Pho Vietnam

I could dedicate many posts to this elixir called Pho. There are few places that do it right - I'm not talking about doing it authentically, I'm talking about creating an addict out of me. My favourite pho dealer deserves a post all to themselves, but another place, not far from home, creates such a wonderful broth, and really, if you have anything less than a great broth, your entire dish might as well be dishwater.

Pho Vietnam; 1280 Kennedy Road, Scarborough Ontario

Fried Rice
My husband likes fried rice. Growing up on the Guyanese version, I could do without it. But once in a while, it's nice to have a few bites, because it still is delicious.
Pho Vietnam's fried rice was steamy hot and flavourful. Unlike some places where the douse it in soy sauce, this is delicate, fluffy, and the peas are not rock hard half frozen pebbles. They're soft. Fresh. It was the first thing to come, so me and my hungry self had a few bites.





Pad Thai
I find Vietnamese restaurants offering more of this dish. The Vietnamese have a similar dish, which they call Saigon Noodles, but, eh, I can understand from a business perspective that most diners are not going to squeal "ooh! Saigon Noodles!" hence, we have Pad Thai on the menu. And that's what I ordered. I should have known better.
It wasn't horrible, but my pet peeve about bad pad Thai is that it tastes like rice noodles bathed in ketchup, with 'stuff' mingled throughout. Now, the 'stuff' - which comprised of shrimp, chicken, tofu, and the rest of the accoutrement, were cooked perfectly. Tender, firm, flavourful. Their ingredients were great. It was the execution where, maybe a heavy hand in the 'vinegary-sweet' department, made the dish pedestrian. Now, if they had Saigon noodles, I would be all over it (Saigon Noodles, from what I understand, are also not intended to be predominantly tangy).

And then, there's the pho.


Pho Ga
Look at that. Can you see that body behind the table? That's my husband. A Man. And he ain't no scrawny man either. That's a medium sized serving of Pho before him. Your mind cannot fathom the size of a large serving. I could swim in that bowl of absolutely comforting broth that is my saviour on a rainy day. You can't see it in the picture, but the bed of flat rice noodles, grilled chicken (beef, in true pho) are absolutely piled inside. There is a perfect ratio of solids to liquids. And the fish sauce, lime, thai basil, and sprouts are always on the side for me to add.

The thing about pho is that it does for me what chicken soup does for most. Anyone who loves pho will understand exactly what I'm saying. the feel of rice noodles slurped and the savoury spicy bone warming broth can wash away a month's worth of worries. And this bowl, when brought home, is the perfect way to end any cold or rainy day. Ask my husband. Bringing this home can wrap me up away from any troubles. Are you reading this, darling? :-)

Communism Bad for Cuisine

I mentioned that I would post about our trip to Cuba, and I have been slacking. It's been over two months now, but I find that is the amount of time it has taken for my digestive system to recalibrate itself and find it in it's gut to forgive me. For I have heaped atrocities in the form of near-spoiled and much-stale food upon it, and it is no surprise my stomach held a grudge.

I'm not saying all food in Cuba is bad; on the contrary, we ate some delicious lobster at a restaurant called Barracuda (I read some tourist reviews after our return) at a restaurant on the beach. The owners, the musicians, all attentive, all smiles on their faces, and from what I gather, really enjoying themselves, this, their home, their livelihood, and they indeed made it beautiful.

But the day fear strikes you to your bowels is the day you eat on the resort. Again, not all resort food was bad, BUT...

When at the omelet station, I asked for capers and smoked salmon in my egg whites, he dumped a hunk of matted salmon, two spoonfuls of capers in their brine, more brine than capers, and tossed it into my half cooked whites and slid the whole sloppy mess onto my plate. This was not an isolated incident - at a restaurant in Havana, a tourist trap our Cubanos 'friends' wanted us to visit (for the kickback, we realized after being seated), the meat was tough, the dining room empty (except for one other table, our friends, who were also taken by the same group of Cubans), and the service, well.... what service?

