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.
Happy Earth Day. In honor of the occasion, I’m taking you back to Cambodia, to a place I won’t see this trip, though I’ve thought of it often. It’s a place where salt and pepper meet on the edge of land and sea:
It’s just about this time of year. Jerry and I rent a moto in Kampot and drive eight sweltering, beautiful kilometers to the end of the road at Koh Trey, a spot whose name means Fish Island. We park beneath a giant strangler fig and hoof uphill to a lookout over the ocean. Two girls beat us to the spot. The four of us chat lightly. But mostly, we all sit in the shade, craving the little breeze that blows through in a tease—then leaves us sweating again for endless minutes.
Koh Trey is an idyllic little island of farmers and salt fields. Bony white cows speckle the land below towering sugar palms. The season’s first rains turn these acres to emerald green. And then, for miles, the landscape opens and saltwater shimmers beneath the oven of a sky. It spreads forever, it seems, in every direction: shallow, rectangular ponds glistening at the edges with fleur de sel. The air smells salty, the water feels greasy to the touch.
Salt of the sea, pepper of the Earth—the two converge along the Cambodian coast. Thanks to the local revival of a long-lost crop, Kampot’s markets now teem with these two tableside companions. Vendors sit beside sacks of pepper, both dried and fresh from the vine. Black and green. White, too. And satchels of salt that comes in varying grades of grinding—from rocks to grains to powder. I take bags of it home with me, doling out little gift packages to friends and family, and keeping enough to last me through a year beside my stove. They are Mother Nature’s gifts to the kitchen.
I have a little secret. I add a pinch of turmeric to soups and stews and pots of almost anything in which the flavor won’t clash. Two nights ago, I sat down with a good book and a bowl of popcorn precisely as I like it: drizzled with butter and sprinkled with a little salt, sautéed garlic, shredded cheese (“Montzarella” from Montana’s Lifeline Farm), Kashmiri chile and turmeric. (I know, it’s indulgent.)
Powdered turmeric works, but nothing beats the robust aroma and flamboyant color of the fresh root. Slice it open, and you will see. This is what gives many Asian curries their distinction. The above photo was taken at a Bangkok market, but fresh turmeric root also is available at Asian markets and food co-ops throughout the West.
We’ve known for ages the anti-inflammatory and brain-boosting benefits of turmeric. For centuries, Ayurvedic medicine has turned to curcumin (the key component in turmeric) to mend the body in many ways. Recent research has found the spice helpful in combating everything from cancers to bowel diseases, from Alzheimer’s to arthritis. Turmeric made my list of good foods when I wrote last year about the health benefits of an Asian diet. (The article remains online, though the list does not. It includes basil, chile, cilantro, cinnamon, cloves, coconut, galangal, garlic, ginger, lemongrass, mint, onion, papaya, tea and turmeric.)
As long as attention is focused on Chiang Mai’s distinctive flavors, how about a recipe for northern Thai laap? You know this dish, right? It’s one of my most favorite of favorites. I usually go for a more Lao-style version (minus the buffalo parts), with bounties of fresh herbs, tangy citrus and crunchy toasted rice powder. At home, I make it my own way, often with tofu. But this is something else. This one catches my attention, too. It’s my own concoction, closely mirroring the recipes from a few different cooking schools in northern Thailand:
1 bunch each: green onions, culantro (Mexican coriander), cilantro, Vietnamese mint (available at Asian markets)
crispy fried shallots
fish sauce to taste
Method:
Chop all herbs and set aside.
Heat oil in wok. Add garlic, then pork; fry until tender. Add chile powder, shrimp paste and stock; fry until liquid has cooked off. Add fish sauce if necessary for taste. Remove from heat.
Mix meat with chopped herbs. Serve on a bed of lettuce. Top with crispy fried shallots. Very simple.
Well, it’s not really a secret considering millions of Thais cook with this Northern Thai Chile Powder and eat it every day. But it is an exceptional concoction, found only in northern markets. Thai travelers take it home to Bangkok and points between (or beyond). Try to make a northern chicken soup or a Chiang Mai style laap without this, and you will fail. You will miss that certain something that gives your dish the quintessential Chiang Mai flavor (and scent! what a nose pleaser!).
