learning to be human, since 1984
flavors
In Search of the Perfect Tom Kha Recipe
0835 days
Tom Kha (or tom kar) is sin in a bowl. And if I believed in the afterlife, I would wish that I would spend eternity as a fish swimming through vast oceans of unadulterated sin. Oceans of Tom Kha, that is.
For those unfamiliar with this unctuous soup, tom is Thai for “boiled” and kha means “galangal”. Galangal, or blue ginger, isn’t actually ginger but a close rhizome relative. Unlike it’s sharp, pungent cousin, galangal is sweet, citrusy and earthy. It’s skin is smooth and almost waxy and it’s hard root is moist but almost woody.
Traditionally, that’s the foundation. Adding to the flavor structure of the galanga is lemongrass, kaffir lime leaves, and Thai or Birdseye chilies all boiled in a mix of coconut milk and another liquid, typically water or stock. “Gai” which is Thai for chicken makes the soup into Tom Kha Gai. “Kûng” or shrimp makes it Tom Kha Kûng. You can use chicken or shrimp/fish stock respectively, or stick to water. Veggies and straw or oyster mushrooms are sometimes added. After everything has been briefly boiled, the soup should be removed from the heat and seasoned with lime juice, cilantro, fish sauce, and sugar. Don’t overdo the fish sauce – use salt instead to taste. The inedible lime leaves and slices of galangal remain present as garnishes, as a reminder of where the dish gets its subtle and unique flavors.
That’s the classic framework, anyhow.
The best Tom Kha I’ve ever had is far from classic. EE Sane is my favorite Milwaukee Thai restaurant. Their tom kha is thick, creamy, spicy, pungent, sweet and tart, all in perfect balance. The flavors fiercely fluctuate, competing for attention while its luxuriously thick and spicy coconut broth coats the palate. It’s not traditional. It is not subtle. The broth is orangey-red, laden with the oil of the chiles – exciting compared to the usual opalescent swirl of tropical milk. The lemongrass, galangal and lime leaves are not to be found with the usual suspects: shrimp, broccoli and the occasional baby corn. And I swear, they add cream.
Sometimes, tradition is wrong. I don’t think that’s the case with Tom Kha, but the subtleties of the traditional dish would have a difficult time competing with EE Sane’s implementation; after all, it is the latter against which I compare all other versions of this soup. I will someday post a recipe as close to EE Sane’s as I can achieve. Until then, good eating.
More Morbier?
0It seems most people who are opposed to trying new foods cling to a childhood detest. While willing to hold their hand in flavor-adventures, I am more concerned with those who say “I’ll try anything once”. These people should realize the huge range of flavors, textures, smells, and other qualities that can exist within a single type of food. Onions for example can range wildly in sugar or sulfur content. Hummus can vary in texture and tartness, amongst other things.
What I’m getting at is that it takes a lot for me not to like something; I’ll try anything twice, at least, and usually more—probably until the day I die. I have to. I have to, because one instance of food does not represent the entire class which it represents.
So it shocked me when I found something that made me gag. Seriously. I almost threw up upon smelling it. I never almost throw up. Maybe it was the fact that the cheese I had bought itself smelled like vomit. I dragged it under the noses of semi-willing though hesitant friends, and I now consider them even truer friends for subjecting themselves to such cruelty for the satiation my disbelieving olfactory organs.
The cheese—a rich, creamy, AOC French variety called Morbier—stinks like puke. Like absolute vomit. It’s made with the extra Gruyère curd, from both the evening and morning. At night, they cover it with a layer of organic ashes. In the morning, a new batch of curd is spread on top—creating a black line through the middle of the cheese. The whole process is fascinating…really…and the cheese is extremely rich and luxurious but it is so hard to get past the puke–smell.
So here, I leave you. Know that I will try other Morbiers in my life. But for once, I will hesitate, until I find one that doesn’t make me wretch like a 2 AM fratboy on the corner of Oakland and Locust.
Sauerkraut Update #1
11197 days
I took a peek at the slowly fermenting cabbage today and decided that it wasn’t going to ferment fast enough. The pieces I cut were closer to 3/8 of an inch to ½ an inch, rather than the ¼ inch I described in the original post. My apologies.
