Ancho chilis remind me of my ex, Pilar: Attractive and mildly spicy, but if you bite into the wrong place Lo! come the fires of hell.

Anchos are the raisin to the Poblanos grape, the prune to its plum, the jerky to its steak. Full of rich flavor and an earthy texture, mashed or milled, roasted or reconstituted, the ancho neé poblano (or pasilla depending on where you’re from) is the perfect accoutrement to most any dish.

Having recently found an online store called Pepper Friends (ペッパーフレンズ) here in Japan which sells Jalapeños and, too my surprise, Poblanos, I’ve been experimenting (the English translation is fun for the entire family): Roasted Garlic & Poblano Hummus, a kind of Oaxacan Mole Verde (sans tomatillos which are not easy to find here…), an ancho black bean dip and several kinds of bread. It’s just a pepper, yet the mind reels.

Then I get an email from my onetime Japanese cooking cohort, Maria (who wrote this article on Cockle Bread for the HESO Nutrition issue), now in el sur de Tejas, whose always thinking along the same lines:

“I know you would shake your head, but I haven’t been doing so much cooking lately. Sure I prepare meals (making my lunches is one of my favorite events of the day…I walk to a little park near the office and do some crosswords while I enjoy the South Texas heat) daily, but it is not the kind of cooking that I got into in Japan. Damn I miss those days. By the time I get home, all I want is a glass of wine. What better to go with wine, but cheese and some complements. So, more often than sometimes, I have cheese, sunflower seedy crackers, raisins, roasted red peppers, perhaps some tomato. Sometimes, though I just have the cheese and crackers.

I tend to make lots of salads. For me, a salad is not just a mix of raw vegetables. I feel like anything you throw together that is eaten cold is a salad. I like to make soba noodle salads, rice salads, you get the idea. There’s nothing better than a piece of leftover steak, sliced and mixed with a nice spinach and broccoli salad, toss in some Stilton and you have yourself a glorious little feast. Leftover steak is so good, it absorbs that special bacteria. And we all know blue cheese and steak go well together. I’m writing you this while lying in bed, but I think I’m going to eat that for breakfast (I made steak earlier and had already packed my lunch for tomorrow). So onto the idea for your place. You should offer some roasted brie rounds. I know I know, a bit expensive, but you can just offer a nice slab as an alternative. You can offer a sweet or savory version. The sweet would be topped with some jam, perhaps some persimmon in season or fig always works. Add some walnuts, some of those damn good honey chili almonds you made when I was there, some raisin bread. The savory can be served with some roasted garlic pieces (maybe some roasted garlic bread?), some rounds of tomato sprinkled with olive oil, some roasted red peppers. Another thing I like to do, but didn’t suggest it first because I don’t know what the Japanese reaction would be, is dice roasted beets. Mix in cubes of ricotta salata, or feta, some chopped herbs (parsley and mint are very nice), sprinkles of balsamic, fresh lemon juice, and olive oil. Let sit for a few hours (you know the drill, the longer the better). Serve on toasty crostini. Another good crostini idea is a single (but generously sized) anchovy, and some sliced of roasted red pepper. Serve with olives.”

Tofu Rocks. Add “ya” to the end of many Japanese words like “sushi” and “sake” and you get the place that makes, serves and often perfects them. Such is the case with Tofuya Ukai, the recently Michelin 1 star rated tofu restaurant, which is more an experience in sumptuousness than dining, set in the heart of Tokyo’s Minato-ku area, stuck just below the gaudy Eiffel-wannabe Tokyo Tower between raucous Roppongi and the peace and tranquility of Shiba Koen.

The 9 course Menu:

Sesame Tofu (胡麻とうふ)

Deep Fried Tofu with Sweet Miso Sauce & Egg Custard (あげ田楽)

Assorted Sashimi (*造り)

Simmered Royal Fern with Fried Tofu　(ぜんまい信田)

Boiled Seasonal Greens with Soy Sauce (*)
Grilled Clam in Vinegar Dressing (*)
Child Tomato with Vinegar Jelly (*)
Deep-fried Squid with Crispy Rice-Cake (*)

Tofu in Seasoned Soy Milk (豆水どうふ) See Above Photo

Terriyaki Trout with Sansho Springs (鱒木の)

Boiled Rice with Hijiki Seaweed (ひじきご飯)

Soy Milk Pudding with Azuki Bean (豆の*) See Below Photo

*Note: The Japanese Characters (taken from the menu) were mostly illegible due to the mostly illegible cursive script used, so if some are incomplete, please humor me.

On a recent trip to Los Angeles, I hit up a Mexican supply store before I left and brought back a bunch of dried ancho chiles which I reconstituted, blended up with garlic, cilantro, lime juice, s&p, Mexican oregano, Ibarra chocolate, honey and made a poor man’s mole for my rosemary whole wheat pizza dough. Add some feta, homegrown tomatoes, red onions and black beans, a bottle of Sauza, some limes and you got the French high-tailing it out of Veracruz on el 5 de Mayo all over again.

4 1/2 Cups High Gluten Flour (add whole wheat for rugged manly appeal)
1 3/4 Tspn Salt
1 tspn Yeast
1/4 Cup Extra Virgin Olive Oil
1 3/4 Cup Cold Water

Mix the flour, salt and yeast together, stirring well. Add the olive oil and the water kneading the mixture (adding a bit more water or flour as needed) until coalesced into a great big brown lump of raw love. If you have a mixer, put in the dough hook and let’er rip for 3-5 minutes or so. If not, I hope you work out (or at least masturbate), ‘cos your forearms are soon to be burning.

Cut into four, knead into pretty balls, oil’em up like your Swedish Masseuse and throw in the fridge overnight. They’ll last for up to week but are best used within two days. You use cold water to delay the fermentation process, which takes place in the fridge overnight. Longer, slower fermentation (equals better sex…?) means a healthier pie. Just ask the scientists.

This is my comfort food.

At least ever since trekking around Thailand it has been. The capital and cultural melee that is Bangkok is filled with beauties and cons, faith and sewers, but the best thing about the 10 million plus “city of angels” is the food. It’s a veritable symphony of street stall sumptuousness. Forget the majority of the restaurants (unless you know it’s where the locals go) which generally focus on “safe” versions of the traditional cuisine made palatable for a westernized clientele and go street. The first thing you do after getting into town is to find the local street market. When passing through the dazzling and mind-bogglingly topography of the various southeast Asian cities this is often the best way to get a sense of the country, the people, the food, everything important.

Patpong’s a great place to start. The night market there is unrivaled for variety: Hundreds of dishes (all served with Nam Prik the ubiquitous spicy chili paste for dipping) like Pad Thai, Som Tam Thai (Papaya Salad with peanuts), Tom Yam Talae (spicy seafood noodle soup), Mang Dah (fried water bugs), Durian (stinky and delicious), but especially the curries, including Massaman (an amazing traditional Thai Muslim curry), Gaeng Phet (scorchingly hot red curry), and today’s special- Gaeng Khiew-Waan, served with an Indonesian twist: peanuts.

This recipe is pretty basic Thai except for a few twists which are necessitated by living in a country (Japan) which only recently found out there existed other spicy(er) food than just wasabi. The baby eggplant is key and freshness is of utmost importance. Cilantro is pretty hard to procure anywhere outside of Tokyo but you can find it under the names of シャンツァイ, 香菜 (こうさい), or simply コリアンダー. The other impossibility is Thai Basil which has a sweetness unlike most other types, so just substitute your local sweet basil. I use soy milk instead of coconut milk for a healthier mix (the additive-free Japanese soy milk is the best I’ve ever had as well as not being canned), but this will definitely be the biggest change in flavor to your curry, so be forewarned.

What you need:

*2 cups Brown Rice
*6 Baby Eggplant
*1 Red Onion
*8-10 Baby Corns
*Handful of Crushed Peanuts
*Fresh Cilantro
*1/2 cup Soy (or Coconut) Milk
*1/3rd cup Curry Paste
*Oil for the wok (Sesame/grapeseed mix)

(Curry Paste)

*8 Green Chilis (any are OK)
*1 Jalapeño
*1 small Red Onion or 2 shallots
*Handful of fresh Cilantro, including shoots and stems
*A bunch of fresh Sweet Basil
*Handful of Unsalted Peanuts
*5-10 cloves of roasted Garlic
*2 thick thumb-sized pieces of fresh Ginger (grate)
*1 thick piece of fresh Turmeric (grate)
*1 thick piece of Galangal (fresh if you can get it, otherwise use the powder) (grate)
*1 Lime, zest and juice
*8 Kaffir Lime leaves
*2 stalks fresh Lemongrass (2 tbsp. dried)
*2 tbsp. Fish Sauce
*½ cup Soy Milk
*1 tsp. Cumin
*Fresh ground Pepper

Mix ingredients together in the blender and set aside.

Start the rice first. Next, warm up the oil in the wok. Remember, lift & swirl. Lift & swirl…Fry up your chunked up eggplant and onions for a good three to five minutes, stirring regularly. Add the soymilk and turn the burner down to low. Let simmer for five minutes or so. Meanwhile heat your curry paste in a separate saute pan with a bit of oil until the oil melds into the paste. Add your paste to the vegetables, mix in while stirring for about three minutes or until you can see the paste joining the soy milk. Take off the burner, plate carefully before topping with crushed peanuts and finishing off with fresh cilantro. Pour yourself a beer. You deserve it.

Technorati Tags: Bangkok, Curry, Gastronomy, HESO Magazine, Night Markets, Peanuts, Thai Cuisine

You’ve Eaten Shark Before…
but you probably don’t know it.

Hákarl (Icelandic for “shark”) is fermented greenlandic shark, a tradition of Þorramatur, Iceland’s national food, most recently notable for appearing on an episode of Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations, in which he, as usual, tried the pungently ammonia-rich stuff, describing it as, “the single worst, most disgusting and terrible tasting thing” he had ever eaten.

Or you might’ve tried shark fin soup. Originally a Cantonese delicacy, this controversial cuisine has gained popularity in other Asian countries such as Malaysia and Singapore. The finning process involves the removal of the fin with a hot metal blade, whereupon the animal, maimed and defenseless, is then released back into the water. The immobile shark soon dies from suffocation and/or predators. Truth be told, shark fins have very little flavor of their own and thus take on the flavor of whatever they are cooked with. If you find a can of it in an Asian store in your neighborhood rest assured it is most likely fake, being constituted with a kind of mung bean vermicelli shaped to resemble shark fins and flavored with mushrooms and pork.

If you’ve been bumming on the beaches around Victoria, Australia and been on a pub crawl then you’ve definitely had shark. Called “Flake” it’s the white fish most regularly used fish and chips.

The most likely culprit is in Japanese food, something called surimi 擂り身, meaning mince meat or most directly referencing “fodder fish”. The process of making surimi goes as follows: white fish meat is filleted (or alternatively an amalgamation of bits that are otherwise useless), rinsed and pulverized into a mushy, gelatinous paste, often including additives such as egg whites, salt, sorbitol, sugar, humectants, vegetable oil, and artificial flavoring. While the most popular white meat fish varies (Alaskan Pollock is big), shark is high on the list, due to its soft, flaky texture and low fat content. The most famous surimi product in the U.S. is artificial crab meat, which is most widely used in California rolls. In Japan, kamaboko (pink and white fish loaf seen in ramen) and chikuwa (a kind of fish cake often filled with processed cheese) are the most popular surimi snacks.

In my meanderings along the coasts of Asia and the U.S. I have been lucky enough to have had several chances to try shark, the photograph above representing my favorite: Shark Tacos.

- First, get a couple fresh (shark breaks down rather quickly, so smell the package for any hint of ammonia) shark steaks, pepper them and sear them off for 20-30 seconds a side in a hot and well-oiled saute pan.

- Throw some fat black peppercorns and roasted coriander seeds atop thinly sliced red onions into a braising pan. Layer the seared shark steaks on the bed of onions, shower generously with fresh lemon juice, and finally season with a pinch of salt before covering and baking for 10 minutes at 350F.

- For me, nothing says tacos like corn tortillas, but to each their own. Any way you like them, make sure they’re warm and/or slightly browned before adding the fresh guacamole you’ve just whipped up while the shark steams tastily away.

- After removing the cartilage (easily done as it’s usually a single piece), plate the steaks onto the warm tortillas, add fresh cilantro and pico de gallo and go to town.

Cook’s note: While the risk of high mercury levels remains an ever-increasing factor in our consumption of any seafood these days, it is especially important to take note that large predatory fish- specifically tuna, swordfish and shark- run the greatest potential for mercury-saturated meat and therefore should really only be eaten once or twice a month (Source: Robert Hueter- director of Mote Marine Laboratory’s Center for Shark Research in Sarasota). Also note that any product you buy is in reality two products: the one you actually purchase and the replacement for that product. Therefore buy with the foreknowledge that you may be aiding the blind global demand for depleted fish stocks at any and all costs. That said, Eat Smart and Hearty Friends!

Cockfighter coffee: for the sleepy cock in you.

Coming home the other night, tired and dejected from another long haul on the trains of Tokyo, the robot-faced salarymen’s prodding elbows and a desultory drizzle leaking down from the greasy sky, I got home to find a package, neatly wrapped in brown and addressed to me, sitting on the kitchen table expectantly. “Wow,” I thought, “no one ever sends me anything…and I haven’t ordered anything…not sober anyway, that I can remember, so what the he…?”

Thanks to U.S. Customs forms taking all of the mystery out of what used to be Christmas anytime a package came in the mail, I knew what it was: My Cockfighter Coffee! The Certified Free trade beans are organic and every batch is roasted by hand. If it hadn’t been close to midnight I’d've whipped up a batch right there and then. But this coffee, amigos, requires time and ambiance: A sunny Saturday morning with nothing much planned or an impromptu Sunday brunch date with that flirtatious brunette from down the hall would do nicely. of course man does not live by coffee alone, no matter the rich deep taste and strong flavors in this Cockfighter brew. A good omelette, quiche or dessert would be deftly accompanied by this truly cocky concoction.

To order Cockfighter Coffee go here.

Technorati Tags: Cockfighter, Coffee, Last Night’s Dinner

I’ve already reported on the Chimay & the Maredsous Triples, geniuses of Belgian Trappist Monk origin. But just what does that mean? What is Trappist Beer and why is it six dollars a bottle? After a bit of imbibed research and some hard sought questions in a local Belgian Pub, I’ve found out some interesting facts about what makes a Trappist Ale so special, and why they’re themselves worth the trip to the countryside Abbeys of Belgium (plus The Netherlands & Germany). First, onto the monks themselves.

The Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance (O.C.S.O.: Ordo Cisterciensis Strictioris Observantiae), or Trappists, are a contemplative Roman Catholic religious order, that follows the Rule of St. Benedict.

So now onto the rules and regulations of Trappist Beer as set down by the International Trappist Association (ITA) in 1997.

* The beer must be brewed within the walls of a Trappist abbey, by or under control of Trappist monks.
* The brewery, the choices of brewing, and the commercial orientations must obviously depend on the monastic community.
* The economic purpose of the brewery must be directed toward assistance and not toward financial profit.

There are currently seven breweries that are allowed to have their products wear the Authentic Trappist Product logo:

* Bières de Chimay
* Brasserie d’Orval
* Brasserie de Rochefort
* Brouwerij Westmalle
* Brouwerij Westvleteren
* Brouwerij de Achelse Kluis
* Brouwerij de Koningshoeven (La Trappe)

Why is Trappism so fitting for the brewing of premium beer?

In a word: Quality. Many of the top-fermented, ale-style brews are cap numbered (6, 8, 10, etc.) dating from the days before labels, though a large number of the beers themselves are separated into three simple categories: Single, Double & Triple (Enkel, Dubbel, Tripel), which generally denotes the strength of the alcohol content. There are exceptions, which we will get into later.

