66 posts Posts by julie

beijing, part 1: essential eats

by on December 9, 2010, 2 comments

I spent most of my 2 months in Asia in Beijing, so I got to see a fair amount of it by the end of my trip. Because we lived in more the political heart of Beijing, at first I had a hard time with the cold, sterile feel of it that reminded me a lot of Washington, DC. What really warmed me to this city, though, were the hutongs. I kept going back to northern Beijing, where many of the hutongs (back alleys) are, and walking around, from Deshengmen all the way to Yonghegong. While there are hutongs scattered throughout the city, the great thing about this northern part is that, in addition to the residences, there are also lots of shops, eateries, coffeeshops, and bars. The area includes the hip backpacker’s district, Houhai, as well as the hutongs turned cool tourist shopping and eating street known as Nanluguoxiang. And in the midst of all that, plenty of old-world Beijing still exists.

Hutongs in Beijing (most photos); Adidas & Uniqlo stores at The Village shopping center in Sanlitun; the Great Wall (last)

After several weeks in Beijing and plenty of failed attempts in trying to direct cab drivers where we wanted to go, my husband and I finally settled on a fairly reliable method. In addition to writing out (in Chinese) the name and address on paper, we also made sure we had our cell phones and the place’s phone number on us (cheap phones aplenty, so it may be worth it to get one even for a short stay). We learned that it’s pretty common to simply call up the restaurant and ask them to give directions to your driver. This turned out to be the best way to get around. I just remember how even the Beijing natives and longtime drivers would give us this look of defeat whenever we were trying to find some place deep in the hutongs. But having the driver speak directly with the restaurant usually got us there with minimal trouble.

I debated whether to split our Beijing meals into separate posts… But I’m afraid I’d never get through them all that way! Instead, I thought I’d divide them into two categories — the main foods that have come to be associated with Beijing, and the regional and ethnic foods that we tried in the city. Without further ado, here are some of the must-try Beijing foods we ate…

Dumplings. Known as jiaozi when boiled and guotie when fried, dumplings are a food staple of northern China. Of the several dumpling eateries I tried, I liked Bao Yuan Jiaozi Wu (Bao Yuan Dumpling House) the best for its extensive, picture-filled, bilingual menu and, of course, the dumplings themselves. It seems you can get anything wrapped in a dumpling these days, like corn or noodles, but I still like classic fillings like pork and chives. I also became acquainted with lamb dumplings in Beijing, which I love, and at Bao Yuan you can even get multicolored wrappers made with vegetable juices.

Another popular dumpling house is Xian’r Lao Man, which has at least two locations in northern Beijing that I know of. They serve a large variety of dumplings as well as many local homestyle dishes (known as jia chang cai). But it’s best to go here in a group, as they have a minimal order of two liang (a steamerful of 10 dumplings) per type of dumpling, which means it’s hard to try several kinds if you’re only one person. The location I went to (see below) gave me an English menu when I asked — a waitress kindly climbed up a chair to fetch it for me from atop one of their fridges. After I was done, it was tossed back up there! It’s nice to know this is the kind of place that doesn’t have much need for an English menu.

Dumplings at Xian’r Lao Man (left) and Bao Yuan Dumpling House (right).

Besides boiled and fried, there’s the steamed xiaolongbao, the Shanghai soup dumpling, which is in a class all its own. If you’re not familiar with Shanghai soup dumplings, their specialty lies in how the soup is contained inside the dumpling itself, absorbing all the juicy flavors of the filling. I mentioned xiaolongbao in my Shanghai post, but I didn’t get to talk about the legendary Din Tai Fung. That’s because, of all the places we could have eaten at Din Tai Fung — Shanghai, Singapore, Malaysia, even Los Angeles — we decided to do it in Beijing (on my 30th birthday, actually!). And for a chain that started in Taiwan making the soup dumplings that originated near Shanghai, Din Tai Fung may not seem like that obvious of a choice no matter where you decide to try it. But it all makes sense once that delicate dumpling skin breaks and fills your mouth with a rich, gelatinous broth. Din Tai Fung is known for its paper-thin wrappers, each folded with exactly 18 pleats. Every location makes its own broth that results from an intense process of blanching and boiling pigs’ feet and skin to get a clear gelatin that’s wrapped with the filling and melts into a viscous broth when steamed. An article in Afar magazine earlier this year even revealed that the sourdough starter used to make the wrappers is 30 years old!

Dumplings at the legendary Din Tai Fung, with locations all over the world. Next one opening will be in Seattle!

