FOODYWOOD, THE SEQUEL

Enchiladas rojas at ¡Lotería!

I like to eat Mexican whenever possible. I lived in D.F. as a child and I have many a fond memory of life and food there. Classmates at Instituto Irlandés, my all-girl, plaid-green-jumper Catholic school, quickly taught me to train my taste buds to accept and in most cases like, a wide array of picante foods. Soon, I too was bringing chile piquín-dusted cucumber slices bathed in lime juice in Hello Kitty Tupperware to recreo and sprinkling the vibrant red dust on oranges and mangos. I also learned to appreciate Mexican counterparts to American candy bars and other sweets: Pulparindo, a chewy tamarind and chile bar; mazapán, a peanut-based marzipan; and Duvalín, vanilla and hazelnut cream that came in tiny packages with a plastic stick for an eating utensil.

I came to know Mexico through its flavors and to understand that it was made up of a vast and complex array of ingredients, textures, and colors that distinguished it from everything else I’d ever eaten. To this day I am shocked when people equate Mexican with Taco Bell or when that fine cuisine is reduced to an overstuffed burrito. Happily, though, there is some authenticity and variety to be found. I had the opportunity to experience Mexico all over again at two spots in LA:


¡Lotería!: Grab a table in the center of the LA Farmer’s Market or hop on a bright red stool and eat right at the counter. Eager to try everything on the menu, I ordered a sampler platter containing miniature versions of the twelve different taco fillings available, including, nopalitos (cactus salad), mole poblano con pollo (chicken with mole sauce), papa con rajas (potatoes with roasted poblano peppers), and chicharrones en salsa verde (pork rinds in tomatillo sauce). I can’t say I had a single favorite, but surprisingly for carnivorous me, the vegetarian nopalitos made a lasting impression.

De todo un poco.

The colorful aguas.

Luckily, I had a few people in tow and was able to taste enchiladas in hot and spicy red chile guajillo sauce that was eagerly mixed into the accompanying rice so as not to waste a drop; crunchy, crispy, corn tortilla tacos; and a mountain of chilaquiles verdes (fried corn tortilla strips sautéed in house-made sauces – either green tomatillo, chile guajillo, or mole) topped with eggs and dressed with queso fresco, crema, chopped onions and cilantro. Oh, and of course, no meal is complete without an agua fresca, fresh fruit drinks in a variety of seasonal flavors. My pick: agua de jamaica, the refreshing, floral, bougainvillea-hued hibiscus tonic.

Crispy tacos.

As fate would have it, owner Jimmy Shaw happened by and we got to talking in English at first until we realized he was Mexican himself. We talked about food, of course, and childhood memories revolving around food…of course. It was a lovely encounter and made us feel like we’d just dined at a dear friend’s home.

Eat right at the counter.

Monte Albán, Mexican eatery with Oaxacan roots, was also a big crowd pleaser. Señor O and I headed there for breakfast with my little brother, and, quite embarrassingly, I was presented with a colorfully sprinkled bun and cup of hot chocolate…because it as Mother’s Day and the hostess took me for my sibling’s mom. I was going to play along, but vanity took over and I just had to clear up that I was not old enough to be this 11-year-old’s mother. Well, technically I am, but still.

...I digress. The food: I had enfrijoladas, with eggs naturally. Enfrijoladas are similar to chilaquiles, only these corn tortilla triangles are smothered in thick black bean sauce. Señor O had a large plate of eggs scrambled with chorizo, and little brother opted for salsa de queso, melted cheese in a pool of spicy tomato sauce, a sticky mess that can be neatly folded into a slender and pliable corn tortilla.

Tamal con mole.


Zucchini blossom quesadilla.

Chorizo and potato molote.

We made a return visit later that very same evening with family members who’d missed out on breakfast and had tamales with black mole, dense and chocolaty, zucchini blossom quesadillas, potato-and-chorizo molotes, deep-fried and crisp, as well as another round of enfrijoladas, this time with a side of cesina, thinly sliced, salted beef. For dessert: ripe plantains, sliced and fried, then topped with condensed milk. As we like to say, barriga llena, corazón contento. (Full belly, happy heart).

