in praise of sardines

May the new year bring you many...

truffles!

Both the stinky...

and the sweet!

And of course, may your year be filled with an abundance of...

sardines!

(Hopefully not all three at once, though).

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

urte berri on - feliz año nuevo – felice anno nuovo – glückliches neues jahr – bonne année - próspero ano novo – feliç any nou – prosperu añu nuevu - gelukkig nieuwjaar - nollaig shona dhuit – blwyddyn newydd dda - gott nytt år – godt nyttår – glaedelig jul - hauskaa joulua - kenourios chronos - s novim godom - boldog új évet kívánok - laimi’gu jauno gadu - szczęśliwego nowego roku - vesela nova godina – sretan bozic - kurisumasu omedeto – xin nian kuai le - shub naya baras – sana saida - shana tova – gajan kristnastkon

Rainy day breakfast

On a rainy winter morning in San Francisco, nothing beats a steaming hot bowl of jook, Asian-style rice porridge (also known as congee), at Hing Lung in Chinatown. On week days, if you arrive between 8 and 11 in the morning, this bowl of comfort costs just $2.50. There are a couple dozen choices of flavorings, such as chicken-and-corn, duck, meatballs, sliced fish, pork, pork liver, and giblets. I opted for a combination of pork liver and meatballs today.

Make sure to order a side of the "deep-fried devils," yao ja guai, which I like to think of as a fried baguette. The cooks at Hing Lung make and fry them fresh in house every day. I love to dip pieces of the savory bread into the molten porridge while I wait for it to cool off.

The cooks here are also masters in the art of making cheong fun, steamed rice noodles, which come in many fillings, including shrimp, barbecue pork and mushrooms with Chinese greens (pictured above).

Due to its location in the crowded Chinatown area, I don't make to Hing Lung as often as I'd like. Nobody else in the city seems to be able to make the deceptively simple dish of jook quite as well. For that alone, Hing Lung makes it onto my Bay Area Short List.

Hing Lung
645 Broadway (between Stockton and  Grant)
(415) 398-8838
Open daily 8am-1am

Food|and Drink|Restaurants|Reviews|San Francisco

White Christmas, LA style

Every Christmas was a white Christmas when I was growing up in suburban Los Angeles in the late 1960's and early 70's.

Though my parents raised my brother and me without any religion, for some reason we always celebrated Christmas. Without any religious back story to give the holiday meaning, Christmas devolved into just 3 traditions: going to the mall to sit on a fat bearded man's lap (pictured left), getting presents, and decorating the house. Most of my memories revolve around that last one, which in our house meant decking the halls with boughs of plastic.

I grew up in the iconic, mid-century, single-story Modernist LA suburban house built by my father. My mother filled the floor-to-ceiling glass window lined space with all the furniture that, much to my amusement, is once again the height of fashion. Knoll tulip chairs sprouted out of the terrazzo floors in the eating area, while a black leather Eames chair reclined in the den. My mother coordinated everything, from the bean bag and Knoll butterfly chairs down to the place mats, in three colors: red, black and white.

Every year about 2 weeks before Christmas, my father fetched the cardboard boxes marked "Xmas" from the makeshift storage area perched above the brown Ford Grand Torino station wagon in the garage. He would carry the boxes into the living room and carefully lay them on the carpeting.

Step one was to assemble the tree. Dad pulled out of the box the central metal post (which became the "trunk") and the wire and white plastic "branches," which he arranged by length, the longer pieces forming the lower portions of the "tree" and the shorter the upper part. Next, he untangled the wires of blinking white lights and slipped them over the branches. Then, he strung the strands of silver beads from branch to branch. Mom took over the next job of placing the red and silver balls and the twisted glass icicles on the tree. Then, my brother and I put on the fun ornaments, which were, of course, color coordinated to match the rest of the house. Dad returned for the final step, placing on the tip of the tree the white angel with the light bulb screwed into its back.

When we were finished, our living room was transformed into a set from a John Waters movie. The fake white tree (1969 version pictured right) grew out of the white shag carpeting, its electric white lights illuminating the white velour sofas, white walls, and white curtains that surrounded it. I forget what age I was when I finally realized that the famous Bing Crosby song was referring to snowfall on Christmas day, not the whiteness of our living room.

Our one food-related tradition occurred every Christmas Eve. Because Mom would be spending hours the following day constructing a Christmas feast (different every year), Christmas Eve was her day off and always featured the same food bought from a local deli. Dad ceremoniously lit a fire in the fireplace, never a necessity in LA, and then we sat on those white sofas and chairs next to that tree and nibbled on a tray of sliced meats and cheeses, shrimp cocktail, pickles, celery sticks, and, the highlight for us kids, little hot dogs wrapped in Pillsbury croissant dough. We dipped our pigs-in-the-blanket in ketchup and toasted the holidays with glasses of Martinelli's sparkling cider. I remember how special I felt to be sitting on those white sofas that were usually off limits to my brother and me, solely reserved for my parents' notorious late night cocktail parties and bridge games.

Neither N nor I are practicing Christians, so we never truly celebrate Christmas. We've only decorated our house once, a couple of years ago when we threw a holiday party. Last night, on Christmas instead of Christmas Eve, as a nod to my parents, who are both no longer with us, we bought some nice meats and cheeses from our local deli. We replaced the ham, turkey, and roast beef of my childhood with a platter of our own favorites, like Spanish jamón serrano, duck liver pâté, locally made Molinari salami, Spanish oil-packed anchovies, and smoked sturgeon. We savored some Spanish olives I marinated and the last of the yellow wax beans I pickled. For dessert, we tucked into some Basque Garrotxa cheese, membrillo, toasted hazelnuts, and plenty of Della Fattoria bread.

Then we toasted our glasses of champagne to family, friends, memories of holidays past and to holidays yet to come.

(Although I am a few days off for some events) I wish you all a happy holiday season! Happy Solstice! Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah! Happy Kwanzaa! And even a Happy (belated by a few days) Birthday to me! Cheers to all!

In praise of Kashmir: Rogan Josh

In my lifetime, I have made many versions of what is commonly referred to as lamb "curry." Of them all, this Kashmiri Rogan Josh is the new undisputed champion.

