I had arrived in Nis (pronounced: nish), Serbia after a long day of bumpy bus rides from Bitola in the south of Macedonia. I did the obligatory exploring of my surroundings before tucking into the task of finding dinner. Searching out the first meal in a new place can be exciting while at the same time a little tense. The initial sampling of local fare sets the tone for my visit. It is the all important first impression, the one that can never be had again. Much like the opening track on an album or the first lines of any great novel I need to be grabbed by what I eat first, leaving me both figuratively and literally hungry for more. Could this be the best of meals or the worst of meals? While it may seem like I set the bar high, the truth is that I have a delicate ritual for finding sustenance, borne out of the mortal fear that one of my feedings will be anything less than spectacular. Perhaps more a habitual indecision in the guise of academic selection than a ritual, I find myself looking, rejecting and repeating until I feel a sound decision can be made on what to consume. It happens multiple times daily, but the first in a new place always takes on an air or importance the others lack. I've heard people say that there exist two types of people. Those who eat to live and those who live to eat. Dismissing for a moment how obtuse one would be to believe humanity can fit neatly into two groups, I'd have to say that on this one I fall dead center into the "live to eaters." Swish! Nothing but net!
On this evening in Nis, I encountered a promising situation not far from the hostel I was calling home for the next couple of nights. Out of principle I never shoot for the first meat I see, but never rule out doubling back for the kill. Nis is a university city and I found myself on the edge of a sprawling outdoor athletic complex slash idyllic urban park. It stands to reason that more treasures would be available around each corner, what with thousands of college age coeds about. What I had seen, made note of and passed by was a row of roadside stands grilling all sorts animal parts that would seem to fit well into sandwiches. Each stand identical as though they were squeezed like Play Dough through a mold and then chopped into sole proprietorships, they boasted a grill set in a bay window so you could watch the action, and then a separate window with refrigerated display case of various vegetables and dressing that incidentally also seemed fit to be stuffed into a sandwich. While my search for more options is under the pretense of academic investigation, there is an underlying fear that I might miss something good. That's what it comes down to. I want it all. I have this recurring nightmare where I'm telling a group of people who know my love of all things edible that I visited this city or that and one smug fellow says, "Did you try the such and such? You shan't have missed it!" He slaps me on the back with a sigh and haughtily says, "Well, there's always next time." I can't bare the thought of missing out on something great. After an exhaustive search of the area accessible by foot, I made my way back to the original source of intrigue.
As of late, conquering each and every secret that a city has to offer has become a tad more nuanced. Grilled meat and bread is a beloved theme throughout Turkey and the Balkans. The differences are subtle from place to place, and if you blink one might just pass you by. Turkey is all about the doner. Lamb or chicken piled high and wide on a skewer, held vertically and slowly roasted while rotating. It's an image I'm sure most have seen. Meat is sliced off thin and wrapped in pita. In Anatalya, I stumbled on wood fired doner kebap, which was every bit as smoky and delicious as it sounds. Unique to Turkey and my favorite by far is kokorech. Made by wrapping lamb intestines around more lamb intestines, and spit roasting the whole wonderful mess. They slice some of the lamb tummy roulade, chop it up and make a sandwich. Never have I filled my stomach with so much stomach. In Greece, the gyro is ubiquitous. It's doner kebap made with pork and if done right has some french fries stuffed in the mix. If you take it to go instead of sitting down it's half the price, plus you can walk to a park or church yard and be alone with it. Macedonia had an eclectic mix of grilled items. I sampled among other things, thinly sliced calf's liver drowned in olive oil and chopped herbs and pork loin stuffed with cheese and then wrapped in prosciutto. And bread, always bread. It seems the further north I go the the thicker the pita gets. In Macedonia it's like throw pillows. Always super fresh and crusty like only a brick oven could make it. Nis marked my first stop in Serbia, and the regional variation I stumbled on first is pljeskavica, or Balkan Burgers.
While myriad meats are on display in the grilling windows, the thin and wide burger patties are the what people pine for. Since I can't read the menu, ordering is altogether and exasperating and yet exciting experience that involves a plethora of pointing, gestures and quietly spoken English, more to remind myself what hand motions I should be making. I had inhaled a chicken thigh monstrosity of a sandwich before I understood that the pljeskavica is the main event. I had also noted that down the way was a grill spot that had a long line while the others served one or none at all. Here in lies a difficult decision. Do I waste one of tomorrow's meals - or opportunity for mind altering edible discovery, as I like to call it - by coming back to the popular spot, or do I man up and have a second dinner right now. I went back and forth on the issue, but I think you can all guess which direction I ultimately went in.
Later that night, unable to move or even breathe properly, I pondered the impossibility of having it all, of trying everything there is to be tried. As much as I loathe to admit, one cannot do everything, go everywhere and turn over every stone. There are choices to be made and inevitably if you are tuned into the proper frequencies, eyes wide open, then one will lead to the next. Attempting to go in every direction will tear you apart, in a sense. So will trying to eat every heaping pile of grilled meat in the Balkans. It is nice to look back and remember how each job in the restaurant industry I've had has led to the next. Realization of new skills and interests or even a chance meeting can open up doors to new experiences in a world where people tend to stay moving from post to post. Right now, not completely sure in what capacity I'd like to reenter the work force, I am trying to keep focus on figuring out what conditions will truly satisfy me, rather than considering everything in my path. The past, while opening up doors to the future should also send you on you way with the knowledge to succeed wherever you end up. In that sense all our jobs in this industry are connected, from executive dishwasher on up to executive chef. As I approach whatever may be next in my career I will definitely pick and choose with a discerning eye, but search with the same vigor and intensity that I devote to that integral first meal in each new place I visit.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
From Soba To Sultans
It's hot again... It was hot in Japan too, but something about that was different. Maybe it's because for the moment I seem to have returned to the backpacker trail where hostels are over stuffed and under ventilated. I find myself longing for the immaculate guesthouses of Osaka and Kyoto where the staff is polite and helpful and everyone's shoes are left at the door. Walking the streets here also reminds me of time spent in South East Asia, except here it's smarmy men instead petite women shouting after me in hopes that I'll buy a carpet. Unless that rug will fly me home, I've got no room in my bag. The sales pitch doesn't hold the same charm as the T-shirt and iced tea sales-ladies of Cambodia offered. These guys resort to all forms of trickery to get you inside their store and show a persistence that would cause even the hawkers of Hanoi to blush a little. I'm in Istanbul, where east and west truly meet. This ancient city literally has and Asian and European side, divided by a narrow strip of water called the Bosphorus. Around each and every corner you'll find yourself tripping over remains of the various empires that have dominated this cultural crossroads over the centuries. In spite of the annoying carpet dealers whose persistence is matched only by the humidity, I find Istanbul to be nothing short of amazing, and a perfect bridge from Asia to Europe for my travels.