I grabbed my biggest wooden spoon—mind you, it is in fact quite large—and proceeded to mash and bash the cabbage until it exuded more water. After 5-10 minutes, I stopped and replaced the bag. A nice brine now slightly covers the cabbage and things should go slightly faster. I’ll update in a few days!
Oh, and the smell is divine. Nice and pungent and cabbagey. Not gross, but definitely not sterile. I. Love. Food.
Crockpot Sauerkraut
11199 days
There are few things more satisfying when eating than contrast. Crunchy, tart, sweet, sour, salty: sauerkraut compliments both itself and the foods it is commonly eaten with. When I lucked upon two heads of cabbage in my Growing Power Market Basket, it certainly wasn’t the first thing I thought to make. But with some research, and the promise of delicious lacto-fermented leaves of cabbagey goodness, I made my first batch this morning. This is definitely an in-process project, so I’ll write about the successes and failures in the weeks to come. Here’s how I started:
Ingredients:
- 2 small/medium heads of lettuce, outer leaves removed, about 2 pounds each. Washed, drained, and halved. I used green, but both red and green is ideal. Oh, and get organic if possible, as pesticides kill the natural bacteria that are necessary for the fermentation process.
- salt; I used Kosher, but pickling is supposedly ideal because of its grain size. Rock salt apparently works too. Also, avoid iodized salt as it will kill bacteria!
Equipment:
- large, clean food-grade container. I used a large ceramic crockpot, though a bucket or crock would work. The sides should be as straight as possible.
- a good (sharp) knife and cutting board
- a plastic bag capable of holding water without leaking. I used a garbage bag, and washed the outside before using it, in case of residues.
- water
- a 50-60°F area; cool, dark, and handsome. Okay, the handsome part is ridiculous. Yet I won’t delete it.
Instructions:
- Cut out the core. I had never tried it before, and was extremely pleased to find that it had a similar peppery heat to mustard greens.
- With the flat face down on the cutting board, cut each half into quarter-inch strips. You can go smaller or larger; smaller should decrease the time it takes for the fermentation to occur, while larger should take longer. Makes sense.
- Layer the cut cabbage into the vessel with salt. For every two pounds of cabbage, use 1 tablespoon of salt. For the record, 1 tablespoon equals 3 teaspoons. Mix everything together with your hands. You did wash them first, right? Press the cabbage down with your hands. Some people even bash it, to bruise the cabbage and get it to start releasing liquid sooner. You don’t have to do this, as the salt will draw the moisture out—but you could try it especially for red cabbage, which is harder. Point is, compact it as much as you can so it is not at the top of the vessel.
- Partially fill the plastic bag with water. The bag is going into the vessel, on top of the cabbage to both:
- press out more water
- keep air and other debris out, which allows fermentation rather than rotting
- to allow the resulting CO2 an escape (through the tiny gaps around the perimeter, between the bag and the vessel).
- Once the bag is in the vessel, add more water till it sufficiently is weighing the cabbage down. What is sufficient? I’d say at least a gallon or three of water, depending on how much cabbage you’re using. I’ve got about 2 gallons in my bag. Tie the bag up!
- Let the pre-kraut sit in a cool area, out of direct sunlight, and away from critters.
- Lift the bag, checking periodically. I’m going to give mine a taste after a week. It may only take a week. Two seems to be the ideal, but it’s all up to your palate. It may even take up to five weeks, so use your senses.
- If something stinks or seems otherwise awry, it probably is. Ditch the kraut and call the doctor if you’ve eaten it and feel…off. As always, I take no responsibility for your kitchen creations, so don’t blame me!
- If everything seems good, eat! Decide if it needs more time, or if it has gone past its prime. When it tastes good to you, you can jar and refrigerate it, or even bag and freeze it for later.
I’ll post further developments as they occur! Peace.
Resources:
Oatmeal, and Not Your Grandpa’s Bowl
3I. Love. Oats.
