L is for Latvia

L is for Latvia

Hey there, kids! It’s time for another step along this path of culinary delights, and today it’s time to pay a visit to the land of the L’s. This is an interesting little group, not blessed with any classic gastro heavyweights, but nevertheless putting a couple of interesting fellas up for nomination. Looking at the 9-strong gaggle, I suppose Lebanon would be the obvious choice in terms of tried-and-tested tastiness. Any mention of Lebanese food sends me crashing back to my days at Newcastle University, when I quite literally stumbled across an oddly placed restaurant on my way out of one of the city’s less salubrious establishments, ‘Blu Bambu’ (purveyors of their own specially brewed, alarmingly blue, top notch alcopop, I might add). Lebanese grub is full of chickpeas, herbs, tomatoes, aubergines, eggs, bread - basically my weekly shopping list - but this being a challenge, I decided not to opt for the obvious. Laos, Liberia, Luxembourg…what to do?? Well, as it happens, there is only one country beginning with L that I’ve actually properly visited, so really, there was no getting around it: guys, grab a bottle of vodka ‘cos we are off to Latvia!

The carrots before the fateful addition of honey

Why have I been to Latvia? It’s a good question. This little Baltic nation is not exactly Europe’s number 1 travel destination (unless you are a British or German stag party) and I can’t say I had ever had a burning desire to go there. However, faced with the prospect of hanging around for a bank holiday weekend in less-than-thrilling small town Lower Saxony, my year abroad partner in crime and I decided to book the cheapest and most convenient flight we could find (oh, the follies of youth) and take ourselves off on a little adventure. Lo and behold, Riga was an absolute bargain and, after figuring out where it actually is, we were off. I won’t bore you with the details, but it’s fair to say that Sarah (the aforementioned partner in crime and all-round superhuman) and I spent approximately 90% of our time in Riga utterly perplexed, starting from the moment we got onto the bus into the city centre and were, errrm, ‘gently encouraged’ to hand over an unknown quantity of Lats to an old dear who may or may not have worked for the bus company.

Our experience of Latvian food back in 2008 was…hmm, how to describe it? Interesting is perhaps the best word: most of the time, we weren’t too sure what we were putting into our systems, except that there was a whole lot of garlic in it. When we reminisce about this truly weird and wonderful trip, Sarah and I always come to the conclusion that our lasting memory of Riga will be of garlic, in every shape and form imaginable. Delicious it may have been, but it certainly did not bode well for the trip back in a hot, sealed metal container filled with about another 100 people who had also eaten nothing but garlic for 3 days solid. The poor airline staff.

Rye pastry fun

Despite our personal memories of the food, Latvian cuisine does have a little more to offer the inquisitive visitor. As you’d expect, traditional Latvian dishes aren’t exactly a myriad of colour – they tend to rest firmly within the appetising spectrum of beiges and greys so common of Northern European cooking, with the odd violent splash of beetroot pink. In fact, the quasi national dish is ‘pelēkie zirņi ar speķi’ which translates as the spectacularly uninviting ‘grey peas and speck’. Speaking of speck, if you’re heading up to Latvia for, you know, a romantic getaway in the former Soviet Union, prepare yourself for gargantuan amounts of pork. Latvia not being the richest of lands, they are all about making the most of what they’ve got, which means that these guys were doing nose-to-tail eating before any trendy London types jumped on the meaty bandwagon. A fine example of this would be ‘grūdenis’, a tasty stew of pearl barley (yep, that beige classic), peas and, ohhhh, just a little pig’s head, floating around in chunks in your otherwise pretty normal stew. Other porky favourites include ‘Kupāti’ (very inoffensive pork sausages) and ‘galerts’ (wildly offensive pork hocks in aspic). Another thing which the Latvians are quite fond of, apparently, is mushrooms. If the internet is to be believed, come autumn, the whole country pulls on their wellies and yomps out into the wilderness to pick wild mushrooms. Hardly surprising when there’s a bounty of 4100 different species out there up for grabs. Unfortunately, it would seem that mushroom picking in Latvia is something of a Russian roulette, given that about a quarter of them are going to give you a very sore tummy indeed.