To me, the genius of Indian cuisine is the way it highlights the role aroma plays in whetting our appetites. While other cuisines, notably French and Japanese, have taught us that we eat with our eyes, Indian cuisine reminds us that we also eat with our noses. In fact, compared to our schnoz, the tongue is deaf and mute as a taster. Something like 90% of our ability to taste comes from our olfactory senses, which is why we can't taste much when we have a cold.

This version of Rogan Josh is probably the most aromatic dish I have ever placed under the old sniffer.

Each inhalation of its heady aroma reminds me of all that we have learned about the Kashmiris these past 2 weeks. I cannot avoid thinking about Kashmir's central position on the ancient Spice Route that flowed between China, India, and the Middle East. The combination of fennel and ginger brings to mind Chinese star anise, while cinnamon and smoky black cardamom brings me squarely back into the Malabar coast of southern India.

I do not exaggerate when I say that no dish is more emblematic of Kashmiri cuisine than this recipe for Rogan Josh. It features the favorite meat of the Kashmiris, mutton and lamb, and it is braised in yogurt, in the fashion typical of the region. In addition to the spices I already mentioned, the dish includes ample amounts of Kashmiri chili powder, which contribute its scarlet color, gentle heat, and the name of the dish, as rogan literally means "red."

This recipe for Rogan Josh comes from the Hindu Brahmin community, or pandits, of Kashmir. It is a dish that undoubtedly often found its way onto the tables of the family of Jawaharlal Nehru, who was of Kashmiri lineage, as well as that of his daughter, Indira Gandhi and her son Rajiv Gandhi. True to what we learned in my post on the Kashmiri kitchen, this Hindu version of Rogan Josh uses asafetida, a pungent tree resin, instead of garlic and onions.

In fact, you won't find any of the members of the "Indian mirepoix" of onions, garlic and fresh ginger in this recipe. Neither will you find any of the spices and herbs commonly used in "Indian cooking," like cumin, coriander, black mustard seeds, turmeric or cilantro.

If you are accustomed to the heavy, cream laden dish that goes by the name "rogan josh" in almost every Indian restaurant, you will be as surprised as I was by the complexity and subtleness of the version presented here. I hope you enjoy it as much as N and I did.

This is my last post on Kashmir, her people, and their cuisine. I hope you have enjoyed reading this series as much as I have enjoyed writing it! I had fun becoming acquainted with the people of Kashmir through learning about some of the tasty treats that bring them joy.

All of you who have supported Pim's Menu for Hope II campaign with your donations to UNICEF should be proud of yourselves. You have made a difference in the lives of the survivors of the earthquake that struck the Kashmir region of Pakistan and India. I just learned that we have raised over $15,000!

There are still a few hours left to buy a raffle ticket for a chance to win the Kashmiri Cooking Kit (pictured below) or any of the brilliant gifts that my fellow food bloggers have donated to the Menu for Hope II campaign. To help you decide which gift tickles your fancy, check out Pim's visual menu with pictures of all the prizes and links to their full descriptions.

I wish you all the best of luck. Cheers!

Edited on Dec. 30th: I forgot to mention when I posted this that my recipe for Rogan Josh is my contribution to Meenakshi's (of Hooked on Heat) inaugural edition of "From My Rasoi." The theme this month is appropriately "winter" and I cannot think of a better dish to take the chill off.

In praise of Kashmir: touring the Tandoor-loin

An unusual incident sparked my interest in Kashmir. It occurred about 5 years ago while dining at Shalimar, a perpetually packed Indian/Pakistani dive in San Francisco.

One evening, N and I stopped by the restaurant to get our fix of kababs. Shalimar is like a small breakaway republic with inscrutable Byzantine rules that only the initiated can comprehend. One of the rules states that diners cannot place their orders until they secure a place to sit. Thus, the grease and smoke stained dining room becomes a Darwinian game of musical chairs, where only the most obnoxious and lucky survive.

This day, however, with the dining room hopelessly crowded, one of the bussers mercifully took on the role of host. After a brief wait in the longest line I have witnessed at Shalimar, we were surprised when this "host" asked us to follow him. He led us away from the dining room, down a narrow, unlit corridor along the side of the building. Out of the darkness we stepped into a brightly lit room, where people were sitting on sofas and chairs with plates of food on their laps as if they were at a friend's house.

Our host escorted us to the only table in the room, which we discovered was an office desk. N sat regally on a leather office chair at the desk, while I sat along the side on a folding chair. The restaurant was so crowded, they were seating customers in their office!

Under a layer of glass, there was a map proudly displayed on the desktop. The map was of Kashmir, except the Line of Control that divides the region between Pakistan and India was missing. The map was of a united Kashmir. Unfortunately, I can't recall if it showed the nation as independent or as a part of Pakistan. From that point on, we have referred to this office as the Shalimar War Room.

Today, as part of my "In Praise of Kashmir" series (with the hope that my posts will help raise awareness of the survivors of the earthquakes and encourage my readers to buy raffle tickets to donate to the Menu for Hope II), I am taking you on a field trip to the few blocks surrounding Shalimar, a seedy part of San Francisco's Tenderloin District. In an article that appeared in the Chronicle 2 years ago, local writer Sandip Roy dubbed the area that centers on the intersection of Jones and O'Farrell Streets the "Tandoor-loin," due to the high number of Pakistani tandoori restaurants found there. We won't find any Kashmiri restaurants here (as far as I know that aren't any in the Bay Area), but the next best thing are these Pakistani-owned dhabas.

As readers of V.K. Narayanan's blog My Dhaba know, a dhaba is a quick-service roadside restaurant found in Northern India that serves tandoori meats, naan and strong chai to truckers, cabdrivers, and the like. A decade ago, Naeem Mohammad opened Shalimar on Jones Street near O'Farrell, because he correctly perceived that San Francisco's many Pakistani cabbies needed a dhaba where they could grab a quick bite. He named his restaurant after the famous Shalimar Garden that Mughal Emperor Jahangir built for his wife Nur Jahan in Srinagar, the largest city in Kashmir.

