Well, it’s been ages since the last post, and of course tons of eating has been done.

As an extention of procrastination, I suddenly remembered the little Chinese version of pancakes/waffles, affectionately known as Gai Dan Zai, and translated to Chicken Eggs, which really doesn’t say much. It’s a batter that is poured into molds like a waffle maker, which is closed, allowed to cook, and flipped about half way so that the batter can cook both sides. The result is a sheet of bubbles, usually semi hollow on the inside, or almost like a lighter version of a muffin. The outside should be crispy. And it must be eaten hot.

When we were in Hong Kong over the summer, I dragged my sister around wandering the streets of North Point on Hong Kong Island with nowhere in mind. After falling asleep half way through the cable car ride and arriving at the end, we hopped off and walked around the street market, through some creamatorium, into another indoor market, through a very old-style mall with low ceilings and small little shops and back out onto the street.

Somewhere along the way, we stumbled upon a line up. The golden culinary rule in Hong Kong is to flock where others go. The attraction this time: the Chinese waffles. We looked a bit, gawked at the newspaper articles proudly taped along the wall of the window that looked like a cut out from the wall that miraculously fitted some 4 busy bodies endlessly churning out the same products to the line that never got any shorter (but never any longer either).

So, we walked on, thinking we might as well see as much as we can. After boiling for another hour or so, inching our way through the area, we turned back. And of course we, like many obsessed street food Hong Kongers, caved in to the temptation of trying the best Gai Dan Zai in Hong Kong, the land of its origin.

The lineup took at least 30 minutes, where we inched some 12 feet total. In front of us there was a man who yapped the entire time about how this place must be overrated, but nonetheless wanted to buy a batch for his nephew or some other to try. And just in front of him was a woman who was bored enough to entertain arguing with him the entire wait, and even offered to double with him to buy the batch (it was $20 for 2 and something like $11 for one). Of course the $1 or $2 must be saved. We doubled with the much quieter girl behind us.

And when we finally arrived at the window, we learned a few lessons about the art of buying Gai Dan Zai as well: 1) be very fast and precise with your order; 2) pay; 3) do not ask for a plastic bag, because the workers will glare at you and say that it ruins the crispy texture (the woman in front did because she argued she had to carry it to a friend’s place).

So, after starving for a good half hour, we chowed our batch down by the time we crossed the street. It was indeed crispy on the outside, and soft and moist on the inside. It was sweet and rich. And there were just enough to entertain the thrill of snapping each piece apart before plopping it into the mouth. They were indeed the best we’d ever had when we recalled past disappointments: too sweet, strange textures on the inside, inconsistency, a fully filled and mushy “egg”, a crispy but hollow “egg”.

We had a batch in Vancouver some weeks after returning. They were still crispy, fragrant, moist, sweet. And they came in the same paper bag. Yes, they were pale cream coloured instead of the yellow-orange of the Hong Kong ones. And yes, they still have to be eaten instantly. But no, thankfully Gai Dan Zai are one of the few things we don’t need to fly across the Pacific just to eat.

And for fear of line ups growing ever longer, or the quality of the places gradually worse, I regretfully will not add any more to their fame….Unless perhaps it slips my mouth in heated conversation or best-food-experience contests.

Chinese steamed bread, or mantou, is one of the staple carbohydrates in Chinese cuisine.

The process of making steamed bread is very similar to baked bread.  Make a dough from white flour, yeast, a little salt and sugar, and water (although some people prefer milk for a more “wholesome” taste).  The ones you see in restaurants or stores that are a very pure white are made with bleached flour, but it is only for appearance.  Traditionally, I’ve also heard, there’s supposed to be a little bit of lard or oil in there as well, but it can be left out.

After kneading, let the dough rise, press out the gas, shape, let rise again, then steam.  The resulting bread is soft, fluffy, and very difficult to resist hot off the steamer.  Steamed bread is best eaten hot, because it gets hard and dry when it’s cold.

When a filling is put inside, they are usually referred to as baozi.  The filling may be sweet (for example, red bean paste or black sesame) or savory (vegetables or meat filling).  The baozi I made today has a basic filling of ground pork and vegetables.