The two layers of the 'sklandrausis': potato and carrot

When it came to finding a dish to cook, I was happy to see that ‘pelmeni’ are consumed with gusto in little Latvia. If you have never tried these amazing little dumplings, I urge you to hunt them down – with a dollop of sour cream, they are the stuff of dreamskis! Sadly for me (and my guinea pigs for the week, my dear family), ‘pelmeni’ are the brainchild of Latvia’s ginormous neighbour, Russia, so they were off the menu quicker than you can say perestroika! So, I found myself writing a shopping list of the ingredients for ‘sklandrausis’, a semi-sweet pie made of rye pastry and filled with carrots and potato. Interestingly, in 2013, the European Commission gave this Baltic bake the ‘Traditional Specialty Guaranteed’ designation, putting it up there in the same league as ‘prosciutto Toscano’, ‘Lübecker Marzipan’ and ‘Waterford blaas’ (the famous!). The name ‘sklandrausis’ can be broken down into the words ‘skland’ and ‘rausis’. The latter, meaning ‘pie’, is derived from the verb for ‘to rake over or strew’, which suggests they were traditionally baked by raking hot ash or coals over them. ‘Sklanda’¸ I’m reliably informed, is an ancient word that means ‘fence-post’ or ‘slope’, which is probably a nod to the upturned edges of the pie crust. I’ll say this though, mine didn’t look a jot like any fence I’ve ever seen.

The pies themselves are certainly not difficult to make, but I was very mistrusting of the addition of honey into the carrot mixture, given the overwhelming savouriness of the rest of the components. This scepticism transpired to be well-founded, as the resulting pies had a slightly displeasing sweet aftertaste, much to the disdain of my sister, who lives life by the motto that sweet and savoury categorically do not belong in the same dish. As for the rest, I’m a fan of rye in most forms, but in a pastry mixture without lashings of butter, it ended up being quite tough. However, that could very well have been down to my heavy-handed kneading. For my guinea pig family, the ‘sklandrausis’ lacked a certain oomph in the flavour department (apart from the above mentioned strange sweetness), but it has to be said that they tasted better after a day or two in the fridge…reheated with a bit of grated cheese on top – soz, Latvia!! Of all the dishes I’ve cooked so far, these have been my least favourite. They were by no means horrible, but they weren’t a knockout like some of the previous things I’ve whipped up. That said, Latvia is a country full of – mostly garlicky - delights… even if you do end up repelling anyone with a sense of smell for about a week after your visit!

The final product!

J is for Japan, K is for Korea (South)

J is for Japan, K is for Korea (South, fyi)

It’s a Pacific Rim Pancake Party!

Once again, I’m a little behind on the ol’ blog, so this week is a double-whammy to knock J and K off my list. Given that doing the double last time by pitching two neighbours against one another seemed to work out pretty well (mainly for my stomach), I thought I’d take the same approach this time. As with the letter F, J constitutes a very exclusive group of countries: Japan, Jamaica and Jordan. Having no real legitimate connection to any of them, yet harbouring a deep desire for all three cuisines, I had to rely on the letter K to give me some direction as to what countries to plump for. Technically speaking, if I were being super pernickety about the whole shebang, I should have made Jordanian and Kuwaiti dishes, as they’re the only true J and K that are not thousands of kilometres away from each other. Luckily, I wasn’t feeling particularly pernickety on the day, so I basically just shoe-horned ‘Korea, South’ into proceedings and went on my merry way.

As we all know, Japan’s most famous culinary export is sushi. I could eat sushi for daaaaays, lying happily in a semi-comatose state with the fug of wasabi swirling about my head and repelling any other person that wanted to come within arm’s length of my bloated, rice-filled body. Unfortunately, in life, some level of self-control is necessary, meaning I only reach this joyful state once a month or so. Booooooo. In some establishments in my town here in Deutschland, sushi has been the subject of some very *ahem* daring attempts at fusion cooking, which have resulted in such mutants as Caesar salad sushi, Greek sushi and sushi filled with banana. Germany, as always, remains somewhat of a mystery to me.

