Last week, while recovering from bad restaurant overload, I cooked at home every night. The rain and gray skies were making me thoroughly depressed. Jacob was in Shanghai on business, so I was cooking just for one. I started to rely on fast fixes for food, including my all-time quickest, unhealthiest, and yet oddly delicious comfort meal: fried eggs and rice doused in hoisin sauce. No wonder my palate was deadening.
In the essay "A is for Dining Alone" from An Alphabet for Gourmets, MFK Fisher wrote,"It took me several years of such periods of being alone to learn how to care for myself, at least at table. I came to believe that since nobody else dared feed me as I wished to be fed, I must do it myself, and with as much aplomb as I could muster." After discovering that dining out alone meant a succession of bad seats and pitying stares, she settled on making well-planned meals for herself at home.
Every time I am at a congee shop, I wonder if the congee business might be the most lucrative and relaxing in the restaurant industry. Your main ingredients are rice and water (and stock, but that's also mostly water), which are dirt cheap. You make one big vat of porridge beforehand. Your menu can be vast, but each of those variations (pork, egg, seafood, whatever) requires just a tiny bit of cooking or heating up at the end. And congee is such amazing and versatile comfort food that people will flock to it for breakfast, lunch, or hangover relief.
My latest congee "effort" makes use of stir-fried chicken and goji berries. The latter is because I had leftover meat from my Orange Sesame Chicken, and the former because I just bought an expensive bag of organic gojis that I should cook with instead of snacking on like raisins. I don't know how many of the antioxidant claims attributed to gojis are true, but I'll keep eating them if they are reputed to help your eyesight. (Food blogging and other frequent computer usage doesn't exactly do wonders for myopia.)
While I sometimes complain about Chinese food in the U.S., there are certain foods and restaurants I love and miss. One such place is a tiny kosher restaurant near Boston that serves unabashedly Americanized Chinese food. The food was good in the low-brow indulgent way that Kewpie mayonnaise and powdered Milo on ice cream are good. And given the depressing state of "authentic" Chinese food in the Boston area, I ended up eating there about every other week during my college career.
Taam China was close to my very Jewish university, so it seems that everyone who patronized the restaurant either attended or graduated from the same school. I was frequently the only Asian face there other than the staff's, which probably lent the place a tiny whiff of authenticity for the duration of my meal.
I have to admit that I have a strong bias towards jiaozi (饺子). Besides Shanghainese soup dumplings (xiaolongbao), my favorite dumplings are thin-skinned and pan-fried, the kind found mainly in Southern China or New York's $1-for-5 fried dumpling joints. Northern Chinese-style dumplings, which offer more thick doughy skin than filling, just can't compare.
What's better than anything a restaurant or dumpling stall can offer are homemade jiaozi, hot off the skillet. On my last day in Zhongshan my mother and I bought dumpling skins from a lady specializing in doughy things like wrappers and noodles, and spent an hour or two wrapping dumplings for dinner.
Since I have so many photos from that afternoon, I thought I would do a pictoral guide on jiaozi-making. (Often dumpling recipes fail to show the step-by-step process in folding.) Also included is my mother's fool-proof method for getting perfectly crisp pan-fried dumplings without burning them.
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Pan-fried Pork and Cabbage Jiaozi, a Recipe in Pictures
猪肉白菜饺子
Makes 50 to 60
Lightly dust your work surface with flour and keep some extra flour within hand's reach.
Dumpling wrappers: When I lived in the US, I always got my wrappers from Chinatown markets (the round kind, labeled for jiaozi（饺子) instead of for wontons (馄饨).). They are a hassle to make at home, but if you really want to give it a try, check out this post from Noodles and Rice.
For the filling, mix together: 1 lb ground pork, 1 cup shredded Napa cabbage, 2 tablespoons minced shallots, 1 tablespoon cornstarch, 2 teaspoons salt or 1 tablespoon soy sauce, a pinch of ground pepper.
Egg wash: Gently beat 1 or 2 eggs.
(The hands shown are Mom's. They are beautifully rough from decades of lovingly cooked meals.)
Until 3 or 4 years ago, I had an aversion to lamb. My father hated lamb, so we never ate it at home. My first experience with lamb (that I can remember) was at a Greek restaurant in Boston when I was a teenager; I ate a decidedly unfresh hunk of meat that left a horrible aftertaste for hours. After that, I swore off lamb. And Greek food.
Fortunately, after college, I decided I needed to expand my culinary horizons. In The Man Who Ate Everything, Jeffrey Steingarten writes about how moderate exposure to hated foods is the key to getting ride of aversions. He creates a 6-step program to dealing with a bunch of his own food phobias, including kimchi, Indian desserts, and yes, Greek food, by trying everything 8 to 10 times. I can't say my own culinary enlightenment was this organized, or steadfastly recorded for publication. But I do know that over the years of going out of my comfort zone I have come to love anything Greek I used to loathe, including olives and feta. And especially lamb.
Lamb has become, quite possibly, an addiction. Cooking at home or dining out, I can't help but crave the gamey taste of this meat. (Of course, Steingarten also writes that repeatedly eating the same foods is also as bad as specifically avoiding certain foods. Let's hope I'm not one of those people.)
Living in Beijing has made me develop a severe addiction to 羊肉串 (yángròuchuàn), otherwise known as lamb skewers. The intense aroma of cumin- and chilli- coated lamb on a grill makes me salivate like nothing else. And the heavy Mongolian and Xinjiang influence on Beijing's foodscape means that 羊肉串 is everywhere, on the street, in regular restaurants, in chuan bars.
