Union of Burma (aka Republic of the Union of Myanmar)

Think of the stuff that you know about Burma:

Missions thereto
– AKA Myanmar (depending on what side of the civil war you find yourself)

But what else? Candidly, I had never really thought much about this exotic-sounding country, tucked between some of the biggest players in Asia – China, India, Thailand… The potential for deliciousness was sky-high, but I never knew it until I started researching for this entry. Coincidentally, at the same time that I was desperately groping for a reliable source of Burmese recipes, a rightly-acclaimed writer named Naomi Duguid released precisely that: a gorgeous cookbook entitled Burma: Rivers of Flavor. Burmese cuisine is covered so exhaustively, so sensitively and so accurately in this book that I feel a little funny even attempting to add anything to the conversation. Naomi walked the path and now has a brilliant jewel to show for it. Her book was indispensable to me as a reference. So, instead of rehashing what can easily be found in her book, I’m going to get right to the food.

I love noodles. Possibly more than I love myself. They are without a doubt the single greatest accomplishment of our collective human history.

I also love FIXINS. You know that crazed feeling in your heart when you get some fro-yo, and you walk over to the den of sin where they keep the chocolate chips, crumbled Oreos, peanut-butter cups, caramel sauce, etc.? I go batshit crazy. (I also can’t seem to spend less than $10 on a cup of frozen yogurt.) It seems to me that the Burmese get to have that kind of personalized fun at every meal, and I honor them for their spirit. Both of the dishes I’m making for this entry feature a mostly skeletal framework that is augmented by a multitude of crunchy, nutty or spicy fixins that can be added according to each diner’s preference and whim.

Raw (left) and fried (right) rice noodles. See how they puff up!? Badass.

For these reasons, my first Burmese dish, and one to which I have excitedly counted down on my list for over a year, is a coconutty, chicken-y, fixin-laden noodle soup called ohn no khao swè. It involves quite a lot of prep work, since most of its elements are prepared separately and then combined at the end – noodles, broth, chicken, hard-boiled egg, shallots, scallions, rice-noodle crunchies, chili oil… There’s nothing too scary going on here, just a lot of elbow grease and numerous dirty pots and pans to wash. But the end result is a marvel.

Without exaggeration, this might be the best soup I have ever had. It’s rich like a chowder, but light and elemental like chicken soup. When you get a good mouthful with a bit of all the garnishes, there is a textural diversity that hits all the corners – Americans, just think of clam chowder with oyster crackers and you’re basically there. The “broth” is more like a sauce, and it has a deep, savory flavor that is permeating without being too assertive from any particular direction. Simmered coconut milk makes a velvety backdrop against which glimmer the flashy jewels of lime, chili and raw allia. There’s also a funky little note of fish sauce behind every sip of the broth, too, which is actually what makes this soup feel “Asian” and not, say, British or American. And the bright streak of Chinese-style la jiao also highlights the wild mix of influences going on here. Overall, it reminds me a little of my favorite Thai soup, tom kha gai, but it’s thicker and earthier thanks to a chickpea flour slurry that is stirred in halfway through. It’s also not so very far in spirit from laksa, another incredible soup that is heavy on the condiments but also a little funkier.

Oh, and the noodles! The noodles. My god.

Ohn no khao swè has been named as the progenitor of numerous variant dishes in Southeast Asia, and a great article on this cultural exchange is available here. I learned a whole lot from this impeccably-researched article, and the photos are breathtaking. There is a lot of controversy over which noodles are the correct ones for this soup – all my Burmese sources pointed to egg noodles, but did not specify a width. So I picked some that looked as thick as the ones I saw in the aforementioned article. If I am way off, I hope someone from Burma might be so kind as to provide a correction… I would not be at all upset at the chance to make this dish again. Heh.

Time for tea! Not to drink though, to eat. Yes, I’m serious. No, not as ice cream.

Laphet, or pickled green tea leaves

This stuff was hard to get! I read a great article that mentioned a Burmese Baptist church community in Queens. Sadly, the store mentioned in the article has since closed, so I was out of luck. I emailed the church about where I might find some laphet, but never got a response. (NB: since most laphet in the U.S. is imported and sold illegally, I can’t really blame them for ignoring a random email from some insane white dude. So no hard feelings, my friends! But the embassies of Brunei, Burundi and Cambodia? MAJORLY HARD FEELINGS. Seriously, write me back.)

I then made a sweep of about five or six Asian groceries in Elmhurst and Jackson Heights, but came up dry as well. In a serendipitous twist, a Burmese Buddhist temple in New Jersey was running a food bazaar one weekend, but I really struggled with the wisdom of spending over $100 on transportation to potentially buy about six dollars worth of pickled tea. I finally settled on the boring-but-cost-effective – and supremely sketchy – mail order option. Relatedly, I do hope this little project of mine is worth the constant risk of identity theft and/or credit fraud to which I am exposing myself.

I was a little choosy about the brand of laphet I was buying since I had read that a number of top brands had been contaminated with a cancer-causing dye in recent years. This one, Golden Hinthar, didn’t make the list. I think.

Anyway, when you open a bag of pickled green tea, it smells of jasmine, Froot Loops, rubbing alcohol and new tires. It’s not wet, but it is sticky and a little waxy, kind of like jerky or Twizzlers. Sampled undressed and on its own, it tastes like the smell of a new He-Man action figure, or even like a particularly sour weissbier. In other words, “fermenty”. The twisted little leaves look and feel at first that they will be quite dry and stringy, but after the recommended short soak in water they actually become as tender as cooked spinach.

We’re using this stuff to make a tea-leaf salad, laphet thoke. It has the important social function of being a dish of welcome in Burma, and is apparently eaten constantly. It’s also pretty high in caffeine, which means that people must be just bouncing off the walls in Burma.


The first and easiest step is pounding out the tea leaves with a little green chili. Then you have to get started on the fixins, which, much like those for the ohn no khao swé, require a good amount of prep. Typical toppings for this salad can include sliced tomato, shredded cabbage, roasted peanuts, toasted sesame seeds and an assortment of fried beans. I went for what I had seen included in laphet thoke “kits” on that mail-order site: chana dal (split, dried black chickpeas) and Indian butter beans (aka val dal aka lablab purpureus – I found this at Kalustyan’s). PROTIP: As I and my dentist learned, it is absolutely crucial that you soak these beans overnight before you fry them. If not, they become rock-hard (and burn easily, too).

Once you have all your ingredients ready, you arrange them all on a plate in a pinwheel shape and everyone gets to make their own bowls or mouthfuls as they like. Be sure to squirt on a little lime and drizzle some fish sauce, too. It’s meant to be a communal dish, and serving it this way invites everyone to gather around and catch up with each other.

I wish I had had some daylight left for this picture...

I wish I had had some daylight left for this picture…

This salad is actually very refreshing and makes for a fitting dessert after a rich soup. The commercial laphet comes in a few flavors, and I guess I must have chosen the “sweet” option since it ended up tasting that way (there is not much available in the way of Burmese-English translation), which is assuredly better than the “extremely violent spicy death” variety. Load up your chopsticks with a good bite and you get some soft vegetal matter, a little crunch from the beans and a bit of moisture and sugar from the tomato. The beans came out a little darker than I wanted – go for a bit less color if you fry them yourself. Also, expect to be awake for a few days – the caffeine seems rather reluctant to leave your bloodstream. Time to get started on that novel!

Burma, you’ve had a rough go of it, and things are still not going so great. Your snakes are way too big. Your country has a lot of problems, but your people have a lot of good in them and your food rules. I wish the best for you, no matter what your name is.

Now you go:

Ohn No Khao Swé (Coconut Chicken Noodle Soup with Fixins)
2 medium white onions, diced
1/2 inch chunk of ginger, mashed into paste
4 cloves of garlic, mashed into paste
2 shallots, thinly sliced, soaked in cold water for about an hour
2 scallions, thinly sliced
1/2 lb. (250 grams) Chinese or Thai egg noodles (or Burmese, if you can get them – I couldn’t)
4 boneless chicken thighs, thinly sliced
2 tbsp chickpea flour (aka gram flour aka besan flour)
200 ml coconut milk
Small handful of dried flat rice noodles
3 tbsp dried chili flakes
3 tbsp paprika
1 lime, sliced into wedges
2 eggs, hard-boiled, sliced in half
1 chicken stock cube
Fish sauce
Peanut oil

First make the fixins:
Mix the chili flakes, 1 tbsp paprika and 1/2 tsp salt in a heatproof cup. Heat 1/2 cup of vegetable oil in a small pan. When it’s hot, pour the oil over the chili flake mix. CAREFUL – it will sizzle and spatter. Set aside to cool. This will keep covered for about one week.

Snap the dried rice noodles into small pieces. Over medium heat, add 1/2 cup of oil to a small pan. When hot, gently place the noodles in the oil in small batches. They will immediately puff up. Using a slotted spoon, remove from the oil and place on towel lined plate to drain. Set aside.

Boil the egg noodles and drain. Set aside.

Now make the broth:
In a large pot over medium heat, add about 2 tbsp oil. When hot, add the onions and gently saute. After about 5 minutes, add the garlic and ginger. Let cook for another 10 minutes.

In a small bowl, whisk the chickpea flour with 1/4 cup cold water and then add to the pot. Add 1 tsp of fish sauce and the stock cube. Add 2 cups cold water and bring to a simmer.

