I was in LA for a few days, and, despite the fact that I spent my nights sleeping in my brother’s bachelor pad from hell – sorry, Charlie, but it’s true: the place was a wreck, a combination opossum refuge and crack den – it was a good time. I absolutely love LA, especially the heretofore unexplored food scene. In the span of a week I had Thai, Korean, Spanish, Mexican, French, Italian, and good ol’ American – a veritable “It’s a Small World” for gluttons. I’m no food critic, but some of my eat-outs must be described.

At the top of my list: Honey Pig Korean BBQ. Up until my journey to Koreatown, my experience with Korean cuisine had been limited to the Momofuku Ssäm and Noodle Bars in New York. Don’t misread – the Momofukus happen to be among my favorite NY spots, but Honey Pig is a whole other animal, and I was completely unprepared for what I encountered there.

Like a beacon in the night…

We asked to be seated, at which point the waiter whirled around our appointed table like a dervish-meets-Chinese-plate-balancing-act, dropping little plates and saucers and bowls and then more plates and saucers and bowls with sauces and oils and lettuces (oh my!) all around, till there is not an inch of tabletop visible. In the middle, rising like cupola from a crowded city center, The Inverted Wok Thing. Our awed foursome sat, giggling and gawking as the waiter zeroed in on a tiny dial in the tabletop (Gadzooks! You yourself can control the heat!) and started throwing kimchi-covered cabbage and bean sprouts on the base of Wok Thing.

Wok Thing.

The accoutrements…

We stared, stupidly, not knowing at all what to do with the food. Were we supposed to eat it? How long did we have to wait for it to cook? Were we allowed to touch it? Desperately, we looked around at the other tables attempting to discern the how-tos of KBBQ. I try to make eye contact with any of the passing waiters, but my silent SOS went unnoticed. I flailed my arms and a harried-looking man finally come over. “Uh, I’m sorry, excuse me,” I muttered, unintelligibly and in near-whisper, “Umm, we’re, like, new to this whole BBQ thing,” nervous giggle, “umm, uhh, how do we order?” More vexed looks from the waiter who instructed in a few terse fragments to order four portions of pork belly and one of beef. Now, novice though I was, I thought four portions of pork belly sounded a bit piggish, so I ordered two and one sliced beef. The waiter scurried away.

I’d forgotten to order drinks, so once again, I started casting frantic looks at the wait staff while they continued to ignore me. I began to feel unwelcome, out of place. I hung my head, pouting, and that’s when I realized I was not being ignored; I was just not following protocol: there was a doorbell on my table, hidden under a tiny bowl of pungent red sauce. One is meant to press down on it if and when one needs service. I pushed down, and, wouldn’t you know it, my finger was still on the button when someone materialized at my side. Mercifully, this lady was kind and took pity on us lost sheep. She started snipping the cabbage into bite-size pieces with the aid of slender tongs and shears, and piled them up on the highest part of the dome. “OOOhhhhh,” we mouthed. Next, she lay the pork belly on the wok and it started to sizzle. Once cooked, she, with a deft hand, natch, picked up a piece with a pair of shiny metal chopsticks and quickly dipped it in one of the small bowls, this one containing sesame oil, salt and pepper. The now-seasoned belly, some cabbage, bean sprouts, and thinly sliced green onion were piled on a large and crisp lettuce leaf, which she wrapped. We understood! We got it! We could finally eat!

We were congratulating ourselves on our powers of international comprehension until we started trying to imitate her maneuvers. Turns out metal chopsticks are not for neophytes– they’re slippery and food kept dropping on the way to the plate. We longed for forks, but were too embarrassed to ask. We would eat with slippery sticks even if it took us hours. Someone spotted wooden ones though, and once we had those in hand, things went rather smoothly.

We’d eaten through most of our pork belly and were feeling pretty full when a waiter ran by and without even glancing at us tossed an octopus tentacle on Wok Thing. “We didn’t ask for this!” we yelped, but he only said, “It’s free!” and continued on his way. Meanwhile, another waiter restocked our cabbage and sprouts. We began to get nervous every time someone neared the table, worried more food would appear unannounced. Besides, we still had a mound of thinly sliced beef waiting to be cooked.

Random tentacle.