Bao Yuan Dumpling House 宝源饺子屋 [map]
朝阳区麦子店街6号楼侧
6 Maizi Dian Jie, Chaoyang District, east of Lufthansa Center/Kempinski Hotel
Phone: 6586-4967

Xian’r Lao Man 馅老满 [map]
东城区安定门内大街252号
252 Andingmennei street, Dongcheng District
Phone: 6404-6944

Din Tai Fung 鼎泰丰 (many locations in Beijing) [map]
朝阳区新源西里中街24号
24 Xinyuanxili Zhongjie, Chaoyang District
Phone: 6462-4502

Hot pot (huo guo). Traditional Beijing hot pot (known as shuan rou, or “rinsing meat”) is done with a coal-heated copper vessel, plain water for cooking, and sesame paste for dipping. We met a couple locals who took us out for shuan rou, but unfortunately I no longer remember where. It was just my husband’s kind of place too — no-frills, unpretentious, and full of locals out having a good time. One group next to us was drinking up a storm, toasting in that classic Chinese manner we’d later experience ourselves. (For a shuan rou experience, you might try Savour Asia’s recommendation of Hong Shou Zuan.)

We also tried a swanky hot pot restaurant called Ding Ding Xiang, which was completely not what I expected and turned out to be what one might consider an experience of gaudy luxury in China (but, hey, everyone needs one of those memories, right?). Don’t get me wrong — it was nice, just… not really necessary. And it was rather pricey, too. There were plush, comfy chairs, fake crystal chandeliers, and individual pots of broth. To me, this sort of defeats the whole purpose of huo guo — the communal pot, the sharing, and most of all, the re nao — that Chinese characteristic essential to every successful gathering — fun, din, a certain rowdiness, a bit of happening. But I suppose if you wanted to get dressed up and have hot pot for a special occasion, this would be the place to go.

Somewhere between these two experiences was Haidilao, a popular hot-pot chain among the locals. Both food and service were great here. We had the common Sichuan-style hot pot, with the pot split into a fiery Sichuanese broth on one side and a plain broth with dried dates and goji berries on the other side. I especially loved Haidilao’s dipping sauce bar, with its large variety of sauces, oils, and garnishes. And if you order the noodles here, you’ll get a little noodle-pulling dance performance!

I wish I’d had time to try Little Sheep’s hot pot as well, which is known for broth so good it supposedly makes dipping sauces unnecessary. But since there are Little Sheep restaurants in California, it wasn’t as high on my priority list.

One thing I noticed at all the hot pot places I tried throughout China was that the broth didn’t seem to be the highlight at the end that it’s always been for me when I have hot pot at home, where we start off with plain water and let it gradually absorb all the flavors of the meats and vegetables by the end. At a number of places in China, we watched the waiter start the meal off by emptying a large plastic bag full of multi-colored seasonings straight into the pot — and that was what flavored the broth. It was a little scary! At Haidialao, they gave us a bowl of the broth at the beginning (which was good, but I’m not sure I want to know what’s in it), but besides that, no one was really into drinking the soup at the end. Even for shuan rou, where you start off with plain water, the waiters kept coming and adding more water to our broth as it cooked down, diluting it back to mostly just water.

Traditional Beijing-style hotpot or shuan yang rou (left) and hot pot and dipping sauce station at Haidilao (right).

Ding Ding Xiang 鼎鼎香
东直门外东中街14号1层
1/F, 14 Dongzhong Jie, Dongzhimenwai
Phone: 6417-2546

Haidilao Hot Pot 海底捞火锅店 (many locations in Beijing)
海淀区海淀区大慧寺路2号
2 Dahuisi Lu, Haidian District
Phone: 6213-3511

Noodles (mian). I think you could walk into virtually any random noodle place in Beijing and count on having a noodle revelation. For more on noodles, see here and here. I’d definitely recommend trying more rustic, handmade noodles at some hole-in-the-wall, where the strands are uneven and a little ragged but every bit as (if not more) delicious as anywhere else you go. I’d also recommend ordering noodles with your hot pot, where you sometimes get a whole noodle performance that may be worth it alone. And, finally, it’s fun going to a fancier place (fancy in the usual, not over-the-top, sense) like the Noodle Bar, where you can get a front-row seat watching your noodles being made to order. The menu at the Noodle Bar is short, simple, and presented in multiple-choice fashion on a cute little clipboard. I have to admit that I found the thin noodle option a bit too thin (like angel hair) and the thick noodle option a bit too thick (like udon), so I wish there were either a middle option or that the two weren’t such stark contrasts. But both types of noodles we had were wonderfully chewy. And I do admire the simplicity of the restaurant’s concept — pick your noodle thickness and then your beef parts (including tendon, which my husband loves), and these all get served in the same deliciously light and fragrant beef broth. There are also a few tasty side dishes you can order along with the noodles. The restaurant itself is small and intimate — just a kitchen in the center, surrounded by a bar with 12 seats. Hidden away in a courtyard, it’s also very calm and quiet.

