A batch of Angkor brand caramelized coconut peanuts in the making
Today, a new partnership begins. From now on, you will find more of my ramblings on the Food Page of The Faster Times. I’ll be writing twice a month about Food Culture and linking back here with additional information and photos. Remember all those tasty Asian ways with peanuts I mentioned a few weeks ago? As promised, I’m offering the story of Ota Veverka, a native of the Czech Republic, and his Thai wife, Nadchalee Chantakarana, who brought five varieties of jazzed-up nuts to shops and bars across Siem Reap. Curious? Catch their story today on The Faster Times. Meanwhile, have a peek at their little kitchen operation.
Coconut peanuts before cooking
Nadchalee braves the heat, stirring through a half-hour peanut-making mission.
Nadchalee hauls out a batch made earlier that day.
Caramelized black sesame nuts
Angkor Peanuts for sale in Siem Reap only
(Don’t forget to read the story when it posts today on The Faster Times.)
Cambodia drives me to drink. Picture: riverfront sunsets with amber rays, light grazing across cocktail-hour boats and the saffron folds of a monk’s robe. Warm breeze, jasmine air. Pedicabs and pushcarts, buzzing mopeds, rumbling trucks. Kids selling postcards and photocopied books, and a seat at the sidewalk where I can watch it all (this can be said of just about any Khmer riverside town). I sit and sip a $1 draft. It’s not the beer that draws me (the alcohol? yes… Southeast Asian beer? no). Mostly, it’s the scene.
And the peanuts.
Many regional bars and restaurants offer peanuts with drinks. Not just ordinary nuts, but snacks with pizzazz – roasted or fried with crispy garlic, whole red chiles and shreds of ginger (try making a batch the next time you entertain guests!). Sometimes a dab of sugar, always a pinch of salt. In all my years of Asian cocktails, I’ve decided I most admire the way Cambodians do their peanuts. For free.
Then again, last year I ate freebie salted peanuts with wedges of dried, crushed soybean cake at a Chinese restaurant in Myanmar’s Shan State. Those were tasty, those were different.
And I’ll admit, I’m a sucker for the Drunken Flower, a longtime Chiang Mai hangout with decent tunes and plates of peanuts with chile, salt and a heap of fresh green onion. Yum, yum, yum, yum, yum. Those nuts are on the menu, and they aren’t free, but I’ll gladly spend a few baht on them.
We’ve had nuts galore on the brain lately. In a couple of weeks, you’ll be able to read all about the Angkor Peanut Family and their little operation. And then I’ll tell you about an exciting new Rambling Spoon venture.
But first, we must head to the hinterlands, in search of ancient iron workers. Meanwhile, take a seat and drink up!
I’m getting a head start, but I fear I made these pecans a bit too early. They won’t last until Thursday. I do believe these are the liveliest pecans I’ve ever tasted, and I can’t keep them out of my mouth or my husband’s claws.
I came across the recipe for Candied Chile Pecans a week or so ago while paging through cookbooks in search of Thanksgiving inspiration. Somehow, the holiday seems a perfect fit for Utah’s little Buddhist restaurant, known as Hell’s Backbone Grill, and the resultant cookbook, With a Measure of Grace. The publisher sent me a review copy last year, but I hadn’t cooked much from it during the summer months we’ve spent at home. For some reason, with winter on the horizon, I feel more inclined toward Western mountain fare (which is getting a good share of attention these days). Plus, I’m endlessly intrigued by this speck on the (mostly) Mormon map that welcomes each summer a contingent of Tibetan monks from the Drepung Loseling Monastery.
But let’s get back to this issue of pecans, before they’re gone. The recipe is ridiculously simple, requiring only six ingredients: 1/4 cup vegetable oil, 3 tablespoons Kahlua or espresso, 1 tablespoon Chimayo chile powder (I didn’t have any on hand, so I used powdered Assam chile), 2 tablespoons sugar, 1/4 teaspoon salt and 2 cups pecan halves. Mix the ingredients and spread the pecans on a greased baking sheet. Bake 10 minutes at 400 degrees, stir, then bake a bit longer.
The combination of chile and coffee gives these nuts an incredibly rich, smoky, blackened flavor that pairs perfectly with the caramelized sugar. I dare you make these now—and keep them until the guests arrive on Thursday.
Just a few samples of the myriad chiles we keep around. Looks like I was remiss in securing the cap on the Spanish paprika jar. I hate that when Jerry takes a beautiful photo but I’m fixated on the little flaws in my kitchen!
