V is for Vietnam

V is for Vietnam

Hey everyone (i.e. hi parents). Ooooo-eeee, the end is nigh – just a few more weeks to get through and then you’re FREE! No more photos of dough in various guises clogging up whatever social media you use. No more wildly tangential ramblings about my overwhelming love of peanuts. No no, soon it will be no more. Rejoice!

So, here we are at the letter V. Unquestionably one of the easier decisions I’ve come across over the course of this challenge, given a) the exclusivity of the club (a mere 4 members) and b) the fact that I have only visited one of them. Actually, that is a lie: I have indeed visited the Vatican, but I was so mortified by the size of the queue snaking its way around the square in front of St. Peter’s Basilica that I opted for an hour-long pilgrimage to a hole-in-the-wall pizza joint instead. FYI, this is an extremely good example of where my priorities lie when on holiday, should you ever have the bad luck of finding yourself stuck in a foreign country with me. Vanuatu and Venezuela didn’t even get a look in this week: for me, it was time to say xin chào to Vietnam.

Vietnamese food has rightly been lapping up plenty of attention on the food scene for a few years now but maaaan alive, NOTHING can prepare for the sheer joy of the food available in the country itself. Vietnam was the first country in South East Asia I’d ever visited and it was basically love at first bite (baaaaahahahaha). Hmm, in retrospect that may not be true. No, in fact that is another lie. The first night in all round good-time town Hanoi, my cuz/travel bud and I consulted our VERY well-known brand of guide book and ended up in a sadly sub-par little restaurant, dining on mediocre noodles and rice, and inevitably surrounded by other diners with said guidebook sticking out of their pockets. From that dismal moment on, we decided to eschew the book with a firm hand and trust our noses to lead us in the right direction. By the end of our month there, we had managed to convince ourselves that it was in fact normal to eat 6 meals a day, so flippin’ incredible was the food on offer. Needless to say, my body did not thank me for it the first few days into an epic bike ride in Cambodia a few days later!

Fundamental to Vietnamese cuisine – touted as one of the healthiest in the world – is the concept of the five elements: wood, fire, earth, metal and water. Each of these five elements is represented by a certain, hmmm, ‘type’ of flavour, known as ngũ vị – sour, bitter, sweet, spicy and salty, respectively – which in turn correspond to a particular organ in the body. The term ngũ vị means ‘five spice’, which is so beautifully succinct and to the point that there is absolutely no need to go any further into the etymology of it. Hoorah! The Vietnamese are also big on the idea of food as being a multisensory experience in which every one of the five senses should be made to feel like they are the most important one and should be getting all the gold stars at school. Aside from the more obvious senses of taste, smell and sight, the sound is said to come from the crisp freshness of the ingredients, and touch from getting stuck in with your hands wherever possible. This philosophy towards food results in a lot of very happy diners, but believe me when I say that it is certainly more complex and interesting than the measly little description I’ve just given you. I won’t do it the injustice of trying to delve any deeper here, but hey, why not read up on it yourself? Live your life!

The range of sublime dishes and ingredients in Vietnam is vast, but speaking purely from my personal experience, there are definitely a few things which I feel make it stand out from the rest of its neighbours. First of all, the freshness of, well, everything goes above and beyond anything I’ve ever experienced: almost every meal or snack I ate there (every 45 minutes or so, HA!) was accompanied by fistfuls of fresh salad and the herbiest damn herbs you could think of, regardless of what was going on in the main dish. Even the humble but MINDBLOWING banh mi sandwiches you can pick up for about 30p on any street corner (from a vendor, not just off the pavement) are absolutely stuffed with herbs, pickled carrots and daikon, and lettuce. Jesus, I am drooling just thinking about it. Secondly, I particularly enjoyed the abundance of noodles in Vietnam. Of course, nothing says “Heyyyyy I’m a tourist and have no idea what I’m doing” better than ordering a steaming bowl of phở (noodle soup with beef or chicken) for your dinner. It’s all about noodle soup for brekkie, folks – ask Cambodia, they’ll agree. Like many other noodle dishes in that neighbourhood, phở features long, thin rice noodles, making it delightfully light and giving you the sense that you are eating something very wholesome indeed. That said, 3 bowls later and that feeling of springy lightness is generally replaced by a rice noodle food baby and a very full bladder (but NO REGRETS). Finally, I have to mention the coffee. As an avid coffee-avoider for more or less my entire life beforehand, Vietnam was the country that paved the way to coffee-drinking, and therefore something akin to adulthood, for me. It is sensational, truly. Served steaming hot in little metal filters, it is a bit of a waiting game watching it slowly drip, like blots of jet black ink onto paper, onto the indecently thick layer of condensed milk at the bottom of the cup. But when it’s done, holy cow, it is the BUSINESS. Vietnam is second only to Brazil in terms of coffee production and export, but if I were a Vietnamese coffee baron, I’d be keeping all that goodness for myself and start engineering cows that produce condensed milk straight from the udder.

