A Tiger In The Kitchen

Portuguese Sweet Bread: True Crack Bread

2010-09-03T12:01:27-04:00

There has been no small amount of grumbling in this household recently.

The complaints are rather monotonous -- they all go something like this: What happened to the bread baking?

It is true that not too very long ago, there had been great ambition on this front. The idea had been to make a bread every week along with dozens of bakers around the world in a quest to bake our way through The Bread Baker's Apprentice.

But then, of course, life intervenes. (In my case, that would be the months spent traveling for research and then writing The Book.)

Gradually, my smoke-filled kitchen (thank you, ciabatta) and bygone bagels were becoming faded adventures in our memory.

During a break in the hubbub, however, I decided this nonsense had gone on long enough. The bread-baking bible was dusted off and my trusty KitchenAid mixer was resuscitated.

On the docket was a bread I'd been curious about: Portuguese sweet bread, a type of loaf, lovely, soft and sweet, that's popular in Hawaii and New England. (It was introduced to those regions by Portuguese immigrants.)

Now, in the times that I'd tried it, it had always reminded me of the slightly sweet buns and loaves I grew up eating in Hong Kong and Singapore. It was time to see how this recipe would turn out in my own kitchen ...

To start, you mix together flour, sugar and yeast to form a sponge in a bowl...

... then, you cover that bowl and let it sit at room temperature to ferment for an hour to 90 minutes.

When I peered into the bowl after this fermentation time, it didn't seem like it had risen to "the verge of collapse" as author Peter Reinhart had mentioned in the book. But it did look adequately foamy.

Next, some sugar, butter, shortening and salt went into a mixing bowl together with powdered milk, which is what gives this bread its distinct sweet and milky flavor.

Once that lot was mixed together, in went the sponge and some water ...

... and after just over 10 minutes of kneading, we had a lovely looking dough on hand.

At this point, all the dough has to do is sit and rise. So I left it alone for two hours, waiting for it to double in size as the book said it would.

This, however, did not look anything like a doubling of size.

After letting it sit for an hour more, it was clear this dough was not budging. So, on we went.

The dough was divided in half and formed into two round boules ...

... which were left to proof at room temperature for a few more hours -- "until the dough fills the pans fully, doubling in size and overlapping the edges slightly."

Doubling? Overlapping? None of this was happening. The dough looked like it had swelled, yes, but just ever so slightly.

I was beginning to think the bread gods were punishing me for being so lax about this bread quest.

It was too late to turn back, however -- this Portuguese sweet bread train had to leave.

So into the oven they went, filling the apartment with the scent of sweet, sweet loaves. And they came out looking ... not bad.

I did wonder, though, about the alarming look of my loaves.

I had heard other bakers refer to certain breads as "crack bread" because they taste so good. With my Portuguese sweet bread, though, it wasn't the taste of the loaf that would have earned it the name.

Getting over my shallow disappointment, I sliced open a loaf and slathered it with butter and a smidgen of fresh, summery jam. The loaf was delicious -- it made me think of Hawaii, my last trip to Nantucket and Hong Kong all at once.

Perhaps you can judge a book by its cover, after all.