FOODYWOOD

I was in LA for a few days, and, despite the fact that I spent my nights sleeping in my brother’s bachelor pad from hell – sorry, Charlie, but it’s true: the place was a wreck, a combination opossum refuge and crack den – it was a good time. I absolutely love LA, especially the heretofore unexplored food scene. In the span of a week I had Thai, Korean, Spanish, Mexican, French, Italian, and good ol’ American – a veritable “It’s a Small World” for gluttons. I’m no food critic, but some of my eat-outs must be described.

At the top of my list: Honey Pig Korean BBQ. Up until my journey to Koreatown, my experience with Korean cuisine had been limited to the Momofuku Ssäm and Noodle Bars in New York. Don’t misread – the Momofukus happen to be among my favorite NY spots, but Honey Pig is a whole other animal, and I was completely unprepared for what I encountered there.

Like a beacon in the night...

We asked to be seated, at which point the waiter whirled around our appointed table like a dervish-meets-Chinese-plate-balancing-act, dropping little plates and saucers and bowls and then more plates and saucers and bowls with sauces and oils and lettuces (oh my!) all around, till there is not an inch of tabletop visible. In the middle, rising like cupola from a crowded city center, The Inverted Wok Thing. Our awed foursome sat, giggling and gawking as the waiter zeroed in on a tiny dial in the tabletop (Gadzooks! You yourself can control the heat!) and started throwing kimchi-covered cabbage and bean sprouts on the base of Wok Thing.

Wok Thing.


The accoutrements...

We stared, stupidly, not knowing at all what to do with the food. Were we supposed to eat it? How long did we have to wait for it to cook? Were we allowed to touch it? Desperately, we looked around at the other tables attempting to discern the how-tos of KBBQ. I try to make eye contact with any of the passing waiters, but my silent SOS went unnoticed. I flailed my arms and a harried-looking man finally come over. “Uh, I’m sorry, excuse me,” I muttered, unintelligibly and in near-whisper, “Umm, we’re, like, new to this whole BBQ thing,” nervous giggle, “umm, uhh, how do we order?” More vexed looks from the waiter who instructed in a few terse fragments to order four portions of pork belly and one of beef. Now, novice though I was, I thought four portions of pork belly sounded a bit piggish, so I ordered two and one sliced beef. The waiter scurried away.

I'd forgotten to order drinks, so once again, I started casting frantic looks at the wait staff while they continued to ignore me. I began to feel unwelcome, out of place. I hung my head, pouting, and that’s when I realized I was not being ignored; I was just not following protocol: there was a doorbell on my table, hidden under a tiny bowl of pungent red sauce. One is meant to press down on it if and when one needs service. I pushed down, and, wouldn’t you know it, my finger was still on the button when someone materialized at my side. Mercifully, this lady was kind and took pity on us lost sheep. She started snipping the cabbage into bite-size pieces with the aid of slender tongs and shears, and piled them up on the highest part of the dome. “OOOhhhhh,” we mouthed. Next, she lay the pork belly on the wok and it started to sizzle. Once cooked, she, with a deft hand, natch, picked up a piece with a pair of shiny metal chopsticks and quickly dipped it in one of the small bowls, this one containing sesame oil, salt and pepper. The now-seasoned belly, some cabbage, bean sprouts, and thinly sliced green onion were piled on a large and crisp lettuce leaf, which she wrapped. We understood! We got it! We could finally eat!

We were congratulating ourselves on our powers of international comprehension until we started trying to imitate her maneuvers. Turns out metal chopsticks are not for neophytes– they’re slippery and food kept dropping on the way to the plate. We longed for forks, but were too embarrassed to ask. We would eat with slippery sticks even if it took us hours. Someone spotted wooden ones though, and once we had those in hand, things went rather smoothly.

We’d eaten through most of our pork belly and were feeling pretty full when a waiter ran by and without even glancing at us tossed an octopus tentacle on Wok Thing. “We didn’t ask for this!” we yelped, but he only said, “It’s free!” and continued on his way. Meanwhile, another waiter restocked our cabbage and sprouts. We began to get nervous every time someone neared the table, worried more food would appear unannounced. Besides, we still had a mound of thinly sliced beef waiting to be cooked.

