Don't Judge a Bean by its Cover

It’s not much of a secret that I dislike beans. They don’t exude aromas that invoke memories of previous delicious dishes. They don’t taste like much without lots of help from fats and spices. And for the most part, they come from cans—the food source you turn to when there’s nothing better in the fridge. Lastly, is there another food that is as often the butt of, well, butt jokes as the bean? As I got into nutrition, I learned beans are a great source of protein (for something that didn’t use to walk or swim), and they’re a complex carbohydrate with fiber that keeps you full. Ok, they’re good for you. But so are prunes—not exactly the stuff of fantasies.

However (there’s always a however, isn’t there?), the husband loves the bean-based hummus. I have a photograph of his grinning mug next to an empty container of hummus taken less than two hours after said tub o’ mushed-up legume was brought home. I’ve tried to make hummus at home—adding heaps of garlic (the preferred amount of my all-time favorite ingredient), using organic garbanzo beans and fancy Estate olive oil (no clue what that means)—and I just can’t get into it. The texture is grainy and the taste is pedestrian.

But there is a time in every marriage when your husband begs you to make hummus (or is it just mine?) and you do it even though you know you have to clean the oily, mushy mess in the Cuisinart afterward. With a little encouragement in the way of adult beverages, I began the beany process. In recent years, I developed this habit of rinsing my canned foods. In an attempt to appear normal, I tell people it’s to wash away the excess sodium. But in my mind, I’m really washing the canned-ness of the food. For once, my weird quirk paid off in a discovery—I noticed some of the membranes of the beans were slipping away as I rinsed.

Remembering a fancy, elaborate recipe that calls for the deliberate removal of the skins to yield an ultra smooth hummus, I started rinsing the garbanzo beans with vigor. More skins slipped off. Vigor turned into OCD and then I manually peeled away the rest of the bean membranes that didn’t come off naturally. It was rather therapeutic. I have a friend who loved to peel plastic film from screens on electronic devices. I think they contribute to similar feelings of satisfaction.

Finally, I put my shiny, freshly cleaned, skin-free garbanzo beans into the food processor with tahini, olive oil, garlic cloves, spices, and lemon juice and whirled the whole mess into silky submission. It actually turned out to be some of the better hummus I’ve ever had, with a smooth, fluffy, dare I even say, refined texture. You still won’t find me photographed with hummus, but much to the chagrin of my husband who didn’t expect to share, I happily ate a good amount of the formerly lowly bean.

Great Garlic Quote

This cheekily illustrates my love of sampling, consuming, and attempting to cook ethnic foods, as well as my absolute reverence for garlic.

Don't be intimidated by foreign cookery. Tomatoes and oregano make it Italian; wine and tarragon make it French; sour cream makes it Russian; lemon and cinnamon make it Greek; soy sauce makes it Chinese; garlic makes it good.

- Alice May Brock

A Tomato Tool

Someone once remarked that I am a “farmers market tool.” It’s totally true. The displays of vividly colored and fresh-smelling fruits and vegetables make me irrationally excited. During the summer, when friends’ gardens begin to yield their bounty, the excitement turns into justifiable giddiness. Not only do some of the most coveted fruits and vegetables become in season, they possess a quality no farmers market loot can rival—they are gloriously free of charge.

Recently I received a handful of tomatoes from a friend with a very green thumb. Before I go on about them, I want to state upfront I am not a snob about just any vegetable. I feel that any stalk of celery is pretty much just as good as another. And I have never felt that one carrot is superior in flavor, smell, or texture to the next. (For those celery and carrot connoisseurs out there, please feel free to correct me.)

Tomatoes, however, are like bread, which can range from the beautiful, crusty, and fresh-from-the-oven variety to the sliced stuff in a plastic bag. There are the on-a-vine, left-to-ripen-on-their-own, smell-like-sunshine tomatoes and the pale watery ones served on the side as burger garnishes. To me, they are like night and day, two different animals... ahem, you know, vegetables.

I can almost envision the rich, dark soil and green, lush stems that my tomatoes came from. They smell earthy, almost sweet, and the way you think tomatoes should smell, but rarely do anymore. It’s kind of intoxicating. I wanted to prepare something that will do justice to these beauties. Dreaming of a dish that will show off my tomatoes, I decided that basil would be a worthy complement.