After the deliciousness of pork belly, I worried the beef would be a letdown. But it was actually my favorite. Our kindly waitress plopped it on the heat and said, “Very delicious with rice.” I just nodded, defeated, and heaved a deep sigh. I would just have to create more space for the rice. It was orange, and in a bowl, mixed with bits of lettuce and seaweed. She plopped it on top of the beef and started raking up the remaining cabbage and sprouts, mixing it all together. It was my favorite part of the meal. Everything had just enough spice and salt, and at the base of it all, a gentle sweetness that gently played with the underlying heat. I’ve added Korean BBQ to the list of foods I crave, and wish I could install a Wok Thing at my table – it’s one-pot cooking at its best.

Very delicious with rice.

Next up: BACON-WRAPPED HOT DOGS. Months ago, New York Magazine wrote about Crif Dogs, an East Village spot selling deep-fired wieners. Apparently, some genius there decided to give David Chang (creator/chef of the above-mentioned Momofukus) a namesake dog and thus came about the bacon-wrapped-deep-fried-kimchi-topped-hot-dog. I haven’t had the chance to sample this delightful monstrosity, but have spent ample time drooling over its photo. How happy was I then to learn that you can get a bacon-wrapped hot dog in LA? Naturally, I had to have one. Little brother and cute girlfriend took me downtown where we walked through blocks of knock-off bags and tight, neon-colored clothes looking for a… let’s say artisanal hot dog cart. Cute GF instructed us to bypass brick-and-mortar stands because what we wanted was true-blue street food. For a while it looked like it wasn’t going to happen for us and that all we were going to get out of this trip were some snazzy $4 “designer” shades, when we saw (and smelled!) it: a teeny vehicle, no bigger than a golf cart, equipped with a glassed-in flattop and Coleman cooler stocked with Jarritos – Mexican soda pop – and a bowl of coarsely chopped avocado and pico de gallo.

The bacon dogs sizzled alongside sliced onions, green peppers, and jalapeños. I’m sorry Gray’s Papaya, but you’ve been dethroned! The vendor tucked the sausage into a bun and drizzled it with yellow mustard, ketchup, and mayo (!), then topped it with everything in his reach, including the chunky guacamole. It was absolute bliss, and 100% worth the gut-wrenching heartburn that followed.

On a sad note, it seems bacon-wrapped hot dog purveyors are being persecuted by the health department. It’s an outrage! Check out Drew Carey’s inspired report on Reason.tv. Potentially harmful food? Puh-lease. Let’s not get started on the Golden Arches, et al.

Save the dogs!

More mouth-watering to come,

HH&F

Chinese frijoles?!

I took Señor O to Gitlo’s last week, where he was properly inducted: we ordered daikon cakes and pork buns – reruns for me, but just as tasty as the first time – as well as chicken dumplings, crunchy taro spring rolls filled with pork, shrimp, and black mushrooms, and a second order of dumplings, because they were that good; soft purses stuffed with savory chicken and tender cabbage, gently sautéed to yield a slight crunchy exterior.

Too full to order any more food but eager to plow through the menu in its entirety, I settled on a drink: milk tea with boba. The tiny and swift-moving waitress Wendy explained boba was tapioca, and though this cat is not quite a fan, curiosity often overcomes it. The first thing that struck me was not the blueberry-looking orbs sitting at the bottom of the glass, but rather the electric blue, ultra-wide straw that was stuck in there. I could fit my pinky in it! Clearly, the straw was designed to comfortably suck up the boba balls – clever, clever. The milk tea was black tea with milk, sweetened and iced; refreshing, but less interesting than the boba. I started sipping, trying to control the suction as I was worried the boba would zoom up and dart to the back of my throat, like a hockey puck about to score. I held it in my mouth and finally bit down, and…it was utterly bland. I was perplexed. Why add an ingredient that does nothing to complement or enhance taste?

Gitlo shed some light. He said people get bored of drinking the same old thing all the time and that adding something like boba would add an element of fun. I remained perplexed; I drink eight glasses of water a day and though flavorless and odorless, it’s never occurred to me to plop tapioca in it. However, I will say this: upon reflection, I did fool around with the straw a bit. I was very tempted to use it as a boba shooter.

The reasoning behind boba’s inclusion in tea was likely lost in translation, nevertheless, further chatting revealed that Gitlo and I have some things in common which are happily interpreted in both Chino and Latino.