Random tentacle.

After the deliciousness of pork belly, I worried the beef would be a letdown. But it was actually my favorite. Our kindly waitress plopped it on the heat and said, “Very delicious with rice.” I just nodded, defeated, and heaved a deep sigh. I would just have to create more space for the rice. It was orange, and in a bowl, mixed with bits of lettuce and seaweed. She plopped it on top of the beef and started raking up the remaining cabbage and sprouts, mixing it all together. It was my favorite part of the meal. Everything had just enough spice and salt, and at the base of it all, a gentle sweetness that gently played with the underlying heat. I’ve added Korean BBQ to the list of foods I crave, and wish I could install a Wok Thing at my table – it’s one-pot cooking at its best.

Very delicious with rice.

Next up: BACON-WRAPPED HOT DOGS. Months ago, New York Magazine wrote about Crif Dogs, an East Village spot selling deep-fired wieners. Apparently, some genius there decided to give David Chang (creator/chef of the above-mentioned Momofukus) a namesake dog and thus came about the bacon-wrapped-deep-fried-kimchi-topped-hot-dog. I haven’t had the chance to sample this delightful monstrosity, but have spent ample time drooling over its photo. How happy was I then to learn that you can get a bacon-wrapped hot dog in LA? Naturally, I had to have one. Little brother and cute girlfriend took me downtown where we walked through blocks of knock-off bags and tight, neon-colored clothes looking for a… let’s say artisanal hot dog cart. Cute GF instructed us to bypass brick-and-mortar stands because what we wanted was true-blue street food. For a while it looked like it wasn’t going to happen for us and that all we were going to get out of this trip were some snazzy $4 “designer” shades, when we saw (and smelled!) it: a teeny vehicle, no bigger than a golf cart, equipped with a glassed-in flattop and Coleman cooler stocked with Jarritos – Mexican soda pop – and a bowl of coarsely chopped avocado and pico de gallo.



The bacon dogs sizzled alongside sliced onions, green peppers, and jalapeños. I’m sorry Gray’s Papaya, but you’ve been dethroned! The vendor tucked the sausage into a bun and drizzled it with yellow mustard, ketchup, and mayo (!), then topped it with everything in his reach, including the chunky guacamole. It was absolute bliss, and 100% worth the gut-wrenching heartburn that followed.


On a sad note, it seems bacon-wrapped hot dog purveyors are being persecuted by the health department. It’s an outrage! Check out Drew Carey’s inspired report on Reason.tv. Potentially harmful food? Puh-lease. Let’s not get started on the Golden Arches, et al.

Save the dogs!

More mouth-watering to come,

HH&F

RESTAURANTING: GITLO'S DIM SUM BAKERY

Though I lived in New York for six years, I am deeply ashamed to admit that I never once ventured into Chinatown for dim sum. Actually, now that I think about it, I realize that I severely underate the entire time I was a resident of that city. I’m determined to change that in my new city: I will eat my way through Boston and its outlying area.

Aside from being lazy and expecting to have all the time in the world to explore the international cuisine of New York, I honestly never felt comfortable going to Chinatown because I would simply not know where to go nor what to expect. Sometimes it’s hit-and-miss and you just need to keep going back to different places, but when it comes to food, and especially food whose origins and traditions I’m unacquainted with, I want a recommendation. Dim sum didn’t happen for me because I lacked a guide, but Lady Luck seems determined to change that because not only did my new friend D of Clear Flour open the doors to a haven of bread, she also took me to Gitlo’s Dim Sum Bakery, her new favorite spot for dim sum.


164 Brighton Avenue, Allston, MA 02134
 / 617-782-CAKE

Gitlo’s is small and modest, seating I’d say between 20 and 25 patrons. D and I went at an off time and had the whole place to ourselves, which was just as lovely as the owner, Gitlo. He was wearing a super-cool, Hawaiian shirt. “Straight from Hawaii,” he informed me.


I left the ordering up to D - here is a woman who is going to be my bosom buddy because not only does she make bread and like to eat, she is an ardent pork lover, just like me.

We had:

#33 Sesame pork buns
Soft bread rolls topped with toasty, nutty sesame seeds, filled with bits of moist port. Delicious.