Insalata caprese is one of those insanely simple dishes that virtually makes itself as long as you choose super fresh ingredients. First, slice the tomatoes and then salt them. For the salt-phobics out there, and trust me, I used to be one; salting sparingly does not make food taste salty. It simply brings out the food’s natural flavors. Salting tomatoes also provides the added bonus of drawing some of the water out, resulting in firmer and less soggy slices.

That was the most complicated part. After that, top with fresh mozzarella, the kind stored in water. Throw in basil pieces, drizzle on extra virgin olive oil, and sprinkle with ground pepper. Some use balsamic vinegar, I prefer it without. And voilà, the result is refreshing for summer, yet there’s none of the deprivation factor associated with salads thanks to the rich olive oil and big chunks of mozzarella.

In this hectic world of fast food and supermarkets, you have to go out of your way to get local farm-fresh ingredients. Knowing exactly where your food comes from and that each mouthful is the result of a loving gardener’s care is now more rare than a fancy dinner cooked by a celebrity chef. So thank you, Natália, for a treat unrivaled in flavor, smell, and texture—from a proud tomato tool.

Insalata Caprese

Noodle Doodles

Once upon a time, a girl was not having much luck online dating until she found unbridled passion that lasted into the present. One evening, she dined with a man whose picture had indicated he was at least 10 years younger and 50 pounds thinner than he really was. During dinner, the liar held a raucous drinking contest with the gentleman seated at the next table. Finally, the catch ended their date by spinning her around, over his head, in the restaurant parking lot, to show off his “Judo” skills.

On one hand, it was probably the worst date she has ever had (okay, who am I kidding, who else but me has dates like that); on the other, it was the evening I was introduced to Japanese ramen. Eventually, I saw it as a wash. At first, I was apprehensive about returning to the restaurant—fearful of more Judo demonstrations. But where else do you find a Hakata ramen place where you get to select the firmness of your noodles, the strength of your soup base, and the amount of oil to flavor your soup?

For a girl who considers carb consumption to be a luxury, the firm-to-the-teeth noodles (sorry, I just cannot use Italian to describe a Japanese dish) bathed in a steaming hot, salty bowl of broth are so unbelievably good and decadent, it is like snuggling in your down comforter in flannel jammies and cashmere socks while cranking up the a/c in the middle of July to watch the Food Network. It is guilt-causing, mind-blowing, idiotic-grin-producing good.

So, I get to the point where I can go to the restaurant, relax, and enjoy my firm noodles, strong soup base, and easy-on-the-oil ramen. And then, I moved. Unlike Starbucks, authentic ramen is not available around every corner, whenever you need it. You have to try out restaurants, experience the highs of potentially discovering a great place, and the lows of tasting nondescript soup and noodles. But you keep trying; it’s like love, you think, you just need the ONE good ramen place.

And then sometimes you score. You find a place that used to be a Japanese grocery store whose proprietor used to be a great chef in Japan. Fortunately for you, the proprietor is now serving authentic shoyu, miso, and tonkotsu ramen in his little shop.

Shoyu ramen has a soup base of soy sauce, meaning clear and salty goodness. Miso offers a slightly bean-y flavor and texture that’s robust. You’d never believe it, but the corn kernels (yes, corn!) served with miso are an out-of-this-world combination. Finally, the star… tonkotsu. Not being a huge fan of pork, I didn’t even try it initially because the menu read “pork flavored” ramen. After deciding to taste it due to purely scientific reasons, I was floored.

Wiki tells me that tonkotsu is broth made by boiling pork bones for hours. My tastebuds tell me it is milky and mild, yet rich and satisfying at the same time. It warms your tummy and toes and everything in between.

Finally, I have my “own” ramen place—devoid of unpleasant memories from my dating days. When I look back, the best thing that came out of the online dating was the introduction to ramen. Who could’ve thought that a blurry picture of a formerly thin and good-looking young man would rouse my passion for noodles?

Spicy Miso Ramen

Falling for Beer

This past Fourth, I showed my patriotism by engaging in America’s favorite pastime—massive, continuous, and glorious beer consumption. For me, beer drinking used to be like that other American pastime—football watching—strictly a social activity. When others are imbibing, I’m always game, especially when the game is on and the 12 pack is chilling in the fridge.