While that comes to a simmer – in a small frying-pan over high heat, add 1 tbsp of oil. When hot, add the chicken, a pinch of salt and 1 tbsp paprika. Stir-fry until cooked through. Add this to the pot of broth along with the last tbsp of paprika and the coconut milk. Stir once and bring to a boil. Remove from heat.

Place the egg noodles in deep bowl, then add enough hot broth to just barely cover. Top with shallot, scallion, egg, crispy rice noodle, chili oil, lime and fish sauce as desired.

Have seconds.

Lahpet Thouk (Tea-Leaf Salad with Fixins)
5 tbsp pickled tea leaves, soaked in cold water for about 10 minutes and then drained
1/2 cup peanut oil
5 garlic cloves, sliced into thin chips
2 tsp dried chana dal
2 tsp dried Indian butter beans (aka val dal)
2 tsp unsalted peanuts, roasted
1 tbsp sesame seeds, toasted
2 green chillies, thinly sliced
1 tomato, thinly sliced
1 tsp fish sauce
1 lime, sliced into wedges

Soak both the chana dal and Indian butter beans in separate bowls of water for at least 8 hours. Drain and dry thoroughly with paper towels.

Heat the oil in a pan and add the garlic. Fry until golden. Remove from the oil and drain on paper towels. Do the same for chana dal and Indian butter beans. Reserve oil.

Pound the tea leaves and green chili together in a mortar (or pulse in a food processor? I don’t know) until they are well-incorporated. Transfer to a bowl and add 3 tsp of the reserved peanut oil. Set aside for about 20 minutes.

Arrange all the fixins on a round plate or platter, with the tea leaves in the center. Serve with lime wedges and fish sauce as desired. Small bowls and chopsticks would help, too.


Burkina Faso

During my time as an adjunct professor, I was lucky enough to teach at several colleges around New York City. Two of these were in Queens, my home for the last seven years and the most ethnically diverse area in the entire world. Researching Burkinabé food for this entry made a lost memory swell up: of a young woman I had in one of my introductory Italian classes. Her name was Veronique and she spoke impeccable French and English, which made her go at Italian quite successful in a very short period of time. Meaning to encourage her to test into a higher level of Italian, I met with her after class over a cup of absolutely terrible cafeteria coffee. We discussed her career plans – nursing – and her educational history, much of which took place in her birthplace, the West African country of Burkina Faso. I had never heard of it.

Veronique made a big impression on me as a young teacher, since she was one of extremely few students that seemed to actually be taking her education seriously – all of it, even the unrelated requirements like Italian. While I was angrily ousting cheaters, haranguing chatterers and holding ne’er do wells’ cell phones hostage during my thrilling indirect-object pronoun drills, Veronique would be furiously taking notes, writing down what seemed like every word I said. She passed my class with a glittering A+, and I never ran into her again.

When I started planning the menu for this entry, I tried to track Veronique down – I wanted ideas and facts from someone who knew this cuisine firsthand, and also hoped to check in on one of my most promising students. Alas, my memory not being what it used to, and having taught a few hundred students over an eight-year period, I was at a complete loss for her last name. As you might guess, I didn’t get very far.

Anyway – greetings in Burkina are supposed to include a welcome beverage, something refreshing, so we should probably start off the same way. Some popular options include a sorghum beer called dolo and a type of iced hibiscus tea called bissap. There’s also fermented palm sap called banji, but where the hell can I find a palm in NYC? No, no these wouldn’t do – I wanted something a little more, I don’t know… substantial. The answer? Zoom Koom.

Zoom Koom, with extra zoom

“Zoom Koom” means “flour water” in the Mòoré language of the Mossi people, Burkina’s ethnic majority. It tastes like you blended together ginger ale, a fruit smoothie, a chili pepper, some raisins and a little bread dough and poured it over some ice. (Go ahead and spend a few minutes imagining that, or even just weighing how close to insanity I have drifted.) The zoom part of the name refers specifically to millet flour, which has a sweet, raw cereal flavor and makes the drink a little gritty, and grittier still the longer it steeps in the liquid. The addition of piment en poudre – powdered scotch bonnet pepper – also induces sweating to cool you off even further.

This is edible, I promise.

Another crucial component of this drink is tamarind, specifically in the form of a decoction – in other words, you clean it, you boil it and then strain out the liquid, leaving the depleted solids behind. The resultant liquid is tart, but with a kind of yeasty sourdough aftertaste. Once added to the Zoom Koom recipe its sharpness is dulled by the sugar and the fresh ginger. Ginger is, indeed, the strongest flavor here, which not only makes this drink feel refreshing but also makes it NOT feel cloying or heavy – the calorie load from the millet alone is quite high (90 calories for 1/8 cup raw flour), so it is impressive that someone could drink this and not have to take a nap right after.

Whole millet

Speaking of millet (bet you’ve never started a sentence like that) – it’s a major crop in West Africa and in other developing countries, probably because of its high calorie content, its adaptability to dry climates and its relatively short maturation period. More energy with less work in less time. It’s actually really delicious as a breakfast food – you can make it into something like a porridge or oatmeal, and it’s naturally gluten free. It’s also high in fiber – and that’s fun for everyone!

OK, enough with the Zoom Koom. You’ve been properly greeted. Let’s eat.

Besides millet, two other major agricultural products in Burkina Faso are peanuts and legumes, with the most notable being the “cowpea”, or black-eyed pea. I LOVE these beans. Maybe a little too much.

A popular street food based on mashed black-eyes peas carries the benign French name of beignets de haricots – bean fritters, basically – but the Mossi people have another more colorful name for them: Boussan touba. It’s basically translated as “Bissa’s ears” – the Bissa being another ethnic group in Burkina Faso. I am guessing that the joke is that the Bissa have big ears, but since the Mossi and Bissa both descend from the Mandé people of Ghana (and much of West Africa), it seems to me that their ears might look pretty similar. Whatever, I’m staying neutral on this one.

Big ears

These things are good. They taste like festival food, something you’d find at a carnival.The black-eyed peas, well-boiled, relax into a starchy mash that could easily be confused with potato. No single flavor stands out on its own here – instead, the humble ingredients merge into a deeply satisfying, crunchy, creamy, even juicy fritter that reminds me of the best of french fries and chicken soup simultaneously. Without seasoning, they are pretty bland. But once you begin to add salt, a savoriness begins appearing everywhere. There is a robust richness in these boring old beans, but it first has to be coaxed out with fat and a good pinch of sodium.

I ate the mashed and fried equivalent of a one-pound bag of black eyed peas. Shameful, but necessary.

Mougoudougou. Say it three times fast.

This next one was hard to pronounce, and even harder to find a recipe for – mougoudougou. They are supposed to be little golf ball-sized snacks of raw millet flour, mashed ginger, sugar and either ground peanuts or peanut butter. The jury is still out on this one. There is one – count it, ONE – recipe for this dish on the entire internet; trust me, I’ve checked. In English AND French. And it basically goes “take everything and mix it together.” So, you know. I’m not exactly working with L’Escoffier here.

Since the ingredient list gets no more specific than just saying “peanuts”, I made a batch using freshly shelled, raw peanuts that I ground in a spice grinder. This was clearly wrong. I took a bite and all I felt was dry, crumbly, grainy displeasure. They also didn’t look as soft and supple as the ones I had seen in pictures. I amended the recipe to use peanut butter, and it worked MUCH better – soft, with a peppery-ginger bite and the texture of raw cookie dough. That millet cereal-sweetness was still there too. Oddly enough, it sort of tasted a little bit like the Zoom Koom.

Something still seems fishy to me, though, since the only place I have ever seen “peanut butter” is in the U.S. But then, I’ve also never been to West Africa, and from the looks of things they really know their peanuts. I will leave it to any readers from Burkina Faso to confirm/deny this recipe for me. Help!

Finally the main course – riz gras, or “fat rice”. It really is a simple dish – rice, cooked with meat and veggies and a little tomato to stain it all red. I was ready for this one to be a softball recipe, but then when it came down to choosing the correct type of rice to use, I hit a wall.

I mean, we all know our Asian rices: basmati, jasmine, japonica, etc. The there are the weird “enriched”, par-cooked American rices, which are more science than nature. But then what? What the hell type of rice do they eat in Africa??

Two words – Oryza glaberrima.

Most of those Asian varieties are from the oryza sativa species, and are cultivated absolutely everywhere. But oryza glaberrima – also known as African rice – is native to West Africa, which makes it undoubtedly the preferred vehicle for the flavors of riz gras. It is also far less cultivated than it’s Asian cousins.

OK, so… how do I get some?

It turns out tons of research has been done on this, and the findings are surprising, but also completely logical. The most well-known cultivar of African rice available in the United States is… good old Carolina Gold. The hypothesis is as follows: in order to feed slaves being carried from West Africa to America during the long sea passage, slave ships were packed with loads of African rice. Upon arrival, there was occasionally leftover African rice, which somehow found its way into the dirt of the Carolinas and Georgia. It eventually came to be the most cultivated variety of rice in the American South, though now it is sadly relegated to “heirloom” status. I got a batch from Anson Mills, here. I believe that they are doing important work to preserve what is a dwindling variety of superb rice, so please consider supporting them.

