When I booked my tickets to Costa Rica last summer, I didn’t realize I’d set my departure from Liberia on the morning after an all-day, all-night hoedown. July 25 is Guanacaste Day, the anniversary of this northern province’s annexation from Nicaragua in 1824. Locals celebrate with a horse parade known as a tope.
Party time.
It’s like this: I’m traveling alone (my companions having left me a few days earlier), and I arrive in early afternoon via bus from sleepy Tilaran. I drop my bags at my hotel and head to the Liberia public square, where the streets are blocked to traffic and the entire place is packed with party-goers on horses.
Imagine Milwaukee’s Summerfest let loose (with everyone in a saddle); the walls down, the gates wide open and revelers spilling through the city. No boundaries, just open fun. Put every man on a horse and give him a girlfriend in the saddle, too. Bring out the speakers and blast anything you like—country, pop, mariachi, reggaeton, Michael Jackson. And beer, everywhere, sold from vendors’ coolers pushed through the streets, and stands with banners screaming Imperial. Shove a can or six into each cowboy’s hands. You’re feeling the vibe of Guanacaste Day.
But that’s early on. As the h0urs pass, the air grows ever intense. More beer gets drunk, more horses do their duty in the streets. Vendors grill their pinchos (kabobs) and the ubiquity of libations spurs straw-hatted youngsters into dance and public embrace.
It goes on all afternoon, and I keep waiting for the parade to begin—until I finally realize this is it. Some riders wear numbers, and occasionally small groups of horses prance and gallop a stretch of the street. But mostly people hang out, as they would on the ground—except half the crowd is mounted while the other half stands by the sidelines, watching, drinking, eating, until a friend on horseback stops to chat.
Those who don’t stand sit on collapsible chairs and benches lining the sidewalks. Every parking space has a pickup truck, their beds hosting small parties in and of themselves. Most everyone wears a cowboy hat; many, also, leather boots.
By dark, the horses have gone, mostly, but the shrill shriek of a lone cowboy echoes through the rain-soaked street. Youngsters gather in dark corners, dancing to music blaring from trucks. The party persists, apparently, all through the night. At 6 a.m., just as the sun warms the air and fog clings to the trees, I catch my taxi to the airport. Young Ticos still drink and cluster in the streets. And a few smitten couples lean their bodies into each other, swaying gently to the tune of a dirty dance.
“This is the end of the fiesta,” my driver tells me in Spanish. He thinks it was a good one.
Good wishes for a safe and happy holiday, everyone. I share with you a message I received this morning from a Burmese colleague, writing from a place where thoughts of freedom and independence are never taken lightly:
“I saw the celebrations of fireworks and parades for the Independence day of USA, in various media. What a great and impressed moment of 4th July, 234th Independence Day since 1776. God Bless America and God Bless You and Your Family.”
We have much to celebrate and even more to ponder this weekend, as many happenings converge. So pull up a chair and pour yourself a glass of this: nimbu pani, an Indian “lime and pepper refresher,” with recipe courtesy of Christine McFadden and her book, appropriately named, Pepper (wonderful book, and I can’t wait to try her recipe for homemade peppery truffles—yes, the chocolate kind). This simple drink is relished as a perfect antidote to hot weather. Though Jerry and I didn’t drink this nimbu pani in India and Sri Lanka, we downed myriad spice-infused beverages revolving around a sour/tart base. The combination quenches the thirst while cooling the body with a zippy kick.
Just four or five small-ish limes, a tablespoon or two of sugar, a pinch of salt, lots and lots of freshly ground black pepper, a bit of chilled water and ice—that’s all you need to serve two. Squeeze the limes, mix with the rest, pour over ice and top with water. Add more pepper if you like. This is one helluva zinger drink.
I served this to a couple of friends last week. Usually, when the four of us gather, we dive straight into a barrel of adult content—no non-alcoholic drinks in our little crowd. But I wanted them to savor this—and savor we did, smacking our lips at the hot limey goodness.
And then we got to thinking.
Tequila.
Oh yes.
Oh yes, yes, yes!
Add a jigger of tequila to the above recipe and you have what the four of us believe to be the best summer creation so far—perhaps of all time. So pull up that chair and take a swig.