#8 Char siu bao

Pea pod stem and shrimp dumplings. These gorgeous little purses looked like delicate underwater creatures. The pea pod stems were fresh and tasted wonderfully green.

#3 Seaweed shui-mai
The wrinkly exterior of these pork-filled treats reminded me of morel mushrooms. They were meaty and plump, like a baby’s cheek.

#15 Crispy daikon cakes
My favorite. The little square cakes came piled on a plate, straight from the fryer. They looked like home-style potatoes, golden and crisp, but when I bit into them, a satiny lava filled my mouth. It was like a French fry with an oozing middle, like those bubble gums with the runny insides. I was pretty full by the time the daikon cakes arrived at the table, but, you guessed it, each little square disappeared.

I’ll be heading there again very soon to continue my study of dim sum, as Señor O was quite peeved at not having been brought along.

I SCREAM, YOU SCREAM

I’ve been cooking at home these past few days, but am itching to venture out to see what there is to see and naturally, eat what there is to eat, here in Boston. A friend who used to live here was kind enough to email me a list of suggestions, and I went on my first outing yesterday. The destination: Toscanini’s. There I met the gracious owner, Gus, whose joviality and eagerness to share restaurant recommendations brightened what had begun as a lousy day. Although Gus had to rush out on some deliveries, I was left with a cup of the most delectable ice cream I’ve had this side of the Atlantic. I will no longer have to yearn for my Roman gelati because Toscanini’s cool confections are sheer bliss.

Toscanini's, 899 Main Street, Cambridge, MA

I eyed the chalkboard menu greedily, reading through flavors like cake batter, lemon vanilla, orange chocolate, khulfee (cardamom and nuts), sweet cream, ginger snap molasses, malted vanilla, and maple walnut. Ultimately I settled on cocoa pudding and cherries and chips.


Cocoa pudding was ultra-thick and chewy, not like freezer section ice cream that melts in your mouth without resistance. If you stuck your spoon in and pulled it out you’d feel it tugging back, like quicksand. I always fantasize of chocolate cake like the one Harriet the Spy used to have after school every day, dense and substantial, but I have yet to find the nonfiction version. However, this cocoa pudding is the closest thing I’ve had to it. Despite its being ice cream, the texture is very nearly cake.


I ate through the gooey chocolate and arrived at cherries and chips. This is ice cream you want to drip out the bottom of your cone, down your arm and elbow, just so you can lick it off. And, as if the gobs of pink, creamy goodness aren’t enough, there were real cherries, dark maroon and fleshy – you could even see where the stem and pit had once been. Delightful, delightful, delightful.

FRUSTRATED IN FLORIDA

A mere 24 hours after alighting in Boston I flew down to Florida to visit my mom and little brother. Adventurous bird that I am, I took the subway – err, “T,” as they call it here – to the airport. Paranoid about being late, I left super-early, only to arrive at my gate a mere hour after I left home. I was thus, super-duper early for my flight. And then, of course, it was delayed. Twice.

Finally, my plane landed just around midnight. It seems that down there in the Land of Disney not only Cinderella’s coach turns into a pumpkin at 12 o’clock, but the Turnpike, too. Finding the highway closed, we took the scenic route home. We drove past several pawnshops, the usual fast food joints, “gentlemen’s” clubs, more pawnshops, and then…a Nicaraguan fritanga and food shop. Was this a mirage? Had those eight hours at the airport addled my brain? No, my mother’s husband assured me, it was really there. In fact, we could go there when it was actually open.

That night I went to bed dreaming of what I would order: tajadas (fried plantains) and maduros (fried ripe plantains), fried cheese, chorizo, carne asada, cerdo adobado (seasoned and sautéed pork cubes) and ensaladita (a slaw of sorts, made with shredded cabbage and diced tomatoes moistened with vinegar)... These things are all easily made at home, but it was the novelty, the thrill of finding this quaint little spot in the hyper-commercialized strip that is the not-so-aptly-named Orange Blossom Trail was what was really fueling my appetite.