At some point, the formerly codependent beer drinker came across a beautifully photographed beverage in a glossy food magazine while perusing the bar menu at a mostly Hispanic dive. Coincidentally, both the fancy magazine and the slightly damp menu were featuring the same drink. Thinking it to be a sign, I ordered the Michelada.

I think of M as having the best of both worlds in beer and the Bloody Mary. The concoction is made with a light Mexican beer (the bar used Tecate, I prefer Pacifico), generous splashes of Clamato (or tomato juice) and lime juice, dashes of Worcestershire and Tobasco, and ice and salt to rim the glass, if desired.

The result is fizzy and refreshing, but spicy and flavorful at the same time. As much as I adore vodka—and have and will for a long time—I’ve never had much love for the Bloody Mary, not for hangovers nor Sunday brunches. As for the lower abv stuff, I’ve had flings with everything from the beginners’ Hornsby Apple Cider to the monastic Chimay. I’ve honestly loved each of them, but I always go back to vodka.

Now, I find myself reaching for the ingredients to make a Michelada, even with no one around and the tv decidedly off. I throw guilty glances at my graceful, frosted bottle of vodka and wonder if it feels cheated on. I wonder if M has changed me, or if it’s just another fling.

The Jet Set Life of Curry

I’ve always loved curry—the pungent, rich, spicy flavors that tickled my taste buds, nostrils, and spirits. When I was a kid living in Hong Kong, curry was a casual dish mixed with brisket (my favorite) or, chicken or beef, and rice or spaghetti. My mouth waters just thinking about it.

Fast forward a decade or so and I’d discovered Indian food. Even though I loved their lamb and chicken curries and the way they tickled my fancy, their relationship with the Hong Kong curry never actually dawned on me because the two just tasted and smelled so differently in my mind and mouth.

Fast forward another decade or so (I know right now you’re wondering just how many more decades this chick has to fast forward), and I had a fateful evening with a Korean friend, who happens to be a fabulous cook, and her curry.

This friend offered to cook me Korean curry, emphasizing that it is different from Indian curry. Like I’m going to have a problem with that. When the “Korean” curry was served, I recognized it as the same curry of my Hong Kong childhood.

Fast forward a couple of days, and I am in my own kitchen with a package of curry mix from, Japan. I chopped my onions, cut up and tossed the chicken in my pan, and waited anxiously to add the curry. When the aromas from ~my~ curry hit my nose, it turned out to be the same as the Hong Kong and Korean curries of my distant and not so distant past.

I guess it's not all that surprising. The concept of curry was brought from India to Britain in the 18th century, and the Brits brought curry to East Asian countries in the 19th century. Without getting into the politics of these culture transfers, I’m just damn glad curry made its way around the world, and into my belly.

My story (for now)

I’ve always been into the yummy, but it wasn’t until late 2007 that I began cooking. Prior to that, my greatest culinary accomplishment had been broiling chicken breasts stunningly seasoned with pepper and garlic salt. And, I’ve always boiled a killer pot of water.

My culinary skills are still pretty limited, but I’m adventurous. I’ll do anything from tofu to chicken gizzards—as long as it's somewhat easy to prepare. I love aromatics. To quote Anthony Bourdain, “garlic is divine.” I religiously throw a ton of sautéed onions and shallots in just about everything.

My culinary tastes have been known to elicit everything from raised eyebrows to involuntary gagging. While I love the Americana cheeseburger (with a fried egg) and skinny fries at Fatburger, I also love, hmmm… rocky mountain oysters (yes boys, be afraid, be very afraid), regular old oysters (raw not fried), tripe—prepared Chinese-, Florentine-, and Mexican-style.

So I’m here to document my culinary adventures, self-inflicted or paid for; food ideas that astound and thrill me; and basically, anything fantastic (declared by me or others) that is food-related.

Here’s my ideal meal and where I’d like to be right now, even though I’d already eaten and actually need to go to the gym: A dinner of Kobe shabu shabu accompanied by Kirin—afterward, sitting back in a protein-and-alcohol-induced euphoria and basking in all that’s good with the world. That's what I'm chasing. You know what I mean?