This Portuguese sweet bread? It's definitely crack bread.

~~~

Check out other Bread Baker's Apprentice bakers' crack Portuguese sweet breads here:

Daniel's at Ährelich Gesagt

Heather and Jeff's at He Cooks She Cooks

Kelly's at Something Shiny

Maggie's at The Other Side of 50

Sally's at Bewitching Kitchen

Sara's at Three Clever Sisters

Xiao Ye: A Hainanese Chicken Rice Discovery

2010-08-31T18:56:36-04:00

There has been a flurry of buzz recently about Xiao Ye, a sliver of a place in Manhattan's Lower East Side that would be easy to miss -- except that you could just look for the gaggle of twenty-something Asians clogging up the narrow sidewalk, waiting for tables.

The prognosis of this Too-Cool-For-You Taiwanese comfort food restaurant that plasters the word "Dericious" above its kitchen and has christened its dishes with cutesy names that are also light jabs at Asians hasn't always been good. Although chef Eddie Huang's "Trade My Daughter for Fried Chicken" has gotten some raves in online reviews, the insatiable Gael Greene pronounced it too dry, "like wood shavings on chunks of white meat." Last week, there was a final straw -- Eddie (first known for Baohaus, the popular Taiwanese sandwich shop) announced on his blog, Fresh Off The Boat, that he was overhauling his menu after reading a lukewarm review on a New York food blog that expressed disappointment in Xiao Ye's "normal" and generically flavored food." As an experiment, Eddie, who calls his dishes "bootie call food" designed for late-night eating, has added items like Cheeto fried chicken and gochujang grilled cheese to the menu.

I don't disagree with the criticism -- when Gael and I hiked over to the LES for a catchup dinner a few weeks ago, the place had both misses and hits. Midway through dinner, we even decided to order a few more dishes after wondering if perhaps we had just made some wrong choices.

I will say this, though -- the restaurant has one shining spot that made this Singaporean transplant very happy: its Hainanese chicken rice (listed on the menu as "Big Trouble in Hainan Chicken" for $15) is a delight.

In the 16 years that I've lived in the United States, I've searched eateries all over for acceptable versions of the incredible dishes of my home country. I've managed to find decent versions of chicken curry, satay, tauhu goreng (deep-fried tofu that's filled with julienned vegetables and drowned in spicy peanut sauce) and even oyster omelette, Teochew style.

Good Hainanese chicken rice, however, was more elusive. This dish basically consists of chicken (steamed, boiled or roasted) and paired with a fragrant oily rice that's been steeped in a broth with chicken fat and vanilla-like pandan leaves and a phalanx of condiments -- minced ginger, garlicky chili sauce and "dark sauce," a Southeast Asian soy sauce that's sweet and as thick as molasses. It may sound easy, but the combination is harder to pull off than you'd think.

In the years that I've eaten my way through America, I had never sampled a passable version of chicken rice. Xiao Ye's isn't a dead ringer for the versions you'll find in Singaporean hawker centers, of course.

But it's not bad. And trust me, that's high praise from this finicky Singaporean.

First off, a full disclosure: I know Eddie Huang. Not well at all, but we were on an Asian food panel together at Time Inc. this spring and he does know what I look like.

When I walked into Xiao Ye with the incognito Gael Greene, Eddie came over to greet me. I don't let acquaintances color my opinions on food, of course -- and we had come starving.

"I can't wait to try your Hainanese chicken rice," I said immediately. Eddie, who not only knew I was from Singapore but also that I have written a food memoir about Singapore, looked truly nervous. "Well ... I hope you like it!" he said.

If you've had Hainanese chicken rice in Singapore, you may be disappointed. Unlike in Singapore where the rice itself and the condiments are really the stars of the show, Xiao Ye's is all about the chicken.

As much as I fully expected to hate Eddie's, after years of sampling disappointing chicken rice dishes in the U.S., I found myself actually enjoying it. The chicken was juicy and tender, with each bite just oozing with flavor. I also liked that you could taste slight hints of ginger with each bite. Sure, the pieces didn't have that layer of gelatinized drippings between the meat and its skin that makes Boon Tong Kee in Singapore one of the most hallowed of Hainanese chicken rice restaurants. But I suppose the world could be a better place with a little less jellied fat anyhow.

The sauces were just fine -- it's hard to screw up minced ginger and sweet, dark soy sauce. But the chili sauce was a too sweet and lacking in garlic for my tastes. And the rice was a little undercooked and not greasy enough -- in Singapore, chicken rice is truly best when it feels and tastes as if each grain of rice is coated in fat.

As for the rest of the menu, we did like the cocktails (all priced at $12) -- especially the Milk Skywalker, which combined whiskey, Bailey's Irish Cream, soy milk, black tea and boba pearls.

If all bubble teas packed such punch I would have been a convert a long time ago. (Please do not tell me how many calories are in this drink.)

And the charmingly named Poontang Potstickers ($8) were incredibly addictive. They're flat and slightly open-faced--perfectly crispy with a juicy pork filling and a black vinegar dip.

I had to agree with Gael on the dryness of the fried chicken, however.

I've rarely met a plate of fried chicken that I didn't love -- and devour in seconds. But this version -- it lingered long on our table.

And while the idea of being served an assortment of pork rib, pork belly and oxtail in a dog bowl that's been dubbed an "Everything But The Dog Meat Platter" (for $28) was cute -- the concept turned out to ring a little truer than we liked. The pork belly was tasty but the rest was slightly tough to gnaw on.

With the menu revamp, it's unclear which dishes will emerge on the other side of Eddie's changes. "I started going into the restaurant everyday and getting bored of eating there," Eddie says in an email, explaining his changes. "I think people expect more out of me. I should be pushing the envelope more, not just toiling over old recipes."

For now, however, the experiments continue. And the Hainanese chicken rice, Eddie promises, will be back on the menu next week.

Xiao Ye, 198B Orchard Street; 212.777.7733; http://www.xiaoyenyc.com/

Lemongrass Frozen Yogurt: The Joys of Cooking Redux

2010-08-13T10:33:47-04:00

Years ago, I heard a sports writer complain about how he used to love sports -- until he started writing about it.

Once it became a job, he all but stopped watching games on weekends. The thing that he adored had morphed into stress-inducer.

I remember feeling aghast -- you get paid to write about something you love. Isn't that more than many people dream of?

Recently, however, I've started to understand. After spending weeks with my nose buried deep in my book manuscript -- which is all about a journey home to my native Singapore told through food and cooking -- my time in the kitchen has become, simply, work. Meals have been thrown together out of sheer necessity; easy old faithfuls rather than new creative dishes have been making far too many appearances on the dinner table.

The stress of writing and editing my hundreds of pages on food, sadly, had transformed my love for cooking into a source of anxiety.

But I only realized I'd forgotten how to enjoy the act of making food when my Let's Lunch friends nudged me back into the kitchen -- not to put a meal on the table but to whip up something silly and anything but practical: A decadent chilled dessert.

You probably remember the Let's Lunch bunch, a group of plucky cooks sprinkled across the globe, from San Francisco to Austin, Texas, to Paris.

Each month, we gather online for a virtual lunchdate. Burgers, chilled soups, kitchen-sink creations ... we've covered a lot of ground since a transcontinental craving for a BLT one lazy Sunday kicked off the first lunch in July. (Happy first anniversary, everyone!)

What to do for our anniversary? Something frothy seemed appropriate.

When I think of chilled desserts, the cold sweet soups filled with chunks of melon, plump bits of chewy sago or sweet cubes of yam I grew up with immediately come to mind. And let's not forget ice-kachang, the mountain of shaved ice doused with brightly colored syrup for which I squirreled away my weekly allowance.

All of this, however, seemed a little ambitious (especially with my book copy-editing deadline looming). And so I dusted off a book I've been meaning to cook from: "The Sweet Spot: Asian-Inspired Desserts" by New York dessert chef Pichet Ong. Pichet, who has cooked with top chefs like Jean-Georges Vongerichten and now runs two dessert restaurants (Spot and Village Tart) in Manhattan, spent some time in Singapore and often draws on Southeast Asian flavors in his dishes.

Flipping through his book, one recipe caught my eye: Lemongrass frozen yogurt.

I'd never made frozen yogurt before but this looked rather easy. In fact, when I emailed Pichet to ask if there was anything I should know about this recipe before trying it, he had just one thing to say. On the lemongrass: Make sure to "chop or bruise it really aggressively."

You don't need to tell me twice to be aggressive.

After taking a wooden mallet and bashing two stalks of lemongrass so hard that an alarmed husband was roused from the couch and came running into the kitchen to see if anyone was hurt, I figured I'd heeded Pichet's advice enough.

Next, I chopped the stalks as finely as I could, blended that with some whole milk, sugar and salt and then transferred that mixture to a saucepan to boil for a bit.

After a slight simmer, the mixture was set aside to cool as I took four large egg yolks ...

... whisked them together, adding some of the slightly cooled milk mixture to the yolks in the process, and then dumping that all back into the saucepan for more boiling.

After about five minutes, after the mixture had thickened slightly, I strained the liquid, making sure to press on the lemongrass bits to squeeze out every last drop, as Pichet advises in the book.

And there it was -- an incredibly fragrant, milky liquid whose scent conjured up thoughts of palm trees and breezy tropical beaches all at once.

After the liquid cooled, in went a smidgen of lemon juice and gobs of plain yogurt and the refrigerating began. Once the mixture went down to about 40 degrees in temperature, I ran it through an ice-cream maker for 30 minutes of churning and the yogurt was done.

The end product was delicious -- fresh, grassy and sweet but not cloying. It felt anything but heavy, making it a perfect summer dessert. (Well, except that one really has to exercise self-control around this frozen yogurt--it's seriously addictive.)

As Mike and I licked our spoons, slowing down to savor each moment as our yogurt disappeared, we couldn't help but smile. After weeks of sturdy casseroles and pragmatic stir-fries, this lemongrass yogurt was a true bit of bliss.

But as much as I enjoyed eating it -- I realized that I'd enjoyed making it even more.

If you'd like to join Let's Lunch, go to Twitter and post a message with the hashtag #Letslunch -- or, post a comment below.

And don't forget to see other Let's Lunchers' cool desserts below:

Cathy's Duo of Melon Fresca with Blackberry Granita at Showfood Chef

Danielle's Summer Berry Granita and Roasted White Peaches at Bon Vivant

Ellise's Watermelon Granita at Cowgirl Chef

Karen's Black Sesame Ice-Cream at Geofooding

Linda's Chocolate Banana Ice-Cream -- Made in a Dryer! At Free Range Cookies

Steff's Fudgie No-Bake Cookies at The Kitchen Trials

Pfeffernüsse: Victory Sweets

2010-07-10T12:20:01-04:00

My mother called the other day, saying she'd been thinking it was time for a change.

Time, specifically, to take down the massive German flag that's been hanging in my girlhood bedroom in Singapore since the 1990 World Cup. (And the discovery of the wonder that is Jurgen Klinsmann.)

There were protestations, of course -- the Germans were doing well in this year's World Cup. They might win it all again! Why jinx things by folding up my precious flag?

That point, of course, is moot right now. After getting trounced by the Spanish earlier this week, the Germans take to the field today -- not to fight for the World Cup. Instead, third place is theirs -- if they're lucky.

Now, when I'm stressed or depressed, I tend to storm the kitchen. So, what to make for this occasion?

