Light Snacks Will Be Served

Escape To My Kitchen

Spices for massaman curry. 

My wife and I live in Yannawa. This neighborhood is tucked away in a southern fold of Bangkok, in a crook of the Chao Phraya River that is said to look like the belly of a dragon. On most days, it's a peaceful neighborhood, and one that I've become emotionally attached to in my 16 months living here. Our neighborhood has a pleasant mix of working class and white collar people; it has outdoor fresh markets and an expensive grocery store; street food and ice cream parlours, whiskey bars and kindergartens. It's a neighborhood where people welcome you with warm smiles when you head out in the morning to buy fruit and eggs, and where the beer and chicken wing vendor knows your name, even if she can't pronounce it. 

But lately my neighborhood hasn't felt very safe.

That's because we're hemmed in by the conflict on Bangkok's streets. There is fighting due north of us, on the usually quiet alley of Soi Ngam Duphli. Taxis have barricaded the area around Klong Toei, and tire fires stain the skyline from my eastward-facing kitchen window. Grenades explode not far away to the west, in Silom. When I leave the hum of my air-conditioner, I can hear the Army's gunshots poking holes through the tropical night. I wonder what they hit. It's more unsettling than scary. 

A heavy despair hangs in the air in my neighborhood. Last night I strolled around. "Where are you going?" my neighbors asked with concern. "Be careful." And, of course "Stay safe." This being Thailand, everyone smiles with grace. But smiles can't hide the sadness in their eyes. 

To escape the madness unfolding around us, to ignore the potentially disastrous outcome of urban war, I escape to my kitchen. I am so lucky to have a wonderful wife and a goofy dog and a fridge full of food and a stove and a home that's safe. And to pass the time I cook: chicken with garlic, white wine and bay leaves, or spaghetti bolognaise, and later maybe a roast of pork. I pounded my own massaman paste and slowly braise pieces of beef in coconut milk, then fold in the fragrant spices, tamarind and peanuts. 

These times when I cook I can clear my head. There is only food. I can ignore the never-ending twitter updates, and the faces of death on the news channels, and the frantic calls from journalist friends who just squeaked out of another shootout. But as we sit down to eat, in the comfort of our air-conditioned home, with a cold beer or a bottle of wine, we can hear the gunshots peppering the air. There is so much suffering on our doorstep, and yet we sit and eat a meal, watch television, and try to take our thoughts to another place. We feel guilt, and helplessness. We love this country, and hate to see what's happening to it.

It's a very strange time to be here, indeed. 

Update: Tonight, as I cook chicken soup, I'm staring out my window, waiting for a tanker full of gasoline that has been hijacked to explode. It's about a kilometer away - close enough to hear when it goes, but far enough to remain safe. I'm listening for the bang, searching for the smoke, and stirring the pot. I watch the drama unfold on the internet, and head to my window to witness it. And life goes on, strangely.  

Further note: That photo above is not of the tanker, which was empty, apparently. It is just another fire, in a city with more than a few of 'em.

 

On Finding Space...

Below is a piece I wrote this week for The Atlantic. I've reprinted it below for readers of this blog, in case you missed it there. It's a very personal piece, so I think it belongs here too. Enjoy.

Opening a restaurant is like climbing a great set of stairs. The first step, in my case, was an idea. Then I struggled with investment proposals and profit and loss projections. Shareholders agreements shrouded in mind-numbing legalese followed. There were trips to law firms and finally – the fun part – researching recipes throughout Thailand. I’ve also been meeting with farmers who grow unique and delicious things here, and trying to piece together a supply chain. But the hardest part has been finding a home for my restaurant. This haunts me.   

For the past three months, I’ve been following in the messy footprints of failure. Of restaurants left to rot. Of empty massage parlors, with oily plastic bottles still resting beside beds. Of shag-carpeted barstools and dusty karaoke machines, and bathrooms where the only thing that goes down the drain are rats. I look at a line of old hair dryers in a shuttered salon, with their jaundiced plastic globes, and try to imagine the manicured heads of customers instead. It’s hard to find an affordable space in a big city, and a fertile imagination is essential.

There are reasons for these difficulties. Like a generous tax structure that allows Thai landowners to sit on property for as long as they like, rather than lowering the asking price. And cheap operating costs that enable failing businesses to stay open for longer than they should.

Plus, Bangkok is hot, and people don’t usually walk more than a block or two to eat. So parking is crucial, and proximity to our limited public transportation is too, because of the perpetual traffic. If a space has all these things, rest assured they’ll come at a cost, usually in the form of a “key fee” – a one-time payment to buy out a lease, which can be 10 or even 20 times the price of a month’s rent. All that to rent a few rooms that reek of lost promise.