So, just what is this spice mix? Many things (recipe to follow), including two critical but relatively obscure ingredients: the long pepper (Piper longum)…Â
Piper longum
and prickly ash, a member of the Sichuan pepper family. It’s a medicinal plant used throughout much of South and Southeast Asia, and has as many names as cultures that use it (ma khwaen in Thailand, ma khaen in Laos, mejinga in Nagaland….)
Northern Thai prickly ash
Most Thais buy their Northern Chile Powder already mixed and packaged in the market (I’ve been told Loong Ma is the best brand). But it’s possible to mix your own, should you get the urge — or should you be a long way from Chiang Mai:
Northern Thai Chile Powder (courtesy of the Mandarin Oriental chefs)
50 grams coriander seeds
20 grams long peppers
5 grams prickly ash
5 grams cumin
a pinch of mace
20 grams dried galangal
20 grams dried lemongrass
3-5 grams caraway
dried red chile (as much as you like)
Everything dried, everything pounded. Keep it in your kitchen for the next batch of grilled pork, northern Thai stew or Chiang Mai laap. Check your local Asian market for ingredients. No luck? Alibaba seems to sell everything.
By the way, are you wondering about my sudden jump from the Himalaya to northern Thailand? This is what happens when real life meets the blogosphere. I’m actually in Laos at the moment. Before that, Chiang Mai and Bangkok. India was last month, but I’m still catching up on that trip’s plethora of food goodies to post here. Bear with me. Eventually, I will tell you more about Darjeeling and Sikkim, more about Thailand and Laos. But I haven’t the time (or the Internet connections) to keep on top of my own toes. In the coming months, I’ll have a map of my actual whereabouts on the front of this blog. Until then, if you’re really curious, you can look here. It might even be accurate.
Streetside spice vendor outside the Darjeeling zoo
In India, you get your spice on the road (in more ways than one). Men stand on the streetside behind aromotic carts covered in sacks of dried spices — cardamom, peppercorns, turmeric, masala, mace, nutmeg, cinnamon, golden raisins, Kashmiri saffron. You can sniff it in the air. Pick up just enough for your curry dinner, or stock your cabinet for the month — whatever you like. You name it, he’s got it.
And so it is with this pleasant fellow, who provides me with a few packets of saffron, a bag of cardamom and a handful of raisins for the road. He stations himself right outside the Darjeeling zoo — which, by the way, happens to be a very interesting place. The Padmaja Naidu Himalayan Zoological Park, at more than 6,000 feet, breeds and shelters some of the world’s most endangered mountain species, including the snow leopard, Tibetan wolf, Siberian tiger and the wonderful little red pandas, so fuzzy and warm, all curled up like cats in trees. Sadly, it seems, the zoo and its inhabitants are suffering from global climate change just as the rest of the world. The zoo also houses the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute and Tenzing Norgay’s final resting place.
If you visit, don’t be so cruel and idiotic as the tourists we see taunting tigers by the fence. These animals have plenty of room to roam, but occasionally they come down for a peek at the people. Some of the tourists whistle and howl, sticking cameras in a tiger’s face just a foot or so away. Very unhappy cat. (Not long after this, a man is mauled to death in front of his family at another zoo, in Guwahati, after sticking his hand in a tiger cage to get a picture.)
This is the cleanest, friendliest depiction I can offer of Kolkata’s hygiene problems. Everywhere, this city of nearly 15 million tests the immune system. Coughing, hacking, wheezing, snorting, spitting, excreting – common sights and sounds on every street. It is testament to the powers of the human body that anyone wakes up well and active on any given day. I am, at times, simply flabbergasted. (And I’m used to walking and working amid some of Asia’s grottiest ghettos!)
I will spare you further details of the worst kind. But look above. This is the after-dinner treat offered at most any restaurant: a communal tray of rock sugar and saunf (fennel), thought to aid digestion. Toothpick goes on top, and so does change. All that money, all those germs, from hand to mouth. After the customer leaves, the tray and its contents are saved for the next person.