"Time to write about some octopus recipes!" my friend Kevin suggested. (Given that I don't sanction the rallying cry to grill Paul the Psychic Octopus, who predicted, to his German aquarium's dismay, that Spain would knock Germany out of the semi-finals, I decided to ignore this.)

Something more humane, perhaps. Cookies, for example, seemed harmless enough.

And Martha Stewart had just the recipe ...

Pfeffernüsse, a small, round cookie that means "pepper nuts" in German because it's typically made with ground pepper and nuts, are traditionally made in Germany around Christmas. The Dutch and Danish make it around the holidays, too -- the Danish version (pebernødder) varies a little, calling for white instead of black pepper.

While almonds or walnuts are typically used in pfeffernüsse -- with some variations calling for pecans, cardamom or ginger -- Martha's recipe is more basic. It simply calls for a mix of spices -- ground pepper, cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg, cloves -- which you whisk together with flour and baking soda.

And the recipe is super easy -- you beat together butter, brown sugar, egg, vanilla and molasses, mix in the dry ingredients, and before you know it, you have delicious-smelling little brown nubbins, artfully arranged. (Which Mike promptly dubbed "Cookie-henge.")

For a final touch, you toss the nubbins in confectioner's sugar ...

... and they're ready to serve.

The cookie is a little cakey, dense and loaded with spices -- perfect with a hot cup of Ceylon tea.

We'll be setting those out here today in mein haus, as the Germans battle Uruguay for third place in the World Cup. And as delicious as they are, I know they'll be even better paired with the sweet victory of the Germans today.

Deustchland!

Martha Stewart's Pfeffernüsse Recipe

(First printed in Martha Stewart's Holiday Baking 2002)

Ingredients:

1 1/4 cups confectioners' sugar
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
3/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground allspice
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature
3/4 cup firmly packed light-brown sugar
1 large egg
1/4 cup unsulfured molasses
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper. Place the confectioners' sugar in a brown paper bag.
In a medium bowl, combine flour, pepper, cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg, cloves, and baking soda. Set aside.
Place butter, brown sugar, and molasses in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with paddle attachment. Beat on medium speed until fluffy, about 3 minutes. Beat in egg and vanilla. With mixer on low speed, add flour mixture; beat until just combined. Pinch off dough in tablespoon amounts; roll into 1 1/4-inch balls. Arrange balls 1 1/2 inches apart on prepared baking sheets. (Dough can be frozen at this point, covered tightly with plastic wrap, up to 1 month.)
Bake until cookies are golden and firm to the touch with slight cracking, about 15 minutes, rotating sheets halfway through. Transfer sheets to a wire rack to cool slightly, about 10 minutes. Working in batches, place cookies in paper bag; shake until well coated. Let cool completely on wire rack. Store in an airtight container.

Green (Deviled) Eggs & Ham

2010-07-06T09:17:38-04:00

If it's been a little quiet on this blog, well, there's been good reason.

There is the issue of this book, you see. A book editing deadline, to be precise. After following my various exploits while traveling and researching "A Tiger In The Kitchen," you'll be patient, I hope, as I wade my way to the finish line later this month. The blog, with all its death-defying bread baking, restaurant explorations and virtual lunch dates, will be back to normal in no time, I promise.

In the meantime, however, there are things that can prod the bloggery back to life.

In this case, that would be a carton of green eggs, large, pert and in the loveliest shade of pale sage. The moment they were spied, said carton was whisked off the table at the Brooklyn Heights farmers market and ferried home for further inspection.

What to do with these green eggs? I immediately thought of the deviled eggs a talented artist friend, Moses Hoskins, recently served up for lunch ...

If you're curious, these green eggs are laid by a particular breed of chicken -- the lovely people at the Rexcroft Farm stand directed me to their sign, explaining, apologetically, that the spelling of the name of the chicken was probably wrong ...

A little nosing around revealed that the eggs were probably from Araucana chickens, a breed of poultry from Chile that lays bluish-green eggs.

Now, several weeks before the green egg discovery, there had been a little visit to the Queens studio of my friend Moses to see his latest work.

I'd gotten to know Moses at Yaddo, one of the oldest artist colonies in the U.S. -- a place that was gracious enough to offer me a studio in the woods for seven weeks to complete my book this winter. Moses does large abstract paintings that attract collectors as far away as Abu Dhabi and smaller collages (which are currently on display at OK Harris gallery in New York City through July 17).

After living, eating and working together for weeks, one can get fond of the people around them. Perhaps, even missing them when you're back in real life.

And so, on a sunny afternoon back at home in New York, I found myself hopping on a Subway train with Gordon, another Yaddo-mate and fellow author (whose work you may know), speeding toward Queens for a little catch-up lunch with Mo.

The spread, when we arrive, is anything but simple. The large table in Mo's kitchen is filled with bowls of potato salad, pickled cucumbers, a shredded garlic and olive oil dip -- all of it homemade.

And, of course, Mo's very own deviled eggs.

Mo protests when I whip my camera out. "Don't take pictures--they look TERRIBLE!"

But the best tasting food often doesn't look great -- and besides, since the chef du jour is also a visual artist, I choose to think that the eggs are simply a little abstract.

And they taste just divine, of course -- the eggs are perfectly hard-boiled, springy and fresh. And the filling is sweet and creamy, with just enough of a mustardy zing.

Mo, who grew up in Iowa, says he learned to make deviled eggs from his mother. However, he thinks it's utterly ridiculous when I ask him for a recipe. "There's no recipe," he says. "They're STUPID easy!"

Finally, though, he agrees to run through the steps. First, you hard-boil some eggs. ("You know how to boil eggs, don't you?" he says.) Next, you peel them, slice them lengthwise and scoop out the yolks into a bowl.