As I pick my way through others’ mistakes, I try to imagine how they happened. Did the lunch crowd never come, or was the shop too far down the street? Were the prices too high? Was the concept too complex, or too simple? Did the staff steal? Sleep doesn’t come easy for a first-time restaurateur.  

And as I wandered through Bangkok last week, snapping photos of metal shop doors where the owners’ cell phone numbers are scribbled, I was passed by pickups and motorcycles trailing banners of red. The country’s color-coded political troubles have flared up again, and the city filled with protestors demanding that Prime Minister Abhisit Vejjajiva dissolve Parliament. The city’s busiest commercial intersection had been occupied for nearly two weeks, closed for business, choked by protests.

During my search, I walked down the street where PM Abhisit lives. Police, in heavy riot gear on a blisteringly hot day, sat under the awning of a bar called Hard Times. That was before the violence erupted last Saturday, which took the life of 23 Thais and one Japanese photojournalist.

But life in Bangkok will go on, and with it my business plan. As I prepare, I’m gaining a greater respect for those who’ve succeeded in this industry. I thought I knew how hard it was to run restaurants when I worked as a critic, but the critic’s mind is focused on qualitative aspects of restaurants: the kitchen, the service, the drinks and atmosphere. Restaurants don’t get extra stars because the owner had the foresight to buy the lease on a washed-up barbershop for an outrageous price in a time of political turmoil, then sink more money into tearing it apart. Did I mention that sleep doesn’t come easy?

But contained in this restlessness is a blind excitement. Dreams of a busy bar. The sound of cocktail shakers competing with conversation. Of a kitchen full of motion and smoke, and serving a kind of food one might not find in other places, because of the trouble I took to find it. Soon, some of that will start to happen.

At night, after scouring Bangkok, I find peace of mind in my local market. I buy a fish, gut it behind my house, and light charcoal in a small grill, blowing on the coals. I neatly prep my herbs and vegetables, whose bright colors remind me of a palette of oils. I squeeze limes and pound garlic and lemongrass and peppercorns into fragrant pastes. I create order. And as another meal hits the table, I imagine serving it to someone besides my wife and a few friends.

I nervously search their faces for pleasure as they eat, while picking at my dinner. And then, when that’s all over, I try to get some sleep.

Cause It's Friday: Grilled Fish Edition

The small, narrow grills you see across Asia -- the kind that are often affixed to the backs of bicycles or carts and used to grill small bits of meat on sticks -- are perfectly suited to grilling one large fish. I picked up a grill last week for less than ten dollars, and with a tiny amount of good charcoal it burns slow and hot for up to an hour. Cover an entire fish (scales still attached) with rock salt and let it rest in the fridge for up to 8 hours. Then set it atop the grill, open a beer, and cook your way into the weekend. Or I will. Cheers. 

 

Focusing on the Issues

 

As Bangkok's political rhetoric heats up, and bags of blood are sent to splatter, I'm sitting at home at my desk, admiring my lunch. Lunch is the only meal that many of us eat alone. Because of that, it's also one that might get the most consideration. Lunch is an island. An escape.

It's usually the only time where there is no barrier between you and your food - no small talk, no house music, no riotous crowd, no pretense. Your head isn't clouded with sleep, either. I think the best restaurant criticism I wrote was after long, solitary lunches, tasting food piece by piece and thinking about how they fit together. I remember a lot of those long lunches, glass of wine caught in the sunlight, savoring and surreptitiously scribbling notes. Restaurant dinners, I remember less.

Anyways, today I ate something at home, which seemed pretty good, and so I thought I'd share it with you. Tuna salad with onions and thyme. Chicken liver terrine with coriander root and black pepper, cooked the night before and cool from the fridge. All of it smeared on crusty bread. Perfect was all it said.      

Update: Someone sent me a note about that bread in the photo. At my own peril (I eat it several times a week, and it's hard to get) I'll share with you this secret: In Bangkok there is a bakery called Folie's, which is French owned. They have several locations. Their regular baguettes are very ordinary, but they also make something my local shopkeeper calls a 'Folie baguette' that is made from whole wheat and white flour, and is very similar to a rustic bread you might get in France. It's fantastic - yeasty with a thick, savory crust - and the Thais don't like it for that reason, I think, so theydon't sell too much of it in my shop on Nanglinchi. If you manage to track it down, you'll be eating one of the best loaves I've found in Asia (buy some French butter and get down).  

