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FT: Global menu - Kicking up a stink

Global menu: Kicking up a stink

By Fuchsia Dunlop

Published: May 20 2011 17:49 | Last updated: May 20 2011 17:49

Cheese-tasting in Shaoxing; stinking beancurd on sale in the market; a beancurd vendor

It was lunchtime, in a private room at the Xianheng Tavern, the most famous restaurant in the ancient Chinese city of Shaoxing.

I opened the plastic boxes that I’d carried, sealed, all the way from London, and the stench of farmhouse cheeses began to waft across the room. The Chinese chefs and waiting staff seated around the table eyed them warily. Only two of the younger chefs had any cheese-related experience. None of the others, including the manager and executive chef of the Xianheng, Mao Tianyao, had tasted it in any form.

Cheese is not a favourite food in China, to put it mildly. Traditionally, dairy products were associated with the nomadic people who lived on the fringes of China and who were regarded as fearful barbarians. The Han Chinese, with a few notable exceptions, avoided eating dairy foods altogether: many were, and still are, lactose-intolerant. In recent years, influenced by western lifestyles, Chinese parents have begun to feed milk to their children, and their purchasing power has contributed to soaring worldwide milk prices. Cheese, however, is still generally regarded as beyond the pale. A few sophisticated Shanghainese might eat Stilton just as sophisticated Londoners eat tripe and chitterlings, but many people, especially in the provinces, have never tasted it.

But if the Chinese disdain the cheeses enjoyed by Europeans, they themselves adore some stinky foods that would appal many foreigners. Shaoxing, an hour’s drive from the Zhejiang provincial capital Hangzhou, is best known for its rice wines, but it is also the Chinese headquarters of “stinking and fermented” (chou mei) delicacies. Although I first went to Shaoxing to taste the wine, over several visits I became fascinated by its odorous foods, including the relatively well-known stinking beancurd, and also “fermented thousand layers” (made from beancurd skin), and various semi-rotted vegetables. All were shocking at first taste, with their earthy, old underwear aromas, but strangely addictive. “Fermented thousand layers” reminded me of the part of a high old Stilton that is closest to the rind, that yellow, sandy bit that gets right up your nose, dirty and delicious.

Over several visits to Shaoxing, I wondered what the locals, such ardent lovers of rotted soymilk and vegetable stalks, would make of rotted cow’s milk, otherwise known as cheese. Finally, I returned to Shaoxing with a boxful of artisanal cheeses from Neal’s Yard Dairy in London, including the smelliest I could find in the shop. I had selected one mild hard cheese, Isle of Mull, to serve as a kind of toe-in-the-water; Stichelton, which is an unpasteurised version of Stilton; pale, veined Harbourne Blue; Ardrahan, a fairly whiffy washed-rind cheese that I adore; Milleens, another washed-rind variety with a punchy, farmyardy aroma that acquires a hint of ammonia as it ripens; and a wildly smelly Brie de Meaux. By the time I reached Shaoxing after a week on the road, the cheeses had all ripened nicely, and some were beginning to ooze.

At the Xianheng, a waitress cut the cheeses into pieces, and the assembled tasters began to pick them up with their chopsticks, sniffing and tasting. And where I had been impressed by what cheese and stinky soya products had in common, these culinary professionals were immediately struck by their differences. “Although in some ways you could say the flavours of cheese and fermented beancurd are similar,” said Mao, “vegetable stinky foods are very clean and clear in the mouth (qing kou), and they disperse quickly, while milky foods are greasy in the mouth (ni kou), they coat your tongue and palate, and they have a long, lingering aftertaste.”

Two other chefs said the cheeses had a heavy shan wei (muttony odour), an ancient term used by southern Chinese to describe the slightly unsavoury tastes associated with the northern nomads. Another said that the selection “smells like Russians”. “The difference,” he added, “is that the stinky things Chinese people eat give them smelly breath, while stinky dairy things affect the sweat that comes out of your skin.”

Chinese fermented beancurd, an intense-tasting relish, had always reminded me of a ripe blue cheese, but the Shaoxing tasters, faced with a Stichelton, disagreed. “It does have a rich umami taste,” said chef Chen Judi, “but there’s also a bitter aftertaste that people in this region wouldn’t like at all.” Several of the tasters were repelled by the sourness and astringent aftertaste of the Isle of Mull, which I’d thought was the most innocuous. “Our rotted thousand layers just doesn’t have that sour taste,” said Mao.

The cheeses they found most palatable were the Harbourne Blue (“this is quite close to Shaoxing tastes,” said Mao, “neither bitter nor sour, and quite clean in the mouth”) and, surprisingly, the very strong Milleens, with its ammoniac whiff. “I think people here would be able to tolerate this,” he added. The only cheese that provoked real consternation was the Brie. “It has this animal stench that assaults your nose,” said Dai Jianjun. “Definitely the stinkiest,” said Mao, “I really can’t bear it.” Most of the others agreed. Only one chef, Sun Guoliang, actually liked it. “It has such a complex flavour, like stinking beancurd, rotted thousand sheets and fermented beancurd, all mixed together.”

After our first course of cheeses, we tasted some stinky local dishes for comparative purposes. And I had to agree with the assembled company that, despite the formidable aromas of the steamed stinking beancurd and the rotted amaranth stalks, their flavours were clean, dispersing quickly in the mouth, without the creamy clinginess of cheese. The cubes of fermented beancurd, too, had a magnificent creaminess, but it didn’t hang around: quickly vanishing to leave room for appreciation of the delicate soups and stews that came afterwards.

Much as I love cheese myself, by the end of the meal I was beginning to understand why a Shaoxing local might turn up her nose at Brie, while enjoying the stinking beancurd that perfumes entire neighbourhoods. I was, however, fascinated by how well the mellow tastes of Shaoxing’s amber-coloured wines matched the local stinking delicacies, a marriage as perfect as port and Stilton. The next tasting, perhaps, should be a gathering of European oenophiles around a table of Shaoxing wines and cheese.

‘Shark’s Fin & Sichuan Pepper: A Sweet-Sour Memoir of Eating in China’ by Fuchsia Dunlop, is published in paperback by Ebury Press on June 2

Copyright The Financial Times Limited 2011.

NY Times: Rose Water Adds a Subtle Kick

August 31, 2010

Rose Water Adds a Subtle Kick

By JOHN WILLOUGHBY

LET’S just get this out of the way first: Yes, rose water does smell like your grandmother’s linen drawer. O.K., let that thought go.

Now, imagine walking past an Arabian garden, cool and green in the bright sun, with a fountain splashing softly in the background and a faintly sweet, almost undetectable fragrance of roses lingering in the air.

That’s rose water, too. Now, don’t you feel better about cooking with the stuff?

In fact, rose water has a long and illustrious culinary history. Made by distilling rose petals with steam, it was created by chemists of the Islamic world in the Middle Ages. It became firmly ensconced in the cooking of the Middle East, North Africa and North India, all cuisines in which the floral and the aromatic are highly prized.

But don’t think of it as an exotic ingredient used in far corners of the world. Before 1841, when vanilla became widely available (after a 12-year-old slave figured out how to hand-pollinate the vanilla orchid so that it could be commercially produced outside its native Mexico, but that’s another story), rose water was also a primary flavoring in a wide range of desserts and pastries in Europe and even the United States.

It’s not hard to figure out why. This relatively inexpensive product allows you, with just a drop or two, to add the alluring fragrance of one of the world’s great flowers to your cooking.

