Attacked by guinea fowl.

On a recent sunny morning we decided to take breakfast outdoors . It went quite well, until our outing was broken up by a flock of helmeted guinea fowl.

We had stopped on the way at the bakery at Jardine, which I'd been wanting to try for months. The bakery is quite brilliantly designed-- just a window and a glass counter facing onto the street, so patrons can order coffee, pastry, or sandwiches, then either enjoy them on the high sidewalk tables (standing only), or take them to go.

We ordered some croissants and lattes, and took them up to Signal Hill. It was a little windy, so we had the picnic grounds entirely to ourselves. We grabbed a table from which we could look onto both the sea below and Lion's Head behind-- private breakfast with a brilliant view. I had chosen an almond croissant, which was fantastic. I was just finishing it up when we were set upon by the guinea fowl, who were eager to gather up our crumbs.

So at least they were guinea fowl with good taste.

eatingCULTURE/tastes: Full English.

Opinions in eating.

A few weeks ago, a Cape Town food reviewer for the Mail & Guardian wrote about where to get a good breakfast in Cape Town. While he actually picked some fantastic spots, he kind of lost me when he stated that South Africa had ‘luckily’ inherited the tradition of the Full English Breakfast. I don’t know if I’d call that luck, really. While an English breakfast can be a fun late-morning binge every now and then, a big plateful of greasy meats, over cooked vegetables, and bland eggs is actually a rather unappetizing thing to be greeted with as you wake up. Perhaps worse, I find that the flavours of bacon and sautéed mushrooms mix terribly with coffee.

This came to mind recently while Bordeaux and I were on our little honeymoon in the Karoo. We were served a Full English Breakfast at our first guesthouse, and while they’d done an attractive job with the presentation, we both groaned with the thought of being served the exact same stodgy breakfast for every morning of the trip.

Thankfully, our other guesthouses came through for us. The hotel in Barrydale served a delicious vegetable frittata garnished with lots of crisp herbs and edible flowers—not only did it look beautiful, but it was really nice to start the day with something so fresh. Our guesthouse in Greyton gave us options: the Full English was there, but we opted instead for yogurt with muesli and fresh fruit. It’s simple, but it’s about my favourite way to start the day, really (and it goes perfectly with a cup of coffee).

There are so many great options for breakfast—pancakes, omelets, French toast, home-made granola, fruit salad, poached eggs, Dutch babies, salmon and crème freche with a little dill-- I don’t know why Full English is so popular. And it’s not that I’m opposed to red meat in the morning, either. A scramble of some eggs and boerewors (South African sausage) would at least be a fun local take on the Full English (A Full Afrikaner Breakfast?). Basically, I just think that a Full English is as uncreative as you get with breakfast—especially for a guesthouse. Part of traveling is experiencing different places –why not serve a breakfast that makes use of seasonal produce from the area, or unique local ingredients? Part of the fun of coming to New Mexico is waking up to blue corn pancakes—I bet there could be some fantastic breakfasts made to reflect the flavours of South Africa.

What’s your favourite breakfast? Have you ever had any really fantastic breakfasts while you were traveling?

By the Sea.

The shoreline of Cape Town’s False Bay is draped with a string of small towns. While each one has its own unique charms and attractions, Kalk Bay in particular is worth a visit.

Just on the other side of Table Mountain, sheltered between rocky crags and a skirt of sapphire water, lies one of my favourite places in the world: Kalk Bay. It’s only a thirty-minute trip from Cape Town city centre, yet it feels worlds away. For though its history and character are distinctly South African, this balmy settlement glimmers with enough resemblances to the Mediterranean or coastal California that a visit always makes me feel as if I were on holiday.

Kalk Bay is known for its fishermen, and you might spot the chefs of some of Cape Town’s best restaurants bargaining with them as they bring in their catch. The town is also something of an enclave for artists; within its short stretch of waterfront blocks you’ll find welcoming cafes, unusual galleries, and shops filled to the beams with antiques. Some of the most rewarding shops lie off of Main Road, hidden in discreet alleys. Weaving up and down these narrow streets, we browsed among the work of local throwers at the Potter’s Shop, and reminisced among vintage biscuit tins at the Cook’s Room.

I usually head straight for Olympia Café when I'm in Kalk Bay. Its interior is always suffused with an inviting golden light, thanks its face of high windows that look onto the sea, making it a warm and comfortable place to relax over a latte and an almond croissant. But I’d heard good things about Boulangerie, a tiny French bakery located up one of Kalk Bay’s steep side streets. We finally found it tucked among some bougainvillea behind the Artvark gallery (ok, the chalkboard at street level helped), and settled into a table on the patio. Their lunch menu features rustic sandwiches with fillings like bacon and brie, or oven roasted chicken, served in crunchy baguettes or between slices of wholesome farm breads. The meals are light and uncomplicated, perfect for the casual, breezy setting.