Having invited over numerous guinea pigs to get involved with my Vietnamese venture, I decided that a few different dishes was the way to go. Also, it gave me a good excuse to cook way more than I usually would (*ahem* admit to), which is never a bad thing. So, I raided my bookshelf, looking for recipes that would have me weeping into my noodles and longing to jump on the next flight out. One thing I knew I wanted to make was bánh xèo, which are basically Vietnamese style crepes filled with pork, prawns and, of course, an entire herb garden. The name literally means ‘sizzling cake’, so with these babies, you’re getting a double dose of sound (re: the five senses situation, see above), from the crunchy sturrrrffff and the crepes themselves. They’re also a big hit with the ‘Bodians across the border, but as far as I know, the Vietnamese are the geniuses that came up with them. The batter is made using rice flour (among other things, naturally) and the addition of turmeric turns them – and inevitably everything else within a 2-metre radius - an alarming shade of yellow. What’s not to love?

The second recipe to catch my eye was a gloriously and characteristically simple dish of rice noodles and tofu. At the time of writing this post, I’m a 6-hour train ride away from the recipe book and I can’t remember for the life of me what the dish is called. If I Google it, all I get is many, MANY links to vegan and “clean eating” sites, which is definitely not where I got my recipe from, so I shall have to forego the name and just describe it instead: rice noodles and tofu – ta da! OK, the tofu was tossed in seasoned flour and fried so it was all yummy and crispy, but seriously, that was as complicated as it got. And once again, simplicity took home the gold medal, with this dish coming out on top with ma’ g-pigs. If you are one of those folks who is still a little sceptical about tofu, on the basis that it is a wobbly, bland block of beige nothingness, I implore you to give crispy tofu a try. Get yourself a decent dipping sauce or season the flour with ridiculous amounts of salt and pepper, and prepare yourself for a trip to your new happy place. You are welcome.

Finally, as I am getting close to the end of this challenge, I decided to treat myself by making one of my absolute favourite South East Asian desserts. Oddly enough, it doesn’t involve tapioca, which seems to be the go-to dessert ingredient over that side of the globe, but the pud still does have a pleasing gelatinous quality to it: Chè Trôi Nước. Actually, I’m not 100% sure that is the name of what I made, but again, my cookbook is not to hand, so I’m gonna have to trust Google on this one. This is a dish of little glutinous rice balls with a chunk of palm sugar tucked away inside, boiled and then served in a bath of warm, sweetened coconut milk and topped with toasted sesame. These little monsters are popular in Cambodia too, which is where I know them from, but dammit, they were in my Vietnamese cookbook, so I allowed myself to believe that they are indeed Vietnamese (apologies if Bodge did actually invent them!). Apparently, the name translates to something along the lines of ‘dessert wading in water’, which is so wonderful that I’d be tempted to make them even if I didn’t adore them with every fibre of my being. They are a little time-consuming to make, but for me, it was absolutely worth it. The jury was out from the guinea pigs, as some found the sweetness a little too hair-raising, but this time, I didn’t even care ‘cos it just meant I got to inhale a couple of more. Yay!