In one respect, though, rose water does resemble the cologne that detractors so often compare it to: too much can have the opposite of the intended effect. The idea is that people should notice it, but have to ask you exactly what that subtle flavoring is, not quite able to put a finger on it. Uncooked, rose water has a full, rounded fragrance; heat erases some of its aromatic qualities but still leaves a warm, muted flavor.

If you’re looking for clues as to how to use this distinctive flavoring, there are plenty of traditional recipes to turn to, most of them for sweets.

One of my favorites is a rice pudding that is popular in North India, scented with super-aromatic cardamom as well as just enough rose water to make itself known. And, of course, there is the baklava of Turkey and a whole panoply of sweets from Iran.

But there are also some savory applications worth trying. Iranian lamb stews sometimes contain relatively large infusions of rose water, as does the occasional pilaf. And in Morocco, rose water provides a delicate balance to the earthy cumin and coriander in a classic carrot salad.

You can also just start freelancing. Taking a cue from 18th-century bakers, substitute rose water for the vanilla in cupcakes, puddings or scones. Or (a personal favorite) add a teaspoon or so to your next batch of French toast batter. Put a drop or two in a glass of lemonade for a remarkably refreshing summer drink — or make a rose martini in the same manner.

Rose water matches uncannily well with many fruits, drawing out their shy aromas. Try adding a bit to a bowl of strawberries, or sprinkling sliced melon, plums or peaches with rose water mixed with a bit of riesling.

And if you make a salad of bitter greens dressed with a vinaigrette that has been barely touched with rose water, you’ll quickly change your mind about the versatility of this ingredient.

Its delicate fragrance can even stand up to the bold flavor of grilled food. (It’s still summer, so you knew that was coming.) Rose-water poundcake sliced thick and then left over the coals just long enough to get a little toasty and a tiny bit smoky is a fine finish to any summer meal. Draping it with a peach-and-rose-water compote doubles the pleasure.

Despite its lack of mainstream popularity, rose water is surprisingly easy to find in this country. Middle Eastern stores carry it, as do most Indian stores and many specialty-food stores. Most brands are fine, though the readily available Cortas, made in Lebanon, seems to me to have particularly clear flavor. Just don’t buy rose syrup, which may have added sugar that will throw off your recipes.

And you can even put a couple of drops in your linen drawer.

Related Recipes

• Moroccan-Style Carrot Salad (September 1, 2010)

• Grilled Rose-Water Poundcake (September 1, 2010)

• Peach Compote With Rose Water (September 1, 2010)

• Rice Pudding With Rose Water and Cardamom (September 1, 2010)

Sabra Krock for The New York Times

NY Times: Chasing Stingray All Over Town

 

November 2, 2010

Chasing Stingray All Over Town

By JULIA MOSKIN

KOK FYE SEETOH shot me a warning look.

I was jammed into a restaurant kitchen in Queens with the pre-eminent translator to the English-speaking world of the food of Malaysia and Singapore. I had serious doubts about a sauce.

A sweet sludge punctuated by large pieces of raw shallot, it was presented by the restaurant’s Malaysian owner as “popular with Americans.”

As the owner turned away to put the fish in the fryer, I asked Mr. Seetoh under my breath, “Would you really eat this in Singapore?”

“We’ll talk outside,” he said, tersely.

Mr. Seetoh, a former photojournalist who now publishes exhaustive guides to street foods in Southeast Asia, was my wingman for what may have been America’s first stingray crawl. Its goal: to mine Mr. Seetoh’s expertise by choosing one popular dish from the alluring, often bewildering menus of New York’s Southeast Asian restaurants, and chasing it all over town.

In sunglasses, he strode into kitchens with the imperious confidence of Keith Richards and judged them with the tender harshness of Gordon Ramsay. He rode waves of enthusiasm and dropped into valleys of despair, pleasantly surprised by the juicy fish at one place but tormented by the careless spicing at another.

“They make too many compromises here,” he said flatly as we left, dismissing the offending sauce as not authentic and, worse, just not good. Ikan pari pangang, stingray coated with a spicy sambal and grilled on banana leaves, was the test he chose for local cooks. (Stingray is known on our tables as skate; the French call it raie).

Originally a dish for fishermen and peasants, made with what was considered a “trash fish” but deliciously aromatic from the spice paste and toasted banana leaves, ikan pari pangang is now a classic outdoor dinner and an accompaniment to cold beer. As the moist heat suffuses the fish, it should take on a tangy, dry crust but stay juicy near the central spine. (The flesh slides off easily after cooking.) Served with wedges of lemon and rings of onion, with lots of juicy bits to poke at with chopsticks and swipe through the sauce, it makes a pleasant, indolent meal, like picking at a whole barbecued pork butt.

It is a dish with Malay roots, which sets it apart from the many popular Chinese- and Indian-influenced snacks that the region is famous for, like curry-rich roti canai (pronounced CHEN-nye), Hainanese chicken rice, kangkung belachan (water spinach cooked with shrimp paste) and savory stir-fried Chinese-based noodle dishes like char kway teow, a crunchy, savory tangle of rice noodles, bean sprouts, shrimp, pork and chili paste.

But grasping those flavors, especially from far away, is not easy.

Southeast Asia covers a huge area, in both culinary and geographic terms. Singapore, with a slightly smaller landmass than New York City, is a dot in the huge stretch of islands that swirls off the coast of Vietnam — including Indonesia, Malaysia and the Philippines. Singapore’s history as a free port under the British empire, its central location on trade and spice routes and recent decades of high-speed economic growth have made the cuisine there a heady international brew. And Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia’s ever-expanding capital city across the Strait of Johor, has a food scene almost as intense.

In New York City, “Southeast Asian” restaurants try to cover a range of food from Malaysia and Singapore, often stirring in popular dishes from Thailand and Vietnam; some have hundreds of items on the menu. Most restaurant owners here are ethnically Chinese: noodles, rice, stir-frying and steaming are fundamentals, and even kung pao shrimp may appear on the menu. But dishes with chilies, lemon grass, galangal, coconut, curry spices and funky fermented seafood products like belachan (shrimp paste) are signs that the food isn’t just arriving from China.

I knew that Mr. Seetoh, whose Makansutra guidebooks contain detailed culinary analysis of individual dishes, down to the perfume of the duck broth and the springiness of the fish balls, would be able to answer my lingering questions: What makes one dish Malaysian and not Singaporean? Why are some dishes called by Malay names, and others Cantonese? And most important for a food lover, does this dish taste as good as it is supposed to, or was the flavor lost in translation?

Malaysian food leans more toward tangy flavors, and Singapore food toward the richness of peanut and coconut, Mr. Seetoh said, but other than that, the distinctions are usually traced to individual cooks.

At Coco in Elmhurst in Queens, where David Lim, the chef and an owner, serves a local crowd of Southeast Asians, Koreans, Chinese and Latinos, the stingray was sweeter and less redolent of dried shrimp and shrimp paste. At Sanur in Chinatown in Manhattan, Mr. Seetoh was impressed by Sun Chen Lai’s hack: to adapt the method from an outdoor grill to a basement stovetop, Mr. Lai, the chef and an owner, deep-fries the fish first, then enfolds it in a round lotus leaf and tosses the packet deftly in a hot wok until it is good and charred.

But Mr. Seetoh was not entirely satisfied with anyone’s sambal, the cooked sauce that acts as a cooking medium and a table condiment. “When they gentrify the food, it’s understandable, but it is completely the wrong idea,” he said.