The similarities to Asia that I'm finding here in Turkey thus far are numerous, as are the differences. It's incredible to note the various paths that different cultures take as the evolve and devolve over time. While the manifestations of development can be wildly different, sometimes it becomes clear that we're all just playing out different versions of the same basic tune. I became interested in picking out some of the common themes while visiting the Museum of Ethnology in Osaka, and of course food is something I zeroed in on right away. I've been living on street food while I travel for many different reasons. It's cheap, to say the least and keeps me on budget. I also find it to be a much better connection to the culture of where I am visiting than eating over priced food that has been gussied up for benefit of western palates. Street food has become a comfort to me while I move from place to place, because while the dishes may change the experience stays the same. Every country has it's own version of the grubby street vendor where everyone is welcome. Just a push cart and a few stools to sit on. These guys (or gals) don't discriminate. They want your business and rarely if ever will you find the equivalent of the snooty server or pretentious chef. Most often there is only one or two items to choose from which are being prepared right in front of you. This lowers the language barrier enough to use some simple words and gestures to get an order across. Street food is simple and honest. Most importantly I've come to realize is that it represents the popular flavors of where it's at, and for the sake of culinary exploration that is what I am most concerned with. Indeed, most of the dishes that represent cultures abroad and certainly in America have their origins on the street or as "fast foods." I think these ideas travel well specifically for the reason they become popular at home to begin with. They are simple, satisfying and reference that culture's most predominant flavors and cooking techniques. I realize that by sticking to the streets, I'm missing out on all sorts of culinary delights from place to place, but in the end I fell as though I'll understand the food from where I've been a little better for it.
Checking out the home grown versions of grub that has become popular in America over the years has gotten me to thinking about the idea of authenticity. Ten years ago when I began cooking professionally, it was somewhat popular to mix ideas and influences, creating new flavors and techniques. More recently there has been a push by many chefs and food enthusiasts alike to hone in on more authentic versions of traditional cuisine. I happen to admire the quest for authenticity, but like all great motivations it has been taken much too literally by some and interpreted with such a narrow scope as to actually deny the reality of how food and flavors develop. During my last few years cooking and eating in Portland before I decided to do a little traveling I witnessed endless discussions (and some arguments) of who made a more authentic version of whatever. I was no doubt involved in many as well. Quality, it seems nowadays is judged not by how something taste or if it is satisfying, but rather if the dish in questions was prepared exactly the way it is supposed to be based on the rules set by someone (anyone) who claims to be an authority on that particular dish or style. How are these rules set and why do those of us who may not be an authority on he subject follow them blindly? Why should we miss out on possibly great interpretations of regional cuisine because it doesn't fit some arbitrary set of rules?
I may have thought differently about this before traveling, knowing only what I did from reading or passed on by word of mouth from other folks who had traveled abroad and experienced food and cooking technique in its native element. But, as I devote myself to experiencing each culture's culinary exports in native element I can say that there are no unbreakable rules when recreating food. I don't mean to say you can serve an apple but call it an orange, however there does exist a certain amount of latitude to interpret something without being demonized by the so called experts. I can say this with certainty since I have actually eaten numerous different versions of the same types of food in every country I have visited. In Vietnam every bowl of Pho I ordered was prepared differently, yet still called Pho. In Istanbul where I am right now, the different permutations of Kebap are endless. Japan offered the best possible example of this idea. I've heard more than one Japanese food-o-phile in the U.S. explain what exactly miso soup - a cornerstone of Japanese cuisine - is and how it SHOULD be made, yet in the various Japanese homes I stayed miso soup was prepared so many different ways with a variety of ingredients. I challenge any self proclaimed Japanese food expert to say that miso soup made by a Japanese person, in a Japanese home....IN JAPAN, is not authentic. Doesn't it fit the very definition of authenticity, to be created within it's own cultural element? If I were to remake one of the many miso variations I ate, would it not still be authentic? Many who are passionate about authenticity are not relating it to an idea that applies broadly to a particular dish, but rather to one specific version they had. That's setting a pretty high standard.
Hopefully my opinion on the matter doesn't come off as some sort of rant. We all enjoy food differently and I certainly don't want to kill the buzz of those among us who wish to search out authenticity at it's root. I don't see it as a search with any conclusion, though. Every dish evolves over time and even the native folks try new things and offer up wild variations. Who's to say that any famous food we hold dear hasn't changed over time and that the version being called "authentic" isn't just another stop along the way. Furthermore, if we all agreed to stop messing with stuff and just do it the way we're supposed to, wouldn't the result be uniform and boring? I'll admit that creativity unchecked can sometimes be ridiculous, but it does serve to keep what we eat fresh and exciting. Even though the word makes me cringe a little, I'll still take fusion over fascism any meal of the day and twice for lunch on Sunday.
The similarities to Asia that I'm finding here in Turkey thus far are numerous, as are the differences. It's incredible to note the various paths that different cultures take as the evolve and devolve over time. While the manifestations of development can be wildly different, sometimes it becomes clear that we're all just playing out different versions of the same basic tune. I became interested in picking out some of the common themes while visiting the Museum of Ethnology in Osaka, and of course food is something I zeroed in on right away. I've been living on street food while I travel for many different reasons. It's cheap, to say the least and keeps me on budget. I also find it to be a much better connection to the culture of where I am visiting than eating over priced food that has been gussied up for benefit of western palates. Street food has become a comfort to me while I move from place to place, because while the dishes may change the experience stays the same. Every country has it's own version of the grubby street vendor where everyone is welcome. Just a push cart and a few stools to sit on. These guys (or gals) don't discriminate. They want your business and rarely if ever will you find the equivalent of the snooty server or pretentious chef. Most often there is only one or two items to choose from which are being prepared right in front of you. This lowers the language barrier enough to use some simple words and gestures to get an order across. Street food is simple and honest. Most importantly I've come to realize is that it represents the popular flavors of where it's at, and for the sake of culinary exploration that is what I am most concerned with. Indeed, most of the dishes that represent cultures abroad and certainly in America have their origins on the street or as "fast foods." I think these ideas travel well specifically for the reason they become popular at home to begin with. They are simple, satisfying and reference that culture's most predominant flavors and cooking techniques. I realize that by sticking to the streets, I'm missing out on all sorts of culinary delights from place to place, but in the end I fell as though I'll understand the food from where I've been a little better for it.