Then, "you take a fork and you CLOBBER the BEJESUS out of it," Mo says.

(Am I the only one who thinks Mo needs his own Food Network show -- pronto?)

Next, you add mayonnaise -- enough to make the filling smooth and creamy -- a few "squirts of brown mustard," tasting as you go along. "Now you need enough for each egg, so you can't test it too much or there isn't going to be enough to go around," Mo warns. At this stage, Mo notes that some people add curry powder or relish but "Well ... I don't do that." After "CLOBBERING" the filling some more, scoop it into the hollowed egg halves and serve.

I decided to try this at home with my green eggs, which taste just like regular eggs, except that the yolks are massive and so deep in hue that they're almost marigold ...

Mo was right -- deviled eggs are "STUPID easy." When following his instructions, I also added some salt, freshly ground pepper, a dash of cayenne and contemplated adding a dribble of soy sauce but decided against it. Next time, perhaps.

Since I was making these with green eggs, however, I did decide on one addition: Chopped up bits of bone-in ham. (Making the filling using six hard-boiled eggs, I added about half a cup of finely chopped ham.)

These Dr. Seuss-inspired green deviled eggs and ham may not have been the most traditional, but they sure turned out delicious.

As Sam might say, I would eat them in a boat, I would eat them with a goat ...

Special thanks to Moses Hoskins: http://web.mac.com/moseshoskins/Site/index%3A___HOME.html

Totto Ramen: Noodles Worth Sweating Over

2010-06-29T07:39:07-04:00

This is my general policy on sweating: It's disgusting. Don't do it.

Well ... unless there is good reason. Like, say, an awesome bowl of soup noodles.

On the hottest day of summer so far in New York, a scorching bowl of ramen seemed like an insane choice for dinner. But there we were in Midtown, just blocks away from the recently opened Totto Ramen -- a new sliver of a noodle shop by the owners of Yakitori Totto, whose grilled rice balls coated with a crispy soy-sauce glaze have occupied more of my dreams than I can count. (Hey, Thomas Keller is a fan of the place, too.)

Since we were practically within sniffing distance of the new place, a visit was definitely in order ...

Now, because Totto Ramen only has 16 seats, it can be a very long wait for seats at regular dinner hours. (Thankfully, this wasn't the case just before 10 p.m. on a weeknight. Although the place was almost full, we were seated right away.)

From the moment you set foot in the restaurant, you feel like you're in the heart of Tokyo.

Red-cheeked Japanese men, flushed from perhaps one too many ice-cold Sapporos, fill tiny seats along a narrow wooden counter.

The view from our own seats was a little less entertaining -- we found ourselves staring at two massive pots of broth.

(A quick scan of the menu showed that the restaurant offers ramen with two kinds of broth -- a vegetarian kind made with konbu (kelp) and a chicken-based miso version. We were relieved to find that both are made without MSG -- the ever-present umami-agent in many Asian broths, unfortunately.)

We did, however, also have a great view of the chef whose main task was to blowtorch slices of pork belly and give them a slightly crispy exterior.

This made our meal ahead seem very, very promising.

Your options aren't plentiful at this place -- although the menu mentions side items like chicken wings ($4.50) and pork buns ($6.50), none of those are available yet. We tried to order the toro mayo don ($4.50), a rice bowl topped with grilled pork ramen and yuzu citrus mayo but were told there weren't any more.

So, ramen it was.

The first to appear was the Totto miso ramen ($10.25), made with a chicken-based broth. The noodles were perfectly done -- firm and al dente -- and the mound of ground pork that topped it was sweet and savory all at once. Mixed into the slightly creamy broth, the deep flavor of the pork and its sauce infused the entire bowl.

Just when we wondered whether anything could top the miso ramen we'd tasted, along came the Totto spicy ramen ($10.25), flavored with a giant dollop of deep-crimson oil made with garlic, onion, shrimp and scallops.

A crisp sheet of seaweed, soaked to softness in the oily broth, slender bits of scallions and thin slices of blowtorched fatty pork, were lovely accompaniments to the noodles.

Each bowl held little surprises.

What looked like grains of rice in the bowl of miso ramen turned out to be crunchy bits of minced radish, which added a delightful, fresh taste that helped cut the richness of the hearty broth.

"Huh, I have my own slices of pork, too," the husband mumbled, mouth full, brow soaked, as he fished out squares of pork from the belly of his miso ramen bowl.

"Well, I have two big slices of pork and crunchy bits of pork floating about," I countered.

I was thinking that we were about even. And then Mike made one final discovery.

"Hey, did you get an egg, too?"

There was none in my spicy ramen, alas. And what an egg it was -- it wasn't fully hard-boiled so the yolk was still slightly soft, runny and especially lovely soaked in a bit of miso broth; the egg white, not too firm.

The miso ramen, it had won.

Finally, sated and drenched in sweat, we paid up and left.

I wasn't sure what I'd be dreaming of that night, but you know those soy sauce-basted grilled rice balls I'd mentioned before? They suddenly had some stiff competition.

Totto Ramen, 366 West 52nd Street, 212.582.0052, www.tottoramen.com

The Lion: And On The First Night ...

2010-05-11T12:14:57-04:00

When a girl leaves town for seven weeks, the City is full of advice for her the moment she returns.

Because she has been known to have an appetite, there is, first and foremost on the minds of many, the issue of where she should eat now. Restaurants have closed and opened in the time she's been gone, sequestered in the woods of Saratoga Springs, N.Y., finishing a book, making new friends.

"Obviously," a friend emails, "the Lion in the Village is the place to go."

And by all accounts, that appears to be right. The West Village restaurant with Waverly Inn chef John DeLucie at the helm and backers like David Zinczenko of Men's Health magazine has been one of the most breathlessly anticipated new restaurants of spring. In the last few weeks, its private preview dinners have been a Page Six hotbed, reportedly drawing bold-faced names like Demi Moore, Ashton Kutcher, Nora Ephron and Mary J. Blige.