Noodle Bar 面吧 [map]
1949, The Hidden City, Courtyard 4 (behind Pacific Century Place Mall)
朝阳区工体北路4号院
Gong Ti Bei Lu, Chaoyang District
Phone: 6501-1949
Note: By subway, go to the Tuanjiehu stop (on Line 10), which is just southeast of The Village shopping complex in Sanlitun. Exit and head west on Gongtibeiulu, the main street, and you’ll soon come to Pacific Century Place mall. If you take a cab, just ask the driver to take you to Pacific Century Place (盈科中心). Walk through the mall and exit out the back. Across the back driveway you should see the entrance to a courtyard labeled “1949.” Walk through the art galleries until you get inside the courtyard, where you’ll find a number of fancy restaurants, including the Noodle Bar.

Peking duck (kaoya). How could we talk about food in Beijing without talking about the duck! I actually only had Peking duck once the whole time I was there, since there was so much other food we wanted to try. And for our one duck tasting, we decided to go to Da Dong, the fallback place where most tour groups and visitors go. Many reviews I’d read said you would get you the best bang for your buck here, and I think I’d agree. (For more on our adventures at Da Dong, see here.) Unlike dumplings or noodles, where cheaper, grittier places may actually be better, Peking duck needs some proper care and attention in making. So I’d recommend avoiding the “fast-food” type Peking duck joints and heading to either Da Dong or the nicer, pricier places like Quan Jude, which has a long history of making this specialty, or the more modern Made in China or Duck de Chine.

In short, the food at Da Dong was fantastic and the prices were decent, but the service could’ve been better. The restaurant has an extensive menu filled with glamor shots of some of the most beautiful and creative dishes. It’s not indicated on the menu, but they suggested we get a half order of duck, which would serve two and give us room to try a few other items. I picked a few other interesting-sounding dishes — Sichuan-style duck wings (with the meat taken apart and molded into clumps held together by what seemed like gelatin) and this pork dish that we didn’t realize would come with a whole poetry recitation and presentation of falling “snow.” Appropriately, the star of the night was the duck itself — thin, crispy pieces of skin that the waitress taught us to eat dipped in sugar crystals (first time I ate it this way, and it was delicious) and succulent meat. Included with our duck was complementary duck soup, sorbet, and, the finale… grapes presented over dry ice. Yes, this was another one of those over-the-top experiences, but overall, I really wouldn’t mind going back

Da Dong 大董 (several locations in Beijing) [map]
朝阳区新源西里中街24号
24 Xinyuanxili Zhongjie, Chaoyang District
Phone: 6462-4502

Street food / snacks (shaochi). Skewered lamb dusted in cumin and chili is one of the things that immediately comes to mind when I think of Beijing. I even brought some packets of cumin and chili back for my sister because she craved it so much. Kebabs in general are enormously popular and can be found all over the streets of the city, but some of the most common spots are Ghost Street and Wangfujing.

Guijie, or Ghost Street, all lit up with red lanterns at night, has a chuan ba (skewer bar) every few steps, and hot pot seems to be popular here too. We went to a place with the hilarious name of Chuan Lai Chuan Qu (roughly, “skewering here and there”). They had a long menu of skewered foods, as well as grilled and stir-fried shellfish and other regular dishes. We tried a hot corn drink here that turned out to be pretty good too. This whole street is lined with restaurants serving tons of kebabs, hot pot, and chili crawfish, all best accompanied by some cold beer.

Wangfujing small eats street is as touristy as touristy gets, but it is fun. It’s also where you can get all kinds of scary-looking things on a skewer, from scorpions to starfish to rodent-like critters. I’m normally a more adventurous eater, but due to past bad experiences in China, I’ve become a little wary of eating strange meats here. So I stuck with things I was a bit more familiar with. Not all the vendors actually season their kebabs at Wangfujing (though some have the seasoning out on a tray that you can dip into), but if you sample widely, you’re likely to find a good one. I also don’t think the kebabs they advertise as “lamb” are actually lamb, but one of our favorite Wangfujing eats is a stall further in on the street that sells a whole grilled leg of lamb — succulent, well seasoned, and nice and lamby. My husband, when asked to name his one favorite meal in China, thinks fondly back on that leg of lamb. I also love the vinegary dan dan noodles just a few stalls down from there.