Checking out the home grown versions of grub that has become popular in America over the years has gotten me to thinking about the idea of authenticity. Ten years ago when I began cooking professionally, it was somewhat popular to mix ideas and influences, creating new flavors and techniques. More recently there has been a push by many chefs and food enthusiasts alike to hone in on more authentic versions of traditional cuisine. I happen to admire the quest for authenticity, but like all great motivations it has been taken much too literally by some and interpreted with such a narrow scope as to actually deny the reality of how food and flavors develop. During my last few years cooking and eating in Portland before I decided to do a little traveling I witnessed endless discussions (and some arguments) of who made a more authentic version of whatever. I was no doubt involved in many as well. Quality, it seems nowadays is judged not by how something taste or if it is satisfying, but rather if the dish in questions was prepared exactly the way it is supposed to be based on the rules set by someone (anyone) who claims to be an authority on that particular dish or style. How are these rules set and why do those of us who may not be an authority on he subject follow them blindly? Why should we miss out on possibly great interpretations of regional cuisine because it doesn't fit some arbitrary set of rules?
I may have thought differently about this before traveling, knowing only what I did from reading or passed on by word of mouth from other folks who had traveled abroad and experienced food and cooking technique in its native element. But, as I devote myself to experiencing each culture's culinary exports in native element I can say that there are no unbreakable rules when recreating food. I don't mean to say you can serve an apple but call it an orange, however there does exist a certain amount of latitude to interpret something without being demonized by the so called experts. I can say this with certainty since I have actually eaten numerous different versions of the same types of food in every country I have visited. In Vietnam every bowl of Pho I ordered was prepared differently, yet still called Pho. In Istanbul where I am right now, the different permutations of Kebap are endless. Japan offered the best possible example of this idea. I've heard more than one Japanese food-o-phile in the U.S. explain what exactly miso soup - a cornerstone of Japanese cuisine - is and how it SHOULD be made, yet in the various Japanese homes I stayed miso soup was prepared so many different ways with a variety of ingredients. I challenge any self proclaimed Japanese food expert to say that miso soup made by a Japanese person, in a Japanese home....IN JAPAN, is not authentic. Doesn't it fit the very definition of authenticity, to be created within it's own cultural element? If I were to remake one of the many miso variations I ate, would it not still be authentic? Many who are passionate about authenticity are not relating it to an idea that applies broadly to a particular dish, but rather to one specific version they had. That's setting a pretty high standard.
Hopefully my opinion on the matter doesn't come off as some sort of rant. We all enjoy food differently and I certainly don't want to kill the buzz of those among us who wish to search out authenticity at it's root. I don't see it as a search with any conclusion, though. Every dish evolves over time and even the native folks try new things and offer up wild variations. Who's to say that any famous food we hold dear hasn't changed over time and that the version being called "authentic" isn't just another stop along the way. Furthermore, if we all agreed to stop messing with stuff and just do it the way we're supposed to, wouldn't the result be uniform and boring? I'll admit that creativity unchecked can sometimes be ridiculous, but it does serve to keep what we eat fresh and exciting. Even though the word makes me cringe a little, I'll still take fusion over fascism any meal of the day and twice for lunch on Sunday.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The Perfect Tomato
When I was living in Portland and really starting to cook seriously for the first time, it was inevitable that each summer some pretentious chef or silly Farmer`s Market junkie would pontificate over the wonders of tomato perfection. Ripe, round, fragrant, and myriad other adjectives evoking an image of fruit so magical one could hardly imagine the pedestal upon which it sits, much less the object itself. I have no doubt that similar observations are being made right now as tomatoes roll into season. While I easily become exhausted by tomato worship - don`t misunderstand, I like tomatoes, but not in, you know, that way - it speaks to a larger purpose of the value that eating and cooking in season has. What I never could figure out is what exactly makes the tomato, or anything else for that matter, perfect? For the past two weeks I have been staying with an organic tomato farmer in southern Japan. Shikoku is a gorgeous island with perfect summer farming weather. Alternating hot and wet with plenty of sunshine and a cool breeze or two. The farm is opposite Ikumi Beach in Kochi Prefecture, a popular surfing spot. I`ve made a regular practice of jumping in the ocean for a little while after the evening picking is done.
We live and breathe tomatoes here. They are included in every meal, all work centers around them, and I even took part in a blind tomato tasting that surveyed product from other organic farms as well as some supermarket ringers thrown in the mix. There is undoubtedly an effort here to achieve the perfect tomato that had so many folks back in Portland moon-eyed. I can`t help but wonder though, is it possible to quantify ultimate perfection? The same question has had me stumped over cooking in restaurants. Obviously there is a clear difference between good food and bad food. We can all generally agree on the broad strokes of how to classify quality eating, but when it gets down to what is great and what is better there are far too many shades of grey. That is why restaurant reviews rarely influence me. They are no more than one person`s opinion, for whatever that is worth. Furthermore, they usually judge based only on the tangible - flavors, textures, execution, atmosphere, and image. What about the context?
I`m becoming acutely more aware of how important context is in why we enjoy food. Time, place and situation have pungency and flavor greater than any spice, herb or even the fanciest salt. For instance, The food prepared for me by my hosts as I labor from farm to farm in Japan is magical. After a long day of work, to be cooked for by someone showing gratitude for the help I gave them is far more satisfying than any restaurant meal. There are no expensive boutique ingredients, immersion baths or award winning egos. Just appreciation for the digging I did that day. Think about the last time you went camping and built a fire to roast that tiny fish you caught. Was it seasoned and cooked with the same precision it would be at twenty five dollars a plate? Probably not, but did it taste better? How about old fashioned home cooking by none other than mom, or grandma? Even the most prestigious chefs reference these memories as a source of inspiration and often as their ultimate favorite food to eat. After being caught up for so long trying to achieve new accolades and levels of perfection in cooking, I can`t help but wonder about these things now that I`m on the outside looking in for a moment. I`ve heard people say many wonderful things about impeccably prepared and creative food from restaurants, but the most emphatic reactions to food I`ve witnessed are always outside the game and reserved for the home cooks who do it with more love than salt.
So what is perfection, then? Can a restaurant nail a dish so thoroughly it trumps every special meal you`ve ever had? Is there absolutely nothing like a vine ripened heirloom tomato because of flavor and texture, or because you grew it yourself and enjoyed it with friends and a bottle of rose while grilling in the backyard? How can this idea fit into professional cooking? I droned on constantly to my cooks and servers about the pursuit of perfection in everything we did. I`m sure they can confirm that it was central to my kitchen ethos, and that I surely did drone....endlessly. I`m thinking now however that achieving perfection was a somewhat misguided goal. If you get there, what next? Perfection is elusive because there are factors involved that simply can`t be replicated. These are organic moments that arise just as spontaneously as they disappear. They are unique to each person`s image of the perfect meal. It is the search for perfection that makes great cooking. Actually finding it is not important.