Eye Candy

 

The primary reason I began taking photos in earnest is because I came to a humbling realization a few years ago, while editing a city magazine. A single photo really could say more - to more people - than a story we had spent far more energy trying to write. It's a cruel arithmetic: reading takes time and energy and attention, but looking at a nice photograph is like eating a piece of candy --fleeting, pleasant, easy. 

Which brings me to my point. I wrote a story about cooking in Isaan that is now up at The Atlantic. You should read it. But I don't want to scold. Instead, I'll show you two simple pictures that I took there, that somehow say more about the food and the cooking process than I might be able to muster here. Above, freshly roasted chilies and ground, glutinous rice. Below, the weathered mortar and pestle of my hosts, A-Nong and Thew. Aren't they beautiful? Now go on and read the story. 

  

 

How Far Can We Get From Food?

 

One of my first memories takes place on a sunny, whitewashed morning. I'm sitting on Florida's Intercoastal Waterway with my grandfather, who smiles at me from a folding aluminium beach chair. We're fishing.

And then something happens. I get a nibble, yank on the rod, and set my hook. It might be the first fish I've ever caught - I Have Arrived - and I smile and laugh and clumsily reel it in. But, suddenly, a pelican slaps against the water's surface in front of us, and eats my catch. And now, a very small boy finds himself fighting against a great big bird, his fishing rod tip turned skyward, in a surreal turn of events for a five-year-old.

My grandfather speedily cut the line, and explained to me that we couldn't catch the bird, because we didn't want to eat it. I was disappointed. But for the rest of my life I would always want to be a fisherman - I'd never felt so thrillingly connected to the natural world. Bird, fish and child had collided. 

In the years after that I learned how to fillet and gut fish, pluck pheasants, skin squirrels, and break down the carcass of a white-tailed deer. These experiences, whether you approve of them or not, made one suburban child appreciate the animal world, and what it had meant to man for so long. I crisply remember the first time I shot a grouse and it was not quite dead, and my uncle told me to snap its neck between my fingers. It did not feel good to feel its life disappear in my hands, but it did make me think, and I appreciated my supper that night in a way that is difficult to describe.

I think that my life as a fisherman and a hunter shaped my ideas about cooking and eating more than any other force. I don't throw away anything from an animal that can be used - the bones from a roasted chicken go to stock, as does the spine and head of a filleted fish. Pig skin from pork bellies gets rolled and frozen for gelatin, extra beef fat is rendered. There is still something reverent and slightly sombre about breaking down a big piece of meat in my kitchen; something that my wife, who was long a vegetarian, doesn't understand. But if she grew up like I chose to, I think she would. 

I write this in disgust, after reading this blog entry in The Guardian by Alex Renton. It involves a rural school teacher who chose to slaughter a lamb from the school farm, with the overwhelming approval of her student council, and sell the meat to raise money for the school. It seems sensible, even enlightening, that children should be taught where there meat comes from, and how that process happens. But she was maligned by an indignant mob on facebook. She was harassed and threatened, and finally, she resigned. This, in a town that celebrates its sheep farming heritage. 

The distortion of animal eating, of reducing furry creatures with faces and voices to shrink-wrapped blobs of red stuff, might allow a lot of people to eat without feeling pangs of guilt. But it also causes them to throw away the 'nasty bits', to ignore the consequences of eating too much, or to let it waste in the fridge till past its expiration date. And because the factory farming system is so far removed from sustainable agriculture, creating meat in such a recklessly abundant supply, this is all possible.

A few months ago, I was walking through Bangkok's Chinatown - on a dark street between the bright lights of Yaowarat Road and the mash of traffic on Chaoren Krung. And I came upon a poultry slaughterhouse, where a large measure of the ducks that end up hanging chestnut brown in restaurant windows begin their trip into the afterlife. A temple was lit across the street. There were feathers scattered everywhere, and a smell like death filled the air. I lifted my camera to take a picture, and a butcher glared at me and shook his head severely. He was probably a Buddhist, and didn't want to be captured in such an unholy frame. I also think that when he orders a chicken or a duck, he probably doesn't let a single shred of meat go to waste. I think he understands.   

       

(For a great piece on humane slaughter, see Barry Estabrook's Politics of the Plate blog) 

Stuck-up Pizza (or, The Calzone Incident)

You know what's a real bitch?

How bout when you're feeling ill, really hungry, and forced to feed yourself or brave the 93F heat outside for some soup noodles? Noodles? Nope, no way. 

But then you realize you've got some pizza dough in the fridge, and some mozzarella, and some mushrooms and leftover tomato sauce. That's right, you got all of it. And suddenly, life seems sunnier. 

