Kathy is almost weepy with bliss.

Phuket Town on Thong Lor could almost be a hidden treasure in the East Village of NYC: it’s tiny, with no more than ten tables; it’s a bright and kitschly-decorated place, with a giant mural of Phuket’s old city, and lots of old Chinese bric a brac on the walls. It’s almost always packed and you have to wait a few minutes for a table to free up, and in the meantime, you constantly study other people’s tables, wondering what they ordered that looks so good.

It might be kind of masochistic of me, but I love restaurants where you have to make a reservation, or where there is a requisite 20-40 minute wait, especially when they’re un-fancy places with long lines of connoisseurs, or at least people who will not tolerate a ho-hum meal and will travel, plan in advance and/or wait to eat a memorable one.

On Tuesday, I had a fantastic reunion at this fantastic southern Thai restaurant.  I’ll confess from the get-go that fermented shrimp paste (kapi) is a taste I have yet to acquire, much to my shame and chagrin.  And much of southern Thai food involves this ingredient in vast amounts.  On this night, though, we were able to successfully avoid shrimp paste without sacrificing variety and deliciousness.

Pad pak mieng sai khai

Pak mieng is a slightly bitter regional leafy green from southern Asia, and as far as I know, it doesn’t have a common English name. It’s not, however, to be confused with mieng kham, a leaf roll-up kind of Thai dish.  Our pad pak mieng was stir fried with eggs that mellowed out the bitterness, and topped with dried shrimp and crispy fried-dried onions.

Kai thod kamin

The other southern variation on a Thai classic is fried chicken, except they do it with cumin and serve it with black sticky rice to soak up the grease, except there’s very little grease because they’re so well fried.  Crunchy on the outside with the moisture locked in.

Kaeng Massaman Roti

A Thai-Muslim curry, this beef version has a lot of Indian flavors like cloves and onion. I also like the chunks of potato whose relative blandness counter the meat nicely.

Khai Chiaw Poo

Apparently, the first time I ate this fluffy, delicious Thai omelet with crabmeat, I adoringly referred to it as “a princess’s bosom”.

Hor Mok

It may look a bit goopy and the custard-like texture isn’t for everyone, but this Thai fish curry souffle contains distilled flavors of everything we love about Thai curry: kaffir lime leaves, curry paste, coconut cream, fish, et cetera. They wrap it up in a banana leaf and steam it within an inch of its life.

All in all, Phuket Town is a fantastic, not to mention super affordable, gem, and I would line up to eat there on a weekly basis.

Half-eaten bowl, taken with my phone

Soi Convent, near the offices of BK Magazine, is choked with street stalls on both sides, many with full table-and-stool setups for office workers to sit down to lunch at. It makes for difficult walking, especially when you’re in a hurry and especially when crowds are waiting around the popular stalls, eyeing tables about to vacate (but take their own sweet time).

But when you’re on the other side, one of the impatient and the hungry privately clamoring for your bowl of something good at a disastrously popular stall—well, it’s equally frustrating. This was the plight of my co-workers and I couple of days ago. We had decided to finally brave the crazy-busy noodle stall we’d always been fighting to move past in weeks past, secretly eyeing their extra-large bowls of noodles, one and a half times the size of the usual ones. Also impressive has been the giant pile of lime rinds collecting beside their makeshift operation. Nothing like fresh lime in your tom yam broth. This time, we waited under the canopy of mismatched parasols, which created a sort of greenhouse effect on an already hot and humid day, shirts sticking to our backs.

But oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!  Once we got a bite of this kway teow tom yam, there was no looking back. For those unfamiliar with this dish, kway teow tom yam is not just noodles in tom yam soup. The broth here is a lot lighter (though some places give you a creamier option), but has similar elements: a lot of sweet, a lot of lime-sour, a lot of spice and a bit of savory. (If you like a bit of creamy, ask for a boiled egg and, seriously, stir the yolk into your broth.  It’s umami up the whazoo.)

Of course, you have your choice of noodles. I went for the bamee (Chinese wheat and egg based) because I like that extra bit of body and egginess. This place, called Kway Teow Khae, also offers a wide range of meat balls: look chin moo (pork), look chin tauhoo (fishy tofu), look chin koong (shrimp with herbs, pre-fried with deep-brown crust—mmm!).  The balance of sweet, freshly-sour (as opposed to vinegary sour) and the earthy meatiness of the balls is a lovely combination. I love that when I’m done eating, there’s still the (now extra-seasoned) soup to get through.