We live and breathe tomatoes here. They are included in every meal, all work centers around them, and I even took part in a blind tomato tasting that surveyed product from other organic farms as well as some supermarket ringers thrown in the mix. There is undoubtedly an effort here to achieve the perfect tomato that had so many folks back in Portland moon-eyed. I can`t help but wonder though, is it possible to quantify ultimate perfection? The same question has had me stumped over cooking in restaurants. Obviously there is a clear difference between good food and bad food. We can all generally agree on the broad strokes of how to classify quality eating, but when it gets down to what is great and what is better there are far too many shades of grey. That is why restaurant reviews rarely influence me. They are no more than one person`s opinion, for whatever that is worth. Furthermore, they usually judge based only on the tangible - flavors, textures, execution, atmosphere, and image. What about the context?
I`m becoming acutely more aware of how important context is in why we enjoy food. Time, place and situation have pungency and flavor greater than any spice, herb or even the fanciest salt. For instance, The food prepared for me by my hosts as I labor from farm to farm in Japan is magical. After a long day of work, to be cooked for by someone showing gratitude for the help I gave them is far more satisfying than any restaurant meal. There are no expensive boutique ingredients, immersion baths or award winning egos. Just appreciation for the digging I did that day. Think about the last time you went camping and built a fire to roast that tiny fish you caught. Was it seasoned and cooked with the same precision it would be at twenty five dollars a plate? Probably not, but did it taste better? How about old fashioned home cooking by none other than mom, or grandma? Even the most prestigious chefs reference these memories as a source of inspiration and often as their ultimate favorite food to eat. After being caught up for so long trying to achieve new accolades and levels of perfection in cooking, I can`t help but wonder about these things now that I`m on the outside looking in for a moment. I`ve heard people say many wonderful things about impeccably prepared and creative food from restaurants, but the most emphatic reactions to food I`ve witnessed are always outside the game and reserved for the home cooks who do it with more love than salt.
So what is perfection, then? Can a restaurant nail a dish so thoroughly it trumps every special meal you`ve ever had? Is there absolutely nothing like a vine ripened heirloom tomato because of flavor and texture, or because you grew it yourself and enjoyed it with friends and a bottle of rose while grilling in the backyard? How can this idea fit into professional cooking? I droned on constantly to my cooks and servers about the pursuit of perfection in everything we did. I`m sure they can confirm that it was central to my kitchen ethos, and that I surely did drone....endlessly. I`m thinking now however that achieving perfection was a somewhat misguided goal. If you get there, what next? Perfection is elusive because there are factors involved that simply can`t be replicated. These are organic moments that arise just as spontaneously as they disappear. They are unique to each person`s image of the perfect meal. It is the search for perfection that makes great cooking. Actually finding it is not important.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Back Where It All Began
It`s been so long. I picked up this here blog like a long forgotten volume on a hidden shelf and took a deep breath, exhaling with purpose to remove layers of dust from the cover. I`ve been busy washing dishes again, back where my internet musings began. I spent the last two weeks on an organic farm of sorts in Gujo Hachiman. A cozy mountain town in Gifu Prefecture, Gujo - as I will refer to it here to forth - is deeply green, tangled with rivers and streams, awash in Japanese history and blanketed with edible mountain plants. My desire to serve some sort of purpose while I travel Japan landed me there. Helping on organic farms is a means to an end. I get room and board in exchange for some toil in the fields. Not a bad arrangement. I guess if you`re lazy and need to be entertained all the time this setup would not be your cup or matcha, but I found the work to be enlightening and part of the adventure. As the arrangement in Gujo had me living with a family, the chores I was charged with often included helping cook and of course the one area of expertise where I`m a viking: washing the dishes...
Gujo brought some new experiences that resonated with things I am familiar with. I dug up and shaped some earth into rows that will soon host edible plants. Hard farm work is a first for me and I felt it in my aching bones and blistered hands, but a long day on my feet is nothing new. The tasks brought a familiar sense of ownership and determination that I know well from endless hours in the kitchen. I`ve always identified with the work that farmers whom I purchase from do each and every day. We may lead very different lives, but have similar routines and motivations. Neither chefs nor farmers count hours. They work until the job is done, and if they are determined to do it right then it takes that much longer. It`s not for the sake of impressing a boss or making a bonus. It`s just the way we do. Or should be doing. It shows in the results and people who care will notice. While helping on farms began as a means to an end, I always hoped in the back of my mind that it would provide some insight into how farmers live and work. After all, we play into the same cycle of growing and shaping food. While the specifics may differ, our purpose and motivation is similar.
This theme has been playing out in my head and reached a booming crescendo today while I was ambling through the National Museum of Ethnology in Osaka. One of the more outstanding museums I have had the pleasure of visiting, I spent over four hours browsing the exhibits that had little to no English signage. Towards the end I was merely breezing through, my brain too glazed over to consult the paltry, photocopied guide that was provided in my only understandable language. It didn`t matter, though. The exhibits themselves spoke volumes of how distinct cultures, in every respect show clear similarities in how they live and evolve. My chef/farmer connection began to make more sense in the context that the museum offered, especially where food cultivation and preparation was examined. I marvel continuously at how the tools used to farm and cook cross cultural boundaries, and how in the modern world we may update the appearance and price tag, but the basic function remains the same. I certainly don`t mean to downplay technological advancement, but I have always maintained that there is a fine line between use of a good thing and abuse of the same. Examined as a whole in the Museum of Ethnology, one begins to see where cultural evolution fractures and the abuse of something positive damages the world we live in. Apply this idea to food as you see fit. I think the implications in farming and cooking are obvious to those who care.
But I digress. The farm work in Japan - of which there is more to come - and the mind boggling examples of cross cultural similarities at the museum touched me quite a bit. While I wandered among exhibits, I was also engaged in a conversation with an old friend via smart phone instant messages (Viva technology!). Both traveling at the moment in different parts of the world, we discussed the merits of pursuing our own creative endeavors. On the one hand it`s more fulfilling, but on the other it`s risky and consumes you. By sacrificing freedom and working for other people, you have the chance to live a more balanced life, or at least that`s the idea, right? Looking back on my experience as a chef, I`ve been hoping to find more balance in the future. The dedication and ownership that forms the cultural link between chefs and farmers continues to resonate with me though, and it`s getting harder to understand applying and maintaining those ideals while working for other people`s monetary gain. A work until the job is done and done well mentality begs for the person sporting it to answer to no one else.
A journey need not have only one end and a question can certainly have more than one correct answer. There`s always an expectation however, that you`ll start in one place and end up somewhere new. It`s funny then, that some journeys can end up right back where it all began. For me at the moment, it`s hovered over a sink, scrubbing dishes, on the farm this time.