A quick splash across the Sea of Japan brings us to the shores of South Korea, the ever-so-slightly more friendly and outward-looking sister of North Korea. For the briefest of moments, I entertained the thought of having a bash at North Korean food – you never know, they might be hiding a stellar array of tasty treats up there! However, given that the first picture Google produced of ‘North Korean cuisine’ was of barbecued dog ribs, I felt it wiser to retreat to the safe confines of the South. In my – admittedly limited – experience, the South Korean kitchen is a GOLDMINE. Of course, kimchi (salted and fermented veggies with a variety of seasonings) has firmly established itself in the culinary vernacular of Western Europe, probably delighting and repulsing diners in equal measure. Bibimbap (meaning literally ‘mixed rice’) and bulgogi (“fire meat” – a spectacular translation, I think you’ll agree) have also been slowly but surely winning fans all over the shop, bringing the joys of spicy, sesame-y, salty South Korean food to us hungry Europeans. I must say though, the crowning glory of South Korean food – for me – is gochujang. Praise be to the clever person who invented this savoury, sweet and spicy paste, which is made of red chilli powder, glutinous rice, fermented soybean powder and some other magical things (probably too much salt, but we don’t talk about that). Now that a dear friend, to whom I am forever indebted, has told me where to buy it here, it has taken up permanent residency in my fridge. I’m telling you, it is the business.

Back to the challenge, and I wanted to find a dish that had specific manifestations in both countries so I could finally give a definitive answer to the question that surely haunts us all: “Do you prefer Japanese or Korean food?”. Yes yes, I too have had sleepless nights over this question, just like you! I too have lived too long with the deep internal struggle! But never fear, for I have sacrificed myself for us all, so we can all sleep soundly once again. IT’S ALMOST OVER!!! One food item that is prevalent in most Asian cuisines is the humble egg. Eggs are cheap, they’re good for you and they’re extremely versatile. Heck, why not even let it fertilise a bit and eat the little baby bird inside (a genuine delicacy in several South East Asian nations)? And if there’s one egg-based dish I love, it’s a pancake. I mean really, who doesn’t love a pancake? All the best cuisines have their own version - crèpes (France), blinis (Russia), injera (Ethiopia), poffertjes (the Netherlands), Scotch pancakes (Scotland), Kaiserschmarrn (Austria) – and so, happily, do Japan and South Korea. Yaaaaay. So, off I went to the market to buy all the eggs for okonomiyaki and pajeon.

Break down the mouthful of okonomiyaki, and you’ve got the words ‘okonomi’ and ‘yaki’, meaning ‘what/how you like’ and ‘grill’ respectively. Hmm, not particularly telling. Grill what, Japan? I mean, I’m a big fan of ‘RuPaul’s Drag Race’, but do you really expect me to throw America’s next drag superstar on the barbecue, just cos I like her? Upon closer inspection, it transpires that the basis of okonomiyaki is a pretty simple batter made of flour, eggs, sometimes grated nagaimo (a type of yam) and cabbage. Then you get to okonomi the heck out of your yaki and add the extras: spring onions, pork belly, squid, cheese, shrimps…whatever you fancy. Okonomi, innit? But the fun doesn’t stop once you’ve slapped this behemoth on the grill. Once it’s done, it’s time for toppings. The most ubiquitous topping appears to be katsuobushi, or fish flakes to you and me. I’ve had them before and they caused my tastebuds a great deal of confusion, probably down to the uncomfortable likeness they bore to the food that my sister used to give her pet goldfish. Also of great importance to the final product is lashings of Japanese mayonnaise and okonomiyaki sauce, which is kind of like a thicker and sweeter version of Worcestershire sauce. It’s one of the few Japanese dishes that doesn’t scream sophistication, but even this mish-mash of bits and bobs is a thing of beauty when executed properly (rather than shoddily, as was the case in my kitchen). My version of this eggy delight was a German-ised version, born out of necessity rather than desire, as my local Asian supermarket didn’t stock a few of the ingredients. I also decided to eschew the fish flakes, for the reason stated above, and instead topped mine with aonori (seaweed flakes) and crispy panko breadcrumbs. Not exactly authentic, but what is cooking if not making the best of what you’ve got? My pancake was dutifully topped with sinful amounts of mayonnaise and spicy sauce, but like I said, I’m willing to make that sacrifice for you all. You can thank me later when I’m spending all my pennies on liposuction. The verdict: well, delicious of course. Stodgy, spicy and salty, I can imagine this being a superior hangover cure (I will be keeping this in mind for the day after my sister’s wedding). Bravo, Japan, EGG-cellent work (I couldn’t resist, sorry).