Barriers of language and culture, he said, prevent many immigrant cooks in the United States from presenting their best food to outsiders. “In traditional culture, selling food on the street is one degree above prostitution,” he said. “We need to learn to be proud of what we have.”

It is a given for Mr. Seetoh, a first-generation Singaporean whose parents were born in mainland China, that hawker versions are always an improvement on the original dish: more savory, richer, better balanced.

“I went to Hainan to taste the chicken rice,” Mr. Seetoh said, referring to the island off southern China that was the birthplace of Singapore’s unofficial national dish of steamed chicken, white rice, cucumbers and chili sauce. “It was totally boring,” he said, pointing out that in the Singaporean version, the white rice is gilded with chicken fat and butter, and scented with the sweet, vanilla-like pandan leaf.

Hainan chicken rice is a main dish of the region, making it a subject of frequent squabbles between Malaysia and Singapore. Last year, Malaysia’s tourism minister staked an official claim to the dish for his nation, bringing simmering cross-Straits resentments to a boil.

Singapore is especially reliant on food hawkers, according to food historians, because it was initially populated by young, mostly Chinese men, who could not afford their own households. The thousands of food vendors (in Singapore they are gathered into “hawker centers,” and in Malaysia a food stall is a “warung”) tend to specialize in a single dish or a small family of foods, refining it over the years to try to grab a bigger piece of the market share. Thus, Mr. Seetoh said, the best food always wins.

“Food is the greatest democratic institution in Singapore,” he said. “There is truly no bland food and no bad restaurants.”

Even by New York standards, Singaporeans seem to be obsessed with food. “I have tried to cook Singapore food in Brooklyn, but at the end there was always something missing,” said Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan, a writer whose memoir of “food and family” will be published in February. When she left Singapore to attend Northwestern University in Chicago in 1993, she said, she missed the food of home so much that she would trek through snow to the computer center to gaze at Internet photos of her favorite dishes. “A lot of what you love in Singaporean cuisine is the flavor of the hawker center,” she said. “It might be MSG, it might be the heat or the humidity or the sweat, you just don’t know.”

Continuing the crawl solo at Overseas Asian in Chinatown, I found an ikan pari that seemed too wet to my Seetoh-trained palate. (But the best roti canai I’ve had in New York: fluffy, yeasty, lightly sweet.) The last stingray was the best: an excellent, smoky version at Redang Island in Sunset Park in Brooklyn, where the fish is rubbed with spices and steamed before the final cooking.

One of Mr. Seetoh’s primary goals is to preserve such dishes, which he sees as a product of diverse, resourceful and often desperate communities. The hawker food will be lost, he fears, as the population becomes affluent and aspiring cooks can afford Western education — culinary or otherwise. Asian cooks are opening French and Italian restaurants in the cities now, he said, and the traditional hawkers are aging. “They are old, and their sons are old, and their grandsons go to Harvard,” he said.

Just as many hawkers have transcended street life and the day-to-day grind, Mr. Seetoh himself has become more than a food guide. He appeared on “Top Chef” last season and has taught Martha Stewart to make laksa, the iconic meal-in-a-bowl of the region. Now he is a global entrepreneur, working with real estate developers to build self-contained hawker centers, populating them with his favorite cooks and tailoring the food to its neighborhood. “In a business district, you don’t want noodle soup — too messy for office workers, and it takes too long to eat,” he said.

Over all, he said, Southeast Asian food in New York City is about 50 percent as good as at home. To lift that number, he hopes to bring a hawker center here. “Like Eataly, but with hawkers,” he said. “Wouldn’t that be great?”

Some places to taste Southeast Asian food in New York:

CAFE ASEAN 117 West 10th

Street (Sixth Avenue), Greenwich Village; (212) 633-0348 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting              (212) 633-0348      end_of_the_skype_highlighting, cafeasean.com.

COCO 82-69 Broadway (Elmhurst Avenue), Elmhurst, Queens; (718) 565-2030 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting              (718) 565-2030      end_of_the_skype_highlighting, cocoasiancuisine.com/elmhurst.html.

OVERSEAS TASTE RESTAURANT 49 Canal Street (Ludlow Street), Chinatown; (212) 925-3233 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting              (212) 925-3233      end_of_the_skype_highlighting.

REDANG ISLAND 5112 Eighth Avenue (51st Street), Sunset Park, Brooklyn; (718) 686-6680 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting              (718) 686-6680      end_of_the_skype_highlighting.

SANUR 18 Doyers Street (Pell Street), Chinatown; (212) 267-0088 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting              (212) 267-0088      end_of_the_skype_highlighting.

TASTE GOOD 82-18 45th Avenue (Broadway), Elmhurst, Queens; (718) 898-8001 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting              (718) 898-8001      end_of_the_skype_highlighting.

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November 2, 2010

Sambal Stingray in Banana Leaf

Adapted from K. F. Seetoh

Time: 1 hour

 

FOR THE SAMBAL

1 ounce (about 1/2 cup) dried red chilies

2 ounces (about 1/2 cup) dried small shrimp (available in Asian markets)

10 to 12 large garlic cloves

8 to 10 shallots, peeled

3-inch piece ginger, peeled and coarsely chopped

3-inch piece lemon grass, white end, coarsely chopped

1 teaspoon belachan (shrimp paste, available in Asian markets) or 2 teaspoons fish sauce

1 tablespoon tamarind paste or lime juice, more to taste

2 tablespoons light brown sugar, more to taste

1/4 cup raw peanuts

2 tablespoons vegetable oil, plus more for fish

 

For the fish

1 whole, skinless skate wing, 1 1/2 to 2 pounds, or firm fillets like snapper, about 3/4-inch thick

3 banana leaves (available frozen at Asian and Latin markets)

Slices of lemon and white onion, for garnish

Sprigs of cilantro, for garnish.

 

1. Make the sambal: In separate bowls, soak the chilies and the dried shrimp in water to cover for 10 minutes, then drain. Remove and discard stems and seeds from the chilies.

2. In a blender, combine the chilies, shrimp and remaining sambal ingredients, except the oil, with 1/2 cup water. Blend until finely chopped but not smooth. Heat the oil in a frying pan over medium heat and add the sambal. Cook, stirring often, until it is moist, thick and dark red, adding water 1 tablespoon at a time if needed to prevent scorching.

3. Cook the fish: Rinse and dry the fish and sprinkle it with salt. Heat a grill to high, or place a heavy skillet (with a lid) over medium-high heat. Spread one side of the fish with a thin layer of sambal. Place a banana leaf on grill (or in skillet), drizzle lightly with vegetable oil and place the fish on top, sambal side up. Cover grill or pan and cook about 8 minutes, until the banana leaf is toasted and the sambal is dry and fragrant. Remove the leaf and fish from the heat. Place a new banana leaf on grill or in pan, drizzle it with oil, flip fish onto it and spread more sambal on top. Cover and cook another 6 to 8 minutes, until cooked through.

4. Place another leaf on a platter. Flip the fish onto it, spoon more sambal over the top and garnish with lemon and onion slices and cilantro sprigs. To serve whole skate, slide the fish off the spine with a spoon.

Yield: 4 to 6 servings.

Newsweek: Rustling up Truffles

 

Rustling up Truffles

By Barbie Nadeau | NEWSWEEK 

Published Nov 19, 2009

From the magazine issue dated Nov 30, 2009

Most people who live in Italy for any period of time eventually become curious about truffles. It's not so much that Italian truffles, with their pungent smell and earthy flavor, are an acquired taste; they are simply hard to acquire, appearing on menus only at certain times of year and in certain regions. Unlike French black truffles, which are far more common, the Italian Precious Whites are a rare delicacy, worth as much as €4,000 a kilo, and surrounded by colorful folklore. Personally, I always imagined graying men with woven baskets and funny hats roaming the Tuscan countryside behind pigs, in pursuit of a mysterious fungus. A few weeks ago, I was lucky enough to go on a truffle hunt and found most of the myths shattered.