The latest edition of AFAR is on sale, and inside you will find our feature on the Burmese pickled tea leaf salad known as laphet thote. This is such an exuberant dish with hot, tangy, bitter, salty flavors that tingle every little nook of the mouth. If you’ve never had the opportunity to try laphet thote, I urge you to find the nearest Burmese restaurant, or make your own. Check your local Asian market for key ingredients, or order online here. (The article includes a recipe from a longstanding laphet thote vendor near Sule Pagoda.)
We will never know for sure, but this might have been the story that got us deported in May. We had planned to visit a market selling laphet thote ingredients—dried beans and peas—but we got the boot the night before our visit.
Families traditionally store laphet thote ingredients in lacquerware trays such as the above. This display belongs to U Zaw Hein, whose family has owned and operated the Ah Yee Taung pickled tea leaf business in Mandalay for more than a century. Ingredients include three styles of tea leaf; a variety of crispy seeds, beans and nuts; and an insect that lives in spirulina ponds. Laphet thote is a welcoming dish, served to guests with tea and betel.
Below: large sacks of tea leaves for sale at a market in central Mandalay.
OK, I’m exhausted but thriving on the words of so many friends on the other side who have written with unconditional support. I miss them, love them, and still worry about their safety.
But now I’m going to take you somewhere serene, to a place far away where the horizon keeps a clear, straight line.
I’m startled by the contrast between what I see in these pictures and what I have seen in recent weeks.
This is Krabi, on the Andaman Coast. We had the fortune to visit (again) many weeks ago. One day, I’ll tell you more about that trip. But for now, I want only to offer a few peaceful scenes and a recipe from Krabi’s Smart Cook Thai Cookery School, where I took an afternoon class. Most of the recipes were not specific to southern Thailand, which somewhat disappointed me, but I did manage to prepare one of the tastiest batches of chicken in pandanus I’ve ever eaten. I believe success rested in the copious quantities of pounded garlic, cilantro root, white pepper and sesame seeds rubbed over the chicken before cooking. Cilantro root is key to many Thai dishes; it’s hard to find in the West. Most markets offer only the stems and leaves, with roots gone to waste. (I suggest growing your own or asking local farmers to save those roots for you!) Recipe below. It’s a good one for summertime shindigs—much on my mind these days.
Chicken in Pandanus (Kai Ho Bai Toei)
Adapted from Smart Cook Thai Cookery School
Ingredients:
100 g chicken, sliced into bite-sized pieces
6-7 pandanus leaves
3 tsp garlic
1 tsp cilantro root
1/2 tsp white peppercorns
3 tsp roasted sesame seeds
1 T soy sauce (or fish sauce for a gluten-free version)
1 tsp sesame oil
1/2 tsp sugar
2 cups oil for frying
Method:
Using a mortar and pestle, pound garlic, coriander root and peppercorns until finely ground. Place the chicken in a mixing bowl and mix well with pounded ingredients, sesame seeds, soy sauce or fish sauce and sugar. Let sit at least one hour.
Wrap the chicken with pandanus leaves to form a triangular packet. This can be tricky. Use toothpicks to secure each wrapper if necessary. See here for a picture of how these will look. Then deep fry in hot oil over medium heat until cooked and crispy on the outside. Remove from heat and drain oil on paper towel. Serve with sweet-sour or chile sauce of your choice.
This one goes out as an early birthday wish for Gary, fervent lover of The Chip. He prefers Kettle brand, but I find my favorites on Myanmar’s savory streets.
We sat one afternoon in a Burmese tea shop when an old woman ran up with a plate of chips. “Here, here, eat!” We did, she smiled, and a moment later she returned with more chips. A heap of chips, then another, they kept on coming. What was this all about? We stepped outside for a look.
There on the sidewalk, three generations of women had a little chip operation. The eldest, who liked her cheroots, watched over a bubbling wok of sliced potatoes.
When they were fried and dried, the middle-aged woman stuffed the crispy chips into plastic bags….
…then the youngest sealed the bags by candlelight.
The women had given us so many chips and so much of their time as we stopped to watch and photograph their lineup. I tried to pay them, but they wouldn’t allow me. So I bought a bag of crispy rice snacks, another of their specialties, but they still didn’t want my money. I ended up shoving it into the women’s hands and stepping backward. They welcomed us to their country and wished us well.
I love Burmese tater chips. They’re also available on the street in dried slices, which are handy for taking home and frying in your own kitchen. I did that for Gary several years ago. Maybe it’s time for another bag….