A pile of lime rinds

And get this: the big bowl was only B40. I hope the day never comes when this sweet team of elderly father and spitfire daughter realize they’re brilliant and everyone loves them and they jack their prices.

It was hard to find a mixing bowl large enough.

For over a month now, almost every morning, I’ve been tirelessly pouring myself breakfast out of a gallon-sized Ziploc bag.  I’ve grown to love the tinkling sound of the crispy-toasted oats falling into the bowl, along with seeds, crushed nuts and the occasional raisin, the latter a sweet, chewy treasure that I ration out, one in each bite.  Then, towards the end of the bowl, when there is still plenty of granola left, but only a last, lone raisin, I play a game in delaying gratification, where I eat the excess granola first, and then compose the last, shining bite with the right ratio of granola to raisin.

And while I only had a gallon-sized bag, I actually made two gallons with the help of S., who is the proud owner of the other bag.  We went crazy one weekend, spent nearly a week’s worth of a paycheck on vast quantities of good ingredients and nearly two hours in front of the little oven at my parents’ house, toasting the honey-sticky concoction just right, taking it out every few minutes to turn it before sticking it back in.

The recipe came from my friend Robert S. of Vermont, joyful cook and crackerjack Scrabble player, whose granola used to arrive in the mail for two of the years I lived in New York.  Many a winter morning were spent sitting on a Brooklyn kitchen floor, eating the filling and fulfilling granola out of shabby-chic ceramic mugs with broken handles.  When I moved back to Bangkok, it was the other thing, in addition to good bagels, that I missed the most and took upon myself to recreate.  My hope is that when Robert retires, he’ll incorporate himself—too bad The Green Mountain Gringo is already taken—and supply his unparalleled, healthy granola to food cooperatives around the world, and supermarkets whose shelves sag with boxes of miserable industrial cereals full of sugar and corn syrup and nary a fresh ingredient to be found.

Important to get the granola:milk ratio right.

Which is why I’ll refrain from posting the recipe here.  I know, lame, right?  But here’s the good news: it’s not that hard.  All it is is an exercise in ratios, and most of the ratios are to taste anyway.  Besides, Robert’s recipe is adapted to personal preferences from a little 1970s cookbook Recipes for a Small Planet.

How to Cook Homemade Granola

The Most Important Ratio
Because the mixture of rolled oats and other goodies must be sticky and clumpy without being gooey, the ratio of honey/oil to oats is pretty important.  Here’s a suggestion:

Honey
1 cup for every 8 cups of rolled oats

Oil
1/2 cup for every 8 cups of rolled oats.

Other Tips
1. Combine loads of rolled oats with your choice of nuts, seeds and dried fruit.
2. If the nuts/seeds are pre-salted, adjust your recipe accordingly.  You need very little salt.
3. If the nuts/seeds are pre-toasted, obviously, don’t toast them with the rolled oats.  Add them in later when cool.
4. The dried fruit doesn’t need to be toasted either.  Add it at the end when cool.
5. Coarsely chop/crush your nuts.
6. Toast your mixture in a thin layer on cookie sheets at 350.
7. Be sure to remove the cookie sheets after ten minutes and turn the oats over, returning them to the oven for smaller intervals until you reach the desired darkness.  Watch them very closely or they’ll burn.

Mika at PB Valley vineyard

I.

I recently wrote a story about the rise of wine drinking in Bangkok for BK Magazine, during which I asked the business manager of Siam Winery why they bothered to have such a resort-like vineyard with holiday packages and stuff.  He said, “Because the impact of a wine is not just what’s in the bottle. It’s also where you are, who you are with, what occasion you’re celebrating.”

II.

I’ve drank countless bottles of wine since I started drinking at age 18, many of those bottles being those 2-litre Yellowtail monsters and those from Trader Joe’s lovingly called two-buck Chuck.  But these are the ones I will never forget:

- One night in July 2005, G. and I drank a bottle of a cheap Pinot Grigio on my rooftop in Boston.  It was the first time I’d heard the name.  The night also involved Nina Simone, a makeshift waltz, Thai papaya salad and becoming a woman, as they say.

- In the summer of 2007, in New York, on a Tuesday, I went to the Clinton Street Baking Company with C.  We’d just become friends again after a long hiatus.  The restaurant had a cheap wine promotion, and we got a bottle of Rioja Crianza and drew all over the butcher paper tablecloth. On our way home, standing on the corner outside Katz Deli, it started to rain.

- This past June, I split a bottle of Great Western Pinot Noir 2006 with S., on the bizarre porch swing that sits on the concrete 30th floor rooftop of my apartment building in Bangkok.  I had just turned 26, and we didn’t know each other very well yet.

And earlier this year, I had what I think was the experience that caused me to actually take notice of wine.  I’m told all wine enthusiasts have one, the gateway.  For me it was a work thing, a press dinner to sample the Valentine’s Day set menu at Bo.lan. I sat across the super cute winemaker from Siam Winery and beside a jolly old Belgian man, and every delicious course was paired with a wine from Siam Winery. I had been very sad, recently returned from New York, but by the time we got to the Monsoon Valley Muscat 2008, I was ecstatic.  I didn’t know a wine could taste like lychee.

Pere Guillot collection

III.

True story: In May, when I was living in the middle of nowhere in the south of France, I was surrounded by vineyards. I took my bike to one, walked into their cave and bought a bottle of wine and felt very pleased with myself.  A few days later, I rode off to do it again, this time at a different vineyard. I rode down the two-lane country road, up a gravel path, past a scary dog and finally lay my bike down and continued towards an airplane hanger-like cave at the domain of Pere Guillot, where I discovered no less than four old Frenchmen, all red-faced from a day of drinking.  I was weirded out, but asked for a degustation anyway. One thing led to another, they found out I was from Thailand, and the father, the eponymous Pere Guillot, said his son visits Thailand often on wine business, called him over, and introduced him to me. They were adoring me and pouring me GIANT tastings of no less than six wines.  When I finally picked one to buy, the son, Laurent, went in the back and emerged with a BOX of six bottles, and refused to take any money for it.  “C’est un cadeau!” So nice!  I somehow hitched it onto the back of my bike and, drunk and talking to myself, toddled away back to the residency.

IV.

I recently rewatched French Kiss, that film with Meg Ryan and Kevin Cline playing an unlikely Frenchman.  There’s a scene where she visits his childhood home, and they are drinking wine, and she doesn’t have much to say about it.  Mildly outraged, he pulls out a box of herbs and dried flowers, gives her a few to smell, and then asks her to drink the wine again.  And, of course, she has a revelation.

I want that box!

Nikki Lohitnavy, the first female winemaker in Thailand

V

All of this to say that recently, also at a work thing, I befriended a lady who turned out to be the leading wine educator in Thailand–for whatever that’s worth.  We got to talking and she invited me to do her beginners course at a discounted rate.  I sampled maybe one hundred wines over four sessions, visited two vineyards and wineries in beautiful, scenic Khao Yai–GranMonte and PB Valley–and am happy to report that I can tell the difference between a Chardonnay and a Sauvignon Blanc, a Pinot Noir and a Cabernet Sauvignon, an oak wine and a stainless steel wine—but I’m not always right.

Sotheby's wine encyclopedia

Khao mok kai

In the weekends since my last post, I have taken a wine class, gone on a vineyard and winery tour to beautiful Khao Yai, visited a friend in a remote province of Thailand that had never been on my radar before, commenced a slightly hokey “creative recovery” course by Julia Cameron that makes me cringe and blows my mind at the same time, been to a rum tasting and checked out several nice restaurants in Bangkok.  So now my big challenge is to gradually turn these experiences into posts after a ridiculously long and unwarranted hiatus.

I’ll start with something small rather than something big.  I’ll avoid making this a This is What I Ate Today kind of blog, but if you’re reading this, chances are that you either don’t live in Bangkok/Thailand and this is going to sound pretty exotic, or you live in Bangkok and should go get these dishes right away.

I work in Silom, the business district of Bangkok, where lunchtime is an insane affair, as thousands of employees from all the high rises set off to find good, affordable food located nearby.  So naturally, Silom is bursting with all kinds of eateries, from fancy French restaurants to shopping mall food courts to sidewalk-choking street stalls.

One of the places I go to with my two editors, Greg and and Nick, is a street operation on Soi Convent, a few steps up from the Starbucks, that sells nothing but khao mok kai, or Muslim-style chicken and rice (pictured above).  A plate of this comes with rice, yellow with turmeric and other spices, and a leg of chicken, tender as hell, with the skin still on, all topped with crispy fried onions and a sweet chilli sauce on the side.  It costs 30 baht, which is just under a dollar.  Also on the side, you can get a bowl of broth, made with chicken bones and lots of green chillies.  When we’re done with our khao mook kai, we turn our attention to the soup, slurping away, and, in my case, nose running from the spice.

