The Gravy Train

a fond fishy memory

One of my ongoing New Year's resolutions is to judiciously edit and delete the unnecessary photos from the 30,000+ photos I took last year (no, I'm not kidding; my Asianness and growing compulsion for photography as a hobby makes me dangerously shutter-happy). 

In the process, I unearthed this little gem, a local sea bass steamed in scallion, ginger and soy sauce at a restaurant inside the Takashimaya Department Store in Taipei.  We ate there over the summer when we stopped for a night during our epic move back to the U.S.  It's one of my aunt's favorites, known for its deliciously light, interesting takes on Chinese classics.  Even though sea bass steamed in a soy/ginger/scallion sauce is kind of like the peanut butter and jelly of Chinese seafood dishes, this one had braised local olives as a garnish.  I couldn't believe the brininess of the olives didn't heighten the saltiness already present in the dish, and the olives were just so gosh-darn tasty.

Anyway, in a sea of blurry, horrendously lit, terribly off-center photos, it was nice to find one that was worth saving.  And the fact that it gives me an idea for a new twist on a classic dish we eat at home -- well, that's just plain lucky.

Gingko | Takshimaya Department Store | 55 Chung Cheng Road, Section 2, Taipei City 111 | Taiwan

in taiwan, a smelly time, with a side of pork

This innocuous looking stewed tofu is actually chou doufu, the honey badger of tofu dishes

In Taiwan, there's a dish whose name completely and totally describes what it is: chou doufu, which means, very literally, "stinky tofu."

I have a love-hate relationship with stinky tofu.  Like a ripened soft cheese or durian, the smell of stinky tofu can make the hairs on your neck curl.  It's putrid; the best way I can think of describing its smell is fermented shoe sweat from a pair of dirty sneakers that's been sitting in the bottom of an abandoned locker.  

That's not hyperbole, I promise.  The first time I smelled chou doufu, I was sitting in the Chinese food court in Atlanta.  I was probably around 11 or 12, and my parents were thrilled to discover this hometown delicacy on their side of the world.  I couldn't wait to try this delectable goodness -- that is, until it arrived at the table.  It smelled, quite literally, like the boys in my class coming inside after recess. 

Nevertheless, I insisted to the hubby on our layover last month that he try chou doufu.  Strong smells don't put him off of trying food, which is reason #324 I married him (it probably also has a lot to do with the various boiled sheep parts he consumed, day after day, when he lived in Africa years ago).   Plus, I like to think that I'm a little more mature now and could reacquaint myself with chou doufu without the objectionable smell getting in the way.

Top: sticky, delicious dong puo rou, aka braised pork belly; bottom: fluffy steamed buns to make little pork sandwiches.  

As it turns out, I quite like chou doufu nowadays.  Smell notwithstanding (and I totally understand how for some people, a bad smell would completely defeat the purpose of even attempting to enjoy a dish), there's a satisfying yeastiness of chou doufu that gives it an interesting texture.  It's almost like the difference between drinking a light beer and a stout.  There's more depth and flavor to chou doufu than regular tofu, especially when it comes in a spicy broth, like ours did.

Oh, and do you know what else goes great with chou doufu?  Pork belly.   Honestly, I cannot pass through Taiwan Immigration and Customs without demanding at least one pork belly dish, because the Taiwanese have a skill at making pork belly sing in a way we Americans never could.  This version, called dong puo rou, is a ubiquitous Taiwanese dish, kind of the way a burger would pop up on just about every standard American diner menu.  Braised in a combination of soy sauce, ginger and rock sugar, the sugar melts and glazes the meat as it braises in a clay pot placed in a low-temperature oven.  Honestly, if dong puo rou started appearing on the menus of American roadside diners, I'd have a hard time getting anywhere without adding at least 4 hours' worth of pit stops.  

Flaky, savory, delicious scallion pancake

And don't even get me started on the flaky miracle that is a cong you bing (scallion pancake).  I'd go to war in the name of one.  Seriously. 

Su Hung Snack Shop | 2-1, Jinan Rd Sec 1, Taipei City (台北市濟南路一段2之1號) |Open from 11:30am to 2pm and 5:30pm to 9pm | Taipei, Taiwan

i miss you, asia

... because right now, in my eleventh hour of stress, you could comfort me with some xiao long bao or a nice chong you bing (savory scallion pancakes).

taipei: the no-ending story

Cold dishes, a variety of pickled vegetables, typically eaten before a meal in Taiwan

Internet community, I've failed you.  I've been waiting to tell you a story, but I can't finish it, and it looks like I'll never be able to.

You see, last month in Taipei my dad scouted out a little haunt in his old stomping grounds around Taiwan Normal University.  My dad chose a little alley for us to venture down, an alley that was teeming with local delights.  Like a bloodhound, my dad was on a mission, and he walked purposefully past at least twenty tasty-looking places, not even pausing to sniff.  My mom stopped in front of a modern-looking teahouse.  From the double-glass doors, we could see a few patrons inside milling about lackadaisically.

"This looks good."  She had to yell those words up to my dad, who hadn't even registered the place and had scurried several yards ahead.  He was carefully studying a placard above what looked like a tiny shack of a place and watching a cook out front make juan bing, a rolled flour pancake stuffed with brisket and scallions.   He glanced back at my mom, who'd stopped in front of the teahouse.  They've been married almost 36 years, and sometimes I still think it surprises him when he catches himself thinking of her as a gastronomic amateur.  

little plate of happiness: soybean soup for the family

There are some foods that make me feel at home no matter where I happen to be in the world when I eat them.  Taiwanese breakfast definitely falls right into that category.  While I don't get to eat it often, there's no mistaking the familiar comfort of a nice warm bowl of xian dou jiang (soybean soup with soy sauce) seasoned with freshly deep-fried you tiao (crullers), scallions, pickled cabbage and cilantro.  I know this probably doesn't sound all that appetizing if you've never had xian dou jiang before, but trust me -- if I knew of a street cart somewhere in America dishing up this delightful morning treat, I'd invest money in the operation.  That's how hopeful I am that xian dou jiang is a sleeper phenomenon just waiting to take the world by storm.  

family time in taiwan

Growing up, we used to tease my mom for being the most serious person in my immediate family, but among her extended family in Taiwan, she's the class clown, as evidenced by the charming speech she gave at dinner

Sorry for the radio silence this week, but I've been traveling again.  Last weekend, the hubby and I flew to Taiwan to meet up with my parents, who haven't been back to their homeland together in 38 years.  I've never been to Taiwan with my parents either, and dodging through tiny alleys with my dad in search of good eats in his old 'hood reminded me that my effervescent food love comes from deep genetic origins.  The highlight of the weekend was a massive 12-course family dinner with 30 of our relatives in attendance.  Afterwards, while the hubby and I were convalescing from our day of gorging in my Auntie Pen-Ho's house (him: by moaning; me: face down on the sofa), one of my cousins dropped by with a box of 36 fresh-baked Taiwanese cream cakes and urged us to try one, because it was absolutely unacceptable for us to leave Taipei without tasting them. 

My family's gastronomic appetite is insane.  But I love them for it.  (And of course those cream cakes were amazing.)