This is perhaps the least of Kolkata’s sanitation issues. If you want full-on descriptions, read Dominique Lapierre’s excellent book, The City of Joy. Nearly three decades later, many of his observations stand virtually unchanged.
A man stands at a green wooden platform at the edge of a busy street. On his counter he has two small burners, a rudimentary mortar and pestle (much more basic than the one linked here), a bag of black Assam tea, a bag of sugar, a bag of ginger and a cup of cardamom pods. What do you want? He’ll make it for you. Not too sweet? Heavy on the ginger? He’ll pound it to a pulp, then toss it into the frothy brew, which bubbles in the pot before him.
This is the way we find chai on the streets of Kolkata. It’s a way of life, and most any walk across town (or even across the street) would be incomplete without a cup of chai. Any waking hour of day or night, Indians gather around chai stalls, stealing quick and tiny sips, then moving along. Many larger chai-wallahs serve their customers while men (and often boys) squat on the sidewalk nearby, grinding spices. People here say it is not the origin of the spice that matters so much as how it is ground — always by hand, and always well. Spice vendors in the market pride themselves on their hand-ground goods; the task is accomplished right there on the ground beside the customers.
Thus, each tea takes on its own subtle, unique flavor. But unlike many of the packaged and mass-produced chais sold in the West these days, almost all Kolkatan cups of of tea are sweet and milky with mild hints of spice.
And this is key: chai is almost always sold in tiny terracotta cups, pictured above and below. These here are rather big cups; most are even smaller. Imagine drinking your tea from a miniscule flowerpot. I find it lends a somewhat earthy, slightly dusty character to the brew, and I’ve come to like it immensely. I might have to buy a few souvenir cups for the next time I try to duplicate this chai at home in New Mexico. (10 small cups sell for 1 rupee, about 2.5 cents; three made-to-order servings of chai sell for 6 rupees, about 15 cents)
What are cloves? Where do they come from? A tree? A bush? –Dave, wondering in New Mexico
This rock-hard, nail-shaped nub of spice is the dried flower bud of an evergreen tree, syzygium aromaticum, of the Myrtaceae family, which is native to Indonesia’s Spice Islands (click here to see pictures of living trees and their fruits). In addition to Southeast Asia, cloves are harvested in Tanzania, Sri Lanka, Pakistan, India and Madagascar. The tree grows up to 60 feet tall. Its flower buds are collected when they turn bright red. The unopened petals form the hard ball part of the whole dried spice.
Cloves, long treasured for their intoxicating smell, are used for culinary purposes around the world. In addition, they are very healthy. Cloves are said to lower blood sugar and cholesterol, thus they are often recommended for people with diabetes or heart disease.
A few years ago, I met the founder of a madrassa not far from Kota Bharu in northeastern Malaysia. He was 84 at the time and suffered heart problems. He kept a little dish of cloves by his side at all times. “I eat at least 10 every day,” he said, claiming they were good for the heart, the eyes and the brain.
Have you had this drink? WOW. It’s not often I sip something that sparks a little screech, which is what happened when I first sucked off the pink straw pictured above.
Jal jeera. “Jal” means water in Hindi and “jeera” means cumin. It’s an Indian spice drink that aids digestion and brings the mouth to life. I wasn’t expecting such a powerhouse; neither did I expect such salt and tang at the same time. With the key ingredients of lemon, tamarind, cumin, mint and rock salt, it has a cooling effect—which is why Indians recommend it during the hot times.
Now, mind you, this was a particularly brutal day of Bangkok heat when we boarded the sky train, skipped down to the ferry, then trudged across Chinatown before reaching the city’s Little India. I was soaked with sweat, and the jal jeera helped. But I couldn’t drink it all. It was simply too much.
I’ve come across several jal jeera recipes; this one looks particularly inviting, though it contains sugar while the drink I had did not.
Stay tuned, and I’ll tell you more about this enticing little neighborhood in Bangkok.
You are currently browsing the archives for the Spices category.
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….
My books:
