#tbt July 2012: In a little town called Tagong, high on the Tibetan Plateau where little thrives but yaks and Buddhism, food + magic = happy little piggy.

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Without a doubt, Chinese food is the best food in the world. I say this, of course, because the flavors of my motherland course through my veins and because Chinese food in its unadulterated form is candidly delicious (sadly, 99% of you, through no fault of your own, have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about because if you tell me you've had Chinese food and it wasn't in China or perhaps Flushing, Queens or San Francisco, or in my kitchen, then I promise you you have not). Chinese food, and this is the clincher for me, is also deeply rooted in wit, puns, and illusions, a culinary magic show to tease and tantalize all the senses.

A dish can be playful and coy: its aroma, presentation, taste, and texture colluding to masquerade and surprise. Even the name of a dish can be a carefully crafted riddle.

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Having eaten naught but yak meat, yak yogurt, and yak milk for days straight, we went in search of vegetarian Chinese food. A group of German trekkers at our hostel pointed us to a hole-in-the-wall run by, literally, a mom and a pop.

“The word on the street is that you make an amazing eggplant dish.”

“Ah, you must be talking about our yuxiang qiezi,” she said, reaching into the vegetable bin and coming up with two long eggplants, a head of garlic, a bunch of cilantro, and a handful of chilies, red and green. Without breaking our gaze, she began slicing and chopping, the movements of her heavy cleaver sure and swift. Such knife skills were very promising. We poured some tea and waited.

This husband-and-wife team was a well-oiled machine. When she had finished all the prep work, he fired up the wok, which was soon snap-crackle-popping away, wafting heavenly and mysterious aromas. I wasn’t familiar with yuxiang qiezi and did not know what to expect beyond something eggplant-based that smelled increasingly amazing.

The dishes arrived on the table, and I stared down, my quizzical expression reflected in the slick, glistening surface. It was a mush … albeit festive like Christmas.

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The first bite was velvety soft, tangy, spicy, sweet … and fishy?! I crinkled my nose, focused, and tried again.

And then, then I saw behind the magic curtain. Yuxiang qiezi (鱼香茄子) translates into “fish essence eggplant,” that is, the eggplant is meant to imitate fish!!

The pieces now all fell into place: the minced eggplant flash-fried and then sautéed to the texture of fish flesh; the fish sauce, yellow wine, and vinegar gravy for essence of fish; the dish served in a fish-shaped platter. The result greater than the sum of all its clever, clever parts.

My enlightened third bite was unequivocally delicious.

Oh, hey, some photos of the annual horse racing festival that we were so incredibly lucky to catch (apologies for the abysmal action photography, eggs at rest are much easier subjects).

Chinese people don't bake. We steam, we fry, we sauté, we grill, we boil, we sous-vide, we braise. We do not bake. I vaguely remember my mother trying her hand at various "healthful" vegetable (zucchini, carrot, pumpkin) cakes frosted in sour cream (as in, she simply slathered the rounds in unadulterated Daisy) and viscerally recall a (browning) banana + (expiring) cheddar cheese casserole (surprisingly tasty), but for the most part, the white, electric oven of our first home in America slumbered peacefully for seven years, guarding the the stock pot, various strainers, and B-list pans.

In the 90's, my parents completed their graduate degrees; Dad received an associate professor posting; we packed our bags for the Heartland. In our new (old) house, the oven, determined to shed its ill-assigned security detail, slowly promoted itself into a more appropriate and inspiring position: Mom embarked upon a quest (that spanned two decades) to perfect low-fat cheesecake; Dad discovered Costco, bringing home family-size racks of ribs that slow-roasted for an entire day until meat and bone parted with a porky whisper; I became our resident baker.

It started out simple and utilitarian: brownies for bake sales, snickerdoodles for class parties, and then quickly escalated to more elaborate edibles: dark chocolate biscotti with tart Montgomery cherries and hazelnuts for Ravinia Festival outings, marble cake with chocolate raspberry pudding and cream cheese frosting for birthdays, Christmas box sets comprising 6-12 varieties for holiday parties.

These days, every family member has claimed a perennial favorite: pecan puffs rolled in powdered sugar for Mom; peanut butter cookies made only with Smucker's Natural for Dad; lemon bars spiked with extra zest for Tao. (Hubs' choice will be added to this distinguished list come Christmas 2016.)  As for me, whose sweet tooth barely registers on the sugar scale, I am all about the chocolate chip cookie (C^3).

Does the blogosphere need yet another C^3 recipe? Absolutely not. But I've probably made a quarter of the recipes out there, and this is my long-standing favorite. Based on the drop cookies in Joy of Cooking, sifted with the wisdom of David Lebovitz, sprinkled with notes of WGT, these cookies come out crispy on the outside and dense and chewy on the inside; each bite pregnant with toasted nuts and humming with just enough sweetness.