On days when I need to eat at my desk, I have another stall I like to go to for take-away.  On Rama IV Road, past the Pan Pacific Hotel and just outside a Family Mart-type convenience store is a tam sang stall run by a lady and two guys.  A tam sang shop is usually a ragtag operation, consisting of little more than a couple of woks, a gas cylinder, a mess of seasoning bottles and a few tables and chairs.  You order a stir-fry of your choice, and they make it real-quick.  While I wait for my food, I like to closely watch the lady handle her wok and am always amazed by how she keeps the orders straight in her head, how she goes from one dish to making another, taking a quick minute to wipe out the wok, without stopping to think.

Khao pad naem

One of my favorite dishes here is khao pad naem, fried rice with sour sausage (above), which, in addition to the delicious, slightly fermented sausage, also has eggs and veggies.  It’s very greasy and is cut nicely by the sourness of the meat.

So, as you can see, there’s never any need or desire to pack a lunch, the way I used to in New York.  And it’s little wonder that I’ve put on a few pounds since I moved back to Bangkok (nearly a year ago now!).

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Jay Pui at Klong Toey Market

I’m sort of nervous about having returned from France, where regular writing on this blog actually took off, and now trying to blog about food experiences at home.  For one, I don’t have free reign in my kitchen in Bangkok.  And though I am constantly out and about having food adventures on pretty much every weeknight and weekend, are they going to interest you as much as French food adventures?

Then again, I am, of all things, a food writer in this city, and it is, of all places, BANGKOK.  Sights like these happen ten times a minute.  The above is a famed khao kaeng (rice and curry) stall in Klong Toey market.  Most khao kaeng stalls have ten or twelve offerings tops, but this one is staggering.  A plate of rice and a ladle of one or two curries on top are B35 (just over $1), and if you come after 5pm, when they’re looking to start closing up, the same will cost you B10, and I can’t even do the math for the dollar amount.

Streetside whole fish.

I don’t know the name of this fish, but a lady grills them up in large batches on the side of the street where my apartment building is.  They are salt-crusted and stuffed with what looks like pandanus or betel leaves and probably some other herbs.  I’m also very impressed by the low-key grilling apparati used by street stall cooks.  It’s very DIY and very smokey, making the meat very charred and smokey, something you probably can never get in a home kitchen smokeless grill.  I must investigate this dish further on my next traipse around the neighborhood.  In fact, I’m in the process of devising a systematic plan to master all the culinary offerings of Bangkok streets.  More on that soon.

WTF, Sukhumvit 51.

The most exciting development in my social life since I got back has been the discovery of a new bar, WTF, which we intermittently call What the Fuck, Wonderful Thai Friendship, Who’s the Father, Will Trumps Fate, et cetera.  A glowing glassfront on an otherwise dark street, it’s become a hangout for a certain friendly, hip and young Thai and farang crowd.  It’s very cozy, plays great music, which is a rarity in the Popsanova epidemic currently plaguing the city.  It is also often packed, being a little sanctuary during the World Cup for the adorable, slightly alienated US team fans, who would be well-advised NOT to do any hysterical cheering at most other bars such as The Australian, The Londoner, The Dubliner, New Zealand Bar, et cetera.  You get the picture. Something about the vibe makes it the sort of place where you’ll go and inevitably make friends.

Bammee stall, Ekamai 19.

I’ve been there three nights in a row this week, and three nights in a row last week, and more than once, upon leaving, I have fallen into the back of a cab and headed off to a little street stall in Ekamai 19, arguably the best place in the city to get bammee moo daeng (wheat egg noodles with roast port).  I’ve been very passionate about this dish lately, having written a little thing in BK Magazine (new –beta– website!) about the awesomeness of bammee.  You can read it here.

Midnight bammee moo daeng.

In addition to the fact that their noodles, roast pork and pork/shrimp wontons are all superb, two additional highlights make their bowl heavenly: the hard-boiled egg that is so delicately timed that underneath the hard white, and cakey yolk exterior is a perfectly gooey, golden yolk.  Without fail, time after time.  I don’t know how they do it.  The second is the accompanying soup.  Many places will do a plain radish broth, which has its merits, of course, but these guys go the whole hog (literally) and fill it up with loads and loads of pork mince.  Mmm!  It’s a perfect conclusion to a night of boozing and making friends.  You can even take your new friends here, as I have!

The Louvre.