 Vietnam, your food is divine, and your reputation as one of the greatest cuisines is well and truly deserved. Well done you!

U is for Uruguay

U is for Uruguay

Goededag, dames en heren! I’m writing to you from a little room in a very breezy Delft, in the Netherlands, where I’m putting my shamefully rusty Dutch through its paces in an intensive language course. So, I apologise if nothing in this post makes sense. At this moment in time, my brain is reminiscent of a melted ice cream, or indeed een gesmolten ijsje, as the folk here would say.

The dough and, well, my table

Blah blah blah, no-one cares about all that nonsense, I hear you cry. Alright, I’m back on track, on the food train, heading south west! The letter U was surprisingly plentiful in choice: I was expecting it to be a case of 3 or 4 countries, but once again, my utter lack of geographical knowledge led me astray. There were, in fact, 7 entire countries to choose from – and not bad ones at that. Having tackled Russia a few weeks ago, I ruled Ukraine out pretty sharpish, and the United Arab Emirates may as well have not been there at all, for all the enthusiasm I had for cooking food from the Gulf again. I was very tempted to have a total calorific blow-out and make any number of sinful dishes from the USA (chicken fried steak, mac ‘n cheese, a properly massive Devil’s food cake), or indeed to pay tribute to my homeland of the UK. Lord knows I can demolish a scone in about 3 seconds flat. But no, at the time of cooking, a very dear friend of mine was visiting and so, to thank her for schlepping all the way over to Germany to see yours truly, I left the choice down to her. And what was her country of choice? Well, none other than little old Uruguay!

Chimichurriiiiiii

Uruguay, where even are you? I mean, yes, we all know somewhere in South America, but where? There, in the middle somewhere? Oh. Oh no, not even close. To the left? No, not there either. Oh dear. Right down at the bottom of Brazil?! Who knew?!?! You kept that secret, you sneaky little country. And little it is, at least in comparison to its mammoth neighbour to the North (Brazil, obvs) and its sizeable pal to the West (Argentina). In fact, geographically-speaking (and we all know how GREAT my geoggers is by now) it’s the second smallest country in South America after Suriname, a former colony of my interim home here, the Netherlands. Although I apparently have zero idea where it actually is, I have to say, I harbour a secret admiration for Uruguay, primarily for its superlative national attitude towards renewable energy (almost 95% of the country’s energy is from renewables, dontcha know). But having just Googled the country, my obeisance for it has at least quadrupled in the last 10 seconds. Why? Well, here are just a few reasons for you to chew on: on a per-capita basis, it contributes more than any other country in the WORLD to UN peace-keeping missions. I KNOW!! It also ranks first in Latin America in terms of democracy, peace and lack of corruption. Are you packing your bags, too? Finally (at least for this bloglet), Uruguay is regarded as one of the most liberal and progressive nations on the planet, leading The Economist to crown it country of the year in 2013. I don’t know about you guys, but I’m already looking at apartments in Montevideo.

Before the fill-fest

When it came to investigating the tasty treats that this absolute beaut of a country serves up, I admit I had my preconceptions. Given its proximity to Argentina, land of meat, I was pretty sure this week would be a choice of steak, steak, or maybe even steak. Generally not something I would go for, as I’m not a massive carnivore, but for the sake of this project, I was willing to struggle through and get hold of a couple of big juicy slabs of meat. Hard life, eh? However, once I’d delved deep into the black hole of the internet, it transpired that Uruguayan cuisine is surprisingly diverse and indeed European, basically welcoming any and every other national cuisine with open arms. Goddamit, Uruguay, must you excel in EVERY area of life? It’s particularly heavy on Mediterranean flavours, with more than a few nods to Spanish, Portuguese, French and Italian cuisine. This, for the most part, is down to immigration. Once again, it was the Spaniards (yeh, those guys again – seriously, was the rest of Europe just picking their nose for centuries or something?) who paved the way for Europeans who wanted to try out life halfway round the world, swiftly followed by a sizeable wave of Italian immigrants. As is the case in Argentina, Spanish and Italian immigrants formed the backbone of society in Uruguay, and their influence can still be felt in the architecture, language and traditions of both countries. You need only go as far as Montevideo (say with an Italian accent whilst gesticulating wildly to get the full effect) to get a clue as to how much of an influence the Italians had there.