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It is my first attempt at making baozi.  I’ve made steamed bread before, but never tried putting in any fillings.  I’m very surprised they turned out looking like they do.  Pleating nicely isn’t an easy skill to pick up, but with practice you can become good at it.  The ones you see in the picture are quite messy I know, but trust me… MUCH better than the first few I made, which I am too ashamed to show.

One of my goals this year is to improve my baozi making skills.  If you want the recipe, feel free to comment and I’ll post it up.

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Spring is the season for many things: asparagus for the West, bamboo for the East, and Vancouver’s China town today had an amazingly fresh (and cheap!) wave of asparagus. The bunches were inconsistently pencil thin to trunk-like sticks, but the bottoms were all vividly green and moist - fresher than the $6.99 or whatever rediculous price Whole Foods can come up with.

About 20-30 minutes block away on the downtown East Side at Fujiya were small packages of Sea Asparagus - more technically Salicornia, and locally known as Glasswort, pickleweed, samphire, Umari Keerai, and sea beans across the globe. Having nothing to go on other than liking the look, I tossed it in the cart along with al the other Japanese things that caught my eye (and never had on the shopping list): yuzu sauce, ponzu sauce, kinako, a basket…. Thinking it as a mini sea-version of asparagus, I imagined it microwaved, blanched, steamed, with as little as butter, or as much as a hundred other items. And like asparagus, it has a nice little crunch, and goes limp when over cooked.

The asparagus we’re used to ended up being quite good, following a recipe from Washoku; the improvised sea asparagus was a disaster of too much dashi, or yuzu, or butter with each bite. At least it looks good in the photos!

Asparagus with Dry-Roasted Black Sesame Sauce adapted from Washoku
12 oz asparagus
2tbsp mirin
2tbsp soy sauce
2tbsp black sesame
1-2 tbsp dashi/basic stock

Bring the water to a rolling boil. Slice the asparagus in about 2 inch long pieces. Separate the heads. Stick the middle pieces in the boiling water and wait until it boils again. Quickly toss in the heads. When it boils again, (should be no longer than a minute or two), take out all the asparagus. It should still be a vivid green, chewy, but not hard, and not too limp. Up to your preferences. Leave the asparagus to dry and do not remoisturize.

For the sauce, roast the black sesame in a pan. It won’t take too long - likely a few minutes after the pan’s warmed up. Stick it in the blender/motar & pestle, and grind. Part way throgh, add in the liquids. If it’s too dry, add in more dashi stock. Otherwise, leave it. Pour over the asparagus or put in a container to the side.

Unless you’re very lucky, I think it’s safe to say that majority of people suffer quite a bit during whatever plane ride over 3 hours. Most comfort likely comes from the Executive class, which I was lucky enough to get cheaper than Economy this time around.

For most it might mean the supply of movies; for me it meant food: peanuts, tea, appetizer, main, tea, tea, tea and ice creeam with fresh cookies, and one last round of tea. There were more food runs than there were hours. And the food was miraculously acceptable. A cousin who works for Air Canada warned me not to order the chicken because it was artificially injected with water to puff up the breast, but when I saw the dry beef for the woman beside me, I was quite happy with the non-authentic chicken terriyaki. It tasted good enough, and the appetizer salad (barley, spices, peppers, grilled egg plant, etc.) was actually very good.

All in all, a tolerable experience, but that doesn’t make the prospect of the next trip up 30, 000 metres or feet in the air any better. It does prove my point that food saves the day. Always.

We were late, and it was empty. For the first time, I didn’t know what to do with myself at a restaurant. Empty means no waiter/waitress/manager/anyone-who-was-working-and-of-use-to-me in sight - I was stuck in limbo between the street that I had walked in from, and the invisible divide that stopped me from dropping myself on any cushy sofa seat in the tiny sitting area just in front. Should I be infuriated? (with them or me?) But it was too clean, too open, too bright, too serene. So wait awkwardly for a minute or so we did, marveling at the petite petals and artsy mirrors to our left, and the abandoned bar to our right. It felt slow, but not irritatingly so, and while this piece will definitely be the former, it will endevour to attempt the latter. 