Gujo brought some new experiences that resonated with things I am familiar with. I dug up and shaped some earth into rows that will soon host edible plants. Hard farm work is a first for me and I felt it in my aching bones and blistered hands, but a long day on my feet is nothing new. The tasks brought a familiar sense of ownership and determination that I know well from endless hours in the kitchen. I`ve always identified with the work that farmers whom I purchase from do each and every day. We may lead very different lives, but have similar routines and motivations. Neither chefs nor farmers count hours. They work until the job is done, and if they are determined to do it right then it takes that much longer. It`s not for the sake of impressing a boss or making a bonus. It`s just the way we do. Or should be doing. It shows in the results and people who care will notice. While helping on farms began as a means to an end, I always hoped in the back of my mind that it would provide some insight into how farmers live and work. After all, we play into the same cycle of growing and shaping food. While the specifics may differ, our purpose and motivation is similar.
This theme has been playing out in my head and reached a booming crescendo today while I was ambling through the National Museum of Ethnology in Osaka. One of the more outstanding museums I have had the pleasure of visiting, I spent over four hours browsing the exhibits that had little to no English signage. Towards the end I was merely breezing through, my brain too glazed over to consult the paltry, photocopied guide that was provided in my only understandable language. It didn`t matter, though. The exhibits themselves spoke volumes of how distinct cultures, in every respect show clear similarities in how they live and evolve. My chef/farmer connection began to make more sense in the context that the museum offered, especially where food cultivation and preparation was examined. I marvel continuously at how the tools used to farm and cook cross cultural boundaries, and how in the modern world we may update the appearance and price tag, but the basic function remains the same. I certainly don`t mean to downplay technological advancement, but I have always maintained that there is a fine line between use of a good thing and abuse of the same. Examined as a whole in the Museum of Ethnology, one begins to see where cultural evolution fractures and the abuse of something positive damages the world we live in. Apply this idea to food as you see fit. I think the implications in farming and cooking are obvious to those who care.
But I digress. The farm work in Japan - of which there is more to come - and the mind boggling examples of cross cultural similarities at the museum touched me quite a bit. While I wandered among exhibits, I was also engaged in a conversation with an old friend via smart phone instant messages (Viva technology!). Both traveling at the moment in different parts of the world, we discussed the merits of pursuing our own creative endeavors. On the one hand it`s more fulfilling, but on the other it`s risky and consumes you. By sacrificing freedom and working for other people, you have the chance to live a more balanced life, or at least that`s the idea, right? Looking back on my experience as a chef, I`ve been hoping to find more balance in the future. The dedication and ownership that forms the cultural link between chefs and farmers continues to resonate with me though, and it`s getting harder to understand applying and maintaining those ideals while working for other people`s monetary gain. A work until the job is done and done well mentality begs for the person sporting it to answer to no one else.
A journey need not have only one end and a question can certainly have more than one correct answer. There`s always an expectation however, that you`ll start in one place and end up somewhere new. It`s funny then, that some journeys can end up right back where it all began. For me at the moment, it`s hovered over a sink, scrubbing dishes, on the farm this time.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Where in the world are my pants!?!
Now that I have your attention I must confess that I did not misplace my pants in a hazy moment of debauchery in Bangkok, or anything like that. So sorry to disappoint. I left Thailand not long ago for a brief stop in Hong Kong where I ate plenty of roast goose, and even bet on some horse racing in the rain. Now I`m in Tokyo where I have for the last four days been stuffing my face with strange and fantastic foods. And looking for my pants, of course.
Two months in the grittiness of South East Asia will do a number on the clothing you bring along. Not to mention that I did a horrible job packing. First I had too much and sent some home. Then I had to buy stuff I didn`t have. Now I`m trying to make do with clothing that isn`t quite right for where I`m at. So, everywhere I go I`m constantly searching for a great pair of pants. They have to be durable, versatile, stylish and cheap. Not only is my current attire grubby, but the people of Tokyo are so gosh darned cool that I`m beginning to feel a little self conscious about my wardrobe. Rush to visit here if you haven`t already. It`s enchanting.
There`s always talk of Japan being a strange and quirky place for Americans. Let me clarify, at least from my perspective. Culturally, I find Japan to be more like American than the other parts of Asia I`ve visited. Day to day life in a city like Tokyo is the same as New York or any other similar metropolis. I think the curiosity comes into play because there are fewer people who will converse in English and similarly much less English signage than, say in Thailand. That makes travel here mysterious, exciting and sometimes strange. Baring pictures or plastic models of the food I`m ordering, I just point to the menu and anticipate what wonderful thing will be put in front of me. Earlier today I stood on line for fifteen minutes, not knowing what was at the end. I only knew it was going to be great because people were lining up for it. I`ve been eating mainly what would be considered fast food in Tokyo. Cheap and quick, but unlike the burgers and fried offerings we associate with the genre in America, convenience eating choices in Japan are vast and often light. In a country that is thought of as expensive, I`ve managed not to spend too much of my Yen on food. The only real issue is searching for that perfect meal, because restaurants are literally everywhere in Tokyo.
Searching has become a theme for me lately. Searching for food, searching for an organic farm or two in Japan to spend some time working with, and searching for my pants of course. I`m also searching for some direction to take when I decide that my time traveling needs to end. The food is easy. I`m not sure I`ll ever find my pants! Searching for direction in such a fantastic and unfamiliar place will prove to be interesting, though. I`m looking forward to the next two months and what insights I may find.
Two months in the grittiness of South East Asia will do a number on the clothing you bring along. Not to mention that I did a horrible job packing. First I had too much and sent some home. Then I had to buy stuff I didn`t have. Now I`m trying to make do with clothing that isn`t quite right for where I`m at. So, everywhere I go I`m constantly searching for a great pair of pants. They have to be durable, versatile, stylish and cheap. Not only is my current attire grubby, but the people of Tokyo are so gosh darned cool that I`m beginning to feel a little self conscious about my wardrobe. Rush to visit here if you haven`t already. It`s enchanting.
There`s always talk of Japan being a strange and quirky place for Americans. Let me clarify, at least from my perspective. Culturally, I find Japan to be more like American than the other parts of Asia I`ve visited. Day to day life in a city like Tokyo is the same as New York or any other similar metropolis. I think the curiosity comes into play because there are fewer people who will converse in English and similarly much less English signage than, say in Thailand. That makes travel here mysterious, exciting and sometimes strange. Baring pictures or plastic models of the food I`m ordering, I just point to the menu and anticipate what wonderful thing will be put in front of me. Earlier today I stood on line for fifteen minutes, not knowing what was at the end. I only knew it was going to be great because people were lining up for it. I`ve been eating mainly what would be considered fast food in Tokyo. Cheap and quick, but unlike the burgers and fried offerings we associate with the genre in America, convenience eating choices in Japan are vast and often light. In a country that is thought of as expensive, I`ve managed not to spend too much of my Yen on food. The only real issue is searching for that perfect meal, because restaurants are literally everywhere in Tokyo.