Boulangerie's desserts almost gave us reason to linger—the dark chocolate brownies with cherries were particularly convincing—but we’d already made up our minds to try out The Ice Cafe. I’d often seen queues in front of this ice cream parlour, and was curious to if it was deserving of the crowds. We squeezed in among the throngs, and placed our orders: we each got a single scoop of rum and raisin. It arrived in an unexpected shade of pink, a massive ball of rose coloured ice cream that made me feel just a little silly as I took it outside. Thankfully, the rich, slightly boozy flavour of the alcohol-soaked-raisins helped keep me from feeling too childish. Though if a trip half-an-hour out of town can evoke the feeling of a childhood holiday to the beach, it might not be worth fighting it.

My honeymoon with lamb.

Despite the reputation small towns have for turning in early, we found ourselves among the first tables seated for dinner at Jessica’s. We glanced at the menu, though really, we’d both decided what we would have when we had scoped out the restaurant earlier that afternoon. We were each presented with a white plate topped with three slim cuts of steak. It was the first meal of our trip, so we had both chosen the sample of local specialty meats, dubbed the ‘Karoo Trio’. There was fillet of ostrich, served in a lime sauce; springbok loin with a sour cranberry compote; and Karoo lamb, presented simply in a light dressing of rosemary and red wine.

We took the meal slowly, enjoying rich mouthfuls of the trio between bites of roasted root vegetables and sips of a local shiraz. Everything was fantastic, yet as the meal wound down I noticed that we’d both saved a little of the lamb to savour last. It had been prepared beautifully, a thin layer of crisp fat on top contrasting with the meltingly rare meat underneath. The lamb truly stood out, however, in its flavour. For though the springbok was rich and delicious, it was almost indistinguishable from other game meats. The ostrich, similarly, could have passed for beef. The lamb, however, was distinct and recognizable for exactly what it was in each mouthful.


Walking back to our guesthouse, we observed the town of Montagu asleep. In the dark we could make out the town’s low skyline of Victorian houses, the steeple of the church punctuating it right in the middle. Montague is a humble dorp, and a good introduction into the charms of Karoo life. It was the first night of our honeymoon in the Karoo, the vast semi-desert that sprawls across much of South Africa’s interior. We had come for the desolate and romantic desert landscapes, and to relax in among the region’s small towns. But on a more material level, our route had been planned by out taste buds. We had come for the lamb.

My husband Bordeaux and I are well paired in that we both love to travel, and in that we both think that tracking down a delicious meal is a perfectly acceptable excuse for doing so. We had come back to South Africa at the beginning of the year to get married; getting to know more about South Africa’s cuisine was a bonus. And in the process of learning about that cuisine, I had come to develop a love for lamb.

I really didn’t care for lamb when I was growing up, mostly, I suppose, because I don’t come from a culture that really eats it. The meat counters at the American grocery stores of my youth were divided up between beef, pork and chicken; in the same way in which whole turkeys suddenly made an appearance just before Thanksgiving, lamb was only given deli space around Easter. And even when served it irregularly at holidays, I had little appetite for its strange and unfamiliar flavour.

Thankfully, by time I married into a lamb eating culture, a lot had changed in my sense of taste. Along with a growing distrust in the lack of flavour in factory-produced meat, I had come to really enjoy the taste of lamb because, well, it actually tastes like lamb. There’s something wholesome and natural to it that seems to hark back to an era of farmhouse dinners and Sunday roasts, a subtle note of nourishing nostalgia in every bite. Karoo lamb is especially delicious; it seems to me to have a faint whiff of the dry spiced desert where the animals grazed.

Out of this newfound devotion, Karoo lamb had made its way to the centre of our wedding feast. A few days before the wedding we visited the town of Prince Albert, where we picked up two legs of lamb from a local butcher. Bordeaux’s father roasted them with sprigs of fresh rosemary and cloves of garlic, and as guests arrived they were greeted by its warm, welcoming scent. So when we planned a quick midweek honeymoon near our home in Cape Town, it seemed the perfect idea to centre the trip around following the lamb back to its natural habitat, and enjoying it at home in the Karoo.


After leaving Montague we drove to Barrydale. We drove in under a sudden cloudburst, the town’s scent of wood fire and lavender mixing with the smell of the baked earth receiving the rain.