(P.S. Yangon is a great place to catch a flick. Cheap tickets (about $1.50), relatively new releases, and locally made tater chips for sale!)
Just returned to Chiang Mai after a week exploring the hills around Kengtung, in the Shan State of Myanmar. Fascinating people, food and markets, quite different from those in Thailand (even though the Thais and Shans share the same ethnic heritage). I promise, more on that later.
But first: remember my iberry infatuation? I’m psyched to find Chiang Mai’s iberry garden, down one of the quiet sois east of the ever-trendy Nimmanhaemin Road. I wish this had existed while we lived here. I spent a good amount of baht filling up on green tea, passion tea, black sesame and red bean ice cream while working the IMMF gig just up the street.
It’s a great place to hang out among the shade trees outside, or the super funky decor within. It looks like all the paraphernalia (light fixtures, cabinet doors, door knobs, chairs and tables) came from an American Midwestern garage sale. I especially appreciate the dentist’s chair lamp.
Outside, a giant green statue of Mao welcomes all patrons…
…as does the giant yellow fella (below). Apparently, he had to be dropped into the yard via crane. Now here’s the really interesting part: neighbors say this yard belongs to devils that dance in the treetops at night.
As Jerry’s grandmother used to say, “If they say it and it’s true, you can believe it.”
I subscribe to A.Word.A.Day. Do you? There must be karmic or cosmic influence in each day’s selection because yesterday’s word — at the end of a volatile week, at the start of Easter weekend — was karuna. Karuna, an ancient Pali and Sanskrit word, a hallmark of Jainism, Buddhism and Tibetan culture. (Curiously, Karuna is also the name of a breakaway Tamil Tiger commander in Sri Lanka.) Most commonly, karuna means love and compassion; its definition encompasses the concept of enlightened wisdom, the wish for human suffering to end.
It got me thinking about momos, in particular these momos, which were made in Darjeeling’s Hot Stimulating Cafe, which sits like a little hippie house carved into the hillside. Walk straight through to the deck out back, and you get a prime view of the Himalayan foothills. Or you can sit inside and watch the making of momos, a favorite snack or meal in Tibet, Nepal and northern India.
These little dough-ball dumplings are stuffed with meat, fish or simply vegetables. Here at the Hot Stimulating Cafe, chopped ginger and onion are most important to the filling; then cabbage, carrot and soybean oil.
Meat momos must, must, must have more ginger and onion than meat, I am told.
And the contents of each momo determines its shape.
Clockwise, starting from the top, we have a fish momo, a meat momo and a veg momo, each pinched into a neat little pocket to be steamed or, alternatively, fried — a supremely yummy way to eat your momos.
Of course, who wouldn’t eat her momos with a cup of masala tea? Hot Stimulating tea ranked among the best in Darjeeling masalas — each cup with “less than a pinch” of ground cardamom, cinnamon, clove and black pepper.
As for momos, there is a mystery within. You know my problem with wheat, so Jerry did most of the momo indulging in Darjeeling. But at times I couldn’t resist. We found them steaming hot, or sizzling in oil, at many little Tibetan restaurants scattered across town. Perhaps it was the vibrant dipping sauce that won me over. Perhaps it was the intense warmth on such frigid, wintery days. I don’t know. But momos certainly seem to hold a secret ingredient.
I’m stretching back in time to a place where snacks are of the essence. Let’s face it: India does great snacks. Some of the world’s best popcorn is to be found on Indian streets. Crisp and lightly salted, a hint of masala, a dusting of asafoetida (don’t be deterred by the stink; just a pinch will add flavor and fight flatulence).
And then, of course, there is bhel puri. Beautiful, oniony, tangy bhel puri. Here, a man named Parmatma Prasad stands at the entrance to Darjeeling’s Tibetan Refugee Self Help Centre, with Kangchendzonga to his back. He beckons with his bhel puri, which are very special concoctions of puffed rice, indeed. “Very good taste,” he tells us over and over again as he shovels more fresh chile, more red onion, more chopped lime and salt and pepper and cracked chana crackers and crunched-up Job’s tears and a dash of mustard oil into a paper cone (recycled, with a student’s math exam on the back). “Very good taste,” he says. Five rupees.
We eat. We agree. Very good taste, for sure. So he makes another creation, a different bhel puri with more crackers, more tang. “Very good taste,” he smiles again. And I wonder if I could somehow persuade Mr. Prasad to leave his mountain perch to follow me on my travels, shoving little cones of bhel puri into my hands, everywhere I go.
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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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