Onto a few of the beers:

Westmalle Dubbel 7% ABV

Dubbels are generally darker than their golden and slightly more alcohol rich brothers (brown color comes from dark malts), the tripels, though the lower alcohol content does not denote a lack of flavor or robustness. And while not as robustly-flavored as one would think when decanting (yes, decanting is appropriate here), after pouring the molasses-hued ale into the wide-topped glass and taking the initial sip, swishing the more complex, more herb-textured flavors about one’s mouth, encountering an unexpected dry crispness, one’s interest is more than piqued. You long for a day reserved for solely for drinking down these dark candy sugared Dubbels while picnicking in the pastoral sun of a Belgian lea surrounded by wildflowers and bubbly Belgique Belles Femmes cooing haughtily into your warm ears. Pour another one sir, for though these bottle-fermented ales are slightly heavy, they go down smoother than panties on well-lotioned thighs.

Achel Blonde 8% ABV

Striking from the label to the glass bin, Achel proves that those who drink Blondes do have more fun. I am. One could only imagine what would ensue if this weren’t merely a bottle containing a beautifully crafted centuries-old recipe brewed by an order of Belgian monks who’ve been chased out of their abbey time and again (first by the French revolution and then the nazi’s). The smallest of the Trappist breweries, the Achel freres began brewing again in 1998 and seemingly have never looked back. The proof is in the pour. Patience is the key word here, because it takes what must be referred to as a Belgian Minute in the Trappist lingua franca for the thick, creamy head to dissipate.

Trappiste Rochefort 10% ABV

Upon opening the lanky brown bottle, a dark and immediate bouquet grabs one’s olfactory senses and takes one back to the days of Friar Tuck. Before then even, for the Abbey of St-Remy, in the southern part of Belgium, was founded in 1230, and the monks began to brew beer sometime around 1595. Imagine skinny dipping with sirens in vast natural hot springs of strong malt surrounded by oak-boasting mistletoe with wild almonds growing poolside and you have an inkling of how smoothly the 11.3% alcohol volume slides you into a medieval reverie. There you are cavorting like a drunken cherub in the smooth leather-colored waters when you get the urge to dive, to sink down deep into beery abyss and chase the roots of malted hop eddies unseen. You drain your glass and the silt of more than 400 years of utopian brewing ideals sinks into your tongue, penetrating deeper than mere mortal taste buds allow.

Goes great with hearty cheeses and Germanic breads, fondue, roasted and herbed potatoes, lamb, etc.

Orval 6.2% ABV

Yeasty and nonaromatic, the opening of the Orval bottle, though nicely shaped, is uneventful considering its boastful Trappist brethren. But then Orval is not the average Trappist beer, if indeed there could be one described as “average”. It has a smoother, more refined, decidedly English air about its dark caramel body, easily observed as early as the pour. This beer is not malt heavy, though does contain pale barley malt. Rather Orval depends more upon the various eastern European hops and a special yeast which calls to mind its history as a “liquid bread”. The first taste, a tinge on the bitter side, rather unfruity and overly like soggy toast, brings to mind nothing in particular, making Orval a bit of a disappointment. Midway through the beer, still nonplussed, I begin to picture the hard-working monks in their habits and their haircuts, toiling away all these hundreds of years. I consider the fact that there are a mere 7 Trappist breweries worldwide and that Orval is exported to the four corners of the globe. As I ponder not so much why I dislike Orval as opposed to why it’s merely not up to par with its Trappist roots, something happens. The beer shifts and the heretofore untasted bounty of flavors begins to show its Belgian blood. Compelled to continue to the last hop-rich gulp, the last few sips are reminiscent of a crescendo, and a strange buzzing of sorts, an aria if you will, arises upon draining the glass, dissipating only as the eager candy-colored liquid works it way molasses-like down my throat. Orval is an opera. Give it the temperament it deserves.

If for no other reason will I always remember Tokyo than for reintroducing me to Belgian Beer. Specifically the “Tripel”, a dark blonde, sweet and strong, usually running form 8-10% alcohol. Here’s a few of what I’ve been slumming with lately.

Chimay Tripel 75 cl, 33 cl (25.4 fl.oz., 11.2 fl.oz.), 8% alc. vol.

There you are again, perusing the bottled multitudes at the liquor store. You’re eyeing a sixer of good microbrew to see you through yet another holiday party. You move to the last shelf and see the individual bottles and Flash! An Epiphany. Chimay. You see the maple colored bottle and its tan label modestly boasting its diminutive “Tripel”. Triple what? Taste? Creamy Golden-ness? Triple the hops, if you ask me (Surprisingly, the monks use the American-grown Nugget hop). On opening (or decorking if you’ve got the 75cl bottle) an evanescent aroma reminiscent of a fresh harvest of hops just after a rainstorm issues forth. Grab your glass and get thee to a chair. This slightly fruity brew, with just a touch of ephemeral bitterness washed away so quickly another sip is quite in order, deserves an audience. It needs a table and a warm fire, a finely-sweatered Northern European by your side. Take another sip. Then one more. Maybe that’s what the “Tripel” stands for. All sips come in threes. Though slow down, cowboy. This is made by monks. Trappist monks. Think Sloths. They cruise relaxedly chuckling away to God while beer bubbles foam away on upper lips, these giddy brewmeisters, high on hops, fermented to high heaven, they take their time. As should you, mon frere. Letting the head mellow and the rich amber settle, take another whiff and let the aromas pour over your skin, feel the soft bite of apples, sniff again and quickly now, take a deep drink, getting the head all over you as the color of caramelized happy liquid floats so smoothly down your throat. The strong crisp taste of raisins lingers so luxuriously on your tongue, on second (or third) thought, taking another sip too quickly is not recommended. Let it rest. Talk to her.