After checking into the local hotel, we headed for lunch at Clarke’s. The menu at this local institution is a selection of regional favourites, headlined by a lamb curry that Clarke himself tells his customers is the best thing he serves. But I was after something less complex, so I selected the lamb cutlets. They arrived as three neat packages of lamb practically caramelized by the grill, the meat hemmed in between bone and a thick ribbon of fat. The lamb was served with a vinaigrette made with fresh mint leaves, so different from the candied mint jelly of my childhood that I doubt they would recognize one another as distant relations. Splashed over the cutlets, it added a cool Mediterranean breeze to their grilled smokiness.

We sat that afternoon on our balcony, sipping a bottle of a regional red wine as the day slipped away. As dusk broke the hills around town blushed a pale shade of rose for one brilliant moment, then slipped into purple shadow. The sudden silencing of the sunset gave way to the rhythm of crickets, and the faint song of television sets blaring in distant living rooms.

After finishing the last sips of our wine, we headed to dinner up the hill at Jam Tarts. Amid the glow of a blazing wood fire pizza oven we enjoyed thick lamb burgers, the flavour of the meat melding with exotic spices of nutmeg and cinnamon. They were accompanied by florets of home-grown broccoli that had been prepared so simply that all you could taste was fresh and green. As we savoured the dinner, I felt almost positive that all of the meals on our honeymoon would be perfect.


Unfortunately, they couldn’t be. Perhaps our mistake was in leaving the rustic, wholesome flavours of the Karoo? From Barrydale we drove through the Tradouws Pass, a winding canyon road brimming with golden flowering fynbos that took us out into the Overberg. Even someone without any knowledge of South African geography could guess that we had left the Karoo behind; the rugged wilderness of the desert had been replaced with an open sea of manicured fields. Green waves of wheat alternated with golden waves of canola, their placid surface rippled as wind rolled through their stalks. But even though we had left the Karoo, we spotted flocks of fluffy white sheep, a comforting sign that we were still in lamb country.

We spent that night in Greyton, a misplaced English hamlet set in a grove of similarly misplaced Bluegum trees. Though its quiet streets follow the same church-centred layout as Montague or Barrydale, the atmosphere in town felt oceans apart. Brilliantly green knee-high grass chokes the empty spaces between houses, a lush contrast to the dorps of the Karoo.

When evening arrived, we discovered that there was only one place in town open for dinner. Greyton is supposed to have some fantastic restaurants; this, unfortunately, was not one of them. We stopped by, checked out the menu, and then circled town hoping something else might still be open. No luck. So we headed back, took a table, and hoped the restaurant would defy our low expectations. We both opted for the lamb, which seemed the safest bet. Our plates were set before us. The potatoes had been reshaped into floury wedges as tasty as paper napkins. The vegetables had been boiled soft, and then in case they still looked too much like something that might have once come from the earth, covered in a gooey cheese sauce. We focused in on the meat. Mid-bite we paused, and looked to each other for confirmation. It was delicious. Beneath the smoky flavour of the grill was soft rare meat full of rich lamb flavour. It was natural and wholesome, the slight hint of wildness tempered by something nurturing and warm. It was a flavour as comforting as being welcomed back home. Or in my case, being welcomed to my new home.

eatingCULTURE/eaten: Vetkoek.

Eating the world, one bite at a time.

Cape Town’s Milnerton Market is not only a fantastic place to look for second hand kitchenware and used books; it’s also a great place to sample some simple South African foods. On our last visit, we went specifically with one food in mind: vetkoek. With a name that literally means fat cake, you shouldn’t be surprised by the bread’s somewhat greasy texture and flavour-- it’s a little like a savoury donut. We had ours filled with ‘mince’ (ground meat), for a rich and nicely greasy snack—a filling antidote to the cold rainy weather.

Report from the Field: September 2009

Location: Cape Town
Date: September 7, 2009

Doing: Coming up with a plan
This September I hope to making a serious plan. We spent most of last month searching for a space, and almost thought we’d found one—it had a lot of character, and an unbelievable rent. But at the last minute we backed out, as we realized that the grungy and unpleasant neighbourhood wouldn’t make the most of our potential. We realized that we might be able to just get by in that space, but we wouldn’t be able to achieve our goals of actually building up something spectacular. So we need to start working out our exact goals, and come up with a solid plan to get us there. Hopefully we’ll find the right place soon—tomorrow we’re going to look at another spot with a much better location and vibe, and of course, a much higher rental price to match.