Mr. Mohammad's timing couldn't have been any better. Shalimar's opening also coincided with the Dot-Com boom. Many South Asian engineers, who had left their countries to seek their fortunes in the Bay Area, grew homesick for the taste of dhaba-style street food. When word of Shalimar's existence got out, these engineers, along with other South Asians and adventurous "chowhounds," headed there from all over the Bay Area.

Seeing the crowds at Shalimar, other imitators quickly followed. Tandoori dhabas sprouted like mushrooms within a two minute walk from Shalimar. Naan n' Curry, Pakwan, Lahore Karahi, Chutney, Shalimar Garden and Little Deli opened their doors, all with menus similar to Shalimar's, but slight differences in atmosphere. Chutney, for example, is a little cleaner and fancier. The cooks at Lahore Karahi added saucier dishes to the formula. These dishes are cooked in a kadai (also spelled karahi), the cast-iron wok-shaped pot favored by north Indian and Pakistani cooks.

Shalimar and some of the imitators have gone on to open multiple locations in other parts of the city and Bay Area. In fact, because a couple of these new dhabas are closer to my house, with a Naan n' Curry in the Sunset and a Pakwan in the Mission, I rarely visit the Tandoor-loin, having lost the impetus to battle for first a parking space and then a table at Shalimar.

In praise of Kashmir: chai, Kashmiri style

Every morning at the crack of dawn, the first order of the Kashmiri day is to light the coals which will heat water for the samovar, the ornate spouted vessel which holds the family tea. What kind of tea, or chai, the family makes seems to divide along sectarian lines, Muslim or Hindu. The two teas couldn't be any more different from one another. Their uniqueness also beautifully illustrates the regional nature of Indian cuisine. Today, I will share recipes for both types of Kashmiri chai.

But first, I have to get something off my chest. As my favorite local slam poet, Shailja Patel, is fond of pointing out, chai is not "a beverage invented in California." The Hindi/Urdu word chai simply means "tea."  "Chai tea" is a redundancy. Uttering the phrase "chai tea latte," the drink sold by Starbucks/Tazo®, should be a criminal offense. The three word phrase, strung together from the languages of three countries with unique culinary traditions, is a symbol of all that is wrong with globalization. Starbucks describes its drink as a blend of "exotic spices and comforting vanilla." The flavor bears more resemblance to a pumpkin pie than to the bracing cuppa sold by every chaiwallah at railroad stations throughout India. (Don't get me started on the "chai eggnog soy latte" I spotted on the Starbucks website).

Kahva

If you were to peer into the samovar in a Hindu pandit's kitchen, you may be surprised to discover green, not black, tea leaves. There is also no milk in this tea, which goes by the name kahva (also spelled kahwa). Kahva is usually served sweet and is infused with crushed almonds, green cardamom and sometimes cinnamon. On rare, very special occasions, a few strands of saffron may be added as well.

As a green tea drinker and a fan of anything with cardamom in it, I was extremely excited to learn about this lighter alternative to masala chai. I talked to a Pakistani halal butcher/grocer in town to find out what variety of green tea is used to make kahva. Kashmiris call it "Bombay tea," but in the tea trade here it is known as "gunpowder," named after the way the more mature tea leaves curl up into pellets when dried. The tea, grown in Sri Lanka or China, is available in any store that specializes in Middle Eastern groceries, where it is simply labeled "green tea."

I enjoyed the uplifting combination of flavors and plan to make kahva often, especially during the winter months. It makes an excellent post dinner digestif as well. I have not yet tried the kahva with saffron, as my wife doesn't care for saffron.

Sheer chai

Judged on appearance alone, it would be difficult to tell apart the milky tea favored by the majority Muslim population of Kashmir from the iconic railroad station masala chai. Both are made with black tea, milk and, sometimes, spices. One taste, however, and you'll know you're not in Delhi. Sheer chai or noon chai (noon is Kashmiri and sheer is Persian for milk) is salty, containing no sugar. For this milky brew, Kashmiris use a type of tea similar to Darjeeling called pahari (literally "of the mountain"). When Hindu pandits make sheer chai, they typically add a masala of some combination of green cardamom, ginger, cinnamon, black peppercorns, poppy seeds, and crushed almonds. Traditionally, tea makers also add a pinch of baking soda, which turns the tea a pinkish color.

Although I admittedly disliked the saltiness and the chemical flavor imparted by the baking soda, I may feel differently if I were sipping this after a trek through the Himalayas. The Tibetan peoples who dwell in neighboring Ladakh (technically a region within Kashmir) favor a similarly salty brew. They infamously include a dollop of rancid yak butter in their tea.

All of these teas and spices are included in the Kashmiri Cooking Kit (more than $60 worth of spices, food and recipes ), my donation to Menu for Hope II.

As a bonus, the winner of my prize will also receive the ingredients and the recipe to make masala chai, as taught to me by N's Bollywood socialite aunt. Aunt Geeta renowned throughout Mumbai (Bombay) for her masala chai.

Click the button below to be taken to the donation page where you can buy a raffle ticket for yourself or, as Sam of Becks & Posh suggested, as a gift to others on your holiday shopping list. Remember, whether you win or lose, all of the money raised will be donated to UNICEF to aid the victims of the massive earthquake that struck Kashmir in October. Thank you.

The complete recipes for the two Kashmiri-style chais are found below the jump!

In praise of Kashmir: the Kashmiri kitchen

A dozen years ago to the date, N and I were in the midst of the journey of a lifetime. For two months we traveled by rail throughout much of India. Because we share the tendency to view life from our stomachs'-eye view, the focus of our honeymoon trip quickly switched from visiting palaces and temples to tasting pullaos (pilafs) and thalis (set meals).

As we traveled through a country as vast in area as Europe, I learned that it is as absurd to talk about "Indian cuisine" as one entity as it would be to attempt to describe a single "European cuisine." There are more than a dozen major languages and hundreds of dialects spoken by the billion people who call India home (and far more languages when you add the other countries of the subcontinent, including Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nepal and Sri Lanka). Each region has its own distinctive cuisine.

Since we were strict vegetarians at the time, we probably would not have enjoyed sampling the cuisine of Kashmir, a region which we were forbidden from visiting due to political unrest and violence.