1. Cut 1/2 c. (= 1 stick or 8 TB) unsalted butter into pea-size cubes. (Tip: You want the butter somewhere between just-out-of-the-fridge cold and room temp. Too cold and it will be difficult to combine with the sugar; too warm and the cookies will spread too much when you bake them.)
2. Beat with 1/2 c. granulated white sugar + 1/2 c. packed light brown sugar until smooth.
3. Mix in 1 large egg + 1 tsp. vanilla extract + 1/2 tsp. baking soda.
4. In a separate bowl, mix 1 1/4 c. AP flour + 1/2 tsp. salt (+ 1 tsp. ground cinnamon). Add to the batter and mix until smooth.
5. Mix in 1 1/2 c. semi-sweet chocolate chips (or chunks) + 1 1/2 c. toasted walnuts. It will seem like there's not enough batter to incorporate the chips and nuts. Trust me, there's just enough. (Tip: Chopping the walnuts BEFORE you toast them = exponentially more toasted goodness.)
6. Drop 2TB scoops onto parchment, leaving ~3 inch buffers. Bake at 300 degrees for 15-18 minutes until just starting to brown.
7. Eat excessively while they're warm. Cool thoroughly before storing.

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Oh, hey, here's a completely gratuitous photo of Pinot pup because she's just soooo damn cute ... patiently waiting at my feet .... willing me to drop some cookie dough. Guess I'll be adding puppy cookies to the Christmas bakeathon.

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Gutter Fish: The Fish I Dared to Eat, the Story I Survived to Tell (#tbt)

June 2012 found me backpacking though central China, climbing karst formations by day, gorging on local delicacies and swilling local hooch by night. In the transport town of Jishou, Hunan Province, we dined under the stars at a road-side restaurant. 

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The fact of the matter is that one cannot truly experience the full girth and potential of Chinese cuisine if one is not willing to precipitously lower expectations of hygiene. Sure, it’s risky but absolutely worthwhile and necessary as far as this little piggy is concerned.

But let’s not sugarcoat things: 95% of the eating establishments in China would bomb health code inspection, and of the remaining 5%, probably 4.5% would barely eke by with a passing D grade. If you don’t want to be stuck eating at the most expensive hotel restaurants that are most likely catering to Western tourists and business deals, you have to adjust.

Generally, my standards for kitchen cleanliness are pretty damn high. I wash produce thoroughly; I segregate meat cutting boards; I wash dishes as I’m cooking; I always have a counter rag ready at hand; and quite frankly, sitting down to eat before the entire kitchen is clean often gives me anxiety. But in China, I can turn a blind eye to dingy little hole-in-the-walls with filthy floors and strewn with garbage; to eat off dishes and utensils barely rinsed with water potentially teeming with parasites; to accept food from hands (especially fingernails) jet black with dirt. I tell myself, I’m only seeing a portion of the picture, and while it’s likely that my food is being prepared under stomach-curdling circumstances, then again, it is possible that it’s not. It’s mind over matter, and my powers of delusion are capable of incredible heights of oblivion and amnesia.

But what can I do when the fish I have just hand-picked for dinner is then swiftly scooped out of the tank and smashed to its death in the. street. gutter in one seamless motion. Do I allow myself to register the accumulated filth—the garbage, the dirt, the various bodily secretions—that are surely washing over the now listless flesh that was so fresh just seconds before, that I am expected to now consume? How can I possibly forget them? Do I object when the cook’s version of “thoroughly washing my fish” (which he promises upon seeing my irrepressible exclamation of horror) is to fetch it from the. street. gutter and swish it around in a big tub of what looks to be dish-washing water?! My eyes burned with the sequence of images that could not be forgotten, and my stomach trembled in fear.

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My head hadn’t even completed its first reel before the fish was “cleaned” and gutted and chopped. It was too late now; this gutter fish was ours for the keeping. There was one last hope: Could I convince myself that the pilgrimage of a flash-fry in a screaming hot wok of bubbling oil could cleanse the flesh?

It emerged from the wok—steaming, fragrant, swimming with bright chilies. My eyes drowned in the vibrant colors and glistening sauce that winked at me flirtatiously; my nose inhaled deeply the ticking aromas of sweet, sour, spicy, and salty heavy with promise; my mouth instinctively began to salivate, and I mechanically put my chopsticks in motion.

The first bite was truly incredible, and while the life, death, and rebirth of this gutter fish could not be successfully stricken from memory, it was transformed from one of trepidation and horror to one of comedy. 

Thus emboldened, I plunge fearlessly forward with chopsticks aloft and mouth agape.

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