Truffle hunting has been part of the Italian lifestyle for generations, but it is only now becoming a popular niche travel adventure as Italians focus on reinventing ancient traditions. In the 16th century, when truffles were a staple among aristocrats, they were rooted out by pigs, which were often starved as motivation to find the valuable loot. Modern trufflers, or tartufai, use dogs because even the smartest pigs could not resist eating the booty. And today's hunters need to know much more than where to look; they must qualify for a license to dig up truffles. Only nine out of 20 truffle species can be harvested and sold in Italy, so hunters have to be able to identify the various types by their scientific genome. They also have to take an oath that includes promising minimal disturbance to the environment and using the traditional vanghetto digging tool. "It takes about 20 days to get the license," says Tuscan truffler Giacomo Bombardi. "But it takes about 20 years to become a true tartufai."

Like other forms of hunting, truffling involves as much patience as practice. Part of the fungus family, truffles are like mushrooms that grow underground. It is impossible to know exactly where they grow, but they are most often found in clay-heavy soil under oak, poplar, hazelnut, and willow trees. Truffles reveal themselves only by aroma, so hunters rely entirely on their dogs to sniff out the buried treasure. The whole experience is intensely thrilling, from the moment the dog starts barking wildly to the hunter's gentle tapping around the truffle to excavate it without puncturing or breaking it. When Bombardi's dog, Rosa, caught the scent near a riverbed outside Siena on a recent muddy Sunday morning, she yelped and started digging frantically until Bombardi playfully pushed her away. She was as excited as he was to see what was underground. Maybe, Bombardi teased, it will be as big as the 1.5 kilogram truffle found near here two years ago, which sold at auction for €220,600. "This might just be the tip of it," he said with a wink, tapping the tiny dark gray mass with his trowel. "Most people never get to see a truffle like this."

The truffle Rosa found was only about 8cm in diameter and weighed just a few grams. But Bombardi was right about one thing: most people never get to see a real truffle at all, let alone in situ. Instead, they end up with tiny shards on pasta or the mere essence infused into oil. Anything less than fresh is fake, goes the saying in Italy, and it is better to wait a whole year for the season to come again than to suffer through an inferior truffle. "An Italian white truffle has to be born here," explains Giselle Oberti, the producer of Italy's annual international white-truffle auction. "It represents the essence of the region where it formed."

In recent years, white truffles have become exceptionally scarce because of hotter, drier weather. Precious Whites are most common in the Alba region of Piedmont and throughout northern Tuscany. A more common version, considered inferior in taste and quality, is known as the Whitish or marzuolo truffle and is worth just €150 a kilo. The demand for the Precious Whites has created a black market for those who harvest them without a license and has inspired fraudsters to try to pass off the Whitish truffles as the real thing. "Fraud is an enormous problem in this industry," says Moreno Moroni, president of the local Tartufai Association near Siena. "It is like selling gold filament instead of the real thing."

During the hunt I was on, Bombardi, Moroni, and their dogs found six white truffles of varying shapes and sizes, and gave us each one as a souvenir. The gloves I was wearing that day still have a slight hint of the unique truffle aroma—rotting fungus intermingled with clean air and cypress trees—leaving an unforgettable memory that takes me immediately back to the hunt.

Find this article at http://www.newsweek.com/id/223515

© 2009 

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Tips for Trufflers

By Barbie Nadeau | NEWSWEEK 

Published Nov 19, 2009

From the magazine issue dated Nov 30, 2009

Truffles have been a staple in family homes in Tuscany and Piedmont for generations. Now an increasing number of area restaurants are featuring truffles as niche cuisine. In July 2009, the old abbey of Castel Monastero (castelmonastero.com) just outside Siena was converted into a tony resort hotel, complete with a Gordon Ramsay restaurant whose menu is built around truffles. Locals have objected to some of the nontraditional dishes, including one that mixes onions with fresh truffles. But all over Tuscany, chefs are experimenting with new ways to use truffles. All it requires is following a few simple rules:

Truffles should be used immediately after they are harvested. The flavor begins to dissipate the moment they are removed from the earth.

Fresh truffles should not be cleaned until right before use. Still caked in clay dirt and wrapped in kitchen towels, truffles will keep for up to 10 days stored in a glass jar in the refrigerator vegetable drawer or a wine cellar.

White truffles should never be cooked, only shaved or sprinkled on foods that complement them.

No part of the truffle should ever be discarded. Locals swear by using any remaining slivers to flavor rice, flour, or olive oil.

The region's most common home dishes include fresh truffles grated over a simple soft cheese like stracchino served on toasted bread, or mixed with good olive oil in a salad of fresh artichokes, greens, and grana padano cheese. Grated truffles over scrambled eggs or mixed into mashed potatoes turn these ordinary dishes into gourmet meals. Locals put whole, fresh eggs in a glass jar with chunks of fresh truffle to flavor eggs for scrambling.

To monitor truffle auction prices from Tuscany: whitetruffleauction.com. To order fresh truffles from Alba, Piedmont, delivered by UPS over-night: albatartufi.com.

Find this article at http://www.newsweek.com/id/223516

© 2009

WSJ: The Best Peach on Earth (and Other Spectacular Asian fruit varieties)

LIFE & STYLE
AUGUST 14, 2009, 6:39 P.M. ET

The Best Peach on Earth

Tasting some of the world's most delicious fruit requires a flight across the Pacific

By STAN SESSER

Yangshan, China

China’s water honey peaches

This little town, a 90-minute train ride west of Shanghai, is a world away from Georgia. There's no Peachtree Street, no peach pie, no peach ice cream. About all Yangshan has are the juiciest, most delicious peaches on earth.

In 10,000 orchards, ranging from the backyards of homes to substantial farms, Yangshan's trees are now groaning with a bumper crop of shui mi tao, "water honey peaches." Big, soft and white-fleshed, they must be tasted to be believed; in this peach lover's estimation, nothing from Georgia or California comes close. They are best eaten over a sink, to avoid showering the floor with peach juice.

A vendor at the Yangshan wholesale peach market.

With its wide-ranging climates and topography, Asia is a fruit lover's paradise, boasting some of the world's best-tasting mangoes, pears and bananas. Yet in an age when Australian lamb and Kobe beef from Japan wing their way around the world, most Asian fruits remain thousands of miles from U.S. kitchens.

By the time a peach was flown in from China, treated with irradiation or chemicals to kill pests, and then trucked to a retailer's produce aisle, it would be so expensive that almost no one would buy it. In Tokyo, $100 melons and $25 mangoes are lovingly displayed in major department stores and quickly purchased. But a $100 melon, not to mention a $10 peach, would in America likely draw more unbelieving stares than purchasers.

The American marketing system puts a premium on long shelf life, while Asian fruits are never bred to be eaten weeks after being picked. In Thailand, the wonderfully aromatic and flavorful nam wa banana has a lifespan of five days between the time when it's completely green and when it's overripe. By contrast in the U.S., the Cavendish banana—that long, yellow banana that pushes aside all other varieties in supermarkets—can be picked in Central America hard and green weeks in advance, sent by ship and ripened by gas. It's the perfect banana for merchandisers, notwithstanding the fact that it has no aroma and no taste.

Thai bananas are long-lived compared with China's honey peaches. Picked in the morning, the peaches are flown to Beijing or trucked to Shanghai in the afternoon; in many cases, they are selling in stores the same evening. On a recent Saturday afternoon in Yangshan's wholesale peach market, I asked a grower to find me a carton of peaches that I could take home with me to Bangkok on Monday. No peach in the market would last that long, he replied; I'd have to go with him to his orchard so he could pick me hard, green ones. He warned me that I'd be sacrificing some taste because they would be picked too early. By Tuesday, the green peaches I ended up taking home with me were so soft that I had to put them all in the refrigerator. They were still delicious.

Tang Haijun, a big honey peach grower and an industry spokesman, says another problem with Chinese peaches is that they are extraordinarily fragile. "They're so tender, if you press on one, in an hour there will be a black spot," he says. Over a lunch of local specialties (snails, pigs feet, pumpkin stems, his peaches for dessert), Mr. Tang explained that to keep away insects, he has every peach in his orchard individually wrapped with newspaper while it is ripening on the tree. All this special handling comes at a price: A honey peach sells for as much as $3 in a Shanghai or Beijing grocery store.

In the U.S., peach technology produces a very different product. "It's unfortunate that many of our peaches are bred to have superior shelf life and exterior color," says Karen Caplan, chief executive of Frieda's Inc., a Los Alamitos, Calif., high-end distributor of imported and domestic produce. "The growers don't focus on flavor. They refrigerate them in transit, put them on the shelf, and they go mealy."

"The whole fruit industry in this country is about decorating stores," says John Driver, a Modesto, Calif., apricot grower who sends his fruit to farmers markets around San Francisco. "They're looking for size, color and hardness, but people don't want to eat the things."

Al Courchesne, owner of Frog Hollow Farm in Brentwood, Calif., strives to grow older varieties of peaches that emphasize flavor. He says the best peaches have yellow or white skin with only a little red color. Supermarket peaches are bred to be almost entirely red. "The supermarket industry claims their studies show that people purchase fruit by color, and the color red triggers an expectation of sweetness in the human brain," he says. If that's the case, our brains wouldn't give Chinese honey peaches a second look. Their skins are a sickly, greenish white.

Growing honey peaches on U.S. farms isn't practical, either. "It can be done, but it would be very time-consuming," says Mr. Courchesne, speaking of Agriculture Department regulations that require quarantine of imported fruit trees. To prevent the arrival of agricultural viruses, the USDA requires a period of isolation that could last several years, he says. When that period was over, growers would have trees bearing an ugly-looking fruit so delicate it would require special handling and rapid-fire distribution.

The best bet, then, is to eat honey peaches in China, and that's what I did with wild abandon, consuming 10 peaches, averaging half a pound each, in a single day in Yangshan. Under the tutelage of Mr. Tang, I learned that Chinese peach-eating is a very different process. First, you should gently massage the peach for several minutes, releasing the juice. When it starts feeling like a sponge, it's ready to be peeled; the skin slips off like a glove. Then you just pick it up whole and slurp away; cutting it would result in waste of the delicious juice.

The water honey peaches must be individually wrapped to prevent insect infestation during the late-stage growth period. .

Chinese cities are flooded with honey peaches during peach season, which is July and August; every fruit market has bushels of them. The nearest train station to Yangshan, in Wuxi, has so many stands selling peaches in gift boxes that the entire station, not noted otherwise for its pristine air, takes on an enticing peach odor.

Mr. Tang looked shocked when I told him that Americans ate bowls of fruit for breakfast or cut peaches over their cereal. The Chinese would never eat a peach (or almost any other fruit) at breakfast. Despite the willingness of Chinese chefs to toss exotic ingredients into their woks, peaches are never used for cooking, nor are they turned into sauces to accompany duck or anything else—not even ice cream, which is widely consumed in China. "You just eat them," Mr. Tang said, shrugging. The same goes for other fruits, like oranges. Once I visited Kunming, the capital of Yunnan Province, at the peak of orange season; vendors were literally selling huge piles of oranges at every street corner. But even at a luxury hotel, I was unable to get a glass of fresh orange juice (only some upscale restaurants in China serve a glass or pitcher of fresh fruit juice, and even then only at lunch or dinner).

When Mr. Tang heard my recitation of the ways peaches are eaten in the U.S., his eyes lit up at the export possibilities. "Could our best peaches sell for 600 yuan a kilo in America?" he asked. That translates to $40 a pound.

===

Worth the Trip

Spectacular Asian fruit varieties that aren't found in U.S. stores

Honey Peach, China

Where to find it: Grown near Shanghai, shipped to Beijing and China's major east-coast cities

Appearance: Big, with greenish-white skin and an intense peach smell

Taste: Arguably the juiciest, best-tasting peach in the world

Season: July and August

How it's served: The Chinese remove the skins and eat them fresh

 

Durian, Malaysia

Where to find it: All over Southeast Asia, where it's known as "the king of fruits" despite its off-putting sulphurous smell that bars it from airplanes and hotel rooms

Appearance: A spiky green football; custardy pale yellow flesh adheres to big brown pods

Taste: Durian is so special in Malaysia that you can eat in a durian restaurant and order different species

Season: May to August, although out-of-season varieties are now grown

How it's served: Put a pod on a sheet of waxed paper and lift it to your mouth; it's also used in ice cream and cakes

 

Custard Apple, Taiwan

Where to find it: Custard apples are grown in Southeast Asia, but a variety unique to eastern Taiwan is particularly large and sweet

Appearance: Green skin with bumps like a pineapple's; meat is pure white interspersed with black seeds

Taste: Twice the size of other custard apples, with much sweeter meat and higher ratio of meat to seed

Season: December to February

How it's served: The fruit is cut in half and the meat is scooped out with a spoon; it's also used in ice cream and smoothies

Nam Wa Banana, Thailand

Where to find it: Grown all over Thailand; too perishable to export

Appearance: Half the size of the Cavendish bananas popular in the U.S., pale yellow skin and very white flesh

Taste: Creamy and intense banana flavor

Season: Year-round

How it's served: Peel and eat

Alphonso Mango, India

Where to find it: Grown around Mumbai and shipped to major Indian cities; some are exported

Appearance: Skin is yellow with an orange-red blush; flesh very deep orange

Taste: Pronounced aroma and unparalleled depth of flavor

Season: April through early June

How it's served: Sliced and eaten fresh; used in mango lassi (a yogurt drink) and candies

Pear, Kazakhstan

Where to find it: Near Almaty, in southeast Kazakhstan

Appearance: Traditional American pear shape; starts out green and turns yellow as it ripens

Taste: Can be eaten green and crunchy, when it tastes like an Asian pear-apple and will still be sweet; as it ripens it softens and tastes more like an American pear

Season: September

How it's served: In Kazakhstan it's eaten only fresh and whole

Write to Stan Sesser at stan.sesser@awsj.com

Copyright 2009 Dow Jones & Company, Inc. All Rights Reserved

ST: Thunder in a bowl - Hakka thunder tea rice (Lei Cha Fun)

Aug 16, 2009

Thunder in a bowl

Gone is the traditional grind but Hakka dish thunder tea rice is still a favourite with Anna Eng

By Huang Lijie

Madam Anna Eng's love affair with Hakka thunder tea rice (lei cha fan) began at a young age. The 62-year-old Singaporean who was born in Malaysia says: 'I grew up with my grandmother and as a child, I would tag along when she visited the homes of neighbours in the village to chat and share their home-cooked meals. 'On these outings, I always looked forward to eating lei cha fan, an everyday type of food, because it is very fragrant.' Thunder tea rice is a traditional Hakka dish of rice topped with assorted vegetables and a broth of green tea leaves and herbs. The dish derives its name from an important, if old-fashioned, step in the cooking process - grinding the tea leaves and herbs in a handmade earthen vessel with scored markings on the inside. A guava tree branch - chosen because it is hard and non-poisonous - is used as a pestle. The Chinese word for this action, lei, is a homonym for thunder in Mandarin, hence the English name of the dish. Indeed, her love for thunder tea rice is so well known among friends and relatives that her grandmother gave her the special earthen vessel as a wedding gift. And for many years, the housewife faithfully made thunder tea, which she learnt to cook from her mother, using the vessel even though she owned a food processor. The mother of two grown-up sons says: 'My friends could not understand why I refused to use a food processor, but I believed that the taste of the thunder tea would suffer if I used a machine. 'So I stuck with the traditional method and ground the thunder tea manually even though I knew my arms would ache terribly afterwards.' When the vessel cracked after years of use one day, she had her husband mend it before continuing to use it. That her guava tree branch pestle had whittled to a third of its original 60cm length through years of wear and tear did not deter her from preparing the dish the traditional way either. In 2006, however, all that changed. The grandmother of one says: 'As I grew older, it became more tiring to grind the ingredients. I would get my sons to help but they would complain of the ache in their arms and quietly slip away after grinding the tea for a while.' Unwilling to go without her favourite Hakka food, which is not widely available at eateries, she succumbed to modern-day convenience and used a food processor to grind the thunder tea mix. She says: 'The difference was not obvious and I've grown accustomed to its taste. The best part really is that it is so much easier for me to cook lei cha fan.' But she still keeps the pot and pestle for sentimental reasons. She shares the recipe for the dish below and adds that those who find it too tedious to cook all six vegetable toppings in the recipe can pick the ones they prefer. When she cooks the dish for big gatherings though, she whips up at least nine toppings, including stir-fried chye sim and cabbage. She says her interest in cooking is a natural extension of her love for eating, although the second of seven children did not learn to cook until she was about 20. When she came of a marriageable age, her mother nagged her to learn to cook and she took time to observe her mother in the kitchen. One of Madam Eng's specialities is rice dumplings for the Dragon Boat Festival. She came up with her own filling and it includes quail's egg, peanuts, chestnut, mushroom, dried prawns, chicken and pork. She wraps more than 200 dumplings over two days for the festival every year, and gives them to friends and relatives. 'Every year, I tell myself I'm never going to wrap dumplings again because it is so tiring. Yet I always forget the pain the following year. But it is worthwhile when people appreciate my food and tell me it tastes good.' lijie@sph.com.sg

=== MAKE IT YOURSELF: HAKKA THUNDER TEA RICE RICE AND TOPPINGS INGREDIENTS 500g rice 5 blades pandan leaf 31/2 tsp salt 15 cloves garlic, 12 of which are finely chopped and separated into four portions 221/2 Tbs cooking oil 600g firm soya beancurd, cut into small cubes 200g dried shrimps, finely chopped 5 stalks leek, finely sliced 600g preserved radish (chai poh), rinsed and finely chopped 200g red beans (the black-eyed variety) 5 medium red onions, finely sliced 300g French beans, finely chopped 200g kailan, finely chopped METHOD 1. Cook the rice with pandan leaves, 1 tsp of salt, 3 cloves of garlic and 1/2 Tbs of oil in a rice cooker. Set aside. 2. Stir-fry the firm soya beancurd in 3 Tbs of oil for about five minutes until golden brown. Drain and set aside. 3. Stir-fry the dried shrimps in 3 Tbs of oil for about five minutes until golden brown. Drain, separate into four portions and set aside. 4. Stir-fry the leeks in 2 Tbs of oil until limp then add the firm soya beancurd, a portion of the shrimp, 1/2 tsp of salt and fry for another two minutes. Drain and set aside. 5. Stir-fry a portion of chopped garlic in 3 Tbs of oil until fragrant, add the preserved radish, mix well and stir-fry for another 15 minutes over medium fire until the preserved radish is lightly charred. Drain and set aside. 6. Place the red beans in a pot, cover with water and bring to a boil. Drain and repeat with the water level twice as high the second time. 7. Fry a portion of chopped garlic in 2 Tbs of oil until fragrant, add the twice boiled red beans, 1/2 tsp of salt and stir-fry for another five minutes. Drain and set aside. 8. Stir-fry the red onions in 3 Tbs of oil for about five minutes on high heat until fragrant, add a portion of the dried shrimps, 1/2 tsp of salt and stir-fry for another two minutes. Drain and set aside. 9. Stir-fry a portion of chopped garlic in 3 Tbs of oil until fragrant, add French beans, a portion of dried shrimps, 1/2 tsp of salt and stir-fry on high heat for another five minutes until the vegetable is soft. Drain and set aside. 10. Stir-fry a portion of chopped garlic in 3 Tbs of oil until fragrant, add kailan, 1/2 tsp of salt and stir-fry for another three minutes on high heat until the vegetable turns deep green. Drain and set aside. THUNDER TEA INGREDIENTS 500g peanuts 200g white sesame seeds 11/2 Tbs oil 50g koo lek sim, a bitter herb, finely chopped 40g mint, finely chopped 60g basil, finely chopped 50g sawtooth coriander, finely chopped 2 cloves garlic, finely chopped 1/2 tsp salt 125ml water 20g green tea leaves 4 litres water METHOD 1. Stir-fry the peanuts in a pan without adding oil for about 20 minutes until they turn pale brown. Set aside. 2. Stir-fry the sesame seeds in a pan without adding oil for about 20 minutes until they turn golden. Set aside. 3. To a hot pan, add oil, koo lek sim, mint, basil, sawtooth coriander, garlic, salt and stir-fry for two minutes on high heat until the herbs turn limp. 4. Scoop the mixture into a blender, add water, tea leaves and blend on high speed for about five minutes until a smooth mixture forms. 5. To the mixture, add sesame seeds and 200g of roasted peanuts and blend on high speed for about 10 minutes until a smooth mixture forms. If necessary, add a little water to lubricate the mixture. 6. Pour the mixture into a large mixing bowl and gradually stir in about 4 litres of boiling water or until the liquid mixture reaches a desired strength in flavour (above). 7. Scoop rice into serving bowls, add toppings from before and ladle the desired amount of tea mixture into the bowls. Top with remaining roasted peanuts. Serves eight

Copyright © 2007 Singapore Press Holdings. All rights reserved. Privacy Statement & Condition of Access

ST: What a stink - Durians

Excerpt: 

The durian's infamy has earned it the dubious honour of being the only fruit officially prohibited on public transport. Operators say durians are banned on trains and buses, and cab passengers are advised to stow them in the boot instead.

===

July 19, 2009

What a stink

To some people, it is pure ambrosia. But others who cannot stand durians raise a stink - so keep clear By Tan Yi Hui , Rebecca Lynne Tan

Student Cheong Jiahui has a thorny issue with her family members. At this time of year, she has to avoid the rest of the household and lock herself in her room, for up to two days.

That is because durian season is here and she abhors the fruit. Unfortunately, the rest of her family love it.

The 19-year-old says: 'I even avoid touching or using whatever they have used because I'm afraid that the smell will transfer to me.

'When they put a durian in the fridge, I won't drink any water in there because it will somehow taste and smell like durian.'

With only one more month left to go before the durian season ends, it is durians galore at roadside stalls and supermarkets. Quality ones sell for anything from $12 to $22 a kilo.

Singaporeans eat an average of about 21,000 tonnes of durians a year, according to the Agri-Food and Veterinary Authority of Singapore.

But like Ms Cheong, not everyone goes green-eyed when they see you crack open a savoury ball of spikes. After all, with the king of fruits, it is a case of love it or hate it. And ah, that smell is so infamous that getting rid of it has become a science in itself.

From salt-water to pandan leaves, charcoal and even coffee powder, various methods and old wives' tales have been used to rid oneself of the durian aroma.

Even then, a spacesuit seems to be the only escape for some. Ms S. Leny, a 23-year-old teacher, says the smell alone makes her 'giddy'. Student Maria Adrianna Garcia, 20, once found herself in Bugis Street, trapped in an alley between a clothes store and a durian shop.

She says: 'Due to the lack of ventilation, the smell of durians permeated the entire place. It was even on the clothes. I was so nauseated that I actually threw up.'

Yes, some people have it that bad over durians. Dr Stephen Lee, a ear nose and throat (ENT) specialist from Raffles Hospital, says variance in the sense of smell among people is greater than that of other senses - up to a factor of 1,000.

This means a whiff of durian can be mouth-watering to you but vomit-inducing to others.

As to why the smell of durians is so potent, Assistant Professor Liu Shao Quan from the Department of Chemistry at the National University of Singapore says it is due to sulphur compounds in the fruit.

And what about that resilient after-taste and scent on your fingers after having wolfed down durians? Prof Liu says the compounds bind to surfaces where protein is present - your skin and mouth.

The durian's infamy has earned it the dubious honour of being the only fruit officially prohibited on public transport. Operators say durians are banned on trains and buses, and cab passengers are advised to stow them in the boot instead.

Even people in the food business do not take durians lightly. Chefs at Goodwood Park Hotel's kitchen have a dedicated preparation area - comprising separate ventilation and air-conditioning systems - and refrigeration for durian pastries.

With people either hankering after that creamy yellow flesh or wriggling their noses at the stench, what happens if you love durians but your spouse does not?

It is an act of love for Ms Tracey Soon, chief operating officer of a branding company, who hates the durian but puts up with her husband Edmond Khoo, 39, eating it.

She says: 'I wouldn't deny him what he loves. In fact, when I see him indulging and enjoying durian with his friends, I feel happy.'

But when Mr Khoo, a supply manager at an oil company, comes home after a hearty durian night-out with the boys, he knows he will not be getting much loving from his wife.

Ms Soon says, chuckling: 'Maybe a light peck on the cheek or forehead, that's probably about all I can take.'

Though repulsive to some, it seems the fruit has some appeal, even to foreigners.

Mr Sriram Musunuri, 36, regional manager for shipping at an oil company, says: 'It took quite a bit of courage to take my first bite after hearing all the talk about the smell.'

And there was no turning back for the Singapore permanent resident from Mumbai who has been here for seven years. He has been enjoying the fruit ever since and likes 'creamier ones that are not too bitter'.

The ultimate self-sacrifice comes from finance director Gareth Rogers, a 40-year-old Briton who does not like durians, but now eats it with his Singaporean wife Clementine once a month during the season, because she 'forced it on me'.

Mrs Rogers, 34, a group marketing manager, says: 'I stuffed his mouth with one large durian seed to shut him up nine years ago. He was nagging too much about my shopping.'

Mr Rogers, a permanent resident, says: 'I eat durians in the name of love. Plus, it shuts her up from saying I'm unadventurous... with food.'

tanyihui@sph.com.sg

rltan@sph.com.sg

Additional reporting by Valerie Wang

===

Five seeds = 160 calories

Durians have up to two or three times more sugar and carbohydrates than other fruits. Experts recommend eating not more than eight durian seeds daily.

This is how durians measure up with other foods:

Durian

100g (about 5 seeds): 161-167 calories

Banana

100g: 89 calories

Mango

100g: 65 calories

Apple (with skin)

100g: 52 calories

Butter cake

36g (one serving): 180 calories

Coca-Cola

330 ml (one can): 140 calories

Sources: Raffles Hospital, Peaches & Pear Nutrition Consultancy, Health Promotion Board 

===

No more durian smell

What: From your fingers

METHOD 1: Washing your hands with water trickling out of a durian husk

Effectiveness: ****

Verdict: Amazingly, this works, though a trace of the odour is still detectable.

The science: No conclusive studies have been done to explain this, but it is possible that the husk lining has compounds that absorb the durian odour.

METHOD 2: Washing your hands by rubbing them with a durian seed

Effectiveness: ****

Verdict: The sticky sensation from touching the fruit disappears and the smell is significantly eliminated.

The science: Unknown

What: From your car boot

METHOD 1: Pandan leaves

Effectiveness: *** 1/2

Verdict: The combined smell of pandan and durian is somewhat tolerable.

The science: Aromatic compounds found in the pandan leaves can overpower those of the durian.

METHOD 2: Bamboo charcoal

Effectiveness: *** 1/2

Verdict: Works, but this could be more psychological than physiological.

The science: Charcoal acts like a deodorising agent because it latches on to molecules of the chemicals responsible for the odour.

What: From your fridge

METHOD 1: Bicarbonate of soda placed in small saucers

Effectiveness: ** 1/2

The science: Sodium bicarbonate functions like a deodorising agent.

OTHER METHODS: Try pandan leaves or bamboo charcoal, the same agents you can use to get rid of the smell in your car. You can also use zesty lemons, coffee powder or tea-bags. These nose-twitching items - especially coffee, which has over 800 aromatic compounds - either neutralise or over-power the durian odour after one to two days.

Effectiveness: *** 1/2

Sources: Singapore Polytechnic, Temasek Polytechnic

===

Beat the heatiness

Durians are perceived as 'heaty' food, according to traditional Chinese medicine (TCM).

If eaten excessively, such foods can cause sore throat, constipation, mouth ulcers and in serious cases, eye discharge and nose bleeds, says Chinese physician Li Wan Xin, a trainee with TCM Professional Centre.

There is no truth to the old wives' tale that you will die if you eat durians and drink alcohol.

But TCM doctors advise against doing this anyway because the two are considered 'heaty' food.

Saltwater

A common belief is that you should drink salt water from a durian husk, although it seems the main agent is actually the salt water, which is supposed to have a cooling effect. Add only a pinch of salt, however, as not a lot is needed.

Green bean soup, watermelon, pear, bittergourd and lotus leaves

No, you do not need to take them all together. Any one of the above is a 'cooling' agent that can counteract the heatiness of durians.

Mangosteens

Like durians, they are everywhere this time of year. They neutralise the heatiness of durians. How much you eat is up to you.

Sources: TCM Professional Centre, Tan Tock Seng Hospital 

  

Copyright © 2007 Singapore Press Holdings.
All rights reserved. Privacy Statement & Condition of Access

FT: Blind tasting

Blind tasting

By Fuchsia Dunlop

Published: April 20 2007 19:26 | Last updated: April 20 2007 19:26

My first encounter with the delicacy known in Chinese as pi dan (“skin-eggs”), and in English as “thousand-year-old eggs”, was dreadful. Friends had invited me for dinner at a famous Hong Kong restaurant, and we were offered them, sliced in half with a dressing of ginger and vinegar, as a so-called appetiser. They leered up at me from the plate like the eyeballs of some nightmarish monster. Their albumens were a filthy, translucent brown, their yolks an oozy black, ringed with a layer of greenish, mouldy grey. About them hung a faint haze of sulphur and ammonia. I tried one, just to be polite, but was so aghast at its appearance that I found it hard to swallow, and I felt nauseous afterwards. To make matters worse, a slick of black slime from the yolk clung to my chopsticks, threatening to contaminate everything else I ate. I tried surreptitiously to wipe them on the tablecloth.