Alright, South Korea, you’re up. Pajeon, apparently, is a variety of jeon. Obviously, we are all supposed to know exactly what a jeon is. I, for one, did not. For my fellow ignoramuses, a jeon is a dish of, well, any whole foodstuff coated in flour and egg wash then fried in oil. By that logic, Scotland’s famous deep-fried Mars bar can also be referred to as a Marsjeon, thus making it a sophisticated and exotic delicacy, rather than simply a source of guilty and regretful enjoyment. The pa part of pajeon means spring onion, bringing us to the conclusion that pajeon is nothing more than a heap of spring onions covered in batter and fried. Don’t let that ‘nothing more’ there lead you to believe I’m talking it down – no no, simplicity is beauty, my friends, and pajeon is indeed a thing of beauty. It’s nowhere near as precious as okonomiyaki, requiring little more than store cupboard ingredients, rather than its own fancy eponymous condiment and special (read: nigh-on impossible to come by in small town Germany) toppings. It’s a breeze to make and places wonderful spring onions centre stage, which can only be a good thing. Chowing down with a dipping sauce of soy sauce, garlic and chilli, I found myself wondering why I’d never made this simple little delight before (I didn’t have an answer) and vowed that it would now become a regular in my kitchen, alongside the wonderful Egyptian kochari I made some weeks ago. I also enjoyed a slice slathered in gochujang, which nearly set my mouth on fire, but was outstanding nevertheless.

But which was better? The okonomiyaki was definitely tasty and I’m sure would have been even better had I had all the right ingredients to hand. However, because of its simple, understated elegance (coincidentally, a description I also apply to myself), my vote goes to South Korea and pajeon. 

 Of all the things I’ve made thus far, it’s up there with the easiest and most satisfying – surely two qualities we all look for when selecting an egg-based South Korean delicacy to whip up? But who knows, maybe the North Korean dog ribs would have won my heart. I guess we’ll never know…

I is for... it's actually H!

I is for… it’s actually H!

Once again reader, I apologise for my unbelievable tardiness of late but [insert excuse here]. No, I have actually been spending my time productively eating all the trdelnik the beautiful city of Prague has to offer (I cannot even describe the glory of that food – you gotta look it up) and throwing some very important shapes on the dancefloor at a friend’s wedding. Sorry. But also, not really that sorry at all.

As you may well remember, the last post I did was for the letter ‘I’. Turns out, ‘I’ is not the letter that follows ‘G’. If you are over 2 years of age, you will know that actually, it should have been ‘H’. So here we are, arriving at ‘H’ with joy, excitement and yes, a hint of embarrassment that I messed up something so simple. But what countries, pray tell, begin with ‘H’? Anything springing to mind? No? Good, ‘cos it took me a while too. Well, for this letter, I had three options: Haiti, Hungary and Honduras. Not exactly setting the world alight in culinary terms, eh? To be fair to Hungary, goulash is one tasty little number, but I felt like I wanted to venture a bit further than Europe, given that I’d already hung around there for ‘F’ and ‘G’. The question was: Haiti or Honduras? I have approximately zero connection to either, so this time, I just went for what I fancied. And this week, I fancied some Latino flavaaaaaa. That’s mainly because Enrique Iglesias has featured quite prominently on the soundtrack to my kitchen recently – and I’m not even ashamed to admit it. Bailamos indeed.