I’ve been back from France for over two weeks now, and have been swept up in an on-again-off-again cold, my birthday (!!!) celebrations and back-to-work malaise (then bliss, then malaise), hence the long gap between my last post and this one.  Since I’ve been back, already a million food and drink adventures have happened, but before I get into any of that, I should say something about my week in Paris at the beginning of June.

Not to over-romanticize or anything.  It did rain the whole time we, my pal Amitha and I, were there, and tourist high season was just beginning, and it was impossible to know ahead of time if we were headed for a disappointing meal or an earth-shattering one. But all in all, Paris was wonderful, breathtaking at times, and I ate some amazing things and met some amazing people.

Doner kebab with frites.

On our first night in Paris, in a rush to make the most of the extended Friday night hours at the Louvre, we got a quick (and very filling) dinner on the street.  Not the most traditionally Parisien meal in the world (although that’s not really true anymore), the sandwich doner kebab is ubiquitous — essentially shawarma, hot and very thinly sliced into a tall heap, stuffed into a pita (or a baguette) with the most consistently well-made fries ever, crispy on the outside, soft in the middle, not at all greasy.  I ate a lot of these, and didn’t feel guilty in the least. The one above was eaten sitting cross-legged at the Pont des Arts, across from the Louvre, watching babes go by, wishing I had a beer to wash it down with.

Chausson aux pommes from Miss Manon

Our first morning, instead of eating random riffraff from the millions of cafes and brasseries on our block, the rue de Turbigo, we took a long and very confusing walk to rue St. Antoine, where we hunted down an adorable patisserie, Miss Manon, recommended by my friend Dante Micheaux.  There we purchased the loveliest pastries and wonderful coffee and walked over to the Place de Vosges and ate a triumphant breakfast.  My chausson aux pommes (apple turnover) was a small revelation.  I’ve never had such perfect pastry in my life, buttery without being greasy, crisp and flakey on the outside, warm and just soft enough on the inside.  It was a miracle of texture.

Cess and Im.

After running around on the Left Bank, seeing silly things like Shakespeare and Co., with its astonishingly beautiful and well-lit second floor (forget the books!), we went on a blind-friend-date to the home of these ladies, Francesca and Imelda, and their baby and their cat.  We were friend-set-up by the owner of La Monita (Mahatun Plaza, Phloen Chit Road) in Bangkok, the best Mexican place in the city. Cess is his sister. We went over, not sure how it would be, if it was a dinner invite or a just-drinks invite, when we’d know to politely take our leave, et cetera.  But none of that mattered when we got there, because they were awesome and smart and in love and hilarious and gorgeous and warm and super-hostesses and we stayed for five hours and three bottles of wine and a marvelous spread of cured meats and amazing cheeses, the highlight of which was the saucisson de canard, another revelation.  I smuggled back no less than four of them back to Thailand.  How wonderful it was to accidentally stumble upon good folks, new friends, to hang out in their home, to know we will see them again.

The next morning, we were meant to go to the rue des Martyrs to check out a brunch place recommendation in Montmatre and then walk up to the Sacré Coeur, but when we got there, we discovered that the place was obscenely expensive, and any inclination we had to just go for it anyway was thwarted by the delicious roast chickens spinning outside the many boucheries.  We bought one chicken, two cheeses from a proper fromagerie, and two baguettes and took them up to the basilica with us and had a bench picnic.

Brie au poivre

Bleu d'Auvergne

Best baguettes ever.

I’ve sort of had a mental block against “scary cheeses” limiting myself to easy stuff like cheddar, Swiss, maybe some brie.  But this bleu d’Auvergne opened something up for me in my mind.  It was utterly gross and so freaking delicious I couldn’t stop smearing it on my baguette and stuffing my face.  Mental block lifted.  Lifetime of stinky cheeses to look forward to!  Hooray!

Pain au choco-framboise from Miss Manon

And finally, for one of our last breakfasts in Paris, we went back to Miss Manon and I ordered the above treasure.  I don’t even know what to say about it.  The chocolate and the raspberry were a lovely combination, but the PASTRY!  I cannot speak properly about the pastry.  I used to think there was a distinction to adhere to: if you cook, you don’t bake.  And if you bake bread, you don’t bake pastry.  I always thought I was the cooking type, but the pastries in Paris were so unparalleled, so elevating, LEVITATING that I have a dream now to learn how it happens.

Of course, there was lots else in Paris.  Profound thoughts and museums, especially Monet’s Waterlilies, which I’d previously thought were for corny sissies, but which brought me to tears.  But hey, this is a food blog.  There’ll be none of that!