Riz gras is one of those dishes that doesn’t need to be flashy to be good. It’s like the John Cazale of food. First, you brown the meat. Then you sweat some veggies and throw in some water, the meat and the secret ingredient – a Maggi chicken stock cube. (NB: this seems to be a secret ingredient all over the world.) The recipes I found did not dictate a cooking time, just that everything should “cook”. Thanks dudes! My rule is that lamb should stew for at least two hours to be fork-tender, so I followed that. I used some lean stew lamb, but fattier and on-the-bone pieces are also an option. They would have probably made it greasier and higher in calories and fat, but since meat is such a luxury in this part of the world that would probably be just dandy. The real highlight is the tomato, which makes the rice sweet and faintly tart, and also serves to break up all the oil and rendered lamb fat.

That fancy heirloom Carolina Gold rice held its shape perfectly – it stayed light and starchy, and did not get waterlogged even when I clumsily overcooked it a bit. It’s built for a dish like this, soaking up flavors readily. It also has that nice chew in the center, like riso arborio or arroz bomba.

For humans, this is as good as it gets – protein, carbs and veggies all in one bite, with a flavor that is satisfying but not challenging. It’s a comfort food, just like arroz con pollo, kabsa, biryani, and every other variant of this dish that exists in the world.

Good on you, Burkina Faso. Here, I’ll raise the last of my Zoom Koom to Veronique – wherever she is, I hope that she’d be as proud of me now as I was of her then.

Now you go:

Zoom Koom (“Flour-Water”, aka “eau de bienvenue”)
1½ cups fine millet flour
1 cup sugar (to taste, though it should be quite sweet)
4 cups tamarind decoction (see recipe below)
2 two-inch x two-inch pieces of ginger, peeled
1 pineapple, peeled, cored and cut into large chunks
1 pinch piment en poudre (powdered habanero/scotch bonnet pepper)

Blend the pineapple and ginger in a blender until smooth. Add the flour. Pulse for a few minutes until everything seems homogeneous. Add tamarind juice, sugar and piment en poudre. Blend well again. Pour through a fine mesh strainer. Serve over ice.

Tamarind Decoction
1 lb tamarind pods
8 cups water

Prepare the tamarind by removing the outer shell and peeling off the twiggy membrane attached to it from tip to tail. Place cleaned pulp in a deep pot along with the water, and bring to a boil. Cook for about 30 minutes, mashing occasionally with a wooden spoon or spatula. It will smell like muffins as it cooks, enjoy this.

After 30 minutes, turn off the heat. Once it has cooled, strain the liquid through cheesecloth and discard the solids. The decoction is now ready to use.

Boussan Touba
1 lb. dried black-eyed peas
half a small onion, diced fine
1 carrot, diced fine
1 egg, whisked
salt and black pepper to taste
wheat flour (for dredging)
1½ cups peanut oil (for frying)

Cook the dry beans in boiling water for about 40 minutes, or until they are very soft. Drain them well in a colander. Combine the onion and carrot in a food processor. Add the beans (in batches if necessary) and mix well to form a wet dough. Season well with salt and pepper (probably about a teaspoon of salt and a ½ tsp of pepper to start) and mix to combine. To form the “ears”, shape the dough into golf ball-sized balls and flatten them with your palm. Dredge these patties in the flour and immediately fry in hot peanut oil until they are browned and crisp on both sides (about 3-5 minutes per side). Sprinkle liberally with salt and serve hot.

1 cup fine millet flour
1 cup natural peanut butter
3 tbsp minced and mashed ginger root
1 cup sugar

“Mix everything together at the same time.” Eat with your hands.

Riz Gras
1 lb meat, in 1-2 inch chunks (In Burkina this is usually lamb or goat)
2 onions, chopped
3 tomatoes, quartered
¼ head of cabbage, chopped
4 carrots, diced
2 cups of rice
1 Cube Maggi Chicken bouillon
1 ½ tbsp tomato paste
4 cups + 3 tbsp water
Salt and pepper to taste
2 tbsp peanut oil

Heat half of the oil in a dutch oven. When it is smoking, add the meat and brown well. Remove meat and reserve. Add the rest of the oil to the pot. When hot, add the onions and tomatoes. While they soften, combine the tomato paste and the bouillon cube with about 3 tbsp water. Add this to the pot along with all of the other vegetables. Add the water, bring to a boil and then reduce heat to a simmer. Allow to cook for about 2 hours, or until meat is very tender. Add the rice, stir a few times and cover the pot. Continue to cook over low heat until liquid is absorbed and the rice is done to your liking. Serve hot.




Click to access BURKINA%20FASO.pdf


Republic of Bulgaria

It seems that several cuisines that have already had their day share similarities with the still relatively-unknown food culture of Bulgaria. “Culture” being the operative word, since so many of Bulgaria’s dishes are dependent on their rich, unique and multiform dairy products, including their particularly exceptional yogurt. Ingredients and dishes that most Americans would readily recognize – Greek yogurt (enjoying a creamy heyday even as I write this), feta cheese, the cheese-and-phyllo pie known to initiates as tyropita and the spinachy version called spanakopita, the Roman staple of caciocavallo cheese, the skewered morsels of heaven known as kebab – have analogous counterparts in Bulgarian cuisine. Why??

Let me tell you a little story about some dudes called the Ottomans.

Bulgarian yogurt (left), Bulgarian kashkaval cheese (upper right), Bulgarian “sirene” cheese (lower right)

Once upon a time, around the year 1300, a group of Muslim emirs led by Sultan Osman I were like, “bro, let’s start an amazingly tolerant and far-reaching empire.” So they did. At its peak, it stretched from Algeria to Azerbaijan, and even held power almost as far north as what is now Vienna. During its more than 600 years of rule, the Ottoman Empire wisely allowed most of the lands under its control to maintain their own religious and cultural autonomy while still paying tribute to the Turks. This policy has really paid off for people like us who are alive now – food in general is much, much more delicious because of this open approach to exchange between east and west.**

[**Don’t get me wrong – it didn’t work out for everybody. They were an empire, after all. But, you know. – MR]

In keeping with this theme of cultural exchange, I’m going to show you a Bulgarian dish that has etymological roots in Arabic and exists in a huge number of countries. It’s called chorba.

Chorba is just a word for stew/soup in most formerly-Ottoman countries, but the root of the word comes from the Arabic verb sharaba [للشرب] (pronounced more like “shuh-ruh-buh”)- “to drink”. This same verb has given us the English word sherbet/sorbet (frozen liquid, get it?) as well as the shrub, a vinegar-based cocktail that is finally beginning to be made – artisanally, of course – by fashionably-spindly, mustachioed bartenders in V-neck t-shirts. As a word, “sharaba” has mutated from its Arabic root form to the various regional versions we see now – ciorbă; shurpa; shorpo; sorpa; etc. All of these versions refer to stew or liquid food in one way or another.

Honeycomb tripe – washed, trimmed and ready to have the stink boiled out of it.

So what do Bulgarians do with чорба (Bulgaria uses the Cyrillic alphabet, duh)? One of the most beloved Bulgarian dishes, and one that has the reputation of being a foolproof hangover cure, is a humble tripe stew called shkembe chorba [Шкембе чорба]. There’s not much in it besides oil, milk, boiled cow stomach slices and a little hot paprika to help you sweat out last night’s sake bombs. It’s not hard to make, but the process of de-funking the tripe is a little time consuming and, well… stanky. You’ll want to change the tripe’s water after each boil, maybe about four times, until the butyric-acid (read: barf) smell has mostly gone away. Oh, and open a window.

Shkembe chorba with its traditional accompaniment of vinegar-soaked garlic. Probably stay away from any speed-dating events for a day or so. Or people in general.

If prepared correctly, this stew is not very gamey, though it is pretty hard to forget that you’re eating stomach since there ain’t much else in it. The milk mellows out the tripe, and the warm dairy richness against the black and red pepper is super comforting – sort of like our own mac & cheese, which many people also crave during a hangover. For my own taste, it could definitely use a more profound paprika flavor than most recipes allow, but maybe it’s supposed to be nuanced and inoffensive to a troubled tummy. Texturally the tripe is soft, tender and slippery, even a little gelatinous. The garlic-vinegar condiment also adds a nasal component to the flavor – the dairy stays on your tongue and the sharp fumes go right to your nose, clearing out your booze-battered sinuses.

OK, you’ve had a rough night – go to bed and I’ll have breakfast waiting.

Good morning! Feeling better? No? Well it’s your own fault, you worthless drunk.

Here, have some boza and roasted chickpeas.

The fermented wheat-flour beverage known as boza, along with some roasted chickpeas and a piece of wood. The piece of wood is for show, not for eating.

Boza is a lightly-fermented drink made from roasted wheat flour. It’s popular in most formerly-Ottoman countries, with the Bulgarian recipe being one of the most prominent. It’s not hard to make, just roast some white flour until it’s light brown, mix with water, sugar and a little leftover boza from your previous batch and let those handy anaerobic organisms do the rest. [NB: to escape the infinite regress of not having any boza to start with, see the recipe below for a boza starter]

Roasted white flour (left) and unroasted white flour (right). See the color? Don’t go much further than that or you’ll burn it.

Once it has fermented for a few days, give it a good shake and pop it in the fridge. (I hopefully shouldn’t need to tell you to also be sure all of your jars and whatnot are sterile and clean, or you could potentially grow something heinous in there instead of boza.) Cold, fresh boza is really nice if you can get down with the slightly gritty texture. It tastes like a light milkshake made out of fresh cinnamon toast and marzipan. It’s realllllly sweet, very thick, and ever-so-faintly fermenty. It also goes great with the mouth-moisture-eliminating traditional accompaniment of roasted chickpeas and a little dusting of powdered cinnamon.

OK sorry, I’ll go make breakfast now. Do you need a bucket? No? Well, stay off the couch just in case. Here’s a blanket and some Advil.

In Bulgaria, a traditional breakfast will pair boza with a savory cheese pie called banitsa [Баница], which is made from all of the bounty of Bulgaria’s dairy industry. Some recipes use one cheese, others use two, and some even use two cheeses AND yogurt. That’s the version I picked.

Bulgarian “sirene”, a brined sheep’s-milk cheese

The first of our two cheeses (all of which I found at the poorly-named Parrot Coffee store in here in Astoria) will be sirene [бяло сирене], which is a lot like feta – or perhaps I should say feta is a lot like sirene. Where Greek feta has a firmness that can, at times, be a little chalky, Bulgarian sirene is softer, creamier and much brinier. It has a salty, pickled intensity that even crosses the border into “smoky”, and it’s savory to the point where you can feel your brain dumping happy chemicals like Han Solo in front of an Imperial patrol.

Our other cheese, kashkaval [кашкавал], has a name derived from Italy’s caciocavallo cheese, I think. Or it also seems possible that the Italians named their version of this semi-hard cheese (“cacio” = “caseus” = “cheese”) after the horse-riding (“cavallo”) Aromanian nomads that may have actually created it first. The world may never know. In any case, it’s also a bit salty and melts readily, and even shares some characteristics with your garden-variety cheddar.

I’m going to throw together a quick assembly montage on making Bulgarian banitsa. Ready?

Brush a few sheets of phyllo dough (really you should use Bulgarian “kori” dough, if possible) with melted butter.

Put a few spoonfuls of the yogurt-and-cheese filling in a line and roll up into a cylinder. Place in a spiral shape in a baking pan, **STARTING FROM THE CENTER**. Guess why I don’t have a picture of the next step.

Finish with a drenching of eggs whipped into club soda for “lift”.

Now would be a good time to impart some wisdom – if you didn’t already know, springform pans are NOT watertight. They will hold in a thick cake batter, but not so much a runny mess of club soda and raw egg. So, yeah. Oops.

Speaking of club soda – why? As we’ve seen before, club soda’s main ingredient, besides water, is sodium bicarbonate, aka baking soda. What does baking soda do again? Well, when heated with acidic ingredients, it releases carbon dioxide. If you do it right, these carbon dioxide bubbles will get trapped in whatever you’re cooking, making it light and airy. Like this:

Now you just let it set for a bit (it will deflate), pop it out of the pan and cut a slice. Serve it with a big dollop of Bulgarian yogurt, which is less like Greek yogurt and more like Indian or Afghani yogurt – runnier, saltier, cheesier, grassier. Real “Bulgarian” yogurt must be made with the Lactobacillus bulgaricus bacterium, otherwise it ain’t Bulgarian.

oh god oh god

From where I’m standing, the recipe I used appears to have wayyyy too many eggs. Very liquid. Less yogurt, fewer eggs, and more cheese would make for a drier filling that would be MUCH easier to work with.

That aside – DAMN. Steam pours out. So crackly, so creamy. With the cold, tart yogurt against the hot, smoky sirene, rich melted kashkaval and buttery, flaky kori dough, it’s almost overwhelming. A sip of cold, sweet boza and your palette is balanced and reset. It’s like sirene was built expressly for this purpose, like Robocop was built to fight crime and Vicki from Small Wonder was built to… wait, why did they build her? Anyway, this stuff rules.

Bulgaria, you get short shrift but I think your time is coming. Thanks for making awesome cheese and yogurt, and helping drunk people feel better about their life choices.

Now you go:

Shkembe Chorba
1 lb. prepared veal or beef honeycomb tripe
1 cup sunflower oil
2 cups whole milk
1 tsp paprika
1 tbsp freshly-ground black pepper
1 tbsp sea salt
2 garlic cloves, peeled and thinly sliced
1/3 cup red wine vinegar
hot chilli flakes, to taste

Clean the tripe thoroughly with water, rubbing it with coarse salt to remove any debris.

Boil the tripe in abundant salted water for about 20 minutes. Drain. Repeat until the stink stops (probably four times or so).

Slice the tripe into chunks. In a pot, combine the oil, milk, tripe, salt, pepper and paprika. Bring to a boil, then lower to a simmer and cook for about 30 minutes.

In a small bowl, mix the vinegar with the garlic. Let this sit while you cook the soup.

Serve the soup hot, and garnish with the vinegar-garlic.

Brush your teeth.

1 packet of #4 phyllo dough (Bulgarian “fini kori” or Greek phyllo)
300 grams kashkaval, grated
400 grams sirene, mashed
3 + 1 eggs
½ stick of butter, melted
1/2 cup of soda water
1/2 cup yogurt (Bulgarian!)

Combine the cheeses, 3 eggs and the yogurt in a big bowl. Refrigerate.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

On a steady work surface, layer 3-4 sheets of phyllo dough, and brush them with butter. Put about 4 tbsp of filling at one end of the sheets, and roll into a loose cylinder. Arrange cylinder in a spiral shape in a greased metal pan, starting from the center. Repeat, continuing the spiral shape until you run out of room.

Whisk the remaining egg with the club soda and pour evenly over the banitsa.

Pop in the oven and bake until the top of the pastry is browned to your liking and the whole mass has risen a bit.

Remove from oven, let cool slightly, and then slice and serve with Bulgarian yogurt and boza.

4 cups water
1/3 cup flour (100 mL)
1/3 cup sugar (100 mL)
boza starter (see below)
roasted chickpeas (as accompaniment)
powdered cinnamon (as garnish)

Bake the flour until light brown, then add the water and the sugar and mix well. Leave in a sterilized, sealed jar in a warm place for 2-3 days. Shake occasionally. Then transfer to fridge and drink when fully chilled. Can be sprinkled with a little powdered cinnamon and served alongside roasted chickpeas.

Boza Starter
4 tablespoons flour
2 tablespoon water
2 tablespoon sugar

Mix together all ingredients and leave, covered in plastic wrap, to ferment in a warm place for about 3-4 days. Use in boza recipe (above).













Click to access ENG_21-Kiselo_mlqko.pdf



Nation of Brunei, Abode of Peace

Guys. This one almost broke me.

I can’t really overstate how much time and effort I put into this entry – over six months of preparation and research, visits to at least twelve different Asian markets in three boroughs and a few on the internet, countless informational favors from friends of friends (of friends) and even (unanswered) emails to the Embassy of Brunei in Washington, D.C. and the Brunei Board of Tourism – just sayin, I really, really hope it was worth it. Though Brunei sits on the world’s third-largest island, you’d never know it from the paucity of specifically Bruneian ingredients in New York City.

It was very important to me that, for this entry, I highlight a dish that was unique to Brunei. See, its proximity to other countries in Southeast Asia – especially Malaysia and Indonesia, with whom it shares the island of Borneo – causes most people to assume that Brunei’s food culture is simply an offshoot of these of other sovereignties. This may be true to a large extent, and especially so regarding other Southeast-Asian Muslim countries, but there is indeed a dish found in Brunei that is found nowhere else, and this is exactly what we are going to make.

They call it ambuyat.

Sago pearls (left) and powdered, sifted sago pearls (right)

Ambuyat is a dish based around cooked ambulung, or powdered sago starch. Ambulung is extracted from the pith of the sago palm‘s bark, and became an important nutritional component of the average Bruneian’s diet during World War II. With the Japanese occupation of the island and the subsequent shortages of rice, Borneo natives in need turned to the traditionally indigenous, calorie-rich carbohydrate staple of sago starch in order to survive. Times have changed, of course, following the discovery of immense oil supplies in 1929, but Bruneians still hold ambuyat – the modern version of this carb – in high regard as an honored piece of their heritage and national character. Blog posts abound of smiling Bruneians enjoying bowls of gooey, gelatinous ambuyat with a seemingly endless array of colorful side dishes and dips. I did not find ready-to-cook ambulung anywhere (not surprising), but I did find real sago from an international seller on Amazon, so I powdered it myself and sifted several times. (Note: Sago is often confused with the sometimes-inaccurately-translated sabudana, an Indian ingredient that is variably made from either sago or tapioca/yuca starch. No way to tell for sure, so I went with the harder-to-find real deal.)

Now, ambuyat on its own has no real flavor – it’s just, well… starchy, kind of like a bland, free-form noodle. This is where the side dishes come in. Ambuyat is meant to be served alongside a variety of dips, condiments, meats, soups and greens. It’s also NOT supposed to be chewed – you’re obliged to use your candas (“chan-das”, a special two-pronged bamboo stick) to twirl up some of the steaming hot goo, dip it in one of the condiments (cacah, pronounced “cha-cha” [NB: I stand corrected, it is pronounced “cha-cah”! – MR]), and then swallow the lump whole. I assume lots of tourists choke on ambuyat.

After looking at a lot of pictures of ambuyat spreads and reading numerous travelogues involving this dish, I decided on three condiments, a veggie and a soup, all representative of a typical ambuyat meal. Let’s start with the most formidable of these condiments – sambal tempoyak, a fermented durian sauce.

Wait, did you say “durian”? FERMENTED durian?!

Musang King durian (Durian Kunyit), not-so-fresh from Malaysia by way of Chinatown and probably a huge steel storage container.

Oh, yes. Yes, I did.

Durian’s flavor is not really the insipid horror that it’s so often made out to be. (NB: if you’ve never heard of this fruit, you should really read the wiki on it as a primer.) It’s not a taste that I am at all fond of, but after two encounters with this spiky plant I am beginning to understand how some find it to be very appealing. There IS a sweetness buried under its dizzying funk – something not unlike an overripe papaya mixed with rotten onions in a hot dumpster. I have no explanation for this, but the sense memory that most readily springs up for me when I taste durian is actually the pink amoxicillin syrup I had to drink by the tiny-plastic-cupful when I used to get strep throat as a kid – medicinally sweet, cringe-inducing and imbued with reluctance and a little fear. I also taste boiled egg. If you’ve ever tried to thoughtfully tackle a really runny, pungent French cheese that reeks of a barn, you’re getting the idea. To say it’s an acquired taste is a drastic, abhorable understatement. But there is nothing else like it on earth.

The real issue with durian, I think, is that it’s just so AUDACIOUS. Durian is that guy at the party who is incessantly jingling change in his pocket, excitedly slapping everyone on the back WAY too hard and eventually, I don’t know, breaking the bathroom door by accident or something. He’s not subtle at all, and even though deep-down he’s probably a really nice guy and just wants approval, everyone’s always like “ugggghhhh durian is here…” There is no “Durian Lite” – the volume knob is always at 11.

Durian pulp (the yellow part), still lovingly attached to the seed

The poor durian’s problems stem partially from its complex profile of volatile compounds – lots of sulfur flavors and esters. Notable among these are ethyl acetate (which carries a smell that many would recognize as nail polish remover), benzyl alcohol (which is present in jasmine and some teas, but also in commercial wood laquer) and, after sitting for a while, ammonia. Another issue for those of us in the West – as the fruit ages during shipping, the ester compounds that provide sweetness break down, while sulfur content remains stable and benzyl alcohol content increases. All this means is that the “off” smell of a durian gets worse the longer it takes to get from Asia to your nose, and unless you taste a durian close to its harvest chances are you’re really only getting a stank, aged, overripe version of it. Couple that with its stringy, mushy texture and it’s knifepoint-sharp spikes and you have a recipe for wholesale character assassination in the West. It’s just criminal.

Anyway, tempoyak – you scoop out the bright yellow seed-nodes from a durian, mash up the pulp, mix it with salt and put it in a jar. Wait a week. Apologize to everyone around you for the aroma seeping out of the fridge while you frenziedly seal the jar in ever-more concentric layers of ziploc bags. Now you have this:

oh man

Take everything I said about durian up to this point, and multiply it by six. Then add more onion and egg. That’s tempoyak.

Obviously durian is not the only ingredient in Bruneian cuisine. Like its neighbors, Brunei has an affinity for other Southeast-Asian ingredients like birdseye chilies, shallots and belacan, a roasted, fermented shrimp paste that comes in the shape of a brick.

Malaysian belacan

The flavor of belacan is also hard to describe, since its odor and its taste are so different from each other – to my Western nose, it smells of fresh, wet soil. Taken alone (which is almost never done), it tastes of bitter ocean water. Regular eaters of belacan say that it imbues food with an indescribable flavor, like the umami of Far Eastern cuisine (which has so recently become such an irritating and anemic buzzword in the U.S.) It’s what belacan does to other ingredients that defines its role.

Shallot, chilis and belacan – it’s clobberin time

These ingredients, along with juice from the ultra-sweet calamansi lime (found in concentrate form at Shi Eurasia, a Malaysian/Kiwi supply store on Orchard Street in Manhattan), form the base of the condiments that will be served with our ambuyat – the aforementioned sambal tempoyak (funky, fruity), the ubiquitous, classically Malaysian sambal belacan (pure salty fire) and the chunky and unexpectedly effervescent sambal cencaluk (uhhh…)

A quick word on that last one – first off, nobody told me that cencaluk was carbonated (edit: not true, the wiki says it. I’m just dumb.). It’s just salt-fermented/pickled udang geragau, the same tiny shrimp/krill that are used to make belacan. No big deal, right? It came in what looked like an old-school soda bottle, complete with a metal bottle-cap that depicted a cartoon shrimp on it. That shrimp was the last thing I saw before my face, my arms, my chest and part of the ceiling were coated in a heterogeneous veil of aged, semi-liquid shellfish. The bottle-cap had rocketed into another room, and the aroma surrounding me was something like cat food or semi-digested tuna sandwich. Which, if you think about it, is sort of what cencaluk is – sea creature that has been coaxed into an intermediate and retarded state of putrefaction, allowing the volatile compounds within it to merge, disintegrate and recombine into new flavors, odors and colors. Not really all that different from a lot of stuff eaten in the West – wine, beer, prosciutto, sauerkraut, yogurt, pickles… It’s really just the fishy angle on fermentation that freaks us out, since our exposure to it is usually minimal. And by “minimal” I really don’t mean a cup-and-a-half of it violently shot at my face.

Cencaluk (left) and sambal cencaluk (right)

OK, we got these sambals pretty much on lockdown, so let’s move on to the main course – ikan kembung asam rebus, or “sour mackerel soup”. Again, I’ll need to introduce a few out-of-the-ordinary ingredients.

fresh turmeric root

First we have fresh turmeric root, which is integral to many cuisines of the East and has very recently become quite the vogue in dietary supplements and as an additive in those heavily-marketed health drinks. Studies are showing that turmeric root touts vigorous anti-cancer properties, and it has an clean, astringent, nasal taste that is very unique. In this soup its main role is to reinforce the “sour” aspect against the fattiness of the mackerel, along with another strange product, asam keping.

asam keping (aka asam gelugor, left) and daun kesom (Persicaria odorata, aka rau ram, Vietnamese mint, right)

Asam keping are dried slices of a Malaysian rainforest fruit that is know botanically as garcinia atroviridis. This fruit is SOUR. Like, short-guy-passed-up-for-promotion-to-manager sour, or quadruple-divorcee sour. Trust me, I chewed on a piece and my face involuntary imploded into a fleshy singularity. To make the soup, you just toss a few pieces into the pot along with the turmeric, chilis, more belacan and mushed-up shallots, and a nice, slender mackerel, hacked in half. Oh, and water.

To finish this dish, you sprinkle on a little daun kesom, which has a grassy flavor that is kind of like mint but also kind of like something else. The Vietnamese superstition is that daun kesom (or rau ram, in Vietnamese) suppresses sexual urges, though with the breath you’d have after eating this I really couldn’t imagine anyone being in much of a mood for the horizontal mambo anyway.

sour times

OK, last dish. It’s an easy one, finally. You’ll need two more major ingredients:

ikan bilis (aka anchovies, dried)

First, some dried anchovies – the same salty fishies that Asian fish sauce is made from! These are to be pounded in a mortar along with the requisite shallot and chilis, and even a little garlic this time.

sayur bayam, which translates as “spinach vegetable” but is actually a totally different genus in the Amaranthaceae family

You take this paste now and saute it along with gorgeously-hued sayur bayam, a sneaky name for the by-now-familiar amaranth. Before I started this blog I had no clue how freaking common amaranth/callaloo/borogo/imbuya/bayam is in the world diet – it grows almost everywhere, and pretty hardily at that. The name amaranth comes from the Greek word for “undying”, which maybe explains its popularity, if not its ubiquity.

As this cooks, it actually smells a lot like an Italian dish I know very well – escarole braised with anchovy and garlic. Finally, a moment of recognizable comfort after spending so many hours wandering with no map (and no GPS).

And so here were are, friends. The hour of reckoning, after so much planning, grimacing and exploding shrimp guts. With no small measure of anxiety I poured boiling water into a large bowl and whisked the ambuyat with all of myself. I couldn’t get the powder ground as finely as an industrial machine could, so it came out a little clumpy, but still far better than I had expected. I also made myself some makeshift, MacGruber-style candas by snapping and then taping together some chopsticks from the Chinese restaurant down the block.

The full spread, with a hot bowl of ambuyat and homemade, bootleg candas

stop staring at me, sambal tempoyak

I want to be honest – I’m sort of struggling with how this entry has played itself out. I really wanted to give Brunei a fair shake, and I think I have done that at least through my methodological diligence. The one major setback here has been my palette. I am what I’d consider to be an open-minded eater, but for the first time in a very long time I have found my gastro-cultural foundation to be… inadequate. I have never before tasted flavors so foreign to me, or smelled smells so contextually confused – what others, somewhere else, celebrate and crave has made me recoil, wince, shake my head with panic, “NO!”, while eons of evolved neurological defenses strongly suggested I not allow what was in my mouth go any further into my body. Like an unholy inversion of Proust’s madeleine, a celebrated condiment recalls the taste and smell of tuna-sandwich vomit; a much-loved soup, sniffed with closed eyelids, brings up only sense memories of dumpsters and soil; and a life-saving carbohydrate conjures only the faintest apostate recollection of masticated communion wafers.