Searching has become a theme for me lately. Searching for food, searching for an organic farm or two in Japan to spend some time working with, and searching for my pants of course. I`m also searching for some direction to take when I decide that my time traveling needs to end. The food is easy. I`m not sure I`ll ever find my pants! Searching for direction in such a fantastic and unfamiliar place will prove to be interesting, though. I`m looking forward to the next two months and what insights I may find.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Finally Oriented (pun still inteded)
I've been wandering South East Asia for two months now and find myself full circle, back in Bangkok where I started. You may recall from the blog post I wrote upon arriving here that this utterly chaotic behemoth of a city irked me a bit, as did the idea of wandering with no real schedule or purpose. I'm not going to claim having any epiphanies or finding any new religion (orgnized or othewise), but I can say with confidence that I've settled in nicely. Bangkok doesn't seem half as intimidating as the last time I was here, even with violent political discourse taking place on the other side of town. It's a noticeable shift in my demeanor and without drifting into cliched reflections of what I hoped to accomplish by traveling the world, let me just say simply that I find it a positive shift. South East Asia is a unique place, and there is no excuse for not allowing it to make a profound cultural impression on you. While excentric quirks and heartwarming moments are too numerous to list or even remember entirely, I thought I would reflect on a few things that stood out to me while spendign the last two months here.
The driving situation, especially in cities is unlike anything I have ever seen in my life. Forget lacadazical sunday drivers in Portland or the oblivious speedsters in Boston. In Asia rules are no more than a suggestion, and apparently one that most people never recieved. I consider myself adept at crossing city streets, but this was something alltogether different. Usually, one can rely on a break in traffic, however brief, to dart accross. No suck luck. Traffic lights and crossing signals are rare, and drivers paying attention to them when present even more so. Eventually, it all comes down to a leap of faith. You just need to walk and hope that the motorbikes will dodge YOU. Speaking of which, motorbikes is a phenomenon I'm still trying to grasp. Sure there are a lot, but that spectacle gets old quickly. I'm still amazed at how many people and objects can balance on one. I saw the standard two person ride all the time. Three was not a stretch either. Four and five people at a time got me to turn my head. Not just adults of legal(?) driving age though. I saw babies (yes, more than one) balanced on laps and handle bars. I also saw dogs, cats, chickens, ducks, a monkey once, and various food sales operations. Often, it was a combination of two or more of these things. My conclusion is that people in South East Asia are not only fearless, but also have impeccable balance. Oh yeah...and everyone is always honking. It's not so much an agitated response to someone else's driving, but a warning that the honking party is coming, and probably can't see anything because he or she has two passengers, market purchases between the legs, a knapsack under the chin and a baby sitting on the shoulders.
In such an overtly commercial society, you might expect a competitive nature among the various people all selling the same thing up and down each street. Not the case. There is essentially one standard sales pitch with a few minor variations. The basic idea is that all foriegn visitors have a burning desire to be purchasing something at every moment, but that they need to be reminded of this over and over again and steered towards the product. The assumption must be that these ravenous bric-a-brac consuming tourists need to be jarred out of their shopping induced stupor and called back home to feed on products that are identical everywhere you look. The same theory applies to taxi, motorbike and tuk tuk drivers. In Thailand, these folks are cool and calm. They've started to recognize the benefits of laying back and letting people browse a bit. In Vietnam, there's no time for niceties. I'm still haunted by the shrill voices of a thousand Vietnamese women yelling, "YOU! SIR! YOU COME HERE! BUY FROM ME! NOW!" I cringe and say no thank you. And then, "SIR, SIR, SIR, YOU......" as I walk away. It continues like this until you are safely back in your hotel room. The Cambodian twist to this sales pitch wins out, though. Everywhere I went in Cambodia, women hawking food and clothing at bus stops or tourist attractions would sidle up and make me feel like the most important person in the world. It always starts with, "Hello, I remeber you," which is utterly outrageous since I've never been to Cambodia, yet I found myslef believing it for a split second a few times. They always ask where you are from, which is a pretty standard question to get in Asia, but these little temptresses would often throw in a little, "United States! Capital Washington D.C.!" Yes very nice, and obvious. Do you know the capital of Connecticut, though. I thought not. One gal hanging on me at Angkor Wat knew the capital of Oregon. I think I bought an iced tea from her. It was way overpriced. I even heard more than once, "You buy from me, or I cry." All the attention had me thinking about sticking around a bit longer. The extreme heat and dustiness was enough to get me back on track, though.
Most people have really cheesey pop music as their ringtone, even grown men. Since the ringers are always on loud, apparently there is no shame in liking Usher, and letting everyone know it.
I love soup, and must admit that it was huge motivation for traveling in Asia. I can't figure out for the life of me how people here eat soup in such oppressive heat. One would think there would be a little more salad, or anything chilled for that matter. Nope! I had to give up on soup after a while, as I found myself feeling like one of the noodles I was trying to eat, cooking in my own persperation.
Fruit is fast food here. No jokes about this one. It's awesome and I'll miss it dreadfully. Tropical fruits are some of the best in the world, and you can't swing a tailless cat in Sout East Asia without hitting a fruit stand!
Black coffee is sweet. What's up with that. I'm a daily coffee drinker, and while I can go without if need be, it's a small creature comfort that soothes the longings for home every now and again. It misses the mark when the coffee, while still black, is sweet. It was me throwing the sideways glance when they passed me the sugar bowl. You mean this is not sweet enough for some people?
Asia has the best sunsets. Maybe it's because I'm closer to the equator or maybe it's just the air pollution. All I know is that I've got enough sunset photos for a coffee table book...to flip through while drinking really really sweet coffee.
There's always something shadowy going on. Don't take this to mean I am being judgemental. People in South East Asia are exceptionally genuine and kind. There always seemed to be something going on that I couldn't quite figure out, like busdrivers picking up passengers and cargo along the route and collecting cash. I guess it adds to the mystery.
Finally...and my favorite...A restaurant can be anywhere. Any cook's dream is to have your own platform to create. You spend years slaving away so others can take the credit, and no matter how prestigious the job or knowledgeable the chef you work for is, most cooks I know would trade it all in for an opportunity to be judged on their own product. In America, you need the planets to align properly before the finances, permits and luck all fall into place. This can take a lifetime or never happen at all. In South East Asia, it doesn't take much more effort than wheeling your cart onto the street and setting up some small plastic tables and chairs. A small budget with healthy ambition can take you far. I've spent more than ten years working in various restaurants in various cities, following one job and opportunity to the next. Traveling is no different, with each location and experience segueing into another. What resonates for me the most being here now is that opportunity is everywhere. One need only to be aware when it presents itself. That is why I'm seeing the world and definitely why I cook for a living.