The issue, of course, becomes, well, how on earth to get a table? If you aren't God, Gwyneth Paltrow or Graydon Carter, that is.

On Monday, the very night that it opened, we decided to swing by and try our luck ...

The host is polite -- but firm in his insistence that a dinner reservation on a Friday night is difficult. But with a little persistence, and inquisitive chatter, and then the startling discovery that the host just happens to have been born in Singapore, too, a dinner reservation on Friday magically appears. And hey, since we are there on opening night, why not stop in for a drink and some snacks?

So we sit, and have a lovely glass of red and, even though we've already had dinner -- a Malaysian-themed five-courser at the James Beard House, no less -- we dig right in.

Oysters appear -- Kumamotos ($36 per dozen), soft, small and buttery on the tongue. It is a lovely start -- though not as chilled as we'd like. The bed of lettuce, not ice, that the oysters are on warms them up just a smidgen too much. We realize, just a hair too late, that it would have been best to attack them the moment they hit the table.

There is nothing to regret about the roasted baby beets with chevre mousse and hazelnut crumbs ($13) except the fact that it disappears all too quickly. The beets are deliciously fresh, each bite so full of flavor on its own but even better with the chevre and crunchy hazelnut morsels.

Artichoke fritters ($14) come with baby leeks, lemon confit and bechamel -- these, too, disappear in a flash. They're perfectly fried, light and come filled with flecks of artichoke chunks.

The pastas, we had been told, are worth checking out. Pasta Annunziata ($23) comes with chunks of braised octopus and salty guanciale. It looks and sounds potentially heavy but without any heavy sauce on it, the dish ends up feeling, tasting light. Perhaps even healthy.

"Model's pasta," my chef friend Simpson, starving from his own night of cooking for 60 at the James Beard House earlier in the night, muses.

The rest of the dishes are less model-esque. A house-made sheep's milk cavatelli with chevre butter and oregano ($22) is delicious -- the pasta is so textured it almost has crunch -- but definitely not for dieters.

And the burger ($17) topped with crispy pork belly, caramelized onions and both smoked cheddar and provolone is a hearty combination that's worth the calories -- but just know those calories, a likely insane amount of them, they're definitely there. (We also adored its tiny jar of pickles on the side.)

And the sides, oh the sides. Roasted mushrooms and spinach casserole (both $8) have that intense, heart-stopping taste.

The truly unforgettable bites of the night, however, were unexpected -- a simple potato gratin ($8) in the tiniest of pans. Incredibly creamy, buttery, salty and rich -- we could barely contain ourselves from the first bite. At first, we took tiny, polite forkfuls, letting the gratin sit on our tongues, holding onto that feeling and taste for just a moment. And then desire shoved aside civility; the battle for the final morsels began.

There remains much to be investigated -- the Berkshire pork chop with fermented black garlic; the lobster pot pie with brandy cream sauce. But that's what Friday's dinner is for.

It's been a good night -- we wander outside. Shortly after, a dark-haired looker and his female companion amble along, striking up a conversation with us.

"You're that guy," I say.

"What guy?" he replies, bemused.

"You were on 'Sex and The City.'"

"No, 'Gossip Girl' -- I'm the father."

I am mortified, but he has a good laugh. It is Matthew Settle, who plays Rufus Humphrey on the CW show. Unfazed, he tells me about how he just started in "Chicago" on Broadway, about how much he loves to sing. (He also notes how much he enjoyed the English pea soup ravioli with melted leeks and truffled foam that night at The Lion. I make a mental note to put that on the Friday dinner list.)

The meal, the celebrity sighting -- together, it is what The Lion is. It may try to be classic American but it's really quintessential New York.

It's all about the moment. And wanting to be in that moment, well before it cools.

The Lion, 62 W. 9th Street, 212.353.8400

Pineapple Tarts: The Start Of The Journey

2010-03-08T09:17:22-05:00

In the beginning, there were pineapple tarts.

These buttery, crumbly, bite-sized marvels bewitched me as a child in Singapore. My paternal grandmother made the best ones, of course -- every Chinese new year, she would hit the kitchen to churn out her tarts, pushing me to eat as many as I wanted as we sat in her living room, unhurriedly passing time.

I never learned to make my grandmother's tarts as a child, unfortunately.

When I was 11, she died. And the chance for her to teach me anything suddenly vanished.

After many years of mourning this lost opportunity, I traveled back to Singapore in early 2009 to learn how to make these tarts from my aunts. My grandmother had taught them how to bake the tarts when she was alive and they were now the keepers of her prized recipe, which I've included below.

The experience was enlightening -- but it also generated a spark. I now knew how to make the tarts of my grandmother, a legendary cook in our family and to all she knew.

But still, I wanted more.

Thus began a journey of discovery -- one that would take place in the kitchens of my Singapore family. Over the next lunar calendar year, the women of my family would gather over hot stoves to laugh, tell stories, shake our heads and, above all else, cook.

The story of my journey will be shared very soon. (Hyperion's Voice is publishing "A Tiger In The Kitchen" in January 2011.)

But first, it must be written -- and so I must bow out of this blog for a while. Seven weeks, to be exact. (Special thanks to Yaddo, the artists' colony, for generously offering me a nook in the woods to think and create.)

I hope you'll forgive this absence, but you must admit, it's for a rather good reason.

When I return in late April, I'll be looking for all of you. My year of cooking in Singapore is over but the journey continues here. And I hope you'll be coming along with me.

Until then, buon appetito and enjoy ...