Now, then, what are we celebrating? And pondering?
Saturday is the 65th birthday of Burma’s most famous lady, whose name is least uttered within her country. (She’ll spend the day in detention, as she has many birthdays before.) Sunday, in these parts, is Father’s Day. It’s also World Refugee Day. And Monday is the official start to summer, the Solstice. I’m not sure how these events need or need not intertwine for everyone. But I’ll raise my glass in praise of dads, and this wonderful universe that gives us summer every year. And I’ll wish for a world of calm, with peaceful homes and happy birthdays for all.
A few weeks ago, Jerry and I had the remarkable opportunity to witness an animist ceremony honoring the forest gods in a northern Lao village. Read the story in The Faster Times, and take a photographic scroll through that afternoon here. The villagers sacrificed a pig, offered bits of it to the spirits and divvied up the rest among dozens of families. This is the second in a three-part series on the lives and deaths of Asian pigs.
Village kids share lao hai during an annual festival honoring the spirits in Sophoon, Laos
Sabaidee Pimai! Happy Lao New Year (and Khmer and Thai and Burmese and, and, and…) Much of Southeast Asia is sweating and celebrating in this hottest, most festive of seasons. Here in Laos, it’s drinking time. In the northern villages, it’s lao hai time.
Lao hai is fermented rice wine, the elixir of choice in rural lands, especially on holidays. It’s sweet on the intake (Jerry thinks it tastes like Sprite) but harsh on the uptake—with a quick kick to the skull. It’s a communal affair, drunk through long, curved bamboo straws that stretch inside one giant jar of frothy, bubbling alcohol with a powerful scent. When a party happens (as it did above–pig boil in the forest, an annual shindig honoring the local spirits) each player takes a turn at the straw. Elders and honored guests are first in line, followed by the younger generations. There’s no such thing as a drinking age in rural Laos; every man and child had his swig (yes his–I was the only female aside from a few giggly little girls).
No offense to my village friends, but I’m more than a big squeamish about lao hai. It’s not the alcohol, but the water routinely poured atop the jar that has me scared. The water in this case came straight from the river, poured from an old plastic bucket, which had first been used to transport the blood and intestines of the slaughtered pig. When the elders called me to the front line, I politely declined and made motions to indicate that a delicate woman such as I couldn’t possibly handle the strong man’s lao hai.
Jerry drank. Just a few sips (delicious, he said) before the water had time to reach his straw (and before the straws had been passed among so many lips). I stuck to the other alcohol on offer, lao lao, a wicked moonshine served in tiny blue cups. One sip set my insides on fire.
At approximately 3:45 p.m. Siem Reap time, on Friday, Jan. 29, 2010, one banana flower salad was consumed in your honor, birthday boy. Shaved carrots, fresh mint, shrimp, peanuts, onion, lime and chile; all mixed with tiny curls of crisp banana flower… all for you, Andy. May you have an auspicious year.
One day last week, with a hunger in our bellies, we set off for Bumrungrad. The hospital, a popular medical tourism destination, sponsored a celebration of healthy foods under the title, “World Famous Flavors of Thailand.” By its own accounts, some 500,000 foreign patient/tourists check into the hospital each year. (Medical tourism is a big, booming industry for Asia’s more developed cities.) The Bumrungrad PR department wants to get the word out: they don’t serve any old hospital food. They serve upscale, beautiful and healthy delights created by some of the city’s best restaurant chefs.
So off we went, to check out the goodies. What you see above are teensy-weensy laap burgers on a bun of sticky rice, topped with mint and chile.
The entire Bumrungrad lobby was stuffed with activity. Swarms of people ogling exquisite arrays of miniature foods. Big lenses, tiny phones—everywhere people jostled for a look and a sniff.
There were steamed rice crepes with herbs and minced chicken, shaped like little birds. Cucumbers carved into minuscule baskets; vegetables made to look like oysters holding healthy Thai herbal mousse. Rice crackers topped with green curried beef, strawberries wrapped in betel leaves.
Sausage burgers (not sure how healthy those were), salmon steak, and the most brilliant purple anchan flowers (butterfly pea) with coconut jelly and fresh fruit balls.