The 'chain' workers, the ones who are there for a job, they do exactly that - the job. They do not care how the food is presented, only that it is presented. Follow the instructions as quickly as possible. Taste, presentation, quality - these are not concerns that plague the chain worker. This is not their fault either; they need a job because they need money, so if this is the job they can get to suit their needs, by all means, take it. It's our own faults for patronizing their establishments, isn't it? If we want good food, it's up to us to seek it out.

That's why, one day, walking through Veradero, with my husband and our friends, I saw a little restaurant, a couple locals walking out, and the menu was unpretentious but interesting enough to make me say, 'this is where I want to have lunch.' And the friends all followed. And though they messed up our order, the food was still good. I had to share my plate with my husband for how big the portion was. But what got me was the portly owner behind the counter, sheepishly bending over backwards to get out the missing dish (which I declined, come on, when I'm hungry I get pissy; who doesn't?), who took such pride when he came over to ask how our meal was.

People say love makes the food better. I don't expect a stranger to love me. But if your livelihood is in part feeding people, care about your food. Because it doesn't take hate to ruin someones stomach for weeks. Only neglect.

I'm sure there are many wonderful little restaurants in Cuba, which is unfortunate, because I would have liked to have seen them while I was there. As you surely can guess, H and I will not be making a return trip. The only location where my final meal could ever be bread, while, olive oil and cheese should be Italy. And that, hopefully, will come sometime in the next few years...

Ricely Restoration

Congee.

It doesn't look like much. Most people wouldn't give it a second thought. So why is it a staple amongst my Hong Kong friends? For those of us who don't have this hereditary treasure on our dining room tables, we leave the home and seek out one of the specialists. Fortunately for me, I have my pick of a flavourful lot.

It's something on a menu that I would bypass for other more protein heavy offerings. I mean, in theory, it's one of the most carb-heavy items you could get, yet this pale velvety smooth elixir
does wonders for the body. It's no wonder that, when suffering a prolonged bout of gastro-intestinal discomfort after my Cuban trip, my doctor (yes, himself an HK native) prescribed a diet consisting mostly of congee.

Along with some other rules (a few doses of probiotics, no grease, caffeine, acids or spice) he said congee would provide the nutrition I need, be easy on my stomach while it recalibrate, and will fill me with little discomfort. You can't make the same claim for a bowl of plain steamed rice (though a fresh forkful is simplistic deliciousness).

Right after my visit to the doctor I called my father and met him at a restaurant we frequent for dimsum. The first thing I ordered was that bowl of congee, containing shredded meat, some herbs, and crisped shards of crackerlike bread (named after a much hated Chinese General). It appears bland but explodes with flavour. It's warming. It's healing. A complete meal in one bowl. I can see how the doctor could turn to this simple dish, and I respect him for doing so, rather than prescribing antibiotics.

More often than not food affects our well being; making us ill, helping us heal, or stabilizing our physical body so our systems can take over and get to work at making us better. Sometimes it makes us uncomfortable, sometimes it wraps us in a blanket of comfort. But for all the things it can do, I'll never again will I underestimate the expert of camouflage - a simple bowl of congee.

The Adaptable Muscle

The tongue.

I'll be posting about my vacation soon, but for now, I wanted to put in writing how vivid the flavours of our first meal upon our return - a breakfast of dimsum - could explode in our mouths. We literally had to take pause and allow the sensation to dissipate. It was as though our tongue was thanking us for returning it to wonderful food.

It's amazing how quickly the tongue can succumb to the food available. It's even more amazing how short a time without intense flavour, it's return can jolt us so deeply.

That's when I turned to my husband and said, "I'm so glad we live in Toronto."

Steamed Rice

If you can't appreciate a simple bowl of steamed white rice, what makes you think you can appreciate the perfectly tender lobster that rests on top?