~~~

My Grandmother's Pineapple Tarts

(Recipe first appeared in the Wall Street Journal)

Ingredients

Yields about 100 tarts

To make the jam:

4 pineapples
at least ½ kilogram sugar (at least 2 ½ cups, depending on desired sweetness)
2 to 3 pandan leaves* knotted together
1 long cinnamon stick, broken in two

Peel the pineapples, dig out the eyes and chop into chunks. Run the chunks through a juicer. Place the pulp in a large wok or pot with a large surface area and heat on the stove. Add the juice until the mixture has the consistency of porridge or grits; add the knotted pandan leaves and cinnamon stick. Bring to a boil and keep it there for a total of three hours, stirring often. Halfway through, taste the jam, and add sugar by the half cup until it is as sweet as you desire. (Note: The amount of sugar needed will vary greatly depending on how ripe the pineapples are.)
The jam is done when the pineapple mixture has changed color from bright yellow to brownish ochre and most of the liquid has evaporated, leaving a dense but moist jam.

For the pastry:

375 grams salted butter (3 sticks plus 2 ½ Tablespoons) at room temperature
600 grams flour (about 4 ¾ cups)
4 egg yolks, plus 1 yolk for brushing onto pastry

With a mixer on low speed, combine the butter, flour and four egg yolks, mixing for 3 to 5 minutes.
Place dough in a cookie press fitted with a disc featuring a circle of diamonds. Press cookies out onto greased baking sheets. Form small balls of dough and press each one into the hollow of a cookie, forming the base of the tart.
Beat the remaining egg yolk with ½ teaspoon of water. Brush the rim of each tart generously. Take a scant teaspoon of pineapple jam (more or less, as desired) and form a ball, then press into the hollow of each tart. Pat the sides of the jam to create a small dome.
Bake for 15 to 20 minutes at 350 degrees, until golden brown. Remove cookies from sheets and cool on a rack.

Kitchen-Sink Stir-Fry: Spring Cleaning Your Fridge

2010-03-05T08:08:00-05:00

It's hard to think about spring when there's still snow on the ground in New York. But one must be optimistic -- which we are over here in the Let's Lunch crowd.

Fresh off our breathless postings on aphrodisiac-laced dishes in February, our thoughts immediately turned to warmer times as we debated what to make next for our monthly virtual lunch date.

How about "spring cleaning (the fridge?)" Stephanie over at The Cosmic Cowgirl suggested.

And so, kitchen-sink recipes to help you springclean your fridge it was.

Now, since I have several solid grocers (and one neat butcher) within a 2-minute walk of my Brooklyn apartment, I tend to buy as I cook. (I've never really been one to stock up my fridge like there's no tomorrow, anyhow.)

Nonetheless, there are a few basics that I must always have in my fridge: Bacon, tofu and some sort of ground meat, usually pork or beef.

Bacon is a wonder that must be consumed on its own, in my book. (Or, in a bacon explosion. Or a BLT. Or ... I digress.)

But what to do with tofu and ground pork? The possibilities are endless ...

With these two ingredients, I like to use a very simple recipe I learned from Erlinda, the executive chef of Chez Tan (otherwise known as my parents' home in Singapore). Erlinda regularly whips this up for lunch because it's so easy to make. Served with rice and a vegetable, you've got a balanced meal right there.

All you do is fry up some garlic, pork, sliced chili and tofu with a cocktail of oyster sauce, soy sauce, cornstarch and water. (These all happen to be ingredients I regularly keep around the kitchen.) And just under 15 minutes later, you're sitting down to eat.

If you have other ingredients, you can easily toss them in -- scallions, mushrooms or ground beef work well as additions or substitutes. If you like pepper, sprinkle that in, too.

I had been a little hesitant to share this recipe because it's so simple. But that's the best thing about kitchen-sink concoctions -- they shouldn't be complicated. You toss everything in, stir them up and serve.

It may not be rocket science but often, the best things in life just don't have to be.

Enjoy ...

~~~

If you'd like to join Let's Lunch, go to Twitter and post a message with the hashtag #Letslunch -- or, post a comment below.

And don't forget to see other Let's Lunchers' kitchen-sink recipes below:

Cathy's Butternut Squash, Leek & Potato Frittata a.k.a. Refrigettata at Showfood Chef

Danielle's Stir-Fried Asparagus & Shrimp at Bon Vivant

~~~

Erlinda's Kitchen-Sink Stir-Fry

Ingredients

1/2 cup minced pork
1 tsp minced garlic
1 tsp thinly sliced chili padi (very small, bright-red Asian chilis) Thai bird's eye chili can be substituted.
1 tsp cornstarch, mixed with 1/2 cup water
1 TB oyster sauce
1.5 TB soy sauce
1 TB vegetable oil
1/2 package silken or firm tofu, cut into rectangular strips or 1-inch cubes

Preparation:

If using firm tofu (as pictured above), deep fry the strips in hot oil until they're browned and crispy. Then, set that aside.