Through my reading this past week, I've learned that all Kashmiris adore eating meat, even the area's Hindu Brahmins, the high priestly class. The Brahmin "pandits" (from which we get the English word "pundit") are the only Brahmins in India who are carnivores. They are the minority group amongst the predominantly Muslim population of Kashmir, but both share many of the same culinary preferences.

Some spices, which are common to the kitchens of both Muslims and Hindu pandits, distinguish Kashmiri cooking from that of other regions of India. Fennel and ginger, especially powdered dried ginger, find there way into nearly every dish. When cooking meat dishes, both Hindus and Muslims also like to add the smoked black cardamom pods, which in the local tongue are called "big cardamom," because they are far larger than the more common green cardamom (see picture, right). They contribute a haunting smokiness to meat dishes.

Kashmiris cook with a type of dried red chili pepper that is unique to the region. The pepper is mild and lends its bright vermilion color to many of their most famous regional specialties, like rogan josh (lamb braised with yogurt and spices which we will cook together in a few days).

Two locally grown flowers are added to many Kashmiri delicacies. Saffron, which comes from mauve crocuses that have been grown in the region for more than 2,500 years, is used only on the most special occasions. The other flower, called maval in Kashmiri and "cock's comb" in English, is mainly used by Muslim cooks to color dishes a pinkish maroon.

One group of ingredients in particular seems to distinguish Hindu from Muslim cooking in the region. Local Hindu pandits abstain from consuming any members of the allium family, such as garlic, onions, and the unique local cross between a shallot and a spring onion called praan. They believe these pungent vegetables raise "base passions." Perhaps to substitute for the missing flavor, Hindu cooks add asafoetida, a rather stinky tree resin that James Beard once compared favorably to truffles. Muslim cooks rarely if ever use asafoetida.

The main cooking fat in the region is mustard oil, which is pressed from the seeds of the plants whose yellow flowers carpet the hills in the spring. The golden oil is similar in flavor to extra virgin olive oil. Kashmiri cooks characteristically fry their vegetables in mustard oil before they add any other seasoning. Mustard oil is sold unrefined and unpasteurized. When it is called for in a recipe, it is important to heat it to the smoking point before using it (otherwise you may get ill...trust me, I know from experience). Clarified butter, ghee, is called for in some local specialties.

Another common ingredient that distinguishes Kashmiri from other Indian cuisines is the abundant use of yogurt. Local cooks use it to thicken the sauces of nearly every dish. Kashmiri chutneys usually consist of yogurt combined with mint, pumpkin and even walnuts. To replicate the taste of Kashmiri (or really any north Indian food), use whole milk yogurt, preferably one that has been drained of excess liquid in a cheesecloth for a couple of hours. Thick Greek or Russian style yogurt, such as Total Greek Yogurt made by FAGE, works beautifully.

The superb local long-grained Basmati rice is served with every Kashmiri meal. Borrowing from the Persian method of cooking (via the Mughals), Basmati rice is typically made into a pilaf (pullao in Hindi) infused with cardamom, cinnamon, black cumin and sometimes saffron. The exquisite wheat flatbreads of the region, including kulcha, are cooked by professional bakers in clay ovens and closely resemble the breads of Afghanistan and Central Asia. These breads typically accompany morning and afternoon tea.

In praise of Kashmir: Kashmiri history 101

Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere
With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave
Its temples, and grottoes, and fountains as clear
As the love-lighted eyes that hand over their wave

As illustrated by this passage written by Thomas Moore in 1826, the beauty of Kashmir has captivated the imaginations of visitors and invaders for centuries. Today, we're going to explore this beautiful region to get a sense of its geography, and then we'll peer back into its history. My aim is to paint a backdrop that will help us understand the factors that have shaped the area's people and their rich cuisine, which will be the subject of my remaining posts on Kashmir. I can't wait to share some of the fun and interesting stories I learned about these brave people!

The disputed territories that make up what I am referring to as "Kashmir" are located at the junction of India, Pakistan and China, with portions in each of these countries. In other words, today Kashmir is not an independent nation. It is a country divided by politics and border disputes, but unified in the hearts of the people who speak the Kashmiri language. I will explain how this situation has come into being shortly.

First, let's explore the geography of the region. Kashmir lays at the western edge of the Himalayas, so its landscape is dominated by mountains that are punctuated by fertile valleys, lakes and rivers.

The heart of Kashmir is the breathtakingly gorgeous Himalayan valley that Moore described above, the Vale of Kashmir, which lies at an elevation of 5,500 feet. This valley, in the area under Indian control, has often been compared to Switzerland for its abundance of meadows, lakes and streams surrounded by dramatic snow-capped mountains. Prior to 1990, Srinagar, the principal city in the region, attracted over 700,000 visitors annually. For the international tourist, a trip to India without visiting Kashmir was as unthinkable as missing the Taj Mahal.

I love the story of the origin of Kashmir. According to mythology, a Hindu sage drained a massive lake by displacing all the water with gold coins. A bunch of greedy children madly dug for the coins, which then created the major rivers in the area. Geological surveys partially corroborate this legend, telling us that the valley was indeed submerged less than a million years ago, but they tell us that earthquakes rather than coins drained it.

The history of Kashmir is rife with invasion, conquest and occupation. Turks, Persians, Mongols (Mughals), Afghans, Sikhs and the British have all spent time in this "Paradise on Earth." In the third century B.C., Indian leader Ashoka the Great established Buddhist universities in what was then a mostly Hindu region. In the 14th century, many Hindus converted to Islam, paving the road for Kashmir's eventual conquest by the Mughal emperor Akbar two centuries later. From that point on, Islam has been the dominant religion of the Kashmiri people.

Kashmiri culture thrived under the rule of the three successive emperors - Akbar, Jahangir and Shah Jahan - whose rule in the 1600s marked the height of the Mughal Empire. Muslims and Hindus more or less coexisted in peace.