Red Velvet Dreams

Have you ever had a food that transports you to a place you've never been? I'm not talking metaphysically, I mean a real place in this world, maybe in whatever era your context of it exists, but nonetheless, it exists. If you were so inclined, you could hop on a plane and be there within a day. But the experience of it may level your expectations. This is what I feel when I indulge in the wonder that is red velvet cake.

My friend and fellow bridesmaid, Aniesa, whipped up a batch of her red velvet cupcakes for our friend's bridal shower. I watched guests peruse the dessert table (I was strategically posted there for most of the event), and the reactions were varied. Some were squeemish at trying something new, something they didn't know, and others enjoyed, but seemed embarrassed to go for a second. Others wanted nothing more than some traditional West Indian desserts, while others (like myself, usually) ate no dessert at all.

Mind you, we live in the north. Most people in this city have never heard of the stuff. Which, we (including the bride) were more than happy for because it meant more for us. And in an age where you can educate yourself on most anything you could want, many people couldn't be bothered. Hell, if I didn't blog the way I did, and meet people from around the globe, I too would never have known of Red Velvet Cake.

Mmmm.... the sight of it, the taste of it, the texture of it, takes me to an afternoon garden party in the deep south, where just the slightest breeze lets you know evening is coming. The rich sweetness crawls in tendrils around your brain. Each sweet cloud is a reflection of all things the south has always striven to be. And though I've been to the southern states, I've never in my life been in a place like this. Though that's where it takes me. And that's worth the calories now and again.

Toast and Tea

Many times I'll come home and not want a big meal. It maybe that I'm not up to preparing something, but mostly, it will be because I want nothing heavy, substantial or complex. I want simple comfort.

Growing up, a snack before bedtime, or an enjoyable breakfast could be as easy as toast and tea. Not just any toast and not just any tea. Else, it wouldn't be the same comforting meal. It was Orange Pekoe (yes, ordinary, nothing extravagant) with milk and sugar, and white sliced buttered bread. It easily puts me at ease. Who needs sleeping pills when you have this.

Nowadays, I skip the white bread. I don't eat the stuff. Instead, I have a wonderful bakery down the street. I get a loaf of grain bread, freshly baked on the weekends, and if you store it properly, it keeps for the week. And no butter in my house (I'll get into that later); I use margarine. But the tea remains the same, and I can drink cuploads of it. And I no longer dip the toast in the tea, giving it just the right amount of moisture and eating it before it gets soggy. I let that rest with my childhood.

Ask anyone from the West Indies, and they will know of toast and tea. We're a series of colonies - we grew up on tea. Brew a fresh pot. Cut a thick slick of fresh and fragrant bread. Slather on butter (or my case, margarine). It's the ingredients that do it. Its the expectation of 'that' tea, and 'that' toast, that make the dish what it is to me - a sedative on a plate (and in a cup).

Mon Raison D'etre

I wanted to have a place where I could record not only my recipes, but to give them some texture and flavour about what prompted me to prepare them. On how I feel , about ingredients, about the process of cooking, and my thoughts on different theologies on food in general. This isn't for everybody - this is for me, and whomever chooses to share some interest on one or many of my thoughts.

To start off, I'll say, I'm not pretentious about food. I like what tastes good. I don't understand many culinary methods because I never attended culinary school (they have their place, just not in my kitchen, and not in this blog). I'm not a 'foodie', in that I'm like most humans - now and again, I'm gonna like some out of the box food. But I'll deal with that too. I make mistakes; my kitchen can sometimes look like a horror movie gone wrong I've had so many accidents. But all that is part of my cooking journey.

I've cooked long enough to know how to do a thing or two, and like my mother, who I'm sure will figure prominently here, I like to taste something, figure out flavour components, search for variations, and create something my husband would enjoy sharing with me for dinner.

As this was enough about food for today, I'm going to try to be good and keep up blogging.