Eating: Asian All Stars
In hopeful anticipation of us actually finding a rental space for a Piesang Café, we’re working on developing a menu. With the limited space at the market, we were somewhat inhibited in the range of what we could sell. But with a café, we’d be able to offer a wider range of dishes. So we’ve been busy in the kitchen, perfecting some of our favourite foods from Southeast Asia. We’ve almost got a decent binh my worked out, Bordeaux has perfected a fantastic khao soi, and I’ve almost got the skills down to make a thin, lacy banh xeo. Now if only we could find a decent space with a good rent…

Piesang.

As Bordeaux and I prepared to leave Southeast Asia, we were faced with the simple fact that we didn’t want to-- couldn’t, really-- leave behind the food, culture, and style that we’d come to love in Southeast Asia. So we decided to take some of it with us. We developed an idea for a Southeast Asian café offering a menu of the dishes we loved. It would have the style of Bangkok, Phnom Penh, and Saigon, with a menu that would showcase the diversity and scope of the region’s cuisines. We wanted to create an intimate space where we could show people that Southeast Asian food is so much more than phat thai, pho, and green curry; that it doesn’t have to be fried in a wok or dipped in peanut sauce to be Asian. The name for our concept? Piesang.

Piesang is the Afrikaans word for a banana, and it seemed a fitting name for our idea. The iconic fruit is not only native to tropical Asia, but it’s also ubiquitous in the region’s cuisines. Sweet bananas are served in coconut milk, or grilled at sidewalk stands. Banana leaves are used to steam curries or wrap grilled meats. And the purple banana flower is made into delicious salads and soups.

But there’s another reason for the name, as well. As you may have guessed from its sound, the word does not derive from Dutch. Instead, its origins are in the Malay word ‘pisang’. In the Seventeeth Century, the Dutch brought over a mixed community of people from Malaysia and Indonesia. Along with a flourishing culture that developed into the community known in South Africa today as the Cape Malay, they left behind many words and fragments (like pisang/piesang) that dot the Afrikaans language, revealing its composite cultural origins, and a distant connection between South Africa and the lands across the Indian Ocean. Three centuries later, we’re riding those trade winds again, bringing a little bit of Southeast Asia with us to South Africa.

The dream of opening a café is still a long way off, but we’ll be getting our start on a smaller scale over this weekend. On Saturday, April 25th, we’ll be opening a stand at the Neighbourgoods Market, (which I detailed in my last post), where we’ll be offering a small limited menu of tangy salads, complexly flavored baguette sandwiches, and delicate salad rolls. We hope to change and expand our menu regularly, giving us the freedom to flow with the seasons, experiment with different dishes, and introduce willing diners to a wide range of Southeast Asian flavors.

So if you’re in Cape Town, stop by—we’d love to see you there! For those of you not in Cape Town, check out our progress on the Piesang Blog.

Bo Kaap take-away.

The more one looks around Cape Town, the more striking it is that there’s good food available everywhere. Leaving the train station, an inconspicuous shop selling air-time and hair-gel, with a counter that serves richly spiced curries. Late night, a stand sitting outside of a club, sizzling with the smell of cooking boerewors. A tiny bakery tucked between two larger stores, quietly selling koesisters coated in flakes of coconut. Most often, we glimpse these sightings at the wrong time—we’re not hungry yet, we’ve just finished dinner, or simply aren’t in the mood for a little take-away. Thankfully on Thursday, our sighting came at the perfect time—just as we starting to decide where we should grab lunch.

We were walking through the Bo Kaap, an historic Muslim neighborhood, when we spotted a small crowd gathered around a busy street-corner grill. Stepping through the curtain of charcoal smoke, we looked in at what he was selling: grilled sausages, steak, and chicken. We grabbed a to-go meal of wors and chicken, and took it home. The wors—what can I say about it really?—was fine, a pretty standard grilled sausage. The chicken, however, was fantastic. Its skin was crisp from the heat, and stained a golden red from the marinade of spices. But best of all was the chili sauce that garnished it—not the syrupy sweet ‘chili sauce’ that is so popularly poured out of a bottle here in South Africa, but a bright green sauce that tasted smoky and spicy.

A neighborhood tart.

As much as I enjoy traveling, I also enjoy being settled—in part, because the idea of ‘neighborhood’ is so important to me. I love developing a few favorite local spots, recognizing other people who live and work near by, and getting in synch with an area’s unique character. And keeping check on the flow of people in the neighborhood can bring unanticipated benefits, as well. Bordeaux and I have a general rule that if we see large crowds gathering in unexpected places around our neighborhood, we investigate. This could conceivably be a faulted plan, should we stumble into a high-tension political rally, or some sort of riot, for example. But our experience has more often proved that where we see parked cars and gathering families, there’s often something good to eat.