Emperor Jahangir was particularly captivated by the beauty (and cool climate) of the region and spent much time there, saying "if heaven be on earth, this would surely be it." He built many floating pleasure gardens, including the famed Shalimar, for his gorgeous Persian wife, who he renamed Nur Jahan, meaning "the Light of the World." Nur Jahan effectively ruled the Empire when Jahangir became addicted to first alcohol then, after his doctors made him give that up, opium. Incidentally, the successor to Jahangir, Shah Jahan, so deeply loved Nur Jahan's niece, Mumtaz, that he was inspired after her death to build the Taj Mahal in Mumtaz's memory.

In praise of Kashmir: a Menu for Hope

I have two pieces of exciting news!

First, you and I are going on a journey! For the next two weeks, we are going to explore and celebrate Kashmir, the disputed territory that is split between two countries, one half in India and the other in Pakistan. From now until December 23rd, "in praise of sardines" will essentially morph into "in praise of Kashmir."

Second, I am giving away a fantastic prize to a lucky reader!

What's going on here? Why Kashmir? What prize?

In answer to the first question, I am participating in A Menu for Hope, a charitable event hosted by fellow Bay Area food blogger Pim of chezpim to raise money to support the efforts by the U.S. Fund for the United Nations Children's Fund (UNICEF) to aid the victims of the devastating earthquake that struck Kashmir in October, killing at least 90,000 people and leaving more than 3 million homeless. I am asking you to donate by buying raffle tickets to win the... well, I'll get to that just as soon as I finish telling you how to buy your tickets.

Each ticket cost just $5 and gives you one chance to win my tasty prize. You can securely purchase as many virtual raffle tickets as you want through this page of the First Giving website. With your donation, be sure to specify that you want to win my scrumptious prize (I promise, I'll tell you very soon) that I'm offering by including my name, Brett, and/or the name of this website, "in praise of sardines," on the donation page.

The drawings will be held December 23rd and winners will be announced January 1st at Chezpim.

It would be fantastic if each of my readers bought at least one ticket! Of course, the more tickets you buy, the better your chances of winning my delicious prize. Whether you win or lose, though, 100% of the money you donate will go directly to UNICEF.  No money will pass through my hands. Every cent you donate will help to shelter and feed the Kashmiri children and families who are already starting to confront the freezing temperatures of winter.

I thought it would be fun to use the opportunity presented by this fundraiser to become acquainted with the people of Kashmir, the way they lived before the earthquake struck and before the region was besieged by war. And the way they will live once again. In my experience as a traveler, one of the best windows through which we can gain a glimpse of people from cultures different than our own is through their cuisine. As Brillat-Savarin quipped nearly two hundred years ago in his gastronomic masterpiece, The Physiology of Taste, "Tell me what you eat, and I shall tell you what you are."

As many of the readers of this site know, my wife's family comes from India, specifically from Gujarat, a region southwest of Kashmir. Although we were unable to visit war-torn Kashmir during our honeymoon/"culinary tour" of India a dozen years ago, N visited the region, one of the most beautiful in India, as a child. I've asked her to share with us during the next few weeks some of her beautiful memories from that trip.

Since I myself haven't visited the region, I'm inviting you to come along with me as I explore the rich culinary traditions of the Kashmiris, to glimpse how they live, eat and celebrate in better times. I will share with you everything I learn from my collection of dozens of South Asian cookbooks, travel guides, history books, Salman Rushdie's novels, and the internet.

With me as your guide, we'll cook Kashmiri dishes (like one of my favorites, the famous rogan josh, a spicy dish of braised lamb), open some of the spice bottles in the Kashmiri pantry, and even take a couple of field trips to Indian and Pakistani grocers and restaurants in the Bay Area.

So, at long last, let me describe the prize I am offering to the lucky winner!

A tale of two fish knives

I have a fetish.

Kitchen knives. It's a common affliction that infects many of us who don clogs and white coats for a living. Just as there is, I am told, the perfect purse for every outfit, we knife queens* have to have the right knife for every job.

The morning of my last day in Barcelona in July, my wife called me from New York. "Have you found the fish knives yet?"

She was referring to her fish knives, those offspring of a butter knife and a spatula that have a notch in their palettes, causing their dull-edged blades to resemble a woman's lips in a Picasso painting. During our previous trip to Spain the year before, she (and, admittedly, I) became smitten with these knives which are provided at even the humblest beachside fish shack in Spain, but are virtually extinct on the tables of America. In N's mind, procuring a set of these fish knives was one of the primary goals of my trip.

I, on the other hand, had a different kind of fish knife on my mind. Getting my hands on one of my kind of fish knife was my latest obsession and my sole objective for my last day in Spain. I had to have a fish machete.

I still don't know the proper term for the enormous knives wielded by the brassy fishmongers (all women!) of la Boqueria. These hatchets resemble Chinese cleavers, but the blade curves sharply, like the Grim Reaper's scythe turned inside out. Whenever I visited a market in Catalonia or Valencia, I invariably found myself awestruck as I watched the strong, though often petite, women deftly fillet a small sole or thinly slice through a whole merluza (hake) with a knife the size of an axe.**

I answered my wife's inquiry nervously. "No, no fish knives yet, honey."

As N knows, when I travel, I am an eater, not a shopper. By the end of a trip, my suitcases are bursting with almonds, chocolate, olive oil, wine and illicit pork products. Aside from an embarrassing number of Spanish and Catalan cookbooks, there are no non-edible items, not even a pair of Campers.

I told N of my fruitless search for fish knives (both kinds) in all the wrong places, including stores one would have thought appropriate, like housewares stores and even knife shops (cuchillerías).

She listened patiently, aware that her husband's shopping I.Q. is zero and his Spanish only marginally better. "Go to El Corte Inglés. They'll have them there."

I did as instructed and, sure enough, this Spanish equivalent to Macy's was a treasure trove full of her kind of fish knives. I snapped up a dozen, with an equal number of matching fish forks (I suppose that now makes me a flatware queen, too). The true object of my desire, my fish machete, was sadly nowhere to be found.

Dejected, I returned to my vacation rental and desperately poured through the Barcelona yellow pages one page at a time, having no idea how a Spaniard would categorize what we call "restaurant supply stores." My eyes popped wide open when, like a dumb mule, I stumbled across the category "maquinaria alimentación y hostelería."