They’re the perfect vehicle for flavors, sweet or savory. And they can make an especially brilliant breakfast if you’d just toss those wimpy packets in the bin. This way is cheaper, tastier, and will get some heat in your belly for those chilly autumn days that are certain to come.
Here’s how I make them for one serving. You’ll need:
- 1¾ cups water
- 1 cup rolled oats. You know, the same kind as the goofy dude with the hat
- salt
- unsalted butter
- 2 tablespoons of palm sugar (date palm, not coconut)
- dried sultanas (I’d get them from an ethnic Western Asian store), or golden raisins. They’re essentially the same, just produced slightly differently.
- half stick of cinnamon
- cloves
- Cognac
You’ll also need a small pan and a heatproof spatula or wooden spoon.
- Get your water on high. Once boiling, add the oats and mix. Add the sultanas, cinnamon and a few cloves.
- Once firmed up a bit and not watery, add a small amount of butter. A teaspoon or two should do the trick. We’ll be adding a touch more at the end. Crumble up the sugar with your fingers and stir constantly until the water is absorbed. I like mine sorta gloopy but so the oats hold their shape, still swollen with water.
- Add a splash of cognac. I use about 2 tablespoons. Mix briefly while on heat. Then kill the heat and give it some time to soak up.
- Serve. I keep the cinnamon and cloves in as long as I can but you can remove them if you don’t want to accidentally bite into them. I finish with a modest pad of butter and let it melt over the top, eating a little with each bite. So good.
More ideas:
- You can use currants, regular raisins, or other dried fruits in addition to or instead of sultanas.
- Soaking the dried fruits in alcohol will add a KICK to your morning
You can also be less of an alchy and soak in water, juice (see * below) or a flavored syrup for a few hours. - The date palm sugar provides a sweetness that is extremely mellow. It almost melds with everything else. You can tell it’s sweet but you might not necessarily realize why. Cane sugar is often much less discrete. If you don’t have palm sugar, brown sugar is a good substitute. There’s also muscavato sugar, and a variety of others. Give them a shot, you’ll feel your culinary world open before your eyes.
- leave the butter out and it’s vegan. If you want some richness, there are plenty of substitutes!
- A tiny hint of heavy cream? Gorgeous. Or, I’d imagine this would top a nice, rich ice cream brilliantly. The heat, melting the cream? I can almost taste it now.
- A squeeze of *orange juice would pair nicely with the spices and alcohol, and add acidity to balance the richness of the butter and or cream—if you’re using it.
This is made almost exclusively with pantry stuffs, relatively cheap, fast, delicious, can be made for many people, and is relatively healthy.
Best of all?
You don’t have to take your dentures out to eat it!
Viet Hoa
1I was supposed to meet a friend. But as I stepped off the bus I found myself face to face with a place I’d only heard of. I didn’t remember the name, but rather the location. So, just before 7pm, I walked through the corner entrance of the building on 49th and North Avenue: Viet Hoa.
I debated not calling my friend to let him know I’d be late—but there was no hesitation as I crossed the street and pulled the door open. As I walked through, I was confronted by a large rack full of rice sacks. I walked past the checkouts, past the open freeze coolers and refrigerated displays full of exotic fruits and vegetables. The store was full of color, smells, bizarre packaging, and things one would generally not sense in an American grocery. Despite being the only white male in the store, wearing a bright yellow hoodie, rolled up jeans, and large green bag, no one stared at me—unlike the attention I’ve drawn at other ethnic groceries. Thanks, El Rey.
I felt at home. I was comfortable. At ease, completely free. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Twenty. As I wandered the store, I smelled things I’d only read of, touched things I’d only seen in pictures, and smelled things whose existence I’d still question as I write this. And for once, I saw a real butcher in a grocery store. And a proper one at that—who sold more than the choicest cuts that this culinarily-challenged nation has become so accustomed. One whose case contains whole chickens. Head in all, in all their de-feathered glory. In case you’re looking, they’re right next to the bin of chicken feet. Or you could just ask.