If you're nowhere near Beijing, or want to satisfy your lamb-and-cumin craving at home without a grill, this stir-fry is the next best thing. Mark Bittman, who writes The Minimalist column in the NY Times' Dining Section, is a pro at translating mouth-watering dishes into simple recipes for home cooks. He based this stir-fry off the same lamb skewers I often dream about. It's a good dish to serve on busy weeknights or hectic dinner parties, because all the prep is done beforehand. Once you're ready to cook, take the lamb out of the fridge, toss it in a hot wok, and you have a mouth-watering stir-fry in about 5 minutes.
To get the most out of this dish, it's imperitive to use fresh cumin seeds. Ground cumin has nowhere near the aroma or bite of just-toasted seeds. For the garnish, Mark Bittman suggests cilantro. I didn't have any cilantro on hand, so I heated up some fresh red chillis in a wok until they're blistered.
If I had to make a list of my top favorite comfort foods of all time, mapo doufu would be at the top along with lamb curry, roast chicken, and anything in a clay pot. I almost always order it at Sichuan restaurants, despite that voice in my head pushing me to try something new. But the craving is too hard to resist. Thinking about the mala taste, the thick sauce that wraps sublimely around white rice, and the silken-ness of the tofu contrasting with the slightly crispy pork all make me surrender to the tried-and-true.
Fortunately, mapo doufu also very easy to make at home. This recipe is adapted from Land of Plenty: A Treasury of Authentic Sichuan Cooking by Fuchsia Dunlop, one of the very few Western food writers to delve deeply into Sichuan cuisine. I highly recommend this book if you're looking for not only recipes but also great writing that brings the sights, smells, and tastes of Sichuan province to life.
The first time I ever had dan dan mian was years ago in New York's East Village. It was one of those insanely hot and muggy July days, and my friend S and I were walking on St. Mark's Street, sweaty even in tank tops and skirts.
"Where do you want to have lunch?," I asked.
"Anywhere with AC," was the reply.
We ducked into the St. Mark's branch of Grand Sichuan and sure enough, there was a generous amount of AC, along with a particularly surly waitress. We ordered quickly just to get her to go away.
We ate about 4 or 5 dishes, but I don't remember any except the dan dan noodles and cold cucumber salad. I remember the dan dan noodles because they were some of the spiciest things I had ever tasted, at that point. I remember the cucumbers because, despite also being spicy, they tamed the heat in my mouth from the dan dan noodles.
I gulped about 4 or 5 glasses of water during the meal. The food was actually pretty good, but I, being a newbie to Sichuan food, couldn't fully appreciate the complexity of the Sichuan peppercorn. Years later, having had many 4-alarm Sichuan meals, I actually miss and crave the mala sensation (numbing spiciness) if I don't eat Sichuan for a week or more.
What to do when you crave meat with a rich-tasting sauce, but not the feeling of heaviness afterwards? One of the tricks all Chinese cooks use for stir-fries is to mix in a little cornstarch. And cornstarch can be used for more Western-style pan sauces too.
A few nights ago I made pork medallions with a raisin ginger sauce. The dish was easy to whip up; just brown the meat, toss it in the oven to roast, and make the pan sauce while you wait. The sauce is the key to this dish, a nice sweet and tangy alternative to the savory sauces that usually go with roast pork.
Pork Medallions with Raisin-Ginger Sauce
Adapted from Food & Wine
Serves 2
1 lb (450 g) pork tenderloin, cut into 4 medallions
Salt and freshly ground pepper
2 teaspoons vegetable oil
1/2 cup (120 ml) apple juice
1/2 cup (120 ml) chicken broth
1 tablespoon soy sauce
3 tablespoons golden raisins
1 teaspoon ginger, freshly grated
1/4 teaspoon cornstarch dissolved in 1 teaspoon of water
Preheat the oven to 350° F (175° C). Season pork with salt and pepper on each side. Heat oil in a large heavy skillet and cook pork over moderately high heat until browned on both sides, about 3 minutes per side. Transfer the pork to a baking pan and roast in the oven for about 7 to 8 minutes, or until the pork is firm when pressed down.
This winter has been brutal in China, and no part of the country has been spared. Even in Zhongshan in the south, about the same latitude as Florida, it has been so cold that I have to wear a down coat. The same down coat I wear up in Beijing. According to my father, last year it was so warm during Spring Festival he could wear a t-shirt out. Not so this year (and we have global warming to thank) Although it's about 15 degrees Celsius warmer here, the dampness creates a bone-chilling type of cold, the same type of cold you get in London, Paris, and Shanghai.
Cold weather makes me long for piping hot dishes, like clay pot braises. Last night I decided to make clay pot chicken, and adapted a Vietnamese-style braise from Chef Charles Phan of San Francisco's Slanted Door. One of the major changes I made was the amount of fish sauce. The original recipe called for 3 tablespoons, which I would not recommend to anyone hoping to keep a decent-smelling kitchen. (See Vietnamese Caramelized Pork.) I reduced the amount to 1 teaspoon or a few drops, which is plenty for enhancing the flavors of the dish.
You can also make this dish both mild or spicy. I tossed in seeded Thai chilli, which added a mild tinge; for more spice, just leave the seeds in.
Clay Pot Chicken
Adapted from Chef Charles Phan, via Epicurious
Serves 4