Thankfully, these instincts proved correct on Saturday. Though the parking spaces across the street from us are generally empty on weekend mornings, on this particular morning the sidewalk was lined with cars, with more pedestrians ambling over from spaces found further away. We postponed our trip to the supermarket, and followed them into the leafy pedestrian avenues of the public gardens.

Immediately, a group of boys surrounded us, brandishing Styrofoam takeout boxes.

“Hey, buy from me!”--“Eight Rand! Eight!”--“Fine, O.K., two for ten Rand!”

“I don’t even know what you’re selling…”

But by that point, they’d moved on to other potential clients. Continuing in, we discovered a teeming high school fair. Kids and parents were crowded around folding tables, competing for customers. We found tables crowded with curried mince wrapped in roti, boerewors on the grill, and slap chips drowned in vinegar. Desserts were even better represented, with heaps of traditional South African treats like milk tart, malva pudding and pineapple cheesecake, and some non-traditional treats, like marshmallows speared on bamboo skewers. But these could hardly distract me, as I quickly found a table selling my favorite South African dessert—peppermint crisp fridge tart.

I’m guessing that some people may be unlucky enough never to have encountered such a thing, so let describe it for you. A peppermint crisp fridge tart is not a delicate dessert, not a carefully crafted confection. Any aspirations the word ‘tart’ may have at evoking qualities of refinement are made impossible by the awkward and overbearing bulkiness of the word ‘fridge’ preceding it. But this is exactly why it’s so delicious. There are no pretensions here—just an incredibly rich, decadent, homemade dessert consisting mostly of very simple ingredients. The base of course is a healthy supply of ‘Peppermint Crisp’, a brand of flaky chocolate bars filled with a green honeycomb of biting minty flavor. These are crushed, mixed with a sweet milk sludge, and leveled into a crust of ground biscuits. It is then left on its own to chill in the fridge, as if even the act of baking would be too extravagant for this dessert. The result is spectacular.

The easiest way to conjure its taste is by evoking—though I know this benefits only my American audience—Girl Scout cookies. While some may favor those odd coconut rings or the shortbread children (and maybe one or two people like the hard little oatmeal-raisin discs), the best of the cookies is obviously the Thin Mint. The melty chocolate coating, the biscuit crunch, the fresh peppermint flavor—this may be the only reason Girl Scouts continue to exist. Eating a slice of peppermint crisp fridge tart is like taking a box of Thin Mints, churning it with vanilla ice cream and graham crackers in a blender, and then eating the end result with a spoon. Only better.

The entire pie was purchased on Saturday, and as of this writing there is a slim slice left in the fridge. We had a little help, but the two of us did most of the consumption. Which brings me to a realization. While being involved in your neighborhood can certainly have some major benefits, it doesn’t always benefit your health.

The eating island.

I can’t exactly say that it makes much sense. I’m from New Mexico, where I grew up on smoky red chili enchiladas and sopapillas drizzled with honey; I’ve lived in Bangkok, where the sois were lined with stands selling fiery curries and crispy grilled chicken; and I’ve traveled extensively in Vietnam, where I lived on rich avocado shakes and savoury pork and mushroom rolls. But the food I’m missing most lately—it’s all from Taiwan.

Lately small cravings have been nagging at me whenever I start to get hungry. I’ve been thinking about flaky scallion pancakes, steaming pork ball soup, or crispy Beijing duck dipped in hoisin sauce. And I’d love to wake up to dan bing rolled with tuna, soupy steamed dumplings, and a glass of warm soymilk; or end the day with smoky Szechwan style chicken and peanuts and spicy mapo dofo.

Taiwan gets a reputation among foreigners, particularly its resident ex-pats, as having terrible food. After two months of exploring local markets, food stands, and restaurants I have to say that the reputation is entirely undeserved. In reality, I think Taiwan is one of the most underrated food destinations in all of Asia. With a week spent circling the island, you can sample a wide range of regional Chinese cooking (even better than on the mainland, some say), graze among unusual delicacies at the teeming night markets, and search out local specialties—every city seems to have one or two dishes it’s ‘famous’ for. There are tea-houses, where you can select a few plates of traditional snacks to savor while you sip; vegetarian buffets where you can pile your plate with Buddhist-friendly stir-fries; roadside drink stands where you can get an icy mango slush or creamy milk tea to sip while zooming on your motorbike. The cuisine is a mix of Mainland, indigenous, Hakka, Japanese, and American traditions, remixed into something distinctly Taiwan.
Wherever on the island you find yourself, there is always something new, unexpected, and delicious to try.