With stores about to close, I raced to my savior, Celaya, a restaurant equipment store oddly named after a famous twentieth century poet. I happily handed over 40 Euros for my prize and paid little attention to the nervous glances cast my way as I maneuvered through crowded Barcelona streets, my shiny new fish machete clutched tightly in my hands.

*I hope I have not offended anyone with my use of the word "queen" here. I lifted it from Guy Trebay's humorous article that appeared in the New York Times a month ago, where he described "dish queens" in the food industry, a group which includes Thomas Keller. To quote from his article: "From the term 'dish queen,' nothing is meant to be inferred about a person's sexual tastes. A dish queen, broadly speaking, is a person belonging to a rarefied and sometimes loopy group for whom food is infinitely more appetizing when beautifully framed." In the same vein, the degree of my ridiculous obsession with finding the perfect knife is equal to that of the socalled dish queens.

**Keiko of Nordljus recently captured beautiful images of my favorite fishmongers at la Boqueria. Check out her photos here.

Food|and Drink|Spain|Fish|Knives

If you want to "touch the heart," I say "Fook Yuen!"

"Number 22."

A jolt of excitement shoots up my spine at the sound of our number being called. At last, it is our turn!

The hostess guides us through the labyrinth of round banquet tables, dodging first the shrieking child and then the server balancing a platter full of fried crab puffs. We arrive at our table ecstatic to discover after our interminable wait that we are being seated at the most strategically positioned table in the dining room, right next to the swinging doors where the servers exit the kitchen.

In most restaurants such a table is known as Siberia. This day, the Sunday after Thanksgiving, however, our table position is more like Nirvana. We are at the dim sum palace Fook Yuen in Millbrae, the place many connoisseurs of the savory Cantonese tea snacks consider the best and most authentic in the Bay Area.

Like Xi'an warriors perched atop our horses, we survey the lay of the land and size up our competition. Our two-top is like Lichtenstein surrounded by far more populous and powerful neighbors. Beneath chandeliers the size of small cars, most of the round tables are filled with families of 6, 8, even 10, all speaking Cantonese, a definite advantage. They dismiss the newly arrived squatters in their territory as simple neophytes.

Their underestimation is our advantage.

They don't know I cut my teeth on dim sum at restaurants in Singapore, Hong Kong and Taipei, where I studied Mandarin for a year. Or that N and I have been eating dim sum monthly since we arrived in San Francisco nearly 15 years ago. Although we are not natives, we are no amateurs.

We are completely comfortable in the cacophony of the dim sum house: the clickety clack of chopsticks dancing, the boisterous laughter of men toasting beer, the musical sound of waitresses hawking dumplings. To us, it's all just a pleasant background hum (N, you'll recall, is used to the controlled chaos of her second graders rehearsing for their holiday show, while I am most content in the swirling energy of a restaurant kitchen). We are focused on our mission with a Zen-like clarity.

We know to send back the jasmine tea the server automatically plunks down on the tables of non-Chinese. We request a pot of black bo lay tea (also spelled bo lei or po lay, which is pu-erh in Mandarin), the traditional accompaniment to dim sum because it is supposed to aid the digestion of rich foods. We are at Fook Yuen, after all, to yum cha, to drink tea and share conversation.

I like to think of the small dishes and snacks as decorations on a Christmas tree, highlighting the convivial conversation and tea like the shiny baubles and lights illuminate the tree. The little morsels are meant to "delight or touch the heart," the literal meaning of the poetic phrase "dim sum."

Our years of experience eating at Fook Yuen, and other favorite dim sum restaurants like Yank Sing, reminds us to practice patient restraint. We are only two today, so we have to choose our plates wisely to avoid regrets. Too many times have we succumbed to the temptress that plagues the inexperienced dim sum diner: Instant Gratification. We shamefully recall many times that, within 5 minutes of being sat, our table groaned with plates that quickly grew cold.

Here's my advice. Picture yourself as Jennifer Lopez in a fancy boutique on Rodeo Drive, perched on your shapely buttocks while salesclerks stumble over one another to open box after box of the latest footwear from Jimmy Choo or Manolo Blahnik. You are royalty.

Open your eyes. You're still you, and the boxes are bamboo steamers which contain not stilettos, but translucent steamed dumplings (like the fun gor pictured right, stuffed with pork and bamboo shoots). A far more valuable treasure, if you ask me. The servers await your decision. This should be the model of every restaurant dining experience.

"Char siu bao (barbecued pork buns)?" No.

"Siu mai (pork and shrimp dumplings)?" No.

"Potstickers?" No.

We know to save this everyday fare for the take-out shops of Chinatown or Clement Street. When we're at Fook Yuen, we wait for the plates of the restaurant's specialties, like suckling pig, crispy duck, and clams steamed with black bean sauce. We also look for cheung fun (rice noodle rolls) and N's favorite, the classic turnip cakes called lo bak goh. We might also consider ordering crab off the menu, but it is not available on this day.

This is where our vantage point next to the kitchen door helps tremendously. We keep one eye glued on every movement in that direction, so we can wave the server down to snatch up the steaming hot morsels before other diners do.

Make sure to save room for tofu fa, a bowlful of clouds of sweet soy custard that is the Chinese answer to pot de crème. Neither can you forget to indulge in a dan ta, the ethereally flaky egg custard tart. No version of these two desserts is better in the Bay Area.

At night, Fook Yuen also serves stellar seafood and hosts banquets. I particularly liked the title of this special menu.

Fook Yuen Sea Food Restaurant
195 El Camino Real, Millbrae, CA 94030
650) 692-8600

Food|and Drink|Restaurants|Reviews|San Francisco

Fat is your friend

I have a confession to make. I love fat.

I've said this before, but I'm not afraid to repeat it. Often. I revel in the obscenity of the word itself. The Federal Communications Commission is out of touch, because we all know that the dirtiest F-word in America is spelled F-A-T.

My goal is to bring balance back into the discussion of fat, to wrestle the topic away from doctors and nutritionists and bring it back into the realm of gastronomy, where it belongs. If health is our primary objective, we need to first alter our culinary attitude towards fat, then a decrease in our consumption of the unhealthier fats will naturally follow.