La corrida. (Also, the toreros are unspeakably sexy.)

1. Of course I can see that it’s utterly savage and barbaric and a total PETA nightmare.  However dangerous or powerful the taureau, it’s not an equal competition between him and the taurero and his team equipped with various stabbing instruments.  It is utterly horrifying when the long dagger slides all the way into taureau between the shoulders and he collapses and rolls over in a puddle of blood and everyone erupts into cheers.  It’s also pretty horrifying when the taurero loses his footing for a split second and ends up tossed around between the taureau’s horns, falling to the ground face down, covering his head with his hands as a last, pathetic attempt to buy some time until ten people run out to try and get the taureau away from him.  But I would be lying if I didn’t say I saw the corrida in Nîmes not one, not two but four times, and on more than one occasion was roused to my feet in a standing ovation after a particularly graceful string of passes.  I know that the grace is false, and that it’s at the humiliation and frustration of the taureau (but also the grave risk of the taurero).  I can’t explain it.  The corridas were amazing and addictive, and I’d love to see one where it’s just the taureau and the torero, no picadors, and no savage murder at the end.  That would be an amazing battle and I would pay everyday to see it — in the late morning, getting super tanned, having a cold beer in the stands.  (The other subtle highlight for me, was being offered a hash cigarette by a certain publishing celebrity who shall remain nameless and who said, upon inquiring if I smoke, “Wow.  You are great woman.  You were before.  But more now.”  I never smoke anymore, but sharing a spliff with her during the corrida as she kept leaning in to wetly whisper stuff about tauromachie techniques was a memorable occasion.)

The view from the cheap seats of Les Arenes.

2. Nîmes is lovely, and Nîmes during La Feria is magical, and La Feria when you know the right people (particularly organizers of literary events and their adorable, young, warm interns, is a blast.  Last Friday night, after the corrida, there was a very conceptual reading sponsored by Au Diable, of all the stories shortlisted for Le Prix Hemingway, awarded to the best short story featuring the culture of bullfighting.  The readings took place down in the chicaros of Les Arènes — that is, the narrow, sawdusty tunnels under the coliseum (one of the most imporant in the French bullfighting world) where the taureaux are kept prior to the corrida and from where, through a network of moveable doors and tunnels, they are directed into the arena.  The following day, the reading took place again, this time among the stands, just before the beginning of the evening’s corrida.  The captive audience of bullfighting enthusiasts was slightly less receptive to high literature.

Beautiful Carolle, who chatted me up. Subtext in French, for me, is impossible.

3. I was also floored by the warmth and hospitality of young Au Diable intern, Arthur, and his ladyfriend, Zoé, who took me into their home so I wouldn’t have to haul ass between Vauvert and Nîmes during the Feria.  They accompanied me through the parties in the streets; we ate millions upon millions of kebab sandwiches with french fries.  We went to the Jardins de la Fontaine, where we lay around, had long chats, did a bit of much-overdue gossiping, and debated about whether or not to call Carolle.  I taught them that although the word “douche” means merely shower in French, in American, its meanings are far more satisfying.  It was a lovely surprise to find ready-made friends, and through them, I’ve made some rash generalizations about the superior well-adjustedness of French youth.

At the Feria with my well-adjusted friends: Zoé, Fanny and Arthur

Sweet Kevin, who is always offering to drive me places.

4. Naturally, eating things other than kebab/merguez sandwiches and french fries has fallen by the wayside.  In any case, what I’ve been craving like mad (other than rice and the cool, lime, sour taste of Thai salad) is a pizza.  So I biked over yesterday to the Carrefour (my old friend) and bought a prepared chorizo (the other thing I was craving) pizza and this delicious artisanal wheat bière de garde called La Goudale.  The pizza was as you might imagine, but the beer was pretty wonderful, with the hugest, heaviest head I’ve ever seen.  It stuck to the insides of the glass.  The beer itself was a beautiful deep golden color and tasted yeasty, wheaty, slightly hoppy, slightly clove-like (like a good version of a Hoegaarten).  Delicious!

Carrefour chorizo pizza. Looks better than it was.

La Goudale.

See what I mean about the head?

Pasta is the prince of food.

In the days since my last post, I have done little else but drink lots of free wine, eaten little else but white bread and white pasta, and gone on long runs/bike rides in the gradually rising summer heat.  So most of the time I am exhausted and brain-fried, in the most sated way, and unable to get it together to make a post.