So, if I’ve convinced anyone to go—mind airmailing me some dan bing?

Chicago.

I had only been to Chicago once before, and even then it was only by chance. My parents and I were flying to Spain, and a several hour layover at O’Hare became a 24-hour delay. So after a night in the only dodgy hotel we could find with a room, we spent a few hours strolling downtown and gazing at impressive old buildings. Not enough really to give me any sense of the city. So when my friend M___ invited us to visit on our way to South Africa, I decided to rework our route.

And in a way, Chicago was a fitting city for my departure from the United States. Though it’s not a city I know, it was the setting for some family history, where my grandmother lived and worked as a young woman, and where she met my grandfather. Beyond that, Bordeaux and I had come to the partly to experience winter, and we would certainly get one last dose of it in Chicago. And lastly, we entered the US with a weekend of eating American in Los Angeles—where better to go out eating a few last American meals than in Chicago?

The few days we spent in the city were obviously not enough to see much, but it give us a glimpse at least. We checked out the Art Institute, admired old houses as we rumbled past them on the El, and visited incredible independent bookshops, cafes, and design stores. Our few days also gave us a chance to see why so many people consider Chicago to be one of the best cities for eating in America. Chicago boasts an incredible variety or international cuisines-- including at least two Thai restaurants per city block, one of which we enjoyed a delicious bowl of khao soi in. But really, it was two American standards we were after: hotdogs and deep-dish pizza.

Hotdogs weren’t difficult to find. We passed tiny counter restaurants, and catering trucks that steamed the cold air. But how to find a good one? Though it’s not always a reliable method (think of overrated Pink’s, in LA), we opted for one of the classic shops: Clark’s. Bordeaux ordered a chili dog, and I had a Polish sausage with sauerkraut and mustard. The food cooking behind the counter looked relatively ominous, with sausages boiling in brown water, and chili bubbling an intimidating shade. Thankfully, it all tasted good. Years of a developed sense of New Mexican superiority over anything resembling ‘tex-mex’ have disabled me from ever ordering chili, but I have to admit that Bordeaux’s hotdog was much better than mine.

The next night, after a little experimental Chicago theatre, we returned to M___’s apartment, where her boyfriend had ordered us a pizza: a massive deep dish pie filled with sausage, onions and green peppers. It was my first time eating deep-dish, and it was more fantastic than I could have imagined. Though pizza rarely makes a featured appearance on Primitive Culture, I have to admit that it’s actually one of my favorite foods. It can be modified and played with so easily: made with different crusts, topped with delicious and unusual cheeses, and serve as the ideal base for experimental ingredient combinations. This one definitely deserves a spot as one of the best I’ve eaten.

It was so good, in fact, that we sought out another deep-dish pizza for lunch the next day. Hours before the flight that would take us over the Atlantic and out of the US for who-knows-how-long, we had one last delicious American meal.

A brief confession.

Before I conclude my coverage of Puerto Vallarta, I really should clear one thing up. I may have given the impression that all of my dining was done at sidewalk stands, or informal lunch counters. But that's not exactly the case. Now, it isn't completely untrue, either...

Our first lunch was, after all, picked up from a stand right on a cobblestone lane. We followed the smell of roasting carne asada, and bought a bag of tacos to take home. The grilled meat was so delicious that it needed little else added to it in the corn tortillas-- though a little onion and cilantro added a nice bite.

And there was the grilled fish on the beach, one of our best meals. We followed a rule learned in Thailand, to see where the local tourists go to eat, rather than the foriegn. We squeezed around a small table, and enjoyed grilled marlin, dusted with coarse salt and flavored with a squeeze from a slice of lime.

And of course the empanada, which we picked up on the way home, when we were too full from lunch, but still couldn't pass up. The flaky pastry exterior was frosted with sugar, and the milky custard inside was still warm when we divided it up at home.

But the best food we had-- by far, absolutely the best-- was at Villa Rosa, the house we rented for our visit. Though the place had funky kitsch decor, and a pool with a great view of the city, its best asset was Carlos, the chef. He managed to make every dish perfectly, from the lime tang of his guacamole, to shrimp simmered in coconut milk, to perfect flan, to french toast laced with orange zest and coated in cinnamon. But somehow, me writing about late breakfasts in my pajamas doesn't exactly fit with this blog...

Big chili.

Puerto Vallarta is a touristy town-- there's not much way around that fact. But it is, importantly, a town. This isn't a flock of resorts clustered on the beach just for the service of American tourists-- it's a real community with a history and a life of its own. This has its benefits. Instead of being at the mercy of resort buffets or toned-down taco bars, we were able to sample the flavors of the city. There were informal lunch counters, open-air asada grills, and sidewalk empanada sellers all tempting us. And when I saw this taco stand, it's wooden counters crowded with lunch-time diners, I knew I had to try it.