Then, a woman emerged from the back, efficient, but not brisk, warm and friendly as she invited us to take a seat “here, or here, or anywhere else [we] like”, but with enough reserve to mimic our awkwardness. While we’re chatting to harmonize with the light, yet animated, room with two (or was it three?) other tables, the woman skimmed back and forth with something in her hand and a purpose in her composure each time. I was so focused on settling in I’ve only realized in hindsight: the patrons were happy, with the food, the place, the company, the day, everything. 

So let us begin: the free tea. Well, tea really should be complimentary, but you could easily pay a good $3 upwards for tea ten times worse in a plastic cup just down a few blocks: bubble tea. So, tea: a dance of translucent up to pale orange simmered in a dusky brown, and layered in cubes of ice. It should be genmaicha, with its cool watery relief, followed by a full bodied earthiness and a final whiff of grain - perfect after speed walking here.

The soup soon arrived on a tray - first to the black counter/display in the middle of the room - then on her hands to our table. The woman’s graceful invitation to open the lid led to an expert introduction of the ingredients that deserved a diligent transcrīption. Sadly, having no notebook, we proceeded to experience her abstracts with the chopsticks, eyes, and mouth. The noodles, every single strand, were delightfully thin as you felt them slip through your lips. They weren’t mushy, but soft, with a pleasant springy texture without being chewy.  Green’s me, Suihi, by the way. There’s a sesame tofu block mixed in with cream cheese supporting them: not firm, but strong, not too creamy but rich, not split but rather separated. There’s a tinge of ginger: the culprit is a microbially thin sliver. There were several lingering in the dark of the bowl. There’s a ghostly trace of salt in the red flakes. And lastly, the mysterious little plants you wish you could eat because picking them up with chopsticks is a talent: junsai. The young buds of junsai, also known in English as the water sheild plant (Brasenia schreberi) or mountain fern, naturally contain agar, which gives each piece a jelly-like coating. They danced in the otherwise clear liquid, slightly sweet, very gelatin, and amazingly textured when you finally give up all decency and pick up the god-damn bowl and drink the remaining subtly full-bodied broth along with the poor little things you’re addicted to. When you close your mouth, there’s something there, when you chew it melts away, spilling multiple bursts of both a jelly, grass, nostalgia for something you’ve never had. 

The next four pieces came in a square plate, each allotted their deserved section. The salmon was grilled to perfection, with just enough of a salmon taste and just enough moisture left. Indeed, the cooking showed it was possible to master the subduing of salmon without killing the fish’s allure after stripping off the ocean fragrance, although sashimi is another story. There was no sauce, and there was no need for one. Despite my bias against cooked salmon, this could gain no complaint.

The tomato behind, grilled in dengaku style with a spot of miso, was a nice burst of flavour and juice that was given dimension once the miso mixed in. Cherry tomatoes often are too tough-then-soft, too acidic, too sweet, too dominant, but this one humbly cooperated with its miso counterpart, dancing a balance of paste and juice, sweet and salty-tinged, clear and cool with aged and substantial. The banal block of tofu hidden underneath mocks the eye: a dried sponge that exudes the illustrious complexity of dashi, soy sauce, mirin, and sake as you press it between your teeth. Bite harder or slide them, and it will come apart, hardly smooth - layered and sandy, reminding you the tongue can feel even as it is tasting the juices.

The grouper defied sashimi limitations. The smooth, dry, and massaged piece was an amazing bubbly-jelly texture with a trace of the sea-sweetness, finished with a powder in rice cracker flour that adds a flavoured and salt dimension. If you’re lucky enough to have some daikon stuck in the back teeth - yes, really! - as you chewed this piece of fish, the cool, crunchy, moist burst from the daikon will accentuate the room-temperature meat. It can’t be compared to a fresh piece of wild salmon sashimi: that is about highlighting the how you cut a beautiful fish dish, with all its wet, slippery, sweet, raw fishiness; this is how you can make a beautiful dish with raw fish.