Since then, I have come to love pi dan, and I regularly inflict them on guests at my London dinner parties. A little psychological preparation generally helps. Think of them as the Chinese equivalent of blue cheese, I suggest to sceptical friends. Mouldy old milk is a pretty disgusting idea, but isn’t it delicious? I find that a blindfold can also be useful because it’s the appearance of the pi dan that is so off-putting, rather than their taste. And if you allow the ammoniac aromas to disperse before you serve them, your guests won’t suspect anything. “It tastes kind of...eggy,” says Stephen, when I feed him, blind, with a good slice of pi dan. “Nice, reminds me of mayonnaise,” says Sarah. It is only when they are allowed to open their eyes that they are revolted, and amazed.

Pi dan is made by coating raw eggs, usually duck eggs, but sometimes quail, in a thick paste made from a combination of mud, tea, rice husks and salt, with strongly alkaline ingredients such as wood-ash, soda, lye and lime (this paste is the “skin” in their Chinese name). The alkalis in the paste penetrate the eggshell and “cook” the eggs chemically, raising their pH value from around 9 to 12 or more, denaturing their proteins and causing spectacular changes in colour and texture. The proteins break down into simpler, more flavourful components, the albumen gels, and the yolk becomes thick and creamy. Small amounts of hydrogen sulphide and ammonia are released as by-products of these chemical reactions. The process takes two or three months – the names “thousand-year-old egg” and “century egg” are foreign inventions. Pi dan can also be made by immersing the raw eggs in a strongly alkaline liquid: more convenient, but some say this produces a coarser taste.

Straight out of their shells, pi dan, although raw, seem like cooked eggs in their slightly rubbery solidity, and they can be eaten immediately, although it’s best to cut them open and leave them to rest for a while to disperse the harsher accents of their fragrance. The black-and-brown pi dan that I first tasted in Hong Kong are the most frightening for the uninitiated. In Sichuan, they favour a more friendly kind of pi dan, in which the albumen is typically a pale amber colour, and the yolk a rainbow of layers, grey, green and yellow. Chinese sources often describe their colours poetically, using terms like black-green, grass-green, tea-coloured, ash-green and earth-yellow.

If pi dan aren’t as disgusting as they look, what do they taste like? One feisty American missionary lady of the 19th century, Constance F. Gordon Cumming, in a remarkably broad-minded account of a Fujianese dinner party (“I may safely say that I tasted everything uncommon, and indeed I thought all the special dishes very good”) compared their flavour to that of “plover’s egg hard boiled”. A Swedish food-writer friend of mine says they remind her of brown crab meat, intense and savoury. In fact, the products of the disintegrating egg proteins are modified amino acids that include glutamates – the same sort of fabulously tasty compounds that are responsible for the flavours of mature cheeses, cured hams and Asian fish pastes. Pi dan taste like eggs, but more so. The pi dan most prized by Chinese gourmets have pretty, flower-like patterns that seem to be etched beneath the glassy surface of their albumens. According to kitchen science authority Harold McGee, these are formed by crystals of modified amino acids, and are therefore an index of the extent of protein breakdown, and, accordingly, of the deliciousness of the eggs.

A generation ago, many Chinese people made their own pi dan at home. One friend of mine remembers mixing the ash left after burning rice straw with mud, lime, soda, salt and tea leaves, and using this paste to coat the raw duck eggs. In those days, for farming families, making pi dan was a way of ensuring that a glut of eggs in the high laying season wasn’t wasted. Now, it’s more about taste, and the eggs are produced on an industrial scale.

Supermarkets sell branded pi dan attractively packaged. But in the street markets you can still find those made in small, fly-by-night workshops. My own attempts to visit one were beset by difficulties. In the end, one manufacturer agreed to admit me, on condition that I didn’t reveal the name or location of his factory (it was a filthy yard without an official licence). His staff claimed that their eggs took a mere seven to 10 days to mature, a sure sign, said the friend who accompanied me, that they were kuai supi dan (”fast pi dan”), speeded-up by additives such as ammonia. But even some respectable pi dan should perhaps carry a health warning because lead oxide is a traditional additive to the paste: it improves the texture of the yolk, says one written source. Chinese state regulations do restrict the permitted level of lead for health reasons, but those who are still concerned can seek out low-lead or lead-free pi dan.

No-one is quite sure who invented this method of egg preservation. The first written mention of it is in an early 16th-century Ming Dynasty text but the practice may date back much earlier. There are some colourful legends about its origins. Some say an elderly tea-house owner found some eggs that his ducks had laid in a pile of wood ash and tea leaves, and discovered their shiny dark flesh to be marvellously tasty. Others tell the tale of a farmer who stumbled across some eggs his ducks had laid in a lime pit behind his house. Whoever it was who first decided to taste a black and smelly old egg, one has to admire their courage.

So what do you do with pi dan? The Cantonese like to eat them with slivered ginger and a slosh of vinegar, which neutralises their alkaline taste, or to simmer them in congee for breakfast, with slices of pork. The Hunanese blacken red or green peppers over a charcoal grill, peel them, and then toss them with slices of pi dan in a dressing of garlic, soy sauce and vinegar, or use the eggs to flavour a soupy dish of purple amaranth. The Taiwanese chop pi dan and scatter them over a cool slab of silken bean curd, with drizzles of soy sauce and sesame oil, while the Sichuanese serve them with chopped green peppers, soy sauce and chilli oil. Banquet chefs will set pi dan in aspic, and then cut this terrine into slices patterned like 1960s wallpaper. All of these I have grown to love. But there’s one pi dan concoction that still makes me shudder, I must confess, and that’s the Cantonese tea-time pastries made by baking them in a rich, sweet pastry – ugh. If you are brave enough to tackle this final pi dan frontier, you can probably find them in your local Chinatown bakery.

Fuchsia Dunlop is the author, most recently, of ‘Revolutionary Chinese Cookbook’ (Ebury Press, London and W.W.Norton, New York)

Good eggs

Salted duck eggs (xian dan)

In the shell, these look no different from untreated duck eggs but crack them open and you’ll find that the yolk is a hard, waxy sphere, writes Per-Anders Jorgensen. They are made by coating raw duck eggs in a salty paste or steeping them in brine for a couple of weeks. Simply hard-boil them and serve them, cut into sections, on the shell, for a snack or appetiser, or cut up the yolks and use them in stir-fries.

Tea eggs (cha dan)

Eggs (usually chicken eggs, but sometimes those of quail) are hard-boiled and then gently rolled around in cold water to crack the shell all over without breaking the inner membrane. They are then simmered in a spiced broth stained dark brown by tea, until the tea-colour has penetrated the cracks in the shell and created a lovely pattern all over the egg-white. These eggs are a common street snack in China and are sold on railway station platforms.

‘Iron eggs’ (tie dan)

The Taiwanese like to snack on chicken or quail eggs that have been simmered for many hours in a richly spiced broth until they have shrunk considerably in size, darkened in colour and become firm and chewy. They are sold in vacuum packs and are delicious.

Copyright The Financial Times Limited 2009