The driving situation, especially in cities is unlike anything I have ever seen in my life. Forget lacadazical sunday drivers in Portland or the oblivious speedsters in Boston. In Asia rules are no more than a suggestion, and apparently one that most people never recieved. I consider myself adept at crossing city streets, but this was something alltogether different. Usually, one can rely on a break in traffic, however brief, to dart accross. No suck luck. Traffic lights and crossing signals are rare, and drivers paying attention to them when present even more so. Eventually, it all comes down to a leap of faith. You just need to walk and hope that the motorbikes will dodge YOU. Speaking of which, motorbikes is a phenomenon I'm still trying to grasp. Sure there are a lot, but that spectacle gets old quickly. I'm still amazed at how many people and objects can balance on one. I saw the standard two person ride all the time. Three was not a stretch either. Four and five people at a time got me to turn my head. Not just adults of legal(?) driving age though. I saw babies (yes, more than one) balanced on laps and handle bars. I also saw dogs, cats, chickens, ducks, a monkey once, and various food sales operations. Often, it was a combination of two or more of these things. My conclusion is that people in South East Asia are not only fearless, but also have impeccable balance. Oh yeah...and everyone is always honking. It's not so much an agitated response to someone else's driving, but a warning that the honking party is coming, and probably can't see anything because he or she has two passengers, market purchases between the legs, a knapsack under the chin and a baby sitting on the shoulders.
In such an overtly commercial society, you might expect a competitive nature among the various people all selling the same thing up and down each street. Not the case. There is essentially one standard sales pitch with a few minor variations. The basic idea is that all foriegn visitors have a burning desire to be purchasing something at every moment, but that they need to be reminded of this over and over again and steered towards the product. The assumption must be that these ravenous bric-a-brac consuming tourists need to be jarred out of their shopping induced stupor and called back home to feed on products that are identical everywhere you look. The same theory applies to taxi, motorbike and tuk tuk drivers. In Thailand, these folks are cool and calm. They've started to recognize the benefits of laying back and letting people browse a bit. In Vietnam, there's no time for niceties. I'm still haunted by the shrill voices of a thousand Vietnamese women yelling, "YOU! SIR! YOU COME HERE! BUY FROM ME! NOW!" I cringe and say no thank you. And then, "SIR, SIR, SIR, YOU......" as I walk away. It continues like this until you are safely back in your hotel room. The Cambodian twist to this sales pitch wins out, though. Everywhere I went in Cambodia, women hawking food and clothing at bus stops or tourist attractions would sidle up and make me feel like the most important person in the world. It always starts with, "Hello, I remeber you," which is utterly outrageous since I've never been to Cambodia, yet I found myslef believing it for a split second a few times. They always ask where you are from, which is a pretty standard question to get in Asia, but these little temptresses would often throw in a little, "United States! Capital Washington D.C.!" Yes very nice, and obvious. Do you know the capital of Connecticut, though. I thought not. One gal hanging on me at Angkor Wat knew the capital of Oregon. I think I bought an iced tea from her. It was way overpriced. I even heard more than once, "You buy from me, or I cry." All the attention had me thinking about sticking around a bit longer. The extreme heat and dustiness was enough to get me back on track, though.
Most people have really cheesey pop music as their ringtone, even grown men. Since the ringers are always on loud, apparently there is no shame in liking Usher, and letting everyone know it.
I love soup, and must admit that it was huge motivation for traveling in Asia. I can't figure out for the life of me how people here eat soup in such oppressive heat. One would think there would be a little more salad, or anything chilled for that matter. Nope! I had to give up on soup after a while, as I found myself feeling like one of the noodles I was trying to eat, cooking in my own persperation.
Fruit is fast food here. No jokes about this one. It's awesome and I'll miss it dreadfully. Tropical fruits are some of the best in the world, and you can't swing a tailless cat in Sout East Asia without hitting a fruit stand!
Black coffee is sweet. What's up with that. I'm a daily coffee drinker, and while I can go without if need be, it's a small creature comfort that soothes the longings for home every now and again. It misses the mark when the coffee, while still black, is sweet. It was me throwing the sideways glance when they passed me the sugar bowl. You mean this is not sweet enough for some people?
Asia has the best sunsets. Maybe it's because I'm closer to the equator or maybe it's just the air pollution. All I know is that I've got enough sunset photos for a coffee table book...to flip through while drinking really really sweet coffee.
There's always something shadowy going on. Don't take this to mean I am being judgemental. People in South East Asia are exceptionally genuine and kind. There always seemed to be something going on that I couldn't quite figure out, like busdrivers picking up passengers and cargo along the route and collecting cash. I guess it adds to the mystery.
Finally...and my favorite...A restaurant can be anywhere. Any cook's dream is to have your own platform to create. You spend years slaving away so others can take the credit, and no matter how prestigious the job or knowledgeable the chef you work for is, most cooks I know would trade it all in for an opportunity to be judged on their own product. In America, you need the planets to align properly before the finances, permits and luck all fall into place. This can take a lifetime or never happen at all. In South East Asia, it doesn't take much more effort than wheeling your cart onto the street and setting up some small plastic tables and chairs. A small budget with healthy ambition can take you far. I've spent more than ten years working in various restaurants in various cities, following one job and opportunity to the next. Traveling is no different, with each location and experience segueing into another. What resonates for me the most being here now is that opportunity is everywhere. One need only to be aware when it presents itself. That is why I'm seeing the world and definitely why I cook for a living.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Economy Rice
Dripping with sweat is a theme explored from many different points of view in Malaysia. There's taking a short walk outside around noon time sweating which engulfs the forehead and neck mainly. If you have a backpack on your shirt is ruined for the day. There's also sitting by the pool sweating, where the intensity of the sun beating down on a perfectly still body will leave a fine layer of perspiration on your arms and legs. Jumping in the pool only helps momentarily before the cycle begins a new. One of the worst is sweating while you eat. Hot, spicy food renders the entire body damp instantly. At this very moment, even after a torrential downpour of epic proportions one would expect to cool things down a bit, I'm dripping with sweat while punching out this blog post.
It was something all together different when I found myself in the Kuala Lumpur airport a few days ago clutching my left cargo pocket repeatedly feeling for something not there. There was a split second where the world around me went quiet and the coolness I had been experiencing up to that moment abruptly turned to nervous tension and swollen rivulets of perspiration running down my face in every direction. In the place were I always keep a pouch containing traveler's cheques, cash, credit cards and my passport, was nothing. Sounds awful, I know. But let's back track for a moment and talk about what all happened before I found myself in this precarious situation and why spending a few extra days in Malaysia turned out not to be an out and out loss.