 

So you take out your favorite empty-fish-sauce-bottle-cum-rolling-pin and get down to business. The oven's getting hot, you're slicing and dicing, and then you decorate the dough with all that leftover goodness. You're feeling pretty pleased with yourself in spite of your mild fever, so you snap a photo. And then disaster strikes. You've got a stuck up pizza on your hands. The kind of dough that, even though you dusted it with semolina, is stuck to your counter like bubblegum on a sidewalk. Motherf@#$%&r won't budge. 

So you delicately peel this delicate mofo off the countertop, real gentle-like. Then you fold it in half and pinch the s#$t out of it. Then you grab a spatula, and pry the rest of that insolent bastard off before it knows what's happening. Then you toss it the oven with glee, knowing its stuck-up stickiness can't battle against your blistering-hot stone. Punk-ass pizza.

 

But when it comes out, and as you eat it, you realize it's much better than that innocuous pizza you began with. And after a few bites, you decide that maybe you shouldn't have been such a judgmental asshole; it's way better than soup noodles could ever be, for this sick cook in search of comfort.     

 

Motherfuku!

"It is no accident that Momofuku sounds like motherfucker," writes Peter Meehan, who deftly captures David Chang's voice in the opening of the Momofuku cookbook. I've just ripped through the book, and can honestly say that I've never read a cookbook quite like it. It's original, inspiring, and real. It was nothing like my first meal at Momofuku. Let me explain.

I was in NYC to see friends in - I think - early 2005. Momofuku was a buzzword in the downtown food world. And then the New York Times wrote an article on the transformative properties of Chang's slow-poached eggs and the tiny place blew up like mashed potatoes in the microwave. "You've got to go!" people told me in emails. I went. I ate. I didn't get it. 

And that's because, at that point, there wasn't much to get. Not for a food writer in Shanghai, which is a town with a very decent Japanese ramen and yakitori scene. I can remember the meal clearly: I had Momofuku Ramen with Berkshire pork and a poached egg, a dish of heirloom tomatoes and tofu, and a bottle of sake. It was lunchtime. The sake and the tomatoes tasted great. The ramen tasted like ramen - not a particularly memorable ramen, save for the very succulent pork - but it was good (though not $12 good). I figured that people in New York's culinary spin-cycle were new to Asian noodles, and wrote this off as a passing fad. 

But Chang wasn't a passing fad. The roots of his genius weren't in the bowl of ramen but in that Berkshire pork, and those heirloom tomatoes, and the creativity that was starting to spring from a very ordinary idea (a noodle bar). The next time I was in New York, maybe a year and a half later, I ate at Momofuku Ssam, his next restaurant. And that time, he knocked my goddamn socks off. 

I, for one, don't much care for Asian fusion (unless it's a deep-fried piece of cheese in an Izakaya). It's usually pretty stupid. But Chang had a knack for it that was more Japanese in execution than American. That is, he took universal comfort foods - cheese, ham, tofu, bacon, whatever - and presented them in a context that wasn't necessarily American, but wasn't really Asian. It was just good and fatty. Delicious like the best crossover Izakaya stuff is. 

"Is it fucking dericious?" was the motto of the kitchen. Most everything I ate, from oysters to kimchi consomme to slices of Virginia ham (Virginia Ham?!?!) was fucking dericious. So much so that I approached Chang and tried to tell him how totally dericious it was, and how I wrote about food in Asia but hell I'd never experienced flavors like this, and he sort of scowled at me and walked away. A forgivable offense when you're that busy and that good. I guess.

The most amazing aspect of this cookbook, which everyone who cooks seriously should buy, is how it functions as a compelling coming-of-age story about America's most talked about chef. It's candid and it's funny. It's full of useful information and the sort of hard-edged kitchen wisdom that you encounter in only in the presence of professional cooks that you know well. 

I stayed up late, ripping through the pages, unable to sleep because of the possibilities of cooking that this book captures in its pages. It made me want to thrown this laptop out the window, stop ruminating about food and telling other people's stories, and get in a kitchen and cook. And I might just do that. 

After reading the first half, I ran to the market, bought a kilogram of chicken livers, and started picking them apart, smashing spices, infusing the chopped livers with Thai ingredients like lime leaves and lemongrass, fish sauce coriander root and bird's eye chilies, until I had a fragrant pate that made a very good banh mi. And that's just the beginning. The best part about cooking, unlike reading a riveting story, is that there is no end. 

 

Two Recent Breakthroughs (or, my MacGyver moment)

I've had a killer cold the past few days - the kind that even makes watching television in the prone position an exasperating exercise. I spent the weekend drifting in and out of programming, catching shitty snippets of movies that rarely make it to dvd, and instead find a repetitive home on Cinemax or HBO Asia (with one exception: Cleopatra Jones! What a pleasant Blaxploitation surprise.) 