Even the most fat-phobic American nutritionist admits fat is a major requirement of the human diet. The dietary guidelines of most medical and governmental agencies recommend that between a quarter and a third of a healthy person's calories come from fat. That's a lot of fat!

What would our cuisine be without fat? Imagine croissants without butter. Steak without marbling. Tamales without lard (or oil). Chocolate without cocoa butter. French fries without frying oil (ideally, beef or even horse fat).

If we look at fat from a gastronomic perspective, from the vantage point of a cook, we look at it as an ingredient. As with all of our food choices, we want to use the highest quality ingredients available. If fat is going to make up so much of our diet every day, we want to extract the most flavor possible out of every drop we consume. We should assess the fats we use from a culinary, not a scientific, perspective.

Banish all flavorless and artificially manipulated lipids from your cabinets at once! Throw away that Crisco, margarine and any other hydrogenated trans-fats, which are both tasteless and dangerous to your health. Stop eating processed foods which contain these fats. Toss those awful vegetable oils made from corn or soy into the trash bin. On those occasions you need a neutral tasting oil, use grape seed oil or maybe a GMO-free, expellier pressed Canola oil. Make room for tastier, fresher oils by tossing into the garbage any bottles that smell off or rancid.

Learn from professional chefs and understand that fat equals flavor. Incorporate a variety of fats, which all contribute different flavors, into your cooking. My freezer, for example, is stocked with fat rendered from ducks (to cook confit and potatoes), chicken (to make matzoh balls), and pigs (to flavor pinto beans and Catalan stews). In my refrigerator, there are three kinds of butter: salted (for bread), unsalted and clarified (Indian ghee). My pantry contains oils from grape seeds, tea seeds, walnuts, hazelnuts and argan nuts.

Without a doubt, though, the oil I reach for most often is extra virgin olive oil. Not only is it one of the healthiest of the lipids (containing the highest percentage of the desirable monounsaturated fatty acids-74%-amongst culinary fats), but it is also immensely flavorful. I have six bottles in my cabinet right now: three from Spain (one from Andalucía and two from Catalonia), one from Italy (Tuscany) and two from California.* It is the one fat I use with abandon.

As cooks, our primary goal is always to produce food that tastes good. With that principal guiding us, we will not serve food to those we love (including ourselves) that is greasy, heavy, or laden with too much fat. We will naturally choose to eat fat in moderation, with our stomach, not some impersonal government agency, guiding our choices. Eating too much fat doesn't feel good. Remember how you felt the Thursday before last, after that extra piece of pumpkin pie? Learn to listen to your body, and you will naturally lead a healthy life.

At one of my favorite restaurants in San Francisco, Delfina, the chef's motto is "Don't be afraid of your food." My reminder is that "food" includes fat. Learn to embrace fat and make it your friend.

*On a side note, not many people are aware that olive oil, like wine or any agricultural product, is seasonal. Right now, we are towards the end of the olive harvest and crush. The first olive oils of the season, called olio nuovo, are available in some stores or online. In San Francisco, I bought a bottle of olio nuovo from Californian Olive Ranch, which is made from the same variety of olives grown in Catalonia, arbequina, that were harvested just over a month ago. The oil is intensely green, fruity, aromatic and peppery. To fully appreciate the bold flavor of freshly crushed oil, use it as a condiment at the table. It is especially good generously splashed on grilled or toasted bread, which in Tuscany is known as fettunta. Another favorite is to drizzle it on top of a white bean soup or on the crinkly Tuscan black kale, known as cavalo nero or sometimes "dino kale."

Food|and Drink|Fat|Olive Oil

Two steaming hot cups of comfort cure a rainy San Francisco day

Am I alone in relishing the first storms of the fast approaching winter? Perhaps. After all, I am a child of the winter solstice, the day with less sunshine than any other.

I find that heavy rain has a way of focusing us, demanding us to pay attention to our lives, to appreciate their fragile preciousness.

Usually, the power of a strong storm, like the one the that lashed our city yesterday, beckons me like a Siren to retreat to the cozy warmth of my stove. I desire nothing more than to simmer and braise, to coddle and nurture.

But this week N is away, so I refused to heed the Siren's call and opted instead to gather with friends, leaving the cooking to others.

When the wind blasts through the marrow of your bones, there is no more welcoming spot in our city than Swan Oyster Depot. Like my two favorite Barcelona tapas bars, Cal Pep and Bar Pinotxo, Swan only offers counter seating. Call it counter intelligence. Eighteen coveted stools line the long, well-worn marble counter of this classic oyster bar that dates back to 1912, so there is nearly always a wait. My friends and I wisely rendezvoused early, before the line grew fierce with workers on their lunch breaks.

The limited menu is posted on the wall behind the counter, above a collection of rubber duckies that look quite at home in the long, narrow white-tiled room. Behind the counter, the six jovial men who look like extras from the set of Cheers are the sons of Sal Sancimino, Swan's owner since 1946.

Each of us started with a steaming cup of Boston clam chowder (that's chowdah to you) which instantly made us forget the outside downpour. The creamy chowder, filled with chunks of salty clams and fish, was suitably rich without the addition of any superfluous thickeners. The accompanying crunchy oyster crackers transported me to my New England-born grandmother's kitchen table, which always had a bowl filled with the comforting hexagonal crackers.

Regrettably, unlike my beloved Barcelona tapas bars, hot entrées are not an option at Swan Oyster Depot. Our choices were limited to cold dishes. With the strike of the local Dungeness crab fishermen now thankfully resolved, I couldn't resist ordering Swan's signature Crab Louie salad,* overflowing with freshly caught local lump crab meat. Although I confess I am not normally inclined to order anything whose primary ingredients are shredded iceberg lettuce and gloppy Russian dressing, I happily devoured most of the enormous salad. Perhaps I was under the potent spell cast by the Sancimino family's generosity of spirit? Or perhaps it was the company of good friends warming up an otherwise dreary day?