I continued, perusing the aisles, absorbing as much as possible. From what I’ve heard, Viet Hoa is Milwaukee’s largest Asian food store. I haven’t been to all of them, but I wouldn’t question it; the store expanded back far deeper than I expected—where I found an entire aisle of rice noodles. Seeing as I’m invited to two food-related events on Sunday (with wheat allergies being a potential issue), I figured they were a safe buy. Plus, I’ve only cooked rice noodles a few times and could use the practice. I also picked up some standard fare: a can or coconut milk, some chile oil, and a box of red bean popsicles—a memory of a friend from my recent past.
As I walked out, I immediately opened the popsicles. They certainly…were…frozen? The taste grew on me, but they were still a bit too subtle and questionable to be a regular purchase. Anyhow, I finally rang the doorbell 30 minutes late. No questions asked.
I’ll return soon for some in store photos, but I couldn’t resist writing something. This place is phenomenal. Indian, Vietnamese, Thai, Chinese and other Asian ingredients have been creeping into my cooking vocabulary, so I will definitely be writing more soon. I’d suggest you check it out if you haven’t already.
Tzatziki – Greek Yogurt and Cucumber Sauce
2You’ve probably eaten it on gyros – which is entirely fine. But most likely, it came out of a plastic squeeze bottle, watered down and soapy – which is not so fine. Most Greek food places use inferior ingredients. Sorry, countrymen, but garbage in, garbage out. And when the garbage out is synonymous with the food you shovel into your face…things aren’t good.
Here’s how to make it at home, like my mom, aunt, and yiayia make it. You’ll need:
- a small cucumber, peeled (save the peels and put them on your forehead to cool down in the summer. I also eat them or compost when possible)
- garlic cloves – one or two will do
- 1+ cups of strained yogurt – only get Greek or Middle Eastern. It should be thick, creamy, and rich. I avoid low fat yogurt which tends to be filled preservatives and other junk – and just doesn’t taste as good. I generally don’t endorse brands, but if you don’t know what to get try Fage Total. It’s increasingly available, and even their 0% fat version beats the living hell out of excuses for yogurt like Yoplait.
- lemon juice or vinegar to taste (only about 2 teaspoons)
- 2 teaspoons chopped mint or dill, chives, parsley, etc
- olive oil
- salt & pepper
(notice the super high fat content, and only four ingredients. It could be argued that there are only 2 ingredients, but lets not push it. Four is low enough)
- a small or medium bowl
- a grater
- a paring knife (or veg peeler)
- a fork
Cut the cucumber in half lengthwise and scoop the seeds out. I eat them. You can do as you please. Then peel with the paring knife and grate into the bowl. My mom squeezes out the excess water using towels or a colander – but its not entirely necessary. This is mostly for texture and crunch, so add as much as you like.
Use the back of a fork to smash the garlic into a paste. Add it to the bowl along with the lemon juice or vinegar. Lemons are more traditional especially in the summer. Just squeeze the juice into a clean cupped hand to filter out the seeds before adding to the bowl. The citric or acetic acid serves to cut the richness of the fat and to enhance the natural tanginess of the lactic acid present in the yogurt. Now, mix in the yogurt.
Optionally, add the mint or dill and season with salt (I like several cracks of fresh black pepper too) and mix everything together. Finish generously with extra virgin olive oil – give it a swirl to blend it in but not too much – and garnish with dill, cucumber segments, olives, or anything that seems suitable. If it looks ridiculous it probably is – if not, then its probably fine. Don’t sweat it.
Tzatziki is traditionally sopped with bread or eaten with meat, fish, or veggies. The richness of the fat and the acidity of the lemons compliment the strong flavors of many Greek, Mediterranean and Middle Eastern foods. You might want to double or triple the recipe – it goes quickly, especially in my family. If it makes it past the dinner table, it should keep a week plus, covered in the fridge. Oh, and the longer it sits in the fridge, the more the flavors meld – I’d suggest making it a few hours ahead of time at least.
N.B. After finding some fennel in the fridge, it occurred to me that the anise flavor would work well with the yogurt. Serving tzatziki with shaved fennel rather than or in addition to cucumber would work especially well if pairing it with another food prepared with fennel or tarragon, such as fish. But that’s an entirely different post!