Can this be right? Is this what these foods are supposed to taste like? How can I know if I made a mistake??

here goes nothing

What else can I say? Brunei, it’s not you, it’s me. I’ll get there, I swear.

Wait for me?


(***One confession before we wrap this up – I was unable to make the über-condiment that goes along with many ambuyat sittings – the eponymous and sour-sweet cacah ambuyat. There are no exports of binjai, a sour mango native to Borneo, to the U.S., or probably to anywhere for that matter. Binjai is necessary in ambuyat cacah, though, and you know my policy – sine qua non, no substitutions, no bullshit. I did confirm, however, that ambuyat is normally served with a choice of condiments, and that not everyone chooses or even likes the version with binjai. The side dishes I did include should all be legit and have been quadruple-checked. If you are Bruneian and see this, pleaaaaase inform me of any accuracy issues and I will gladly look into a correction.***)

[UPDATE: WOW! Lots of Bruneians have looked at this entry, based on the wonderful comments below and my WordPress hit map. Terima kasih to you all for the kind words and helpful information! This is precisely the type of feedback that I pray for with each entry. Now, a few corrections to make:

– The dip that accompanies ambuyat is pronounced “cha-cah”, not “cha-cha” as previously explained.
Binjai is apparently NOT necessary to make a proper cacah!
– The belacan that I used is possibly the wrong regional type – rather than the chalky brick version, it has been suggested that I instead use what I can only assume to be petis udang, a stickier, fresher-looking version.
Ambuyat is apparently also found in Maluku, Indonesia and Papua where it is known as papeda.
– Cooking sago is hard for Bruneians, too.]

Now you go:

1 cup mashed durian pulp
1 tsp salt

Mix well. Store in an airtight container for 1-2 weeks. Eat. Will keep in the fridge indefinitely.

Sago pearls, ground

Whisk boiling water into a large bowl containing the ground sago starch. Continue to whisk until it sets. Serve with sambals, using candas.

Sayur Bayam Goreng
2 bunches amaranth (bayam)
handful dried anchovies (ikan bilis)
4 shallots (bawang merah)
2 cloves of garlic (bawang putih)
sliced birdseye chili (cili padi potong)

Pound the shallots, garlic, chilis and ikan bilis in a mortar. Saute in a little neutral oil until fragrant. Add the amaranth and continue to cook until tender. Serve.

Ikan Kembung Asam Rebus
1 mackerel, cleaned (ikan kembong)
2 red birdseyes (cili padi)
2 red serranos (cili merah)
1/2 inch belacan
4 shallots
4 pcs asam gelugor/keping
3 sprigs daun kesom (persicaria odorata)
1-inch knob fresh turmeric, peeled
salt to taste

Clean the fish and cut it to fit the pot. Pound the chilis together in a mortar until smooth. Top the fish with the pounded chilies, asam gelugor, turmeric and water. Let it boil and add the daun kesom and salt. Cook about 20 minutes or until the fish is flaky and cooked through. Serve hot!

Sambal Cencaluk
4 tbsp cencaluk
4 shallots
2 tbsp sliced red birdseye chili (cili padi)
1 tsp palm sugar
2 tbsp calamansi lime juice

Pound the chilis, shallots and sugar in a mortar. Mix well with cencaluk and lime juice. Serve. (NB: if using calamansi concentrate omit the palm sugar! It’s already sweetened.)

Sambal Tempoyak
4 tsp tempoyak
3 birdseye chilis (cili padi)
1 serrano chili (cili merah)
1 tbsp belacan
Salt to taste

Pound the chilis and belacan in a mortar. Mix well with tempoyak. Serve at room temperature.

Sambal Belacan
4 oz sliced chilis (cili padi)
1 tablespoon belacan
1 – 1 1/2 teaspoons palm sugar
2 tablespoons calamansi lime juice

Pound the chilis, belacan, salt and palm sugar in a mortar. Mix well with lime juice. Serve. (NB: if using calamansi concentrate omit the palm sugar! It’s already sweetened.)



Click to access 10%20IFRJ-2009-110%20Karim%20Malaysia%205th%20proof.pdf



Click to access ACS_2002_826_25.pdf









Click to access Antony_Worrall_Thompson_Recipe_e-Book_Brunei.pdf























Federative Republic of Brazil

Whenever I meet someone from Brazil, I ask them what their favorite food is. After steak (picanha), it is almost always feijoada. It’s an old bean, pork and beef recipe, brought to South America, like many foods in many places, by those intrepid, globetrotting spice traders, the Portuguese, and then enhanced, like many other foods in many other places (and some of the same foods in the same places…), by African slaves and their descendants.

If you ask me, though, the finest gift of the Brazilians to the rest of the world is their irreplaceable, defiantly savory and happily chewy yuca-flour-based cheesy-bread, pão de queijo. It almost shouldn’t be allowed to exist.

Tell you what – I’ll make both.

Yuca flour, hot milk, egg

Pão de queijo are basically little ball-shaped breads that are made from cheese, oil, milk and yuca flour. A good one should be toasty and even a little crunchy on the outside, but steamy, yielding and stretchy-chewy on the inside. The stretch comes from the starchy (but not glutenous!) properties of yuca – think of the way that potato makes the texture of gnocchi different from all other pastas… it’s the same deal with this bread.

Queijo Minas, whole and grated

Absolutely crucial to real pão de queijo is Queijo Minas, a cheese from the region of Minas Gerais in Brazil. It’s a cow’s milk cheese that is quite salty, and gives a unique flavor to the bread that I was unable to get out of any other cheese I tried. It’s usually balanced with queijo parmesão, which pretty much everyone else knows as Parmigiano cheese.

I had a real beast of a time with these, much to my chagrin – I expected pão de queijo to be my ace in the hole, my softball pitch. But, once again, breadmaking has shown itself to be my white whale. I made three separate batches of these, from three different recipes, and while each of them tasted right (one was way too eggy, actually), they just kept flattening out while they baked, melting down like the guy at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. I went through two whole wheels of Queijo Minas before I realized that the type I was using (either frescal or meia-cura) was too wet for this application – I should have been using the drier, long-cured version called curado.

Here’s how my best batch came out:

ehhhhh... close, but no cigar.

Crunchy, chewy, cheesy… but the wrong shape, and wayyyy too big. Oh well, pretty damn close. We ate them all, anyway.

(Update: about two weeks ago, my Trade Fair started miraculously carrying Queijo Minas curado, so I’ll try to do one more batch soon and see if I can get them to stay spherical. Stay tuned…)

(Update 2: It worked! The picture below is how the new batch came out. I’ve updated the recipe to a final version, too. Enjoy!)

OK, now we got this. Pao de queijo, redux: This time it’s personal.

How about some lunch?

Dried black beans, soaked

Aside from good quality, dried, black turtle beans, there are a few other crucial ingredients for this stew, and almost all of them come from a pig – rib, foot, ear, belly, tail and… well, whatever the hell ends up making it into sausage. The sausages are crucial – it won’t be feijoada without paio and/or linguiça. You also need a nice chunk of cesina, which is just salt-brined beef – you’ll find this in Mexican groceries anywhere, and it’s straight-up deadly in a taco.

If these ingredients seem rustic, they indeed are. Feijoada was born in the slaves’ quarters, out of necessity and ingenuity, and has evolved over time into a dish that has gained international renown. (You can read more about its history here.) It’s all about surviving, using everything at your disposal, wasting nothing, and taking nothing for granted.

This little piggy didn't make it to the market.

I am very lucky to have met Selma from Ipanema Girl, a little Brazilian cafe and grocery store here in Astoria – she not only supplied me with everything I needed to make feijoada and pão de queijo, but also confirmed my recipes and even re-opened her store for me when I showed up, breathless, right as she was closing up for the night. She is a gem and you should give her your business!

There’s actually not much to the technique of this bean stew – like most stews, you throw a bunch of stuff in a pot, heat it up and then leave it alone for a while. There are, however, a few traditional accompaniments that you’ll need to make before you can truly eat it.

Shredded and quick-fried collard greens ("couve")

My favorite Brazilian resturant, Malagueta (the Portuguese name for the piri-piri chili we’ve seen before), serves their feijoada with medium-grain white rice, shredded and flash-fried collard greens and a big bowl of farofa, which is toasted yucca flour tossed with bacon and scallions. I followed their lead.

Farofa, which you will have trouble not spooning over absolutely everything you eat

Once you have all the parts assembled and your stew (which you have diligently been skimming of excess grease) is ready, time to slice up an orange (which, along with the collards, apparently aids in the digestion of the beans) and plate it up for as many people as you can fit around a table. Whoever gets the ear has to do the dishes! I just made that up.

Hope you don't have plans for the rest of the day, because you're about to cancel them.

This dish is so warm, so filling and so utterly comforting (and so high in sodium), I think I understand why, for many Brazilians, it is a defining aspect of their culture. It takes some very humble ingredients – the throw-away parts, even – and transforms them into a blanket made of dopamine, serotonin and cortisol. It’s a wondrous thing.

(NB: This post is dedicated to the memory of my dear student and friend Elígio, who, along with his wonderful wife Cristina, first introduced me to pão de queijo amid laughter and kindness. Eu me lembro, amigo.)