Later in the afternoon, I met other friends at a new and welcome addition to the San Francisco culinary buffet, Bittersweet, which bills itself as a "chocolate café." This cheerful bakery and café arrived on Fillmore Street a few weeks ago to the loud cheers of the chocodependant San Franciscans like myself, who feel deprived every time we read yet another tantalizing post by Clotilde or David about one of the many luscious chocolate shops of Paris. (I often imagine the streets of Paris being overrun with Oompa Loompas driving tiny Smart Cars fueled by M&M's commuting to and from the city's innumerable chocolate factories). Although nobody will mistake the homey selection of brownies, cookies, cup cakes, flourless cakes, and pots de crème (all of course in the namesake flavor) for Pierre Hermé, I was reminded of my favorite chocolate shop in Barcelona, Cacao Sampaka.

Bittersweet is a sultry temptress that attempts to entice all your senses. The intoxicating aromas of coffee and cacao and the haunting melodies of Cesaria Evora fill every nook of the high-ceilinged loft-like space.  Warm butter walls, accented with splashes of pistachio and mandarin and dotted with vintage French chocolate posters, provide a bright and festive backdrop to dive into a cup of one of the café's selection of hot chocolates.

I savored every sinful drop of my "classic" hot chocolate, which consisted of chopped dark chocolate and hot milk whizzed in a Hamilton Beach milkshake blender until frothy. I only wish the milk had been hotter, which might have prevented the unmelted bits of chocolate from pooling at the bottom of my cup. Like some kind of illicit chocolate crack, that last chunky, intensely fudgey sludge sent me into a giddy orbit. I felt deliriously happy, like Augustus Gloop drowning in Willy Wonka's river of chocolate.

On future visits, I plan to explore other hot cocoa options, like the "bittersweet" (just chocolate and water), the "spicy" or the "chocolate chai." Or maybe by next visit "chocolate crack" will be a menu staple, so I can just cut to the chase and mainline it.

This month, Bittersweet will provide an ideal respite from the frantic holiday shoppers who jam Fillmore Street. You can even shop for fellow chocoholics (including me yourself) here, as the café also doubles as a shop. They sell dozens of hard to find artisanal chocolate bars, conveniently organized into "dark," "milk," and "surprises," which contain anything from hazelnuts to curry powder. Oddly, though, one of my favorite local chocolatiers, Michael Recchiuti, was not represented.

There's also a limited selection of books on all things relating to chocolate. Absent, however, was the book that we bloggers know as the definitive book on chocolate, David Lebovitz's The Great Book of Chocolate. So, I encourage anyone who visits Bittersweet to persuade the owners, as I did, to correct that oversight. The rest of you go to David's site and buy his book now.

Swan Oyster Depot
1517 Polk St., San Francisco, 415-673-1101

Bittersweet
2123 Fillmore St., San Francisco, 415-346-8715

* This photo of Crab Louie is my current leading contender for my submission to Rachael's ugliest food photo contest. Regrettably, I have a habit of deleting my bad photos.

Food|and Drink|Restaurants|Reviews|San Francisco

Least popular recipe ever*

We all heard the fairy tales when we were growing up. The one where the princess kisses a frog and it magically turns into a prince. Or the one about the lovely damsel who falls madly in love with a hideous beast.

My hope is that those classic tales will inspire you, my undoubtedly beautiful readers, to consider for a moment pressing your lips up against what may at first glance appear to be the frog of the fairy tale. I'm hoping you'll get past your initial aversions, and like the heroine Roxane of another story, take this Cyrano of a recipe on a first date at the very least.

So who, or rather what, is this beast, this Shrek of the kitchen?

Before I unveil my recipe, let me remind you that in yesterday's post I promised to provide a surprising use for my beloved Spanish anchovies. This recipe fulfills that promise.

So, close your eyes and pucker your lips.... no, that won't work. How will you finish reading?

Enough suspense. Without further ado, meet slow-roasted cauliflower with pounded anchovies.

Wait! Before you close that window, bare with me just a little while longer. Beneath his ugly visage, this Quasimoto is quite lovable.

A bath in a generous amount of olive oil and a languorous stint in a very hot sauna (your oven) combine to transform this pale and gnarled member of the brassica family (whose ugly stepsisters include brussels sprouts, cabbage and kale) into a vegetable that even avowed cauliflower haters will not recognize. The alchemy of slow-roasting causes it to lose its faintly bitter and sulfuric disposition and melt into an impossibly tender, sweetly caramelized vegetable with the texture of a fat French fry.

If it is too much to ask you to top an often reviled vegetable with an even more despised pungent fish, try saucing the cauliflower with just a squeeze of lemon or a sauce of minced parsley, olive oil and toasted almonds or hazelnuts.

On the other hand, if it is not the anchovy but the cauliflower that frightens you, then use this powerful anchovy sauce to perk up steamed broccoli or a salad of chicories, such as radicchio, escarole or frisée. A judicious drizzle of the sauce will also elevate to another level your every day roast chicken, lamb chops, or nearly any pasta.

The pounded anchovy sauce is an emulsion of olive oil and anchovies, with a whisper of lemon juice and a rumor of garlic, so it is vital to use your best extra virgin oil and Spanish anchovies packed in olive oil (not, however, the white Spanish anchovies marinated in vinegar called boquerones, which are unsuitable for this sauce). The recipe is similar to the  vinaigrette I used to dress cardoons recently, minus the vinegar.

Go ahead. Close your eyes and open your heart and taste buds to a new world, one where cauliflower and anchovies are as desirable as a cup of Parisian hot chocolate or a ripe summer peach. Be like Julia Roberts in the early nineties. Allow this Lyle Lovett to serenade your tongue.

By the way, this post is my (extremely early) entry for this week's Weekend Herb Blogging (some of us start our weekends sooner than others), sponsored by Kalyn of Kalyn's Kitchen. Once again, rather than an herb, I chose an ugly duckling vegetable, the cauliflower.

For those who were wondering, no this is not my entry for Rachael's ugly food photo contest?

*It may not be as popular in the blogging community as a recipe for flourless chocolate cake and the like, but in my house it is one of our most favorite. But then again, we both love anything involving either cauliflower or anchovies. I never liked the popular kids much any way. Cheerleaders, football players, who needs 'em?