The other, very exciting deterring factor is the sudden discovery, a couple of nights ago, of the astonishing and totally underrated city of Nîmes.  It’s a small, very old city going back over 2000 years, with lots of Roman architecture from the 12th century, though I believe Romans were in Nîmes as early as Julius Caesar.

It could just be that there’s currently a city-wide, week-long semi-annual party, La Feria de Pentecote, with a much-ignored Catholic reason, but the vibe there is amazing, with lots of families out, mustachioed Franco-Spanish artist-uncles smiling at you in the street, and well-dressed hotties thronging in narrow alleys lined with tapas restaurants and discrete entrances into courtyard bars.

There’s also the bullfighting.  My bullfighting cherry has been popped as of last night, at the majestic coliseum-esque arena in the center of town, thanks to some amazing privileges afforded by the good and very hip folks at Au Diable, many of whom I have developed great warmth for now.  But I shall save all this and my animal rights musings and more about Nîmes for the weekend, when I’ve accrued some good photos to back it all up.

In the meantime, there’s much I want to say about my mounting appreciation for pasta — and my appreciation was already pretty mounted.  Due to the nature of the lodgings and my kitchen limitations, I’ve just been making so much of it, and far from getting fed up, I am more in love with pasta than ever.  It gives you so much energy (especially if you’re carbo-loading), it’s so versatile and vegetarian friendly, it lets the flavors of the preparation shine while contributing a powerful, totally satisfying texture, and most of all, if you know what you’re doing, with very few other ingredients, you can make an interesting, exciting, and princely meal for one instead of a plate of I-am-sad-and-foodless-in-France (which I am not, thanks only in part to pasta).

It doesn’t get more simple than spaghetti aglio è olio (garlic and olive oil), and if you have a decent bottle of extra virgin olive oil and good dry pasta, it can be pretty heavenly, even without dried chilli peppers.  But there are a few things to know about technique, which, if you don’t, can cause much disappointment.  I loved this dish as a teenager, and would always order it when we went out to Italian food, but when I tried to make it at college, it was often a disaster.  It would be bland, the garlic would burn, the pasta would be gross, et cetera.

It wasn’t until I lived briefly in East Harlem with my friend, the wonderful and well-traveled poet Dante Micheaux, that I learned a few tricks.

A small window of simultaneity.

Spaghetti Aglio è Olio — The Eyeballer’s Recipe (makes enough for 1-2)

• 1/4 pack dry spaghetti
• a bit more than a 1/4 cup good olive oil
• coarsely ground fresh black pepper
• 6-10 cloves garlic, peeled and not-too-finely chopped
• salt
• optional frills/variations: crumbled dried red chillies, chopped parsley, fried pancetta/bacon

1. This recipe will be over before you know it, so order is important. Bring salted pasta water to a boil and throw in the pasta.
2. You have about 7-9 minutes till al dente. Put the oil, pepper, garlic in a medium-sized pan. Chillies/bacon can go in now, too.
3. Put the burner on medium-low heat. You want the oil and the other ingredients to heat up together and impart their flavors.
4. That’s pretty much it. Once the oil begins to sizzle, you’re done. Turn off the heat. Don’t cook the garlic.
5. Drain your pasta, add it to the pan, and toss.  Check for salt.  Add parsley if you want.

Tada!  If done right, even this dish can be a revelation.

Can you tell from this picture that the pasta is al dente?

As you can imagine, in all my pasta enthusiasm, I was starting to languish from lack of proper vitamins from fruits and vegetables, but there was little in the way of that at the studio, save the withering half-bunch of asparagus from the homemade mayonnaise meal a few nights ago.  That and lots of butter and cheese.  I was reminded of this amazing-sounding recipe for alfredo sauce in Saveur a few issues ago.  And then I figured, “Well, asparagus seems to go nicely with creamy, lemony things like mayonnaise,” and decided to make some adjustments to the recipe.