Serve chilled between 6 and 8°C (42.8 to 46.4°F). Amazing with a variety of cheeses, fruits, soups, stews, basically any hearty and well-prepared vittles.

Maredsous Tripel 75 cl, 33 cl (25.4 fl.oz., 11.2 fl.oz.), 10% alc. vol.

Dark, rich-bodied with a light tinge of fruit, wrapped in a lush summertime breeze of hops, this Benedictine brew, though a staunch 10%, is amicably drinkable and overall gives off an old oak-refined finish, leaving only its smooth creamy head behind. Something your toothless uncle would drink on Tuesday mornings because it’s better than Muesli.

Technorati Tags: Beer, Belgian, Maredsous, Chimay, Trappist

When in Hong Kong do as the HKers do: Drink Snake Wine. A very large part of me thinks that only tourists, extremely old men with no teeth and women named Madame Cobra drink this stuff. Regardless, as I fit into one of the three categories, I partook. Once in Hong Kong, in a dusty old bar with the vague morning rays of the sun stretching towards afternoon through the overcast haze of the half-opened louvres of forgotten windows and once in Fukuoka, at a now infamous dinner party hosted by the lovely and intelligent Rachel (also a close friend of George).

The aforementioned 11am hour dusty forgotten bar wine taste test included a bit of skin and floating flesh, for “flavor” so the proprietor said, in short whiskey glasses of dubious cleanliness, whereas in Fukuoka we drank the stuff neat and straight from plastic cups. C’est la vie.

I bought the wine due to a lack of fresh cobra blood for sale at any tenable point in my sojourn. I had been offered suits, women, massages, chinese food, ecstasy, roses, noodles, piercings, computer clones, mobile phones, virgins, fireworks, DVDs, vaccines, smoothies, drugs smuggling adventures, star ferry rides, hiking boots, Dom Perignon, raw sea cucumber brain, and a monk’s smile, yet I had to come home with something for George, pictured wincing here. I felt I owed him you see. Owed him for more than words can describe. Owed him for something that I’ve felt few others have ever accomplished. He impressed me. Impressed me with his strength, his compassion, his amicability, his desire, his pure English wit, and his everymanliness. I rarely buy souvenirs, except for my grandma and my mother, but G-Love (as I like to call him and he, of course, likes to be called) is a rare breed indeed. More than a mere offering, he deserved Snake Wine. Hallelujah.

To tell the truth, the snake wine was given around 8pm at one of the final dinner parties of our tenure as Ambassadors of Grassroots Internationalism in Fukuoka. The snake wine was drunk after most of the 20-30 enjoyers of our various Middle Eastern Foods Banquet had left the lovely and intelligent Rachel’s abode, which is to say at around 2am, just before we headed out to the bar with the Swedes, whom of course were still present, as Swedes generally are, for whatever reasons.

It was, of course, G-Love that initiated the imbibing of the Snake Wine, as he is apt to do with anything that, like the Love Boat, is exciting and new. He suggested we the six of us drink about to fingers each of the 30 proof stuff and then head out for proper Japanese late night fare. Smart man. Except that apparently my gift was a bust. Apparently, G-Love did not enjoy the Snake Wine. Against all odds, the G-man actually had somewhat negative things to say about this age old Chinese tradition of distilling snake corpses in a kind of ricewine. Who’d've thunk it?

Well, good samaritan that I am, I made him drink it, knowing that 1) I would be writing this one day and would want him to feel vindicated when he read it rather than feel like some kind of impotent British Neo-Imperialist who couldn’t cut the wasabi and 2) come on…it’s Snake Wine…WHO DOESN’T WANT TO PUT THAT IN THEIR BODY?!?

Honestly it wasn’t bad. Don’t ask George though. He’ll write you an article about how terrible it was. But then again, who got laid that night and who didn’t…

What began as a morning experiment in breadmaking turned into an entire day of feasting and tasting, laughter and gaiety, all thanks to the serendipitous alignment of weather, food, drink, people and the all-important Lazy Saturday Afternoon.

Winter Strawberries. Tomatoes in Spring. Summer Sanma. Persimmons in Fall. Season is everything. And seasonal cooking is big, especially in Japan, where when any kind of produce stops occurring naturally, the hothouse prices set in and flavor takes a dive.

So after a slow(er) then usual Friday night, an early Saturday rise to make the dough for my weekend ciabatta, I found myself upon my bike heading towards the local farmers’ market where I found a box of the most provacatively-shaped red-as-the-Japanese-sun tomato-fruits to perfectly complement some mouth-wateringly cured Prosciutto Toscano I had found at a gourmet grocer.

Prosciutto is ham. Of course. But when I hear “ham” my body reacts differently than when I hear “proscuitto”. Upon hearing the latter I picture cured legs dangling from hooks in ancient tavernas of wood and smoke where men in hats come for a glass or two of house wine before work. When I hear “ham” my knee-jerk reaction is to picture two slabs of pasty no-name white bread slathered in cheap mayonnaise layered in overly processed slices of “cheese” and some nasty homogeneously flesh-colored square of Oscar Meyer obeisance to fat men with cans of shitty beer on Football Sunday.