Finally, after two days of this, I peeled myself off the couch wanting to cook. I had a lot of leftover bolognese in my freezer, and lasagna noodles in the cabinet. Even had a ball of buffalo mozzarella that didn't make it into a Thanksgiving casserole in the fridge, and two quarts of milk. Visions of lasagna bubbled in my brainpan. But, no ricotta - and a trip to the supermarket was out of the question.

Now, I know it's easy to make it. But I didn't know it was as easy to make as it is, cause I'd never made it before. 

First, I went inside my bedroom and secured one weathered, thin cotton scarf from my wife when she wasn't looking, and put it in the washing machine (cheesecloth is to Asia what bamboo steamers are to America). Then I slowly heated two quarts of milk in a pan, checking the temperature now and then, until it reached a foamy 185 Farenheit (If you make yogurt, this is familiar territory.) Pulled it off the heat, added about 1.5 tablespoons of white rice vinegar (all I had) and a pinch of salt and let it sit, covered with a towel, for two hours. 

Then I unraveled the scarf, poured the slurry of dairy into its welcoming, fuzzy folds, and twisted the top so it would drain in the shape of a hanging water balloon. A half hour later, with some twisting of the fabric, I had a ball of sweet, clean ricotta. 

Perhaps it was the delirium of the cold medicine, or the hours of mind-numbing television, but when my lasagna emerged from the oven all bubbly and wonderful I felt that great feeling of accomplishment that Richard Dean Anderson probably felt from 1985-1992.  

MacGyver could make a bomb out of birdseed and beer cans and he never shot a soul, but he also never made lasagna out of a forgotten carton of milk in Bangkok while battling a cold.  

 

(I'll save my other recent breakthrough for later. It involves the holyshititsgood Momofuku cookbook which I surprisingly found in my Bangkok bookstore. I'm exhausted...)

Meatball Masala

Last Saturday night, I had a craving for meatballs. The tender Italian/American kind that are nearly equal parts meat (veal, pork, beef) and bread and cheese. My favorite recipe for those is in the Rao’s Cookbook, which is a stand-by in my kitchen for simple American-style Italian food.

But then a friend invited us to eat the dangerously indulgent curries at Rang Mahal, a North Indian restaurant in Bangkok that is as good (eh, let's be honest... better) than anywhere I’ve eaten in North India. My wife and I made plans to go. But we were out far too late the night before, and I had work to do that Sunday, so we missed the Indian brunch I’d been looking forward to. And then my meatball craving underwent a metamorphosis.

 In the kitchen, I struck up a deal with stomach. I decided to make kofta, heavily spiced meatballs that probably originated in Persia and are done in different ways across the Middle East. They are also a mainstay in the meat-heavy cuisine of the Mughals in India. And they’re delicious and surprisingly easy to make.

Here’s how to do it:

Pound to a paste in a mortar and pestle, or whack in your food processor, these fresh ingredients:

 1.5” nub of ginger, peeled and chopped

2 small, green chilies, deseeded

½ a white onion

1 or 2 garlic cloves, chopped

A handful of coriander leaves

3 tbs yogurt

Then, mix this mixture with 500g (a little more than a pound) ground lamb or ground beef (that’s what I used here – lowly food writers don’t grind imported lamb). Mix it well – working the paste through the meat. Then add these dry spices, and mix it again. The best part about making meatballs is playing with all that cool, fragrant meat. Embrace it... 

2 tsp cumin, ground (better if you toast cumin seeds and grind yourself. It only takes 2 minutes and it smells amazing. Supermarket dust also acceptable.)

1 ½ tsp ground coriander seed

1 ½ tsp garam masala powder  

¼ tsp roasted red chili powder

1 ½  tsp salt

Refrigerate that mixture for about an hour. Then take it out, roll into small balls, and fry with a tiny amount of oil until cooked through (you can also grill, kebab-style). Your meatballs should be about half the size of a ping-pong ball (that’s pretty small), and should take about 7 mins to cook in a hot pan. Roll em around by shaking the pan to cook evenly. Push the stubborn ones around with your finger.

Serve with raita (plain yogurt with chopped shallots, cucumbers, salt, or whatever else you put in it) and rice. Throw a vegetable curry in the mix (we cooked a cabbage dish with tumeric from the Punjab), and you’re golden. I also served chicken shorba, a soup, on the side. It was cheap, not all that time consuming compared to other Indian meals, and really delicious.