The field trip was pushed back to Sunday morning, because yours truly was forced to attend a few sessions with The Porcelain God. All notions I had of eating fried things were completely erased, but a ravaged stomach had not weakened my resolve to visit the fritanga.

It must be noted that the Fritanga Santa Bárbara is in the same lot as the Topp Clazz gas station, and that such a grand title (and spelling!) sent me into a rapture because it was just what you’d find on the side of the road in Nicaragua. Spirit soaring like a helium balloon, I skipped into Santa Bárbara only to be met with…blaring Mexican music. And ogling from the patrons.




The air slowly and steadily started leaving the balloon version of me. I tried to be casual about the staring men, but I could feel their heavy stares. I wanted to identify myself as a fellow Nicaraguan and almost yelped out “Soy nica!”, but decided they wouldn’t care because they were about as Nica as the Salvadoran cookies and Cuban sugarcane juice they had for sale there. It was a sham! Though I really wanted to take pictures because there were some interesting products from Central American countries that also exist in Nicaragua, like jarred jocotes (the label called these plums, but I think they’re more akin to olives) and nancites (yellow cherries? I think not! These little yellow fruits are stinky, like dirty belly buttons!) but I decided against pulling out the camera because I was worried there would be trouble.

Now, to be fair, I Googled Fritanga Santa Bárbara and found one or two reviews; it seems that the regulars find the atmosphere welcoming and the food appetizing. Unfortunately, I was met with a less than warm welcome and the food I spied behind a glass case was not what I’m used to. There were canned mixed vegetables in some dreadful red sauce! So my apologies to the proprietors of Santa Bárbara, but, this is my blog and I am going to tell it like it is.

HHF

P.S.
There is a great fritanga in Miami (three locations!), Fritanga Monimbó (www.fritanga.com), that I eat at every time I’m in town that is wonderful. The people are friendly, the food is delicious, and they sell my favorite soda, Milca -- so bright red and sugary that I'm positive Willy Wonka invented it.

HOT POCKETS

On March 31st, after much aggravation and cursing like sailors (The Mister wasn’t cursing – just me), we loaded up a rented minivan with our most personal of personal belongings and hit the road, never to return (sniffle, sniffle). We were starving and slightly giddy, but it was a good thing because we had carefully built into our journey a detour to North Bergen, NJ, home of Los Andes Bakery. Almost a year ago at a Chilean girlfriend’s birthday BBQ, I devoured some of the most perfectly seasoned beef empanadas I had ever tasted; black olives, sautéed onions, plump raisins, chunks of hard-boiled eggs, juicy meat...

Los Andes Bakery

While in line at Los Andes hunger took full possession of my senses and I ordered a sandwich, four beef empanadas, and two cheese ones. And then I got back in line and ordered a pastry, which I forgot about on the first round. The sandwich was steak layered with avocado, lettuce, tomato, and a thick schmear of mayonnaise. You may think this combination odd or repulsive even, but in my world, all sandwiches should have avocado and mayo (except PB&J – there are limits to my mayo-avocado crush).


My appetite was satiated, however I couldn’t resist taking a peek at my empanadas, all tightly nestled into a white cardboard box, carefully Scotch taped at the seams, just like a birthday present. I took a bite, and I have to admit, although painfully, that I was the tiniest bit disappointed. Perhaps they were too cold. Perhaps the crust wasn’t as delicate as I remembered. Perhaps I had built them up too much in the months since I’d first had them…Perhaps my friend had a secret Chilean password that got her especially prepared empanadas for her party. Anyway, the next day there was not a crumb to eat in the new apartment, except for the leftover pastries. They were warmed up in the oven and actually resurrected quite nicely.

Empanadas

I feel inspired after this experience to seek out empanadas in Boston and also to prepare the Nicaraguan version (as soon as I finish unpacking): pastelitos – olive and raisin studded as well, but pork-based, deep-fried, and sugar-coated. Doesn’t that sound scrumptious?

P.S.
No, I do not know where the beef in my empanada came from, I regret to say, and even though they were tasty, I have been worrying about it. I feel worse about it than when I forgot it was Lent and ate meat on Fridays. But please understand that moving is a deeply traumatic occurrence in a person’s life and she cannot be blamed from veering off the straight and narrow path.