We arrived just at the right time, and squeezed up to the crowded counter as some satisfied customers left. Glancing over the hand written menu dangling above the stewed meats, we placed our order. While waiting for our food, we eyed the clutter of condiments that decorated the counter. As we lifted the ladel out of a plastic bin filled with a deep black-red salsa, the chef caught my eye. 'Careful,' she urged me gently in spanish, 'take just a little. It's spicy.' Oh, that's ok! I assured here-- I love spicy food. She shrugged a polite smile, and reached under the counter, producing a two-inch roasted jalapeno that she rested on my plate with a devious wink. The joke was more visual than anything else, of course-- the biggest chillies aren't generally the spiciest. But to play along, I thanked her and bit in. The skin of the chili was blackened slightly, soft and crinkled as crepe. It left a deep smokey flavor on my tongue with the first bite, which slowly gave way to a green spicy bite. Not too hot, but delicious-- it was a first course that left me with high expectations.

Thankfully, the food itself was just as flavorful. My flimsy paper plate arrived in front of me crowded with food, two corn tortillas browned on the grill and piled with chopped meat, onions, beans, and cilantro. I bit into the taco de birria first, the tender stewed mutton immediately bleeding a savory flavor of roasted peppers. Next I tried the tripas, which I had been curious to try since I landed in Mexico. Upon ordering it, our chef had spread it onto the grill, where it popped and sizzled for a few minutes before she scooped it into the palm of the tortilla. It gave the meat a slightly crunchy exterior that suprised me, and a rich griddled flavor that surprised me even more. I was lucky to have ordered it when I did-- as we sat there munching contentedly, several hopeful diners stopped by to order the tripas, and were informed that I had gotten the last order. Yup, just in time.

Street Treat: Paleta.

Looking out at the frosty breezes whipping around my house this morning, it's a little hard to imagine-- but up until yesterday evening, we were sweltering in the tropical Mexican heat. There was one treat in particular we sought out to cool us off: paletas. They're described as Mexican popsicles, but popsicles conjure images of flavorless coloured ice, melting into sticky syrup in the wrapper-- these are too tasty for that. They were sold in street-corner shops and out of bell-ringing push carts, and came in both water and fruit base varieties. I tried pistachio, creamy and full of chopped nuts; pineapple, packed with frozen chunks of fruit; and vanilla, coated with crunchy granola and chocolate. There were more tempting flavors that I never got to sample, unfortunately-- like rice, lime, and sour tamarind.

Lucky Boy.

It's hard not to like Lucky Boy at least a little. The name that sounds like a brand of soy sauce. The sun-bleached pastel pink and yellow of the exterior, the dated neon sign. The interior that looks like it hasn't changed in 30 years-- probably hasn't-- with avocado green tables in the booths, and faux wood-grain walls. And the concept, a mix of Chinese-American chop suey standards and American fast food, is neither 'authentic cuisine', cutting edge fusion. Maybe that's what makes it fun, though. You can order a chili burger with a side of fried rice, a sweet and sour combo, or the unusual 'egg foo young burger', pictured below-- and don't forget to get a vanilla milkshake or a rootbeer on the side.

Lucky Boy-- Located on the corner of Constitution and Carlisle, in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

First Snow of the Season Oatmeal.

Has the theme of my last post suggested what I missed most in Bangkok? Seasons. Ok, we had hot, cool, and wet-- but in Thailand I was missing autumn, winter, spring and summer. In addition to being able to dress for the seasons, or enjoy a change in the weather, I'm happy to be eating seasonally again.

We had our first snow fall this morning (it was light and didn't stick, but it counts!), so I started the day with a warm breakfast. My current favorite breakfast is a bowl of oatmeal, garnished with berries, nuts, and either dark brown sugar or maple syrup. Pictured above is a bowl of oatmeal with walnuts and dried fruit from Flying Star, the Albuquerque Cafe that I mentioned in my last post. It's a great local spot for breakfast, from the above, to delicious muffins, to big plates of huevos rancheros.

What are you eating for breakfast?

Eggnog Cookies and a Celeb Sighting at the Nob Hill Shop & Stroll.

Christmas last year in Bangkok was an odd experience-- lots of lights, Christmas music, and homemade treats, but it all felt strangely disconnected in the tropical clime. So this year, we planned our return to my hometown of Albuquerque, New Mexico with the holidays specifically in mind. So far, it's been great-- we were greeted upon arrival with a chill in the air, my sister has helped Bordeaux with some holiday treat making, and we've even gotten to join in some local festivities.