The tempura was an unexpected love. Modest in its baby scallion shavings, light creamy brush, and wraith-like in its tempura-flour coating, every bite was a lively spring of mass, texture, and taste. The shrimp, again, provided an overarching fragrance and firm, yet smooth texture, encased in the complimentary miso-creamy-like folds of flavour, finished with a snapping breeze of yuzu as the food slides to the back. 

Ordinary tempura you’d find in your average Japanese restaurant is clad with mounds of crumbling batter, over-greasy and heavy in flavour. The tempura we had today, however, was miles away from that. The batter was thin and fried so it was just crispy, not crumbly. I actually thought the dressing was reminiscent of Japanese mayonnaise rather than miso, but of course with that subtle hint of yuzu. Our waitress told us that it was yuzu koshou, a Japanese condiment made from yuzu zest, chili, and salt.

And the beef tongue I have not forgotten. It was supposed to be duck, but I was not robbed of anything less than wonderful anyhow. Or was it duck? I thought it was too tender to be beef tongue. It was marinated in a thicker sauce, which was heavier than the others and would have likely wiped out any scents from the tastings following. It tasted like it was based on soy sauce and sweetened lightly with mirin. It wasn’t chewy, it wasn’t hard, it wasn’t soft, it wasn’t rough, nor too smooth, but it was flat, and was complimented with scallion strips below, and most satisfying. The quail egg was a little thing that couldn’t escape being eaten in one bite, eliciting the rubbery egg white and the thick, runny, rich yolk - a great wash off of the sauce from the meat before the final course.

This course included a paddle, and a little bit of work: opening the lid, suspending judgement of what seemed to be the least spectacular of the dishes, and scraping it from the pot to the bowl without being made a fool. After such labours, one reaped the reward of continually sniffing the lingering spectre of tea, which came from the hijiki (a brown sea vegetable), while chewing perfect harmony: individual yet accommodating rice grains, interwoven and smooth dry seaweed, the elastic kelp slits, and the almost pancake-but-a-tinge-crunchier carrots. 

And best of all, you finish all this without the slightest hint of hunger, nor the slightest trepidation at the task of stomaching a dessert: a sweet tofu mousse topped with roasted soybean flour (kinako). The dessert is considerate of a patron’s labour too: staying to the light side with an assertive soy taste bolstered by the airy cream, and invigorated by the roasted soybean nutty sweetness. It’s not too sweet, but it brings a perfectly choreographed finale that necessitated actual sugar rather than the scented preludes hovering in the dishes before.

We sat for quite a while afterwards, talking, and as obliviously happy as the people who were here when we entered. We lingered, we thought the weather rather fine considering Toronto’s potential for the smog-heat-sun-exhaust combination. Sitting here only a few hours later, I hover between recalling the topics, and forgetting the conversation; regardless, I distinctly remember, and still feel, the light happiness at having seen, smelt, ate, experienced amazing attitudes towards food.

We finally decided - but didn’t feel - we should go, and asked for the bill. Perhaps we were generous, but so was the place: in its consideration of atmosphere, aesthetics, food quality and quantity, all for an amicability for its visitors. It’s a place where money, even if was a trick of the moment, didn’t have to mean much, and won’t mean much so long as you can recall the experience. We spoke with the woman, who kindly repeated the ingredients we had loved and forgotten, explained whatever methods we inquired of, and smiled more than we could ask for. As we left, another table came in, and I’d like to think we passed on the same contentment to them, which I’m sure the restaurant will effortlessly heighten to sheer joy. 

The woman never told us her name, but it’s on the receipt, and if you’re willing to spend even a fraction of the time she and her husband (the chef behind it all) have spent to create the menu and realize the meal, to look the place up, you’ll know. It’s a home, a life, which they opened to us, for us to invite ourselves into and enjoy. The woman’s name is Yumi, and if she’s not there when you step in, wait, because it’s worth being welcomed and feeling welcome right from the doorway in to the doorway out.