You’ve probably heard of Prosciutto di Parma, which is ostensibly the most popular kind, or at least the most well-known outside of Itatly. The truth is not many varieties ever even see the sunlight outside of Italy. To know Italian ham, one must go to Italy (on the way, one would be smart to taste Jamón Serrano in Spain for a true comparison of cured European ham). My idea of Prosciutto leans toward savory so I prefer Toscano (Toscano Prosciutto is cured using rosemary, pepper and garlic) to Parma, whose hams are sweeter and therefore go better with your typical (boring) melon.

Balancing 20 tomatoes on a bag-laden bike is not only fun (and good practice), but tends to remind me of college and bringing home cases of the Hi Life in just the same manner. At least I know I am progressing. I get home, crank the oven up to 250 C, reshape my sticky, frothing dough into a fatty ball with black truffle olive oil and a dusting of herbs, stick it in and crack the wine for a bit of breathing room. If it’s not yet noon, you’re looking good.

Before the bread’s done, call up a friend or two (females are best). Any reason will suffice. I usually say, “Let’s have a mural painting party!” or something mysterious like, “be at mine by one with a salami, 20 water balloons and a bikini.”

At this point the sun is past its zenith, you should have roasted a few bulbs of garlic, have plucked the best and brightest leaves from your basil plant, 5 or 6 tomatoes should be mandolined and plated and your bread should be done. Open the door, let the fun young creatures of beauty and smiles into your breezy kitchen pour a couple of glasses of a nice chilled white to start it off good.

The Bruschetta You Love:
For Sauce - Refer to the Old School Pesto post or make your own. The key is not to realize you don’t even own a can opener due to all the fresh stuff you’re using. You feel me? Also, don’t be afraid to chop. Embrace your nice and your whet stone. It’s the Sabbath somewhere so let the Cuisenart rest today.

The secret to good bruschetta is originality. Everyone’s is different. Some are main courses while others are meant as antipasti. Go crazy and try different combinations. Use cheese sparingly, though be generous with tomatoes. Add some balsamic vinegar, squeeze a lemon or better yet, use the zest. Seasalt and fresh milled pepper are great accoutrements. Basil is a must. Goat cheese is sublime. Camembert is subtle. Olives go well with most anything, as do bikinis. And lip gloss.

These ain’t your Mami’s tacos!
Summertime has hit us here in Japan like a PCP-sniffing vacaloca, hot-tipped horns in front, bearing down humidity, bringing the fire. The only way to fight fire is with fire, or so I’ve heard. Or in my case, with chilis. Heading back to the US isn’t a usual thing for the perpetual expatriate. So, one must procure the necessary supplies somehow. Luckily a fresh crop of Jalapeños has made their way to the various gourmet grocery stores in my neck of the archipelago, so all any average chili whore can do is throw down the $3 for corn tortillas, $1.50 per lime, $4 per head of cilantro and head on home to get the grill going for a veritable tacofest. ¡Viva la conquista rica!

Seafood is the way to go for any and all tacos if you ask me. Squid, Monkfish, Prawns, any porous whitefish or shellfish, it’s all good. So that’s what I’ve been doing, testing the waters. The marinade I use goes well with any of the above. Luckily fish is relatively inexpensive in Japan, otherwise the usual methane-producing, assembly-line, overly-greasy thighmeat chicken burrito ubiquitous across the southern US, would have to suffice. So let’s focus on the reason and the rhyme of wherefore.

This summer is making me wish the nights were longer and longer (and I ain’t even getting any steady loving!). It’s just nasty hot. Ghetto hot. Pavement all melting under my shoes hot. But come night, come the Dark and soft breeze I can picture myself on a lonely little island, surrounded by a deep aquamarine reef, where I laze on the white sand beach over coconut-fueled bonfires and roast my fresh catch of the day.

Recently Anko has been my fish of choice. Otherwise known as Monkfish (the poorman’s lobster), this near invertebrate is perfect for roasting, braising or pan-frying. Monkfish most likely gets its name from it being an ugly sucker, whose body takes on the characteristics of a slug once taken from its pressure friendly ocean climes, but it has a texture akin to lobster and is delicious. It’s hard to clean, slippery to handle and the innards tend to stink up your place if not immediately disposed of, so get your fishmonger to do the dirty work. Once done though, monkfish is a dream to cook and especially to eat. It basically only has one long vertebrae running the length of it eel-like body, with thick spinal offshoots branching out along the way, so once cleaned, cut up and cooked there’s almost no bones to be hassled with, making for a quick transition from grill to plate to mouth.

Where I’m from limes are 10 for a dollar at the Mexican grocer, so this shouldn’t be too expensive for anyone in the US, but elsewhere you could try the local citrus with reasonably good results.

* 5-10 roasted chilis (poblanos, jalapeños, serranos, etc)
* 5 cloves roasted garlic
* Juice of 5 limes
* S & P

After roasting combine the above ingredients and blend until smooth. Marinade chunked Anko for 10 minutes (more than this and you might as well eat it as ceviche), throw in some foil and grill for 3-5 minutes. Remove from heat and serve immediately on warmed corn tortillas with cilantro and fresh made salsa picada. ¡Ay, que rico cabrón!

We’ve gotten used to Pesto from a Bottle. Which is basically textureless, overly preservatived, old-man-scalp oily green pooh. Runny green pooh like you’ve just gotten back from London after swimming in the Thames and immediately having some of their famous Intestine Pie.

Why not make your own? It’s relatively quick, it gives great wrist/hand exercise (other than the usual way) and it tastes better than any pesto sauce you’ve ever had in your life…unless you happen to have 20 Italian grandmama’s chained to cutting boards in your basement…which would be strange.

Ok, onto preparation.