I hopped over to Malaysia from Vietnam and headed straight for the beach resort town of Batu Ferrenghi on the island of Penang. Penang is the birthplace of Hawker Stalls - a staple of street-eating on the Malaysian peninsula - and is generally recognized as having the best food around. On top of that the eats are cheap in a way you might not be able to imagine, and I had secured a complimentary place to stay. I was invited by my friends Jack & Meghan Yoss to join them in their rented condo, and for the first time since I began traveling I did not much of anything for an entire week. Only after sleeping late and lounging by the pool for a while would we make an effort to get up and search out dinner. Let me try and sum up what eating in Malaysia is like for the adventurous: If there is one place on earth that can truly please everyone, then it must be Malaysia. A veritable crossroads of gustatory culture, Malaysia had my head spinning seven ways from Sunday. Normally indecisive when it comes to dinner choices, I effectively gave up and just tried everything I could fit into a sitting. I'm still trying to process it all, but here's an idea of what sorts of food were laid out before me. Malaysia boasts many different influences to it's cuisine, so naturally each will be represented individually here and there. Indian and Chinese foods are dominant, but the trade route history of the area weaves in many other ethnic variations such as Thai and Portuguese. Where they all meet is at the economy rice tables. At first I skipped over these buffets while I was basking in the glory of fresh fish grilled in banana leaves, kway teow noodles, and of course, fried chicken - a highlight of Penang - only on Saturdays. When choosing became too difficult though, I made a plate of rice with a few selections of uniquely Malay preparations a part of my daily routine. This continued in Kuala Lumpur where the missing passport incident extended my stay. There are always an endless array of curries to choose from with beef, chicken and lamb varieties. Lamb stomach curry was a high point for me. Always a number vegetable dishes to balance out the plate as well. Whole hard boiled eggs also feature prominently in a way I had not seen before. Whether it was chicken, quail or both - the eggs were served in a masala sauce and cooked perfectly throughout. It was like egg salas, without chopping up the eggs. Another feature of the economy stalls, especially in Kuala Lumpur, is roti. The dough is stretched incredibly thin in a reverse pizza toss of sorts. It's more like they are slapping it against the table. Then it's brushed with ghee, folded over on itself a few times and cooked on a blazing hot griddle. Served with a little bowl of sauce from one of the many curries, a roti became my morning meal in KL, along with a cup of sweet coffee. A heaping plate of local food at a local price, while immersed in local chatter epitomizes what travel is all about for me.
So that is how it's been each and every day for me here, trying to decide what to try next and seeing how many different salads and curries I can fit on top of a pile of rice. I was initially disappointed that I would have to stay a whole weekend before having a chance to get into the embassy and replace my passport, but in the end it provided me an opportunity to relax in a magnificent and impressive city. I settled into a little routine and it felt nice to have a moment of life not devoted to sight seeing or moving on to the next location. The State Department came through for me and hooked up a new passport. I secured a new plane ticket and tomorrow I'll press on. It's interesting to note however, that the last thee days in Malaysia that were imposed on my by a pickpocket while riding the mono-rail, were in some ways the best I spent here. I even found myself thinking that Kuala Lumpur would be a really nice city to live and work in. It's modern and exciting with captivating architecture and efficient mass transit. Culture is everywhere and the food, of course, is great. If only it weren't so unbearably hot all of the time. I can only drip with sweat for so long before I begin to miss the cooler seasons.
It was something all together different when I found myself in the Kuala Lumpur airport a few days ago clutching my left cargo pocket repeatedly feeling for something not there. There was a split second where the world around me went quiet and the coolness I had been experiencing up to that moment abruptly turned to nervous tension and swollen rivulets of perspiration running down my face in every direction. In the place were I always keep a pouch containing traveler's cheques, cash, credit cards and my passport, was nothing. Sounds awful, I know. But let's back track for a moment and talk about what all happened before I found myself in this precarious situation and why spending a few extra days in Malaysia turned out not to be an out and out loss.
I hopped over to Malaysia from Vietnam and headed straight for the beach resort town of Batu Ferrenghi on the island of Penang. Penang is the birthplace of Hawker Stalls - a staple of street-eating on the Malaysian peninsula - and is generally recognized as having the best food around. On top of that the eats are cheap in a way you might not be able to imagine, and I had secured a complimentary place to stay. I was invited by my friends Jack & Meghan Yoss to join them in their rented condo, and for the first time since I began traveling I did not much of anything for an entire week. Only after sleeping late and lounging by the pool for a while would we make an effort to get up and search out dinner. Let me try and sum up what eating in Malaysia is like for the adventurous: If there is one place on earth that can truly please everyone, then it must be Malaysia. A veritable crossroads of gustatory culture, Malaysia had my head spinning seven ways from Sunday. Normally indecisive when it comes to dinner choices, I effectively gave up and just tried everything I could fit into a sitting. I'm still trying to process it all, but here's an idea of what sorts of food were laid out before me. Malaysia boasts many different influences to it's cuisine, so naturally each will be represented individually here and there. Indian and Chinese foods are dominant, but the trade route history of the area weaves in many other ethnic variations such as Thai and Portuguese. Where they all meet is at the economy rice tables. At first I skipped over these buffets while I was basking in the glory of fresh fish grilled in banana leaves, kway teow noodles, and of course, fried chicken - a highlight of Penang - only on Saturdays. When choosing became too difficult though, I made a plate of rice with a few selections of uniquely Malay preparations a part of my daily routine. This continued in Kuala Lumpur where the missing passport incident extended my stay. There are always an endless array of curries to choose from with beef, chicken and lamb varieties. Lamb stomach curry was a high point for me. Always a number vegetable dishes to balance out the plate as well. Whole hard boiled eggs also feature prominently in a way I had not seen before. Whether it was chicken, quail or both - the eggs were served in a masala sauce and cooked perfectly throughout. It was like egg salas, without chopping up the eggs. Another feature of the economy stalls, especially in Kuala Lumpur, is roti. The dough is stretched incredibly thin in a reverse pizza toss of sorts. It's more like they are slapping it against the table. Then it's brushed with ghee, folded over on itself a few times and cooked on a blazing hot griddle. Served with a little bowl of sauce from one of the many curries, a roti became my morning meal in KL, along with a cup of sweet coffee. A heaping plate of local food at a local price, while immersed in local chatter epitomizes what travel is all about for me.
So that is how it's been each and every day for me here, trying to decide what to try next and seeing how many different salads and curries I can fit on top of a pile of rice. I was initially disappointed that I would have to stay a whole weekend before having a chance to get into the embassy and replace my passport, but in the end it provided me an opportunity to relax in a magnificent and impressive city. I settled into a little routine and it felt nice to have a moment of life not devoted to sight seeing or moving on to the next location. The State Department came through for me and hooked up a new passport. I secured a new plane ticket and tomorrow I'll press on. It's interesting to note however, that the last thee days in Malaysia that were imposed on my by a pickpocket while riding the mono-rail, were in some ways the best I spent here. I even found myself thinking that Kuala Lumpur would be a really nice city to live and work in. It's modern and exciting with captivating architecture and efficient mass transit. Culture is everywhere and the food, of course, is great. If only it weren't so unbearably hot all of the time. I can only drip with sweat for so long before I begin to miss the cooler seasons.
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