My outstanding assistant, sans head

As a result of this melting-pot situation, I was faced with quite the dilemma when trying to figure out what to cook. Given the above-mentioned influx of Marios, Giuseppes and Marias, it’s hardly surprising that pizza is kind of a big deal in Uruguay. Of particular intrigue was fainá, which is a thin, round chickpea flour pizza-crêpe type job found all over the shop in Uruguayan pizza joints. However, my idea was swiftly poo-pooed by my guest, who understandably fancied something a little more interesting than a chickpea crêpe. The dessert section of the great menu of Uruguay was also brimming with possibility: not only are they fans of everyone’s favourite artery clogger, dulce de leche (sweet, sticky caramel-type sauce), but they also enjoy a good churro. If that ain’t enough to get you reaching for your phone, just in case you have a heart attack, Uruguayans also indulge in a wide range of so-called bizcochos, which is more or less what we know as Danish pastries. May I reiterate: Uruguay is the dream land.

Yes yes YES empanadas

However, my dear guest and I had already almost eaten ourselves into a sugar coma by the time it came to cook, and so we opted for a savoury dish: empanadas. I’m sure most people have heard of empanadas before – they’re a popular snackette all the way across Central and South America, as well as in the Southern states of the US, and indeed in Spain, the originators of the little blighters. But what exactly is it? Well, basically, it is the Spanish equivalent of a Cornish pasty: a semi-circular pie filled, in general, with some kind of meat, and fried. And all of that in a practical hand-sized portion, ready for you to inelegantly stuff into your chops without the inconvenience of using cutlery. The Uruguayan version does not differ hugely from its neighbours, although the use of a generous handful of fresh herbs seemed to be bucking the trend slightly. The version we produced also called for a bowl of chimichurri sauce on the side, made of a buttload of parsley and oregano, chilli and garlic. As baking goes, empanadas are definitely not hard to make at all. It was actually strangely therapeutic filling them and making them look all nice with forked edges. The end result was a hit, if I do say so myself, with the herbalicious chimchurri giving the whole shebang a nice whack ‘o fresh. I feel like I’ve said this a lot throughout this blog, but people, this time I mean it: Uruguay is IT. Montevideo, watch out, I’m coming for you!

T is for Turkey

T is for Turkey

Guys and gals, this is really the home stretch now, eh? It’s like when you turn 27 and think ‘blimey, I’m legit in my late 20’s…I should probably start thinking about adulty type things now’. Except in this case, I’m reaching the late ‘bet (as not a single person has ever called it) and should probably start thinking about food a tiny bit less. Or not. Most likely not.

All. The. Butter

After the unbearably drawn out process of creating Spanish food last week, I decided to go for something I felt a bit more at home with, lest I produce yet another rock-solid death weapon masquerading as bread. The letter T certainly offered up a few interesting candidates, such as Thailand (yessssss to all dem noodlezzzzz) and Tunisia, which would have seen me once again reaching for almost every spice I own. Delectable as these and many other T cuisines undoubtedly are, living in Germany means that in actual fact, I only had one real option. Can you guess what it is yet? Consider for a moment German fast food: Currywurst, Bretzel, Bratwurst...what’s missing? Any fast food fan worth their unhealthy amount of salt knows that the best and only ‘snack’ (if you can call something that would feed a small family for 3 days a snack) worth having here is the döner, leading me to conclude that this week, Turkey was the one.

Turkish food – and for the most part, flippin’ good Turkish food – is ubiquitous in Germany. Turkish food here is kind of the equivalent to Indian food in the UK: no matter what hole in the ditch you find yourself in after following some questionable sat nav directions, you are almost guaranteed to find Turkish food there. It’s basically the law. And hey, I work at the courts sometimes, so obviously I know