Incidentally, I would just like to say that chuan (“kebab” or “skewer”) is my favorite Chinese character ever! (See lower left photo in the collage below.)

Wangfujing small eats street. Note the character for “chuan” (kebab) on the sign in the lower left photo!

Jiumen Shaochi is a fun food-court-like place to try all kinds of northern Chinese snacks and street foods. It even has one hallway devoted only to Muslim foods (and you’re asked not to bring any pork through there). What I found most amusing about this place was that, for a moderately sized food court, it had one of the most efficiently run systems I’d seen during all of my time in China: You purchase a card and put money on it, and then each vendor has a machine where they scan the card to deduct payment. You can eat to your stomach’s content and, at the end, get back the remaining change left on your card. Now, the subway in China may run on a similar system, but the efficiency there is all counteracted by the fact that you have to get your bags scanned on the way in. At the food court that is Jiumen, however, hidden in the hutongs of northern Beijing, this electronic payment system makes only for a happy, well-run, self-contained little kingdom.

Jiumen Shaochi main entrance off Houhai (top left); alley entrance off Gulouxi Dajie (top right); food stalls inside (bottom left); snacks (bottom right).

Finally, any visitor to Beijing must also try jianbing, the Beijing crepe. It’s smeared with hoisin sauce and chili and topped with an egg, scallions, ham (for 1-2 yuan more), and fried crispies. I wasn’t all that excited about it at first, but it actually turned out to be rather tasty.

Chuan Lai Chuan Qu 串来串去 [map]
东城区东直们内大街194号
194 Dongzhimennei Dajie (also known as Guijie, or “Ghost Street”), Dongcheng District
Phone: 6406-7310

Wangfujing Snacks Street 王府井小吃街 [map]
北京东城区王府井大街277号
277 Wangfujing Dajie, Dongcheng District
Phone: 6525-1783
Closest subway stop: Wangfujing (Lines 1 and 5)

Jiumen Shaochi 九门小吃 [map]
北京市西城区孝友胡同1号
1 Xiaoyou Hutong
Phone: 6402-5858
Note: This can be a little hard to find by the hutong address. The main entrance, with plenty of large signage, is off Houhai (“Back Lake”), close to the Former Residence of Soong Ching Ling (a good landmark to go by when asking/giving directions). If coming from Gulouxi Dajie, right around No. 158 you’ll find an alley with small signs marking “Houhai Jiadao” (the alley) and “Jiumen Shaochi.”

Jianbing (Beijing crepe) 煎饼
All over the city! There’s usually a stall right in front of the subway entrances.

Next up, my last China post for now… The great variety of ethnic and regional foods available in the Beijing, including some of my favorite meals from our trip.

Update: Map links added 4/8/13.

chengdu, city of gastronomy

by on November 29, 2010, 0 comments

Chengdu was the second city in the world that UNESCO named a City of Gastronomy in the Creative Cities Network earlier this year. All the more reason why I was excited to tag along with my husband on his assignment in this area in September, and all the more reason why I wish I had more than one day in the city! (We spent most of our time at the nearby Bifengxia Panda Base, working on our first tag-team story. If you don’t come here for the food, come for the baby pandas! And, yes, that is a milk mustache. :)

In my short time here, I did manage to squeeze in some great food. Chengdu is located in Sichuan Province, known for its mala flavor — that is, numbing and spicy! The numbing effect comes from the Sichuan peppercorn, which creates a tingling sensation in the mouth and isn’t so much hot as it is fragrant. The heat comes instead from lots and lots of chili peppers, whether fresh or dried. In fact, one of the things my husband’s Chinese researcher told us about is this delicious local dish with the unfortunate nickname name of “Looking for Prostitutes in the Red-Light District”! The play on words comes from chicken, which is also slang for “prostitute” in Chinese. The dish consists of fried bite-sized pieces of chicken buried in a mound of dried red chili peppers. The chicken is crispy and loaded with mala flavor, and it’s stir-fried with peanuts and scallions.

We had our share of hot pot in Sichuan, where it is tremendously popular. A friend of ours told us about how he walked into a hot pot restaurant in Sichuan to find it full of businessmen in nice trousers but with their shirts and ties taken off because they were sweating so much from the spice!