1) Put away your blender, your food processor, your hand mixer, and anything battery operated set aside for now.

2) Sharpen your best veggie knife. When cutting fresh young Basil leaves we don’t want to mush them apart, we want crisp clean lines of separation.

3) Have some wine. Nothing gets you in the mood to make Pesto (and then eat it) more than a good chilled white wine.

4) Gather your ingredients:

- Minimum 2 handfuls of fresh, young Basil leaves

- half a cup of parmesan, reggiano or romano chunked up and cut

- a handful of roasted pinenuts

- 3-5 cloves of fresh roasted garlic

- extra virgin olive oil

- salt & pepper

Here is where idiots tell you to ” gently pulse the ingredients” in your food processor and then won’t shutup about how good their pooh-ey pesto is everytime your wife makes you accompany her to their knic-knac-y suburban house where they serve you wine from a box in plastic glasses and have microwave quiche for snacks.

No man, woman, don’t do it. Get your knife and just start chopping. Put on a record or the 8-track, open the curtains and let some daylight in, slow down and enjoy this. Now, going for the basil is the natural first step but it really doesn’t matter, as long as you keep all your ingredients in separate bowls till you’re ready to mix. The only rule is to intermingle your chops so as to not have an uneven balance of say, pinenuts to basil. Too many pinenuts can overpower the crisp freshness of basil, which should be complemented by their chewy texture rather than take over your palate. Same with the garlic and the cheese, both of which are meant to be mere accompaniment to the sublimity of the Green Leaf.

So, let mix the basil, garlic, pinenuts adding pinches of seasalt and fresh milled pepper. As with all of our ingredients, the better quality, the better taste, which brings us to our olive oil. Most Pestos simply have too much olive oil in them. People fear “emulsion”, afraid that they are going to screw up adding the oil, which only brings us back to the fact that we are not using machines for this other than your non-robot arm. What…did the ancient Genoveses rig their donkeys to a pulley system and hang their vats of olive oils from wooden cranes in order to properly emulse their sauces? Probably while torturing some poor foreigners, but that’s beside the point. I’m not a Luddite, but Screw the Robot Arm which quashed the flavor from our beloved sauces–Screw it!

Just add enough oil to cover our robust heap of Basil goodness, and then one more drop for good measure.You will want to use this within an hour or two as the flavors will really begin to coalesce into peak eatability quite quickly. For best results, just before adding to your pasta (in my case I used this with Somen, which are extremely thin angelhair esque Japanese noodles, and I have eaten this with Soba before as well–Amazing) you should stir or emulsify or whatever the hell the oil that has been marinading our fine chunk cakelike chop into the rest of the mixture. Now eat. If it were up to me I might be crazy enough to add a few fresh chilis to the mixture as well, that or maybe an pestled anchovy or two…you know, just for fun.

This is great for summer and cool white wines with a leggy brunette in something flimsy on the veranda and oh-so perfect for naked post-coital spread on toast or whathaveyou in the predawn kitchen as the sky turns a pale blue at the edges and you stare out into the sea and imagine how many times your Italian ancestors have done just this exact thing. Prego.

Yatai are Fukuoka’s claim to fame.
Yatai (屋台), literally meaning “Person Stand”, seat from 10 to 15 people and are 180+ licensed and operating strong in three main areas throughout Fukuoka six (and sometimes seven) days a week. Boasting by far the largest amount of portable restaurants in Japan, somehow this Kyushu outpost has maintained deep roots with the centuries old Japanese tradition of mobile food stands. Though originally a product of 19th century Edo, as well as modern day festivals, Tokyo long ago stopped issuing permits due to sheer foot traffic on sidewalks (where most Yatai setup). It’s just too crowded. Same with Osaka, Kyoto, Kobe and Hiroshima (all located along the Inland sea). So what is it about Fukuoka and its citizenry that just won’t let the Yatai fade into the country’s glorious past alongside Samurai, Geisha and Natto (oh, yeah, that’s still around, isn’t it…)?

Tourism, for one. During the Spring and Summer weekend evenings the Yatai lining the banks of Nakasu’s Naka-gawa bulge with out-of-towners hungry and thirsty for some of the best food this town has to offer. Japanese from Sapporo, Kagoshima, Yokohama and all points in between wait in line for the famous Tonkotsu Ramen. Among them Korean and Chinese tourists check out the food, but the majority of voices speak in a mix of boisterous Japanese dialects, Hakata-ben being the most easily discernable. This is aided in most part by beer, Umeshu, but especially the copious amounts of Shochu our island is famous for.

My personal opinion is fish. Due to its location on along the Genkai, the relatively little traveled sea between Korea and Japan, chief among Fukuoka’s specialties is the local catch of Aji (Mackeral), Kisu (Silver Whiting), Fugu (Blowfish) and Mentaiko (Spicy Pollack Roe). Get the Shiso-Mentaiko Tenpura (Tenpura Mentaiko wrapped in Shisho leaves), the catch of the day (Kisu, Suzuki, Fugu) grilled or done in an amazingly light tenpura served with Ten-tsu (Dashi, Mirin, Shoyu & grated Daikon), the Aspari-yaki (grilled Asparagus) and depending on the season, tender big Shiitake mushrooms, either grilled or Tenpura, and your night is set.

Try Tsukasa (pictured) on the Nakagawa in Nakasu for the best tenpura of your life. Otherwise, get in line at any of the numerous Yatai spread throughout Tenjin, Hakata and Nagahama areas. You won’t regret it.