Red beans were in both of our native menus, but in surprising ways that were novel to each of us. Gitlo presented Señor O and I with a red bean cake. The beans were suspended in a lavender gelatin that had been sliced into 2-inch-thich slabs resembling custom soap or a slab of marble. The gelatin was actually water chestnut flour which once set is a firm edition of Jell-O. It was cool, lightly sweet, and very odd, my palate being accustomed to tasting beans exclusively in savory preparations. I pointed this out, explaining that my beans are boiled with garlic and salt and then either fried, mashed, mixed with rice, or served as soup. Gitlo has only ever cooked a bean for dessert.

We next had an animated and exclamation-studded discussion about nacatamales and their relatives in China. Regrettably, I can neither pronounce nor spell their name – my lame attempt at mimicry came out like saying “Joan” while sneezing. While the Nica breed is corn masa, pork, rice, potato, tomato, prunes, and a hunk of lard wrapped in a plantain leaf, Gitlo’s version contains sticky rice, peanuts, a variety of bean, sausage, Chinese five-spice powder, and bacon wrapped in bamboo leaves. Apparently, this buffet-in-a-bundle was once on the menu, but Gitlo’s ma wouldn’t listen to him when he said the hunk of fat in there would frighten the customers. I sympathized with his ma – when I was a kid I was horrified by the piece of jiggly lard in the nacatamal, but I learned better. If you mash the lard into the masa, it melts and infuses the whole thing with an inimitable porky flavor. The fat must stay. I’ve been promised a Chinese tamal next time I visit and am very excited at the prospect.

A few weeks ago I stayed with some friends in Boston and my lovely hostess not only fed me delicious home-made food from her native Turkey, but also gave me a Turkish cookbook. I simply adore collecting cookbooks, and this one in particular was a gem as I had never made anything from that particular cuisine.

As soon as I was back home I tackled lentil soup and, upon the success and popularity it enjoyed with the Mister, moved on to rice pilaf. I love, love, love rice. I had a falling out with it as a child for some reason I can neither remember nor fathom at this point, but nowadays I wish I could have it at every meal. Discovering that rice is as revered in Turkey as it is in my household, made me an even bigger fan of the newest addition to my library and its author, Özcan Ozan, who devotes an entire section to that grain.

Here, adapted from The Sultan’s Kitchen, A Turkish Cookbook (Periplus Editions, 2001) is müceddere or, rice pilaf with chickpeas, green lentils, and caramelized onions. Do try it – it’s perfect for dinner at home but special enough for guests.

MUCEDDERE

¼ C. dry green lentils (1/3 C. cooked)
¼ C. dry chickpeas (1/2 C. cooked)
4 TBSP. virgin olive oil
3 small Spanish onions, sliced (1 ½ C.)
2 tsps. sugar
salt & pepper
1 TBSP. lemon juice
½ C. long-grain rice
¼ C. orzo
2 medium tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and chopped*
1 TBSP. ground cumin**
1 tsp. Turkish red pepper or ground red pepper
2 C. chicken stock
¼ C. coarsely chopped fresh Italian parsley

Soak the chickpeas overnight. The next day, drain them and bring them to a boil in 2 C. of water along with ½ tsp. salt. Simmer for about 45 minutes until tender. Add more water during cooking if necessary. *This can be done a day ahead or early in the morning.

In a separate pot, cook the dried lentils in about 1 ½ C. of water, just until tender. Set aside.

In a saucepan, heat the oil over medium heat and add sliced onions, sugar, salt, and pepper. Cover the pan and cook about 5 minutes, until the onions are tender. Uncover the pan, increase the heat to high, and stir in lemon juice. Cook, stirring, until onions are browned.

Add the cumin and red pepper and cook another minute or two. Next, add the rice and orzo, and cook about two minutes.
Add the tomatoes, lentils, chickpeas, and stock. Season with salt and pepper, lower heat, and cook, covered, about 20 minutes until all the liquid has been absorbed.
Stir in the chopped parsley and let stand, covered, 5 minutes. Serve.

*I only used 2 tsps. of cumin because I was worried the flavor would be overwhelming.
**I find American tomatoes to be completely tasteless, regardless of how ripe they may be. I prefer to use whole, canned tomatoes.