Last Thursday, we took part in the Nob Hill Shop & Stroll. Nob Hill is Albuquerque's hippest neighborhood, a stretch of Central Road lined with cafes, salons, and boutique shops. For the event, the street was closed down, and pedestrians were free to browse in shops, sample street-stand treats, and enjoy roving musicians (pictured above: mariachis in Santa hats, of course).

After squeezing through the crowds in a few shops we ducked into the Flying Star Cafe, for a rich glass of hot chocolate and a giant eggnog cookie. Coming in from the cold, the decadent treat was the perfect cap to the evening. We also got a little bonus celebrity sighting: Ewan McGregor looking very handsome one table over-- thanks to New Mexico's burgeoning role as a low cost filming locale.

Eating Malaysia with the help of Eating Asia.

Recently, my jet-setting friend Tim found himself in Taipei, where he encountered a number of the tasty and unusual treats that I wrote about during my time there. Coincidentally, I was also in a new city on the same day that he posted his entry, and I too was following the tips of another blogger in order to track down some delicious dishes. However, while I had for Tim only an odd collection of stumbled upon snackfoods to recommend, my informant-- Robyn, of Easting Asia-- offered me a fantastic list of well researched tips.

Her first tip led us to Jalan Transfer, where we found a sidewalk roti stand. We joined the other patrons, who were eating on communal tables under the shade of a slanted metal awning. Bordeaux and I were each served a toasty roti fried with egg, and a bowl of a rich tomato based chicken curry. Though I'm normally a coffee drinker, I ordered instead a glass of hot milky tea. It was served lightly frothed, and so hot that the glass had melted the ice cubes placed around it even before it got to the table.

We followed her next tip to dinner, to a Chinese Nyonya restaurant called Shing Kheang Aun. We were lucky to find a vacant table, because the place was packed-- crowds of families and groups of old friends all enjoying their dinner. I had come with a list of recommendations, and while my efforts at pronouncing our order amused the proprietor, it worked perfectly. We were treated to an outstanding dinner of kiam hoo masak Belanda (pork and salted fish with sweet red chilli), assam heh (crispy shrimp coated in a tangy tamarind sauce), and our favorite dish, gulai tumis (fish in a red curry soup).

All of these dishes were just a prelude to our next morning, where a tip from Robyn directed us to the Pulau Tikus market. There, we had a long palm-sugar sweetened breakfast as we sampled various treats and snacks. Our first stop was a 'pan cake' stand, where we got a slice of giant spongy pancake. It was filled with a layer of dark palm sugar, laced with crunchy broken peanuts.

Next we ordered some treats from a table serving Nyonya sweets. We ordered our soul savoury bite, a slice of white carrot cake. It had been a favorite dish of ours in Taiwan, but we especially liked how it was served here, topped with chili and garlic. Next, we ordered two sweet snacks-- a glutinous bar of brown rice, and a moist slice of a darkly flavoured cake.

Finally, we managed one last stop, to grab a coffee and check out one more recommendation: appom, Indian coconut milk pancakes. They were baked in clay pots over charcoal stoves, and had a nicely toasted flavour, tempered by a slight creaminess. It was the perfect morning of sampling new treats, even if I did get a little sweetened out-- though I did still have to stop by the first stand again before we left, for another slice of the giant palm-sugar pancake.

Thanks again to Robyn for the outstanding tips! If you're interested in food in Asia, you're probably already reading her blog-- but if not, be sure to check out Eating Asia.

Be sure to check out I am a Viking too, for his entries on unusual food discoveries in the British Isles, original cartoons, and essays on Japanese culinary culture.

I l Penang.

With our time in Southeast Asia drawing to a close in just over a month, Bordeaux and I had to make one quick visa run. We had been planning on just crossing the border for a night, but a good friend in Bangkok who recently visited Kuala Lumpur convinced us we should try to see more of Malaysia. I'm grateful she did, because so far Penang has been incredible-- rows of beautiful pastel shopfronts, offbeat mid-century style, and an incredible mix of cultures and religions. I can't remember the last time I felt so enamored of a city-- perhaps when I first saw Bangkok or Hanoi. To be honest, I'd been starting to feel a little 'travelled out' lately-- and Penang has totally reignited my drive.

Of course, the fact that food and coffee in Georgetown are fantastic helps-- we spent much of today eating, sampling (among other things) roti, chicken rice, and Indian sweets. More on all of that to come...