Now you go:

1 lb. sour manioc starch (aka polvilho azedo)
1 lb. sweet manioc starch (aka polvilho doce)
1 cup canola oil
4 cups whole milk
5 large eggs, at room temperature
1/4 lb. finely grated Parmigiano Reggiano (aka queijo parmesão)
3/4 lb. finely grated AGED Minas cheese (curado) (the softer, younger meia cura Minas cheese will NOT work in this recipe!!)
1 tbsp salt

Preheat oven to 375 degrees (F).

Sift flours and salt into a large bowl.

Heat milk and oil in a small saucepan, whisking CONSTANTLY (I’M NOT JOKING, CONSTANTLY) until just boiling. Slowly add to flour/salt mixture and incorporate gently – it should still look dry and lumpy. Leave to cool to room temperature.

One at a time, knead the eggs into the dough until just incorporated. Try not to over-mix. Then, knead in the cheeses, again trying to stop when it is juuuuust incorporated.

Oil your hands well and make golf-ball sized balls out of the sticky dough, making sure they are smooth and evenly shaped. Place them evenly on a lightly greased cookie sheet.

Bake at 375F until the outside is moderately browned, about 30 minutes.

Serve piping hot!

Feijoada Completa

1 1/2 cups dried black beans (turtle is preferred, for texture)
1/8 lb. carne seca/cesina (about the size of your flat hand)
1/8 lb. pork ribs (about 2 thick ribs)
1 pig foot, split
1-2 pig ears
1 pig tail (smoked, if possible)
4 strips smoked bacon, finely chopped
1 paio sausage, cut into thick slices
1/2 lb. of linguiça calabresa (Portuguese-style smoked pork sausage), cut into thick slices
1 white onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 tbsp olive oil
2 bay leaves
1 orange, peeled (remove all of the white pith!)
8 cups water

The night before, soak the pig foot, tail and ear in cold water to draw out blood/impurities. Separately, soak the cesina in cold water overnight. In yet another bowl, soak the beans in cold water.

The next day, put the foot, tail, ear and cesina in a pot with cold water to cover. Bring to a boil, boilf for 10 minutes and then drain. Refill the pot with cold water, bring to a boil again and cook until the meats are tender and beginning to fall apart. Drain well.

In a large pot or dutch oven (preferred), place the beans and 8 cups water, bay leaves, and peeled orange. Bring to a boil, then lower to simmering. Cook for 45 minutes. Add all meats, and cook for 20-30 more minutes.

In a saute pan, fry the onion and garlic on olive oil. Add about 1 cup of beans from the pan, cook briefly and mash well with the back of a spoon. Return the whole mess to the dutch oven and adjust for salt (YOU WILL NOT NEED TO ADD SALT.) Let simmer for about 20-30 more minutes, until beans are tender and meats are falling apart willingly. Remove from heat and let cool about 10 minutes.

Serve with boiled, medium-grain white rice, orange slices, farofa and (chiffonaded) collard greens (that have been quickly fried in canola oil and drained on paper towels. I’d write the recipe but that’s seriously the whole recipe. So…).

2 tbsp canola oil
1 small onion, minced
4 slices smoked bacon, minced
1 cup toasted manioc flour (farinha de mandioca torrada)
1 bunch scallions – only the dark green tops! – thinly sliced
salt and black pepper to taste

Saute the onion and bacon in the oil over low heat until the bacon is fully rendered and crisp. Add the flour a little at a time, stirring to coat. Add the scallions when the flour has just begun to brown. Remove from heat, mix well.

Serve at any temperature, and refrigerate any unused portion – there’s bacon it it, duh!















Republic of Botswana

I’m beginning to understand that beating things with big wooden sticks is pretty crucial to the African cook’s repertoire. It’s a very standard way of preparing a variety of starches – plantains, yams, mountain potatoes, cassava… Perhaps because of this, I wasn’t so shocked when I saw a recipe for a Botswanan wedding dish made of boiled, salted beef, pounded – you guessed it! – with a big wooden stick.

But wait. Before we get into our seswaa (as this meaty repast is dubbed), we’ll need to go back a couple of days to the starchy, funky origins of it’s traditional accompaniment – bogobe, or sorghum meal porridge.

Whole sorghum (left), ground sorghum (right)

Sorghum is the main crop in the regions surrounding Botswana, and makes up a large part of the indigenous diet. When I checked the nutrition info on the bag of sorghum I got from the health food store, I was amazed at its energy content in comparison with the same amount of either rice, pasta, or corn – one serving, which is not much at all, packs a tremendous 350 calories, certainly a godsend in a country and region where food supplies are often scarce and agricultural yields are necessarily fickle and drought-prone. A little goes a long way.

Botswanans have a few variations on bogobe. One involves cooking ground sorghum with sour milk, another is just plain and boiled with water. But the most interesting by far is called motogo-wa-ting, or just “ting” for short. It’s made by fermenting a small bit of sorghum meal in water for a few days, and then boiling it with fresh sorghum meal and more water. Since this took the longest to make and had the most potential to go wrong, I decided to go for it. Of course.

Note the yeasty chunks floating on top... mmmmm

I mixed about two tablespoons of raw sorghum meal into a bit of water and left it on my kitchen counter. I was a little confused, since the recipe did not call for yeast, or sugar, or any sort of agent that would help promote fermentation. Nevertheless, after about twenty-four hours I started to smell a faint whiff of what can only be called “fermentiness”. At the thirty-six-hour mark, it was getting quite a lot more fruity and sour, like weißbier. Finally at roughly forty-eight hours, I took one more big whiff of my sorghum Pruno, which was now quite funky, and dumped it into a big pot.

What happened here? Well, the sugars in the sorghum converted into lactic acid (the hard work here was done – I think – by anaerobic organisms). I’m pretty sure this also produced carbon dioxide, and possibly ethanol. Anyway, it fermented.

I let that sit for a while while I prepped the seswaa. When I say “prepped” what I really mean is that I plopped some boney, sinewy beef chuck into a pot with water and salt, and turned the heat on. I then waited about four hours, until I had this:

You might be asking, “Mark, why beef?” I saw somewhere that the banknotes in Botswana read “Digkoma se ya banka ya Botswana”, or “Cattle are the bank of Botswana.” Beef is a major resource there, and, fittingly, it is a large part of the national diet. I am sure, however, that cooking it on such a scale is a rare luxury, and the fact that no seasoning other than salt is added here is a sign of how revered the cow’s natural flavor must be.

The next step is the aforementioned clubbing of the beef with a wooden stick. I was doing this on a much smaller scale than what I had seen in Youtube videos and travel writing, so instead of a huge stick in a big cauldron I used a cocktail muddler in a small bowl. Same thing. Probably.

I want to make a joke here so bad.

I tried to get the meat to be as pulverized as it looked in my research, where it seemed like every single muscle fiber had been isolated. I think I got pretty close. After that, I dumped the meat back in the pot with what was left of the broth, took out the bones and turned the heat back on.

There is actually a bit more to this recipe than there might seem – it’s not really just boiling meat and then assaulting it with a baton. The real story here is actually more akin to something like carnitas – the meat is first braised/stewed, then shredded, and THEN it’s allowed to pan-fry and lightly caramelize in its own fat. This turns a cheap, tough, bony cut of beef into a morsel with layered and even potentially nuanced levels of flavor. Ingenious! And presumably much, much tastier than the other traditional Botswanan meal of charred mopane worms.

The only thing missing now was the vegetable. Seswaa and bogobe are usually accompanied by something called morogo, which in turn is translated as imbuya, which is, as it turns out, our old friend amaranth, also known as callaloo in the Caribbean. Even though I had seen fresh green amaranth at my local grocery store not one week before this, they were now completely out of it, as is always the case. (NB: This is also the reason why I have a freezer full of cheese curds, pig ears and mulukhiyah leaves – they carry everything, but never when I need it.) Luckily, I had squirreled away a can of callaloo from months before, for just such an occasion. I loathe canned veggies, but in this case it was my only option.

Can of callaloo, you're my only hope.

I gave the greens a quick boil and drained them. I also brought my fermented ting starter to a boil, added more water and more sorghum meal, and whisked until I had a stiff porridge. The beef was sizzling contentedly in the pot. It was time to eat.

Here you have it – simplicity and nourishment. Amino acids from disparate sources, aggressively coaxed from their containers and released into a saline medium, attaching to each other to form complete proteins that will sustain life in a difficult and arid environment. I can see why this dish is served at weddings – in its austere completeness, it is a subtle and moving celebration of life itself.

Botswana, your porridge is a little bland and tastes like beer and your beef is well salted and really, really beefy. I like your style.

Now you go:

2 cups plus 2 tbsp sorghum flour/meal

In a small bowl, combine 2 tbsp sorghum flour with about 1 cup of water. Leave to ferment, uncovered, in a warm, clean place for about 2-3 days.

In a large pot, combine fermented mixture with about 2 cups of water. Bring to a boil. Slowly whisk in 2 cups sorghum flour, and stir aggressively until the mixture is cooked through and reaches a stiff consistency. Season with salt if desired.

Serve hot.

2 lbs. lean beef on the bone (shin, chuck or similar)
1 1/2 tsp salt

Cut the beef into chunks no larger than 2 inches square. Add to a large pot along with enough water to cover, and the salt.