Heat 1 TB oil in wok, add garlic and fry for a minute before adding pork and chili slices. Fry the mixture until meat is half cooked. then add oyster sauce, soy sauce and cornstarch mixture. Stir it all up and fry for a minute to make sure everything is evenly mixed, then add tofu.

Simmer over medium to low heat for about 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, or until pork is cooked. Serve with rice.

Iggy's: Nailing A Compulsory

2010-02-28T15:53:38-05:00

There is, I recently told my friend Willin, a gaping hole in my Singapore dining repertoire.

Together, Willin, my eating partner, and I had savored saccharine Japanese tomatoes paired with fiery horseradish granita at Fifty Three, nibbled on parmesan and squid ink breadsticks at Jaan and demolished slabs of foie gras encrusted with crumbled candied almonds at Gunther's Modern French Cuisine. And one afternoon when I dared to cheat on Willin by lunching with another, I'd gotten a clandestine rush from a decadent chocolate dessert at Les Amis that had been inspired by after-dinner mints.

In my bid to become comprehensively schooled in Singapore fine dining, however, one name was still missing from the list: Iggy's, a little place in the Regent hotel that is regarded by some as the best restaurant in the country. (Its regulars include the wife of Singapore's prime minister -- enough said.)

It's time, I said to Willin.

And soon enough, we found ourselves bellying up to the gleaming bar at Iggy's ...

Now, Iggy's -- named for its owner, Ignatius Chan -- is a power lunch (or dinner) spot. CEOs dine here with regularity and as for the prime minister's wife, well, she was in the house when we walked in for our lunch that day.

This is not to say the restaurant is any way vanilla or stodgy. In fact, it's a rather welcoming place -- the setting is modern and the staff is friendly. (Sadly, perfunctory with more than a whiff of superciliousness is often what you'll find among servers at high-end restaurants in Singapore.)

There were three in our party -- we had graciously decided to allow Mike, who had flown in from New York, to crash our lunch date -- and the host had thoughtfully seated us around the corner of the bar so we could talk easily.

On deck that day was the $75, five-course lunch. Food started arriving the moment we got comfortable and had glasses of chilled white in hand.

For starters, there was an amuse bouche of uni with cauliflower mousse and ponzu jelly, gussied up with the tiniest of flowers. The combination gave you a creamy mouthful that was also fresh and clean -- a good start to the meal, we decided.

Next, the waiter presented a two-part dish -- first, we had to munch on leaves that grow by the ocean that had been wrapped in tapioca paper. The leaves themselves were salty, tasting almost like oysters.

They were meant to pave the way for real oysters, served with sweet sago and a cube of balsamic vinegar jelly.

The combination of tastes was a little unusual -- but it worked. I'm always a fan of salty, sweet and slightly sour tangling with one another in one bite.

Next up was an artful -- and very, very tasty dish: ceviche of dover sole with fluffy burrata, Italian tomatoes, konbu (Japanese seaweed) and dill.

The tiny tomatoes were so, so sweet -- the perfect foil for the salty konbu and decadently creamy burrata and fresh slivers of sole. I could have eaten two of these plates.

Iggy's take on truffled potatoes arrived next -- a confit of potatoes paired with a mushroom fricassee, truffle mayonnaise, massive truffle shavings and dehydrated mesclun salad.

I've stopped being a fan of potatoes (carbs) and salad, much less a dehydrated one that looked like bits of dried grass, isn't usually my thing either. But we thought this combination worked fine.

The next dish was a winner -- snow crab claws paired with lobster souffle, sauteed fennel and shellfish foam.

The souffle was smidge dense but the foam was delicious and the fennel was a really nice touch that added some spark to a rather rich dish overall.

We went off the pre-ordained menu for our next course.

Willin, who had lunched at Iggy's a few times before, had spent the days leading up to our meal raving about the chef's capellini tossed with miniature Sakura ebi (shrimp), konbu and scampi oil.

After my first bite, I decided I would always listen to Willin -- each mouthful was a delight. And, the pasta was so packed with the crunchy little shrimp that even after my noodles had vanished, I was left with a good 10 of them swimming at the base of my plate.

Our meals diverged for the next course. Mike had the slow-cooked ocean trout with sweet violet potatoes, asparagus, avruga caviar and a smear of artichoke puree.

The fish and its accompaniments were tasty, to be sure. But Willin and I couldn't help but feel like we'd taken the superior route ...

... with our incredibly tender slow-cooked Wagyu beef cheek with daikon in a pinot noir au jus.

The finale, however, would end up being my favorite course -- the one I would gush and beat my chest over for weeks afterward: a cube of French toast combined with sabayon sauce and bits of chocolate, coated with a dusting of white truffle powder.

The French toast was crunchy but had the consistency of a rich custard on the inside and the white truffle powder offered a savory kick to the sweetness of the toast, chocolate and sabayon.

We left Iggy's that day so stuffed we were barely able to walk. (Yes, perhaps adding the capellini as a sixth course hadn't been the best idea.)

But the meal had been a compulsory, for anyone who's keen to get schooled in Singapore fine dining, anyhow.

And it had been good.

Iggy's, The Regent Singapore, Level 3, 1 Cuscaden Road, Tel. No.: +65.6732-2234, http://www.iggys.com.sg/