As seen in HESO Magazine #7: Home & Homelessness

From Señorita Cruz in L.A.:
Ok….so, I had this amazing salad a while back at the Hungry Cat here in L.A. and I’ve been wanting to try to make it myself. Today was my first attempt….amazing combo: watermelon, super juicy heirloom tomatoes, red onion, feta, flat leaf parsley, hand-torn basil and a simple vinaigrette (lemon juice, champagne vinegar, olive oil, s&p, sugar, red pepper flakes and yup…some cholula…wanted the taste to be more playful). You should try to make this one….soooo refreshing!

Off to bbq now!

Lucky girl. That does sound good, but I’m so damn addicted to spinach lately I would have to add a bit of the ol’ popeye as well. Keep on sending the good stuff in folks. Photos mandatory.

The day starts a deep dark gray. The streets wet from rain or the perpetual sweat the city secretes from its myriad glands, I cannot tell. The touts at their posts already, yawning yet with eyes apeel for the day’s fresh white meat. Sipping a mango smoothie, I makeway through morning traffic with one thing on my mind: dim sum. A local points me toward Happy Market Noodle Factory recommending the congee. I find it, walk in and sit while the mama-san impatiently taps her foot as I sip my tea and take in the 10 page menu she just slammed down on the sticky table.

I say “Beer” motioning big as she husks off whispering something to the other 8 waitresses lounging about beneath strange posters of various mostly deep-fried flora and fauna, all looking eerily similar. I need the time it takes her to get my beer so as to justify my slow perusal of the menu’s breadth and overall depth of selection.

I imagine myself a fortune cookie maker: “One must take their time when ordering so as not to miss the menu’s secret backalley specials.” Somewhere a gong carols. Birds flap off. A baby cries.

Mama comes back and I know another drink won’t keep her from tossing me out, so I order a mudfish congee to appease her and keep scanning, my eyes jitterbugging back and forth past typical boring, safe tourist fare. I linger a bit over sharkfin soup, but can’t bring myself to sanction such brutality. The oxball dumplings in oyster sauce with braised bokchoy sounds good. Never had testicals before. Penis yes. Testes no. That’ll serve nicely as an apres-main and for the second course…it’s then I see it, big and posterized above a waitress picking her nose:

Deep Fried Pigeon.

My choice is made. Screw dim sum. I. Must. Have. Pigeon. My mouth, which before had merely been expecting testicles, now goes into salivary overproduction mode. My belly rumbles and rolls in anticipation. My fingers even begin surreptitiously to move toward my lips, preparing to be licked. As if a sudden case of low blood sugar has set in, I have the shakes. I’m flushed and prickly. My dick is hard.

I head to the bathroom to steady myself, throw water on my face. Looking in the mirror I flash on my ex-girlfriend and her vocaldisgust for waht she termed “flying rats”. What would be her reaction to my breakfast choice: wuold she hug me to her bosom for ridding the world of one more foul beast or revile me in disgust for putting such a vile, dirty creature across my lips?

Shrugging, I head back to my table, passing the kitchen, full of a fresh delivery of duck carcasses, some brown and crispy-skinned, others pale and limp, all piled next to various heaps of pig legs, necks, feet, cow tongues, ox tails, and what look like a bevy of genitalia all queued up for the big Oakround cutting board and that mad-eyed Kahn lookalike with the cleaver in his hand and blood on his apron. Steam floats about in all directions, whistling and shooting like from old locomotives, while small, angular men in white wield knives with deadly accuracy, moving with a precision memorized by muscles years ago.

There is no waste. Not in animal nor in preparation. It is a pleasure to watch.

It is only then I notice my the pounding in my ears. Suddenly everything’s sped up. My pulse ascending to double beats. Blood rushing to the surface of my clammy skin. My walk is thick and loud like slow motion through a bog. I imagine MSG poisoning feels like this. Was the bear liver I had yesterday bad? The Panda anus not quite bacteria free?

It’s nothing. Nerves. Excitement. Sexual rush. I get back to my table and, steaming and popping in grease rivulets, here comes my pigeon. It’s smaller than I expected, though defeathered, what isn’t? As it’s served whole (it’s fried little head, eyes and beak rendered so perfectly…adorable) I glance at my chopsticks, then at the bird, then at my steady surgeon hands and I have at it, dropping the chopsticks and tearing into it. Literally ripping it in half and sucking all I can out of its fried little ass. There are no barriers anymore.

I flay the skin from its neck and, peeling up and over the head, I bite down until it breaks between my teeth, sucking out all the marrow from the neck bones. I slurp at the eyes, test the beak, chaw on the spine. I want to consume it whole. And not for my ex and for anyone who ever hated on one of these so-called winged rodents, but instead to take the yoke off of its much maligned back and put it on mine. Suddenly I see a light. I hear beautiful singing. And then I know.

From now on little fellow, in eating you, in consuming you whole, sins and all, I relieve you of your earthly burdens and take them for myself. From this point forward Brother Pigeon, I feel your pain, just like all the clawed, taloned, hoofed, scaled and winged animals I have taken your deliciousness into my body and allowed to strengthen me in my journey to rid the world of treachery toward our collective. Thank you, brother, for your life, tasty as it was, given unwillingly, has now become mine and until I can no longer eat another of your winged kin, can step no longer to the cutting board to declaw you, can no longer chew my own food, I will live this life in strength and peace, pursuing wisdom and offering respect to all those who seek to enlighten us on our collective journey down the Right Path.