Bring to a boil, then lower heat and simmer for about 4 hours, stirring occasionally, until the meat becomes tender.

Collect the bone marrow and keep it to one side. Discard the bones.

Remove meat from pot. Pound with a large wooden spoon, stick, or really whatever you can find until it is flaked as finely as possible. Return to pot and raise heat to medium. When the pot boils itself dry add the bone marrow and lightly fry the meat until browned.

Serve hot with bogobe.

1 bunch amaranth greens (or 1 can callaloo)

Clean and boil in salted water for 2 minutes, or until tender. Drain and serve hot.








Click to access Amaranth.pdf







Bosnia and Herzegovina

Astoria – my Queens, New York neighborhood – is blessed with a level of cultural diversity that would seem like an impossible fiction to many. I remember reading a statistic when I first moved here involving the number of different native tongues spoken in one of our public elementary schools: 52. The cultural soup in which we float here is both glorious and cacophonous, delicious and utterly chaotic. I bristle at my reality when faced with a subway car bursting with wildly disparate standards of etiquette, hygiene and personal space, and I grin like a fool when gobbling down a plate of merguez, kefta, kibbeh and rice, mere blocks from my apartment, at midnight, on a Wednesday.

One of the first jewels I discovered when I moved here about six years ago was ćevapi – little, cylindrical Balkan burgers, served on a fluffy pita and smothered with what I always thought was butter (hint: it wasn’t). Astoria has a well-developed and still-growing Bosnian, Serbian and Croatian community, evidenced by the multiple restaurants serving these Balkan specialties. My favorite is Ukus on 30th Avenue, largely for their somun bread, which is fluffy, substantial and full of steamy nooks and crannies.

Well. Now it’s my turn. How hard could it be to make a hamburger? Right, Bosnia? Eh??

Ehhh. Heh.

Time to make the kajmak.

Ever been to England? They have this stuff called clotted cream, which is basically just the fat and solids skimmed off the top of a batch of milk. It is shamefully rich, congealed and spreadable. The Brits enjoy this atherosclerosis-inducing condiment on scones and with tea.

Many other countries have a version of this – Indians have khoya and malai, Afghanis have qymaq, Persians have sarshir and, blessedly, the Balkans have kajmak. As you can see from the image above, it’s made from simmering whole milk and cream in a double boiler (or, in my case, a small pot floating inside a large pot, secured with tin foil…) and allowing the solids to rise to the surface. Then you cool it off, skim the dense cream from the top, and season with a little salt. You end up with a pile of heart-seizing sweetness, like this:

This isn’t hard to make but it does take a couple of days of waiting and resisting the urge to stir. It also involves leaving an uncovered pot of dairy sitting unrefrigerated on your stove for about 12 hours, so if that makes you squeamish… oh well. What can I tell you. The result is well worth the effort – sweet, fresh cream flavor with a texture like whipped butter.

With the kajmak done, it was time to prep the ćevapi, which involved taking ground meat and mixing it with things. Not so hard. One trick I learned from the dudes at Salt & Fat blog was to briefly soak my minced garlic in water before mixing it with the beef and lamb, which presumably reduces its raw sharpness and the risk of dragon-breath. Also crucial is the mixing method. You don’t want to just anger-fist-clench the mincemeat, which will make for a dense, spongy, over-worked meat cylinder. Ease off, bro! Instead, use only your finger tips and lightly toss the ingredients. The idea is to have a loose, coarse mix by the end, which will cook evenly and allow the fat to render readily.

While researching ćevapi recipes, I kept running into people adding either club soda or baking soda to their meat mix. This was curious to me, so I looked it up in my McGee. From what I can understand – which is minimal, as with most things in life – club soda is basically just water and sodium bicarbonate, aka baking soda. What the hell is the role of baking soda here? When mixed with an acid, baking soda turns into carbon dioxide and water. I’m pretty sure that the carbon dioxide bubbles create little air pockets in the ćevapi (keeping them light and airy) and the water keeps them juicy. Also, (and this part comes from Herve This’ Molecular Gastronomy) the sodium aspect of baking soda serves to tenderize the meat, breaking down the collagen sheath around the muscle fibers in a process similar to that of, well… decay. It is a dead animal, for crying out loud. This is a mini-version of what happens in aged steak, and you know how good that is.

Anyway, back to cooking – after the meat has rested overnight in the fridge, press it out into a sheet pan and slice it into stubby cylinders, like so:

Bosnian ćevapi are squat, around 1" x 2"

Hey, check this out: take the word “ćevapi”. Now, start replacing the consonants with known linguistic antecedents; c = k, v = b, p = b… what do we end up with? “Kebab”. Huh. Was wondering where this little-pieces-of-meat-inside-of-bread idea came from.

OK, I’m starving now. The bread dough (oh yeah, I made bread dough) has risen twice, and twice have I punched it down. It was asking for it, trust me. Separating the blob into three portions, I rolled them out into thick rounds, let them rise another twenty minutes and then blasted them into the oven.


I should note that these somun breads were the most success I have ever had with breadmaking. I’m not very good at it, and things always go wrong. These were far from perfect, but I was pretty proud of myself.

So here’s what you do:

Split a pita. Throw on some kajmak. Add a bunch of ćevapi. Serve with raw onion. Some people like to also serve this with ajvar, a Balkan red-pepper spread, but the Bosnians keep it pretty simple and, honestly, I’m making ajvar when we get to Serbia anyway.

As I mentioned, the somun bread cooked a little too long and had a little bit of an overly-yeasty flavor, which means something went wrong with my dough. Big surprise there. But man… the ćevapi were outrageous – salty, juicy, crumbly and with just the right amount of seasoning. The kajmak melted on contact with the hot bread and steaming ćevapi, slipping into what nooks and crannies actually did form and lubricating each mouthful with buttery, fatty creaminess. Deadly.

Now you go:

adapted from The Best of Croatian Cooking by Liliana Pavicic

Makes 1 1/2 cups

4 cups (= 1 quart) whole milk
2 cups (= 1 pint) heavy cream
1 1/2 tsp salt

Fashion a double boiler from two concentric pots. Fill outer pot with water until it reaches about two-thirds the way up the inner pot. Add the milk to the inner pot. Bring the water in the outer pot to a simmer. Once at a simmer, add heavy cream and salt to inner pot. Stir once. Simmer two hours.

Turn off heat. Let stand 6 hours. DO NOT STIR.

Heat the outer pot to low again, simmer for an additional 30 minutes. Turn off heat and cool to room temp. NO STIRRING AGAIN.

Put in fridge for 24 hours.

Loosen solid cream with knife. Skim using a slotted spoon or fine-mesh, mash well with a fork and serve.

update: after 1 week in the fridge it actually tastes even better – cultured, sour and smooth.

adapted from Europeancuisines.com

3 cups bread flour
2 packets dry yeast
1 tsp sugar
1 tbsp salt
1 cup lukewarm water
1/2 teaspoon double-acting baking powder

Mix yeast thoroughly with the water and add the sugar. Put aside to proof for 10 to 15 minutes or until a good number of bubbles start forming.

Add the liquid ingredients to the dry ingredients, mix well and knead for about seven minutes.

Put the dough in a warmed bowl, cover with plastic wrap and set aside in a warm place to rise until doubled – at least an hour. When risen, punch down and cover again. Once again, put aside to rise until doubled, usually at least another hour.

Flour a work surface and turn out the dough. With floured hands, knead the dough again briefly, then divide into three portions. Form these pieces into balls, flour them lightly, and allow them to rest for five or ten minutes. Lightly flatten them using a rolling pin to about 2/3 inch thick. Place on an upside-down, floured baking sheet and allow to rise again for another twenty minutes.

Place baking stone in the oven an preheat to 425°F. When at temperature, gently slide the dough rounds onto the baking sheet. QUICKLY – you don’t want the temperature of the stove to drop too much. Bake for five minutes (they will puff up during this time) and then lower the heat to 300°F. Bake for another 7-8 minutes.

Remove from oven and place them on a plate. Cover with a dishtowel for ten minutes or so to soften the crust. Slice open and serve.

adapted from Choosy Beggars blog

Serves 4

1 lb coarsely ground beef
1 lb coarsely ground lamb
1/2 cup white onion, minced
3 cloves garlic, minced, then soaked in water for 15 minutes, then drained
2 tbsp finely chopped parsley
1/4 cup hot water
1/2 tsp baking soda
salt and pepper to taste (start with 1 tsp of each)
additional sliced onion for serving

Add onion, soaked garlic and parsley to the meats in a large bowl. Season with salt and pepper.

Mix the baking soda with the hot tap water and pour that in with the meat. Gently combine – you’ll want to use a light touch and never smash the meat – think of it as tossing a salad. You’ll want the mixture to stay fairly loose and coarse.

Pour the mixture out onto a baking sheet lined with parchment paper. Press down with another pan to spread out into a uniform layer. Make sure it’s even! Put the meat mixture back in the fridge and let sit overnight.

Using a knife or a pizza cutter, cut lines into the meat patty which will yield small sausages roughly 1-inch by two-inches. Press hard, to get through the fat and fibers. Heat your grill or grill pan to medium high. A few at a time, cook these little dudes for about 2-3 minutes per side, turning as needed, until they are at about medium doneness.

Serve immediately with somun and kajmak!
















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