Hot pot in nearby Ya’an, where we opted for a non-spicy broth. Still plenty of chili on the side to go around.

I also made it to Jinli Street, a fun tourist spot made up of winding ancient streets, temples, archways, and, of course, your local Starbucks. It also has some of the most amazing street-food stalls!

And lastly, I paid a little visit to Chen’s Mapo, where I had mapo doufu (that’s mapo tofu — mapo allegedly derived from the grandma Chen who created the dish and supposedly had a pockmarked face; this version was meatless, but it’s often got ground pork or beef), qingjiao roupian (pork slices stir-fried with garlic and lots of fresh green chilies), and dandan mian (noodles with minced pork and a salty, mala, and sometimes vinegary sauce).


Chengdu was named City of Gastronomy not least in part for its famed street food, characteristic Sichuanese flavors, and ancient food traditions. It’s one of the last major cities in China to still have wet markets, though this seems to be changing. Like the rest of the China, Chengdu is modernizing quickly, with buildings being torn and built every day. When I was there, I found it hard to come upon “authentic”-looking family establishments, especially since I only stayed one day. My guide was pretty much the Chengdu posts on Robin Eckhardt’s Eating Asia blog. But even with the posts, the small alleys can be hard to track down, especially with the city changing so quickly and dramatically. I only hope that UNESCO status will encourage the local government to preserve some of the more historic and traditional neighborhoods and eateries that earned it the position in the first place.

why i love thanksgiving

by on November 24, 2010, 0 comments
Last year’s turkey.

This year, my sister convinced her husband and in-laws to have a traditional American Thanksgiving dinner, so she’s making turkey on her own for the first time. She called me up, asking for tips and recipes. She talked about how excited she was for the Thanksgiving meal and how she wished we were making it together. I felt oddly like a proud mother, eager to see how her first turkey would turn out. And we both found ourselves wondering how exactly we got so deep into a culture so not our own.

For years we told ourselves we didn’t care for turkey. We were perfectly content with our Thanksgiving banh hoi or lamb hotpot or bun bo hue. But somewhere along the way, I changed my mind. In recent years, I’ve realized that I look forward to traditional Thanksgiving dinner more and more. I don’t live near family, and even if I did, almost all of my and my husband’s extended family is Asian, so I don’t have that problem of multiple Thanksgiving dinners in a row — if I even get a traditional Thanksgiving dinner at all. The whole thing is still rather novel to me. My enthusiasm has yet to extend to pumpkin pie or cranberry sauce, but I do so love the sweet potatoes with toasted nuts and browned, bloated marshmallows that are crisp on the outside and foamy on the inside; the creamy mashed potatoes with gravy made from pan drippings; and most of all — the turkey.

My sister and I spent most of our childhood Thanksgivings at church… eating Chinese or Vietnamese food. We also lived in Canada, where I feel Thanksgiving (which falls on a Monday in October) does not have quite the weight that it does in the US.

When we moved here at the start of my high school years, I was a bit surprised at how much effort families took to be together for Thanksgiving — it seemed like a bigger deal than even Christmas. True, this is a four-day holiday here, rather than Canada’s three-day. But still, the hoopla that surrounds these four days! I mean, a parade for Thanksgiving? And then there’s the football (and what could be more American than that?). And the whole Black Friday madness (the Canadian equivalent is Boxing Day, which falls after Christmas). Even the unofficial rule that no Christmas songs or decorations should make an appearance until after Thanksgiving adds to the grandiosity and anticipation of the weekend, like two holidays rolled into one. In Canada, there was no such definitive and controversial dividing line between the two seasons (there’s still Halloween, after all!), whereas here, putting up the Christmas tree together on the Friday after Thanksgiving can be a ceremony in itself.

Mise en place.

Ironically, the first traditional sit-down Thanksgiving meal I ever had was in southern France, where I spent the holiday with a kind American missionary couple whose church I attended. I was 20 years old, still fully Canadian but also an American resident by then (I’m now a dual citizen), and I spent the day helping the family cook — roast turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, candied sweet potatoes (which I had for the very first time), pumpkin pie, even cranberry sauce out of cans that had been brought over from the motherland long ahead of time and carefully stored for the occasion.