Honduras is quite a petite country squished between Guatemala, El Salvador and Nicaragua, waaaaaaay over there in Central America. It’s a tricksy little blighter, to say the least. It gained independence from the Spanish in 1821 in the hope of being able to sort itself out without those pesky Europeans interfering, but sadly suffers from a whole lot of social problems and a very shaky political scene. It also has the extremely dubious accolade of having the world’s highest murder rate. On the plus side, it has a bounty of natural resources: minerals, coffee, sugar cane and an array of beautiful fruits. Hoorah for nature!

But what of the cuisine? Mexican food – or a disappointingly insipid Western take on Mexican food – has long been the most famous cuisine of Central America. God only knows we’ve all fallen victim to a woefully soggy burrito and radioactive, yet curiously tasteless, guacamole before (I’m looking at you, Chiquitos). Indeed, Mexico’s dominance has rather overshadowed its smaller cousins to the south. However, that is by no means an indication of the inferiority of other Central American gastronomical offerings, and for its part, Honduras is secretly cooking up a storm. Honduran food reflects the cultural mish-mash of its past and its geographical situation, bringing together elements of Spanish, Caribbean (try spelling that right first time!) and African cuisine. How did African food get involved? Well, turns out silver mining was pretty high on the Spanish list of priorities back in the day, and they needed someone to do their dirty work for them. They started off condemning locals to the graft, then moved on to slaves from other Central American countries. However, at the end of the 16^th century, local slave trading stopped, so the head honchos began bringing in slaves from Africa, predominantly from Angola. Though undoubtedly subject to truly horrendous conditions, there was little in the way to prevent them from bringing with them their own culture and traditions over, including, of course, food. As with many other countries the world over, indigenous food – in this case Lenca cuisine – also plays a significant role in what you can expect to find on your plate in Honduras.

Upon googling Honduran cuisine, I noticed that the guys and gals over there seem to enjoy a good bowl of soup, whether it’s a sopa de frijoles (black bean soup with green peppers, pork rib and onions), sopa de caracol (conch soup, which features the conch meat cooked in coconut milk with a bunch of spices and green banana) or, my personal fave, sopa de mondongo (tripe soup, featuring a generous POUND of tripe for 6 people). As much as I desperately wanted to make a soup with the lining of a cow’s stomach, I thought the envy would simply be too much for any reader to bear, so I dutifully opted for something a little less, errrrr, exotic. And so, out of consideration and love for YOU, I chose to make baleadas. You’re welcome.

Baleadas, friends, are the Honduran street snack par excellence. Word is that you can fill your boots with these bad boys on almost any street up and down the country, and they are especially enjoyed at breakfast time, like most good things in life. It’s simple: get yourself a Honduran tortilla, slap a load of refried beans on it, some queso duro (hard white cheese) and sour cream. Then go NUTS. You want a fried egg? Sure, chuck it on there. How about some avocado? I was just thinking the same thing! Want to make sure your vegetarian friend doesn’t get their greasy mitts on it? Throw on half a pig! The possibilities are endless – like recycling, but more delicious (sorry if you’re not from the UK and don’t get that GREAT reference). In actual cooking terms, baleadas are a cinch to make. The tortilla is a bit special in that it uses peanut oil in the dough, giving it a slightly earthy flavour, but other than that, most of the ingredients are stuff that’s just knocking around in the fridge. I kept mine veggie by topping them with feta, tomato salsa, egg, avocado and a generous splash of lime juice and HOLY GUACAMOLE they were good. I decided to forego cutlery and consequently ended up with an arm covered in egg yolk and tomato juice, but I live alone, so quite frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.

 Honduras, troubled you may be, but you sure know how to make a greedy little piglet in Germany happy - muchas gracias. Hasta la proxima, amigos!