Job’s tears in coconut milk, little paper-wrapped cones of yam nua yang. Traditional Thai jingles played in the background, and a roving puppet kissed visitors on the cheek. So much food, so much commotion.
How did it all taste? I have no freakin’ idea. We left more than an hour later, tummies rumbling. All these artistic edibles, and not a single thing was available to eat. It was all for show until after 3 p.m., long after our appetites grew impatient. So we escaped to a Bangladeshi restaurant up the street and tanked up on curry.
Best wishes for a grand new decade! May the new year bring good health, happiness and a life steeped in richness. May you enjoy plenty of fulfilling dinners such as the one pictured above. Lately, we’ve had Hmong food on the brain (and on the tongue), and of course our research involves a plenitude of tasting. What you see above: fragrant beef laap, green papaya and cabbage salad, and a whole roasted chicken swimming in goodness, moistened with coconut and spiced with chiles, peanuts, lime, fish sauce and cilantro—all of this surrounded by friends and family eating and chatting, and warming the house with good cheer. It’s a spread that reflects the evolving Hmong kitchen in America. We’ll show and tell you much more about this cuisine in due time. Meanwhile, celebrate well. Happy New Year!
…especially when the holidays coincide with someone’s birthday. And especially when that birthday happens to be a biggie. What better excuse for a surprise? It took weeks of elaborate planning and cunning artistry (I’m a bit disturbed to discover how well I can lie). The stories involved sick cats, holiday recipes and neighbors who needed a ride to the airport—only to pick up their parked car and enjoy the afternoon in town. The birthday man was surprised, indeed. He literally fell in the doorway to the greeting of friends hiding in every corner.
We all ate heartily on Saturday night. That part involved his sister’s ingenious idea to cover the kitchen table in dishes he’s loved through the ages: mac-n-cheese as a toddler, pork chops as a teen, enchiladas in his 20s and Indian curry thereafter. Add to that spinach-feta pasta, Burmese golden rice, overflowing cheese plates, piles of olives and grapes, mountains of hummus (yes, with garlic!), chips and crackers, homemade fudge and Indian barfi for dessert. Don’t even get me started on libations…. Every guest had a hand or two in the celebratory kitchen.
But I must tell you in detail about the curry: Velvet Butter Chicken (Makhani Murgh). The recipe comes from a $2 gem I found a few months ago in a used bookstore: Julie Sahni’s Classic Indian Cooking. My kitchen hasn’t been the same since. “This chicken preparation is a classic example of the true flair and skill of Indian cooks,” Sahni writes. Well put.
Here’s what you do: you make tandoori chicken in your oven. Not just one, but two. You chop the little birds and rub the meat with tenderizer and lemon. Then you marinate the chicken for many hours in a mixture of garlic, ginger, roasted cumin, ground cardamom, red pepper, paprika and yogurt. When ready, you brush the birds with ghee and bake them in a hot oven, at least 500 degrees.
Much later, you cut the chicken into many pieces. You blend together tomatoes, green chiles and ginger. Then you essentially make ghee, using a whole stick of butter, which is used to brown the chicken pieces. Add cumin and paprika to the remaining butter, then pour in the tomato puree and thicken. THEN you add the chicken, salt and 1 1/2 cups of heavy cream (this is NOT a light recipe). Add MORE butter and plenty of garam masala (she’s got a good recipe, heavy on the cardamom, plus cinnamon, cloves, peppercorns, cumin and coriander). When it’s all cooked, top with cilantro and you’ll taste it: you’ve created a little pot of heaven. It is simply a divine party dish, for any occasion. But the heavy cream, generous butter and roasted spices make it perfect, I think, for this festive winter season.
Happy holidays. May every kitchen be so richly blessed. And may every kitchen shelf contain a copy of Julie Sahni’s classic book.
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Welcome to my ramblings on food, drink, travel, politics, history and all the other avenues that converge in life. I’m a journalist, author and media trainer; and for five years I was Gourmet's Asia correspondent until the magazine's recent closure. I’m a bit obsessive in the kitchen. Much like my mother, I start thinking about dinner well before breakfast….
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