Newly inducted into this holiday tradition, when I returned to the US for my remaining college years, I roped my sister into helping me make turkey together for Thanksgiving at home. Perhaps it was because American food was our realm, not our parents’, whose style eschewed exact measurements. Telling my dad, who tests for flavor by tasting raw meat, that he has to stick a thermometer into the turkey to check for doneness is just a lost cause. Even now, many of my relatives still opt for seafood or fancy Asian food for Thanksgiving, and I might too if I spent the holiday with extended family and in a town where more Asian ingredients were available. Just last month, my parents spent Canadian Thanksgiving with relatives in Toronto, and my uncle ordered a whole roasted suckling pig! I’d have no trouble giving up the turkey in that case — but I have to say, I don’t think I’d want to do it every year.

Since I’ve been married, turkey has always been part of my Thanksgiving, and I kind of like it that way. In fact (and this is actually a rather embarrassing confession), I find myself taking greater measures each year to ensure that I get my fill of turkey during this holiday, which sometimes includes either getting my own turkey (if I’ve spent Thanksgiving at someone else’s) or getting an additional turkey on Friday, when prices are slashed.

Now before you judge me, please hear me out…

First, you might have noticed from previous posts how much I love chicken. I can eat chicken every day forever. So, turkey is a lot like a really big chicken.

Second, when my sister asked me yesterday if there is really any difference between chicken and turkey, I told her, yes, turkey is bigger. Which is obvious, but what this means is that you get more of your favorite parts — skin! wing! bones! I also told her this means it’s worth investing more time and effort into making than your average chicken, which means you get an even nicer-tasting bird and more of it. I have taken to brining my turkey, which helps it stay moist and flavorful. I also feel like turkey develops a smokier taste than chicken (and in Chinese, turkey is literally “smoky chicken”).

Third, and this is the Asian in me talking, I can’t stand eating big slabs of boneless meat! I happen to love slowly gnawing away on bones until they are all picked clean. Can you imagine doing that at the Thanksgiving table? (This may sound rather labor-intensive or simply disgusting to non-Asians, but really, there are fewer pleasures in life than eating meat on the bone.) This is why I like to have turkey (with bones) in reserve for eating in the comfort of home, even better in my pajamas. The big portions of boneless meat (like the breast) I save to turn into other dishes.

Fourth, I am very possessive about my turkey carcass. I nearly freaked out one year when someone almost threw my entire turkey carcass (which actually had quite a bit of meat on it still) into the trash. Whatever bones I do not get to are saved to make soup… which in turn gets made into turkey jook (congee or rice porridge).

So, you see, whether I’m spending Thanksgiving at someone else’s house and I have not made the turkey, or I have guests over and (like the dutiful Asian hostess) want to be sure they have more than enough to eat and leftovers to bring home with them, everything works out with the simple solution of buying turkey at reduced prices the next day. Instead of going shopping, I stay home and roast turkey on Black Friday. You could say it’s in keeping with the American tradition of excess. Or maybe that is just our family tradition of excess when it comes to food.

Plain old classic American Thanksgiving turkey, just the way I like it.

Now, at thirty years of age, sixteen years of living in this country, and actually only two years of roasting turkey on my own for the main Thanksgiving dinner, I guess I’m still somewhat of an American Thanksgiving novice. Each year I’m surprised to find myself adopting more and more of the customs, like getting up early to hunt for Black Friday DVD deals or switching to full-on Christmas mode (but no football, please). Because I’m normally quite particular about how I identify myself, I’m actually rather shocked at my complete lack of desire to incorporate elements from any of my other cultural heritages into Thanksgiving (with the one exception of making turkey jook the day after). I’m still very much a fan of the classic Thanksgiving dishes, like sage roasted turkey. I’m reluctant to sneak in a single Asian- (or other ethnic-) inspired dish or even ingredient to shake things up, make the menu more updated, contemporary, multicultural, PC, what have you. No, Thanksgiving is one of those rare times when I fully and unabashedly embrace my American self. And I quite enjoy it.

Thanksgiving Roast Turkey
Serves 10-12, or 2 for 5-7 days :)
Adapted from various sources

Here is the recipe I’m giving my sister for a 14- to 16-pound turkey. Another option for getting moist turkey without brining it is to roast it breast-side down, so the back fat runs down to baste it (this results in a less pretty whole turkey, but is ok if you serve it already carved). But I love the skin, and I think the skin on the breast side is less fatty and gets crisper when roasted breast-side up, so I prefer to brine.

Because I live in a teeny tiny apartment and have no room for such things as a roasting pan, I just buy a disposable aluminum one and place a steaming rack (the kind you put inside a rice cooker or wok to steam dishes) inside. Then I position the turkey on top of the rack.