Asparagus Alfredo — The Eyeballer’s Recipe (makes enough for 1-2)

• 1/4 pack short pasta — I used fussili because I figured the shape would go with the asparagus
• 6-8 spears of asparagus — is it just the top that’s the spear? or the whole thing? I mean the whole thing
• zest of one lemon
• juice of half a lemon
• about 1/2 cup parmesan cheese — finely grated; you want it to melt nicely without getting clumpy
• a bit more than half a stick of butter
• salt, freshly ground black pepper
• optional: couple of tablespoons of whipping cream

1. Wash the asparagus and cut each into 4-5 pieces, maybe just over an inch each. Cut the very bottom off if you don’t like it.
2. Bring your salted pasta water to a boil and dump in the pasta.
3. In a warm medium-sized pan, arrange the butter cut into pats. The pan is not ON the stove.  The butter shouldn’t liquify.
4. When the pasta is just more than halfway done, add the asparagus to the pot, too.
5. Drain your pasta, reserving 1/2 cup of pasta water.
6. Add the pasta and asparagus to the butter pan. Top with the grated cheese, black pepper, lemon zest and lemon juice.
7. Toss long and gentle, adding a bit of pasta water as you go, until the cheese is incorporated. Not too much water!
8. That’s all.  Add a bit of cream if you want.  Check for salt.  Top with more cheese.

A tiny bit more melty than it should be.

But it all worked out in the end.

Did I already say al dente?  Al dente.

Homemade tuna salad

As you can imagine, in my last relationship, I was the self-appointed chef.  This was mostly a good thing all around: I got the pleasure of spending time in the kitchen doing what I love doing, with the added treat of having in mind my beloved, a fond eater generous with compliments; and E. enjoyed breakfast, coffees, and Indian and pasta treats joyfully prepared for her every day.  Sometimes, though, it made me snobby and her self-conscious in the kitchen.  More than one tiff resulted from my peering over her shoulder to make “helpful suggestions.”  It’s a shame, because I adored almost every dish, few due to her fears, she ever made for us: wonton soup, salmon chowder, breads, cookies, and the simple but amazing breakfast concoction of fresh yogurt, whole dried figs, flax seeds, chopped fruit and agave.

I’m thinking about this because yesterday, with some of that leftover homemade mayonnaise and a jar of pickled cornichons in the fridge, and a dusty can of tuna left behind in my studio by a previous resident, I decided to make, for the first time, a simple tuna salad — one of the last things E. made for us before I unexpectedly had to leave New York after the loveliest of summers.  Her parents were visiting us for the weekend, and I was trapped at the Park Slope Food Coop all morning, doing make-up shifts by hauling customer grocery carts to and from their cars, while E. and her family cavorted in the sunshine.  But when I was finally done, I joined them at Prospect Park, a short walk in from the beautiful Grand Army Plaza entrance, where the weekend farmers’ market was in full swing, and we lay in the grass, eating tuna salad with Wheat Thins.  It was so delicious — the dry, hard crack of the Thins, the cold mushiness of the tuna, the tangy crunch of the pickles, the company of some of my favorite people, in lovely, summertime Brooklyn, after a morning of manual labor for a good cause.

This is an awesome, filling, cooling, nutritious food, guys!  Summertime!  And not like you need a recipe for this, but here’s how I did it yesterday.

Tart Tuna Salad — The Eyeballer’s Recipe

• one can of tuna in water
• about three tablespoons of chopped pickles (cornichons, dill, whatever)
• a tablespoon of capers, if you like
• about two tablespoons of mayonnaise
• a bit of mustard, if your mayo is store-bought and not as mustardy as it should be
• a splash of lemon juice
• salt, fresh-ground black pepper

1. Drain the water out of the tuna as best as you can.  I squeezed it out with a fork.
2. Add all the ingredients and mix.  That’s pretty much it.
3. I’m really feeling the sour flavors lately, so I also threw in a splash of the brine from the pickle jar.
4. If you like more crunch, you can throw in some finely chopped onions.  There’s no recipe per se!

**If you’re making sandwiches, try not to let them sit around too long as the tuna will make the bread soggy.  In any case, to balance all that mayo-creaminess and pickled sourness, you should line your bread with fresh veggies like romaine lettuce or firm tomato slices or maybe even alfalfa sprouts.

What also made my tuna salad sandwiches amazing was the beautiful pavé I bought in the market the day before. Super thick and chewy crust and pillowy but strong white bits.  I also had many slices with the (full!) jar of lavender honey aforementioned mysterious previous resident left behind.

Pavé from some Vauvert boulangerie where the lady didn't speak, she sang.

The other thing that’s worth mentioning, since it’s in the title of this post, is that during this writers’ residency, perhaps quite fittingly, I’m feeling a lot like William Wordsworth, going on long walks/runs/bike rides in secluded nature, where I’m the only person around for miles, and coming upon fields of wild flowers, like that poem of his, about daffodils.

Poppies.

Does anyone know the name of this flower?