decided to stick with the plan, with a bit of alteration.
Originally, I was going to sautée the mushrooms in butter and shallots, add salt and some turning sake, and mix with the pasta. Now that the most significant flavor agent is gone, I had to find something to patch the gap with. What I decided upon is "kobucha," a sort of instant drink made from kelp*. Kobucha usually comes in an airtight can with a tiny plastic spoon, and you dissolve a spoonful of the powdered stuff in hot water and drink it. The drink has a slight green tint, just like green tea. Since its basic ingredients are powdered kelp (kobu, or kombu), salt, sugar and flavoring amino acids, kobucha is widely used to enhance the umami (one of the five basic tastes; the sensation of the full richness of flavors) in Japanese home cooking. I don't like kobucha as a drink, but I'm quite fond of the oceany flavor that it adds to the otherwise straightforward dishes.
So, here is what I did with the pasta with one missing mushroom:
Ingredients (approximation, as usual):
Method for Spaghetti Giapponese con Fungi:
I used just enough olive oil and butter to sautée the mushrooms without getting them burnt, and there's no cream or cheese involved (although you could add them and make it a richer dish). Most of the flavor comes from the mushrooms and shallot, enhanced by the powdered kelp in kobucha. It's a rather simple pasta, but it's chock full of flavor. Although its ingredients are rather oriental (especially if you manage to protect shiitake mushrooms from the evil hands of your significant other :P), but the simplicity is (I think) similar to that of real Italian pasta dishes we enjoyed while in Italy. This went quite well with the light rose, a leftover wine from a few days before.
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* In the U.S. and in Europe, the word "kombucha" is used to refer to a Chinese-origin fermented tea that is drunk for health purposes. I don't know how this confusion started, but the these are two different drinks.
The NY Times article on equipping a no-frills kitchen for under $200 is predictable but interesting. While there are points I would go about differently, Mark Bittman's success in keeping the cost under a spartan limit is pretty impressive, too. But he missed one thing. One BIG thing. And that's not surprising, at all.
The missing thing is the saibashi--cooking chopsticks. They're basically a longer version of normal chopsticks, except that they aren't elaborately coated or decorated. Usually made of wood or bamboo (mine are the latter), the saibashi is a wonderful all-purpose tool in any Japanese chef's kitchen. I use them for almost anything: mixing sauces, tossing salads, stirring noodles in boiling-hot water, stir-frying veggies, turning meat over a grill, transferring food from a pan to individual dishes, whisking eggs, picking up piping-hot tempura from the frying oil, scraping off cookie dough from a mixing bowl. And I didn't even have to try hard to come up with this list. In a pinch, when my pot holder has gone AWOL, I even use them to slide out the hot baking pan from the oven, though I suspect this isn't really their intended use. Without these four sets of saibashi, I won't survive a day in my kitchen.
And of course, Bittman wouldn't have included saibashi in his kitchen essentials, because he doesn't cook (I presume) like the Japanese. (Instead, he included stainless tongs.)
Just Hungry points out that a "no-frills" kitchen would vary culture to culture, and if one cooks differently from Bittman, her kitchen might look quite different from his. This is a point well taken, and (sort of quietly) reveals the unconscious ethnic bias in Bittman's article. I don't plan to be hysterical about his lack of social awareness or ethno-racial sensitivity (it's just a short article, after all), but it does make me feel a bit ambivalent, especially given the newspaper in which the article appears. In the same section (Dining and Wine), New York Times enjoys, celebrates and consumes the very diversity of food and cooking within the United States. Then why this apparent disregard of "other" cooking traditions in this specific article? I don't know the answer to this, but it is, at least, quite interesting to see how cultural differences manifest in assumptions about cooking and, thus, what one should have in one's kitchen.
The veggie dish I touched upon in the previous entry features a spinach-like Japanese vegetable called "komatsuna" (photographed in the lower-left hand corner). I found a very fresh bunch in the stand of Henry's Farm in Evanston Farmers Market last Saturday, and couldn't resist. It's pretty rare to see komatsuna in Chicago, let alone a fresh one. Flavorwise, they're more subtle than spinach--komatsuna doesn't have that earthy, pungent flavor spinach has (or is supposed to have). The delight of komatsuna is more in the light, crunchy texture than in punchy flavor. Komatsuna is often used in miso soups, and marinated with ground sesame seeds, soy sauce and sugar (goma-ae). (By the way, other veggies in the photo are potted Thai basil, oyster mushrooms and asparagus, from the top, clockwise.)
I also had a fresh, firm bunch of oyster mushrooms, also from a farmers market stand. To use both of them and to enjoy their subtle flavors, I decided to lightly stir-fry them. The ideal recipe would call for real homemade chicken stock, but of course I didn't have one at hand, so I used the powdered Chinese soup mix. In heated oil, I sautéed a generous amount of minced ginger, and added the komatsuna and mushrooms. When they're about 70% done, I added some soup mix dissolved in about three tablespoons of hot water. (I wanted that restaurant-style wateriness; this worked well.)
The komatsuna was still nicely crunchy and the oyster mushrooms had soaked up the ginger and chicken flavors. I could have used all the komatsuna in the bunch; it was such a good accompaniment to steamed rice. The small bunch of komatsuna was (I think) about $3, so this isn't something we can do very often (which is kind of funny because I could easily spend $3 or even more for coffee in one day!), but it'll be quite difficult to resist the soft green leaves when we go to Henry's stand...
I'll probably use the rest of the bunch for miso soup one of these days. There isn't enough left to make the komatsuna a main feature of a dish, sadly.
When my mom got the National Geographic's National Park Guide back from her friend after a long time, the book was accompanied by a nice surprise.
It was a sweets called "Kobato Mameraku" from a traditional sweets maker in Kamakura, Japan. The maker, Toyoshimaya, is a well-recognized name in Japan, for its long history from the Meiji period and its loyal adherence to the locality. (The dove shape has its origin in the numerous doves that roam the premises of the equally numerous temples and shrines in Kamakura.) In a small, rectangular-shaped paper bag with a single stamp that boasts the store's name, there are six little dove-shaped sweets. They're made of a special kind of unrefined sugar (called Wasambon) and powdered broad beans.
After playing with them for a while (i.e., taking pictures), we had them with a cup of coffee. A bad move--the subtle flavor of the broad beans was still there, but was almost overpowered by the coffee. The last time we had this traditional snack, it was accompanied by freshly prepared Maccha (powdered green tea). It still brought back, however, the memory of about half an hour we spent in a well-tended garden of the Engakuji Temple in Kamakura, sipping the green and bitter tea and nibbling on the simple yet flavorful treat. It was a nice change of pace after a typical tourist day of walking and exploring--for about $4, many temples and shrines in Kamakura let you sit in their beautiful garden and sip refreshing green tea, accompanied by some seasonal sweets. It's a fun thing to do while in Japan!
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Toyoshimaya (Japanese link)
2-11-19 Komachi, Kamakura City, Kanagawa Prefecture, Japan
0467-25-0810
I just started writing for a local web magazine Gapers Block's food blog Drive-Thru. My virgin post is on young garlic leaves that I procured at the Evanston Farmers Market.
With the garlic leaves, I made this:
Check it out!
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.
Yes, I'm still stuck in the apartment, trying (desperately) to add ten more pages to my last paper. It must be done by Friday, or I won't be able to graduate!
But of course, I need a break--which is why I'm here, writing this post. The only problem is that I haven't had much time or energy to explore restaurants or cook new stuff. (My lunch was a frozen pizza, which I stole from Patrick's freezer.) So, I'll dig out a recipe from before...
I wonder if anyone has been wondering about the small green peppers on the top corner of the page. They're called "shishi-tou" in Japanese, which means "lion-sized pepper." It might sound odd that they're thought to be lion-sized, since they're much smaller than the American green peppers; shishi-tou's are only about two to two-and-a-half inches long. What they're compared to is the red hot peppers. Compared to them, shishi-tou's are much bigger--lion-sized, indeed.
Flavor-wise, shishi-tou's are more bitter than hot. (Though sometimes you run into stray hot ones.) I used to dislike them as a child. My mom used to grill them on a dry frying pan, and my father loved to dip them in soy sauce with grated ginger. They're great friends of a beer drinker, he used to say. But I just couldn't take the bitterness.
As I grew older, though, I started to enjoy the bitterness, and shishi-tou's are now one of my favorite summer veggies (although they're available all-year-round now). I often stir-fry them in sesame oil with ginger, and season them with Japanese fish sauce. But when we were photographing the shishi-tou's for this web site, I decided to go for something else.
First, I marinated chicken pieces with salt, ground pepper, and sesame oil, and coated them with a bit of corn starch. (This is easily done in a small sandwich bag. Throw everything in, and knead the bag a few times. The corn starch and oil help keep the moisture in the meat from escaping. A great neat tech from the Chinese cuisine.) Then I made the sauce: I simply mixed a generous tablespoon of miso (fermented soy beans), a tablespoon of mirin (sweet rice wine for cooking) and a little splash of soy sauce in a smal bowl. I cut up the shishi-tou's and removed the seeds, and also cut up some eggplants.
When everything was ready, I heated oil in a frying pan, threw some grated ginger (yes, they're ubiquitous in my kitchen), and browned the surface of the chicken pieces. Then I added the veggies, stir-fried them a while, pour the sauce in, and cover the pan to let it simmer for a few moments. I served the whole thing over rice, but they can also be served separately. Bon apetite!
Shishi-tou's are available in Asian markets, often under the generic name of "small sweet peppers" or some such. Just be careful not to use those murderously hot ones from Thailand (or Mexico, for that matter)!
Okay, I spent enough time on this--time to go back to Uncle Tom's Cabin and "Benito Cereno"... Oh, the wonderful world of slave literature!
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