Aside from the salt and sugar proportion, the rest of the ingredients are pretty flexible. I use less salt than most recipes, to make sure the turkey doesn’t end up too salty (I serve it with gravy anyway), and I only brine overnight and rinse it thoroughly before roasting. I also like to use brown sugar and apple cider vinegar — the same two things my family uses for wetting rice paper to make spring rolls brown and crispy.

Brine:
2 gallons water
3/4 – 1 cup kosher salt, depending on how long you brine (use the lesser amount if brining longer); use half the amount for table salt
1/2 cup light brown sugar
1 cup apple cider vinegar
(optional: 1-3 cups of orange juice or apple cider; cut back some on the water in this case)
1 orange, including peel, cut into slices
1 Tbsp or a small handful of black peppercorns, slightly crushed with mortar and pestle
1 onion, cut into chunks
8 cloves garlic, smashed
6 bay leaves
any other herbs, fresh or dried, you like (rosemary, sage, thyme, and parsley for example)
1 brining bag

Roasting:
1 14- to 16-pound turkey
olive oil or melted butter to rub
2 lemons
1 large onion, cut into chunks
2 ribs celery, cut into 2-inch sections
1-2 carrots, cut into 2-inch sections
1 apple, quartered
fresh or dried herbs (rosemary, sage, and thyme, for example)
1-2 cups chicken/turkey stock, apple cider, or white wine, or a combination of these (optional)

Gravy:
pan drippings
2 Tbsp flour
turkey giblets for turkey stock (optional)
any combination of chicken/turkey stock, apple cider, cream, or milk (optional)

1. Brine: Put all of the brining ingredients (except the bag, obviously) into a stock pot and bring the whole mixture to a boil, stirring to make sure the salt and sugar fully dissolve. Turn off the heat and let the mixture completely cool. Remove the bag of giblets from the turkey (reserve for stock or gravy), and rinse and clean the bird. Put the turkey in the brining bag and pour in enough of the cooled brining mixture to completely cover the turkey (if there isn’t enough liquid to cover, just add more water). Put the whole bag in the refrigerator overnight, for about 8 hours. I try to stand the turkey on one end, either in a large pot or propped between other large items in the fridge, so that it stays fully submerged in the brine. Otherwise, if it’s only partly submerged, you’ll want to flip the turkey halfway through its brining time to make sure it brines evenly.

2. Roast: Preheat oven to 450°F. Take the turkey out of the brining liquid and discard the brine. Rinse the turkey thoroughly under cold water. Pat it dry with paper towels. (If you have time, you can also put the turkey back in the fridge uncovered at this point, to let the skin air-dry, which will make it crisper when it roasts.) Rub the outside of the turkey with olive oil or melted butter, massaging some of it under the skin into the flesh. Squeeze some lemon juice into the cavity of the turkey. Prick 1 whole lemon with a fork and stuff it inside the cavity, along with any remaining lemon after squeezing and most of the onion, celery, carrot, apple, and herbs (you can also insert some of the herbs underneath the skin). Stuff the remaining aromatics into the neck cavity. Truss the bird first by folding the flaps of skin over the cavities on both ends and securing with small metal skewers, then tucking the wings under the neck/shoulders and tying the legs together with kitchen string. You can add a cup or two of chicken stock (or turkey stock made from the giblets, or combination of that and white wine or apple cider, keeping in mind this will also flavor your gravy) to the bottom of the pan to keep any drippings from burning or evaporating too quickly. Roast the turkey according to any directions on the package, or at 450°F for 40 minutes, and then at 350°F until the breast meat reaches 160°F and the thigh meat 170°F (about another 4 hours or more, depending on how big your turkey is). Alternatively, try this Alton Brown flash cooking method — 30 minutes at 500°F, then about 2 hours at 350°F. When the turkey reaches the appropriate temperature, tent loosely with foil, and let it rest for 30 minutes before carving, so that the meat continues to cook a bit and absorb the juices (if you cut into it immediately, the juices will all run out). If carving ahead of time, prepare a piece of foil to cover the dish you’ll serve the sliced turkey on. As you carve, have someone help you lift and replace the foil as you add turkey slices to the dish. This will help keep the meat warm.

3. Gravy: While the turkey rests, make the gravy. Pour all but about 2 tablespoons of the pan drippings into a fat separator or another container. Set the pan over two burners on medium heat. Add 2 tablespoons of flour to the remaining drippings and whisk together to form a roux. Scrape up any brown bits stuck to the pan. Stir until all lumps are gone and the roux begins to brown. Slowly whisk in some combination of the reserved pan drippings (with fat removed), apple cider, chicken or turkey stock, cream, or milk — enough to get about 2 cups of gravy. Scrape up any brown bits still stuck to the pan. If there are still lumps in the gravy, strain through a sieve. Check for flavoring and, if necessary, add salt and pepper to taste (it should already be a bit salty from brining).

4. Give thanks!

javanese sambal (sambal bajak)

by on November 19, 2010, 2 comments

Thought we could all use a break from the travel posts! So here is a recipe for Javanese sambal, which I made for the first time recently. Sambal is a chili paste, and most people are probably familiar with it in the form of the Sriracha or sambal oelek — that ubiquitous condiment at pho restaurants and Chinese hole-in-the-walls, and now even affectionately dabbed on pizza and burgers. There are a great many varieties of sambal, both raw and cooked. The Javanese version is slowly sauteed into a thicker and richer paste than the raw, more liquidy, and slightly sour versions of Malaysia, Singapore, or Vietnam.

My husband isn’t as much of a Southeast Asian food fanatic as I am, so I was surprised when earlier this week, tired of the fish sauce we normally dip wraps into, he reached for this sambal instead. It’s too chunky to really dip into, but I know why he loves it — he’s always been unenthusiastic about my penchant for sour, sour foods, preferring sweet instead. And this sambal definitely has a subtle sweetness to it, not only from the palm sugar but also the slowly caramelized shallots, garlic, and chilies. My current favorite breakfast is poached egg with a dollop of this Javanese sambal.

Javanese Sambal (Sambal Bajak)
Adapted from James Oseland’s Cradle of Flavor
Makes about 1/3 cup

I used the dried shrimp paste (belacan) I got in Malaysia, which is earthier than the wet jarred shrimp paste more readily available at Asian supermarkets here. The texture of dried shrimp paste is a lot like clay — it crumbles easily and can also be molded, as in this recipe, which asks that you press it into a disk. Shrimp paste is pungent in any form, especially when heated, so consider yourself warned!

Palm sugar (gula malacca) is made from the sap of the date or coconut palm and often comes shaped in hard cylinders or disks. It can be shaved or cut, and the taste resembles that of maple syrup or butterscotch. Dark brown sugar can be substituted if palm sugar is not available.

This sambal can be served with virtually any savory dish. It’s a natural accompaniment to noodle soups, rice, or grilled meat. I think it tastes great with eggs in any form and would probably be nice spread on crusty bread served with soup. The original recipe says it will store for 1 week in the fridge, but I’ve heard it can last up to 3 months in the fridge. It is also freezable, which would allow you to make this in larger batches to save for later.

2 Tbsp peanut or canola oil
1/2 tsp dried shrimp paste (belacan), pressed into a disk (or substitute jarred shrimp paste)
3 shallots, coarsely chopped
2 cloves garlic, coarsely chopped
6 fresh Holland or Thai bird chilies (or other fresh long, red chilies such as Fresno or cayenne), stemmed and coarsely chopped (you can also deseed for less heat)
1/2 tsp palm sugar, thinly sliced, or substitute dark brown sugar (for a slightly sweeter sambal, double the sugar)
1/4 tsp kosher salt

Block of dried shrimp paste or belacan (left) and ingredients for sambal (right).

1. Heat the oil in a non-stick skillet over medium heat. Add the dried shrimp paste and saute it, turning it over a few times until both sides have golden brown spots around the edges. If it breaks apart, just continue sauteing until all the pieces are edged with golden brown. Remove the dried shrimp paste from the oil with chopsticks or a slotted spoon. Let it cool for 1 minute. Take the oil off the heat and set aside.

2. Place the sauteed dried shrimp paste, shallots, garlic, chilies, palm sugar, and salt in a small food processor. Pulse until you have a chunky-smooth paste the consistency of cooked oatmeal. (Alternatively, you can make this the traditional way, pounded with a mortar and pestle.)

3. Reheat the oil in the skillet over medium-low heat. When the oil is heated (test to see if it sizzles gently when a bit of paste is added), add all of the paste and saute, stirring occasionally to prevent sticking, until most of the liquid from the chilies and shallots has evaporated and the paste begins to separate from the oil — about 9–14 minutes. The aroma should be subtly sweet, not harsh and oniony, and the color should be a few shades darker than when the paste was raw. Taste for salt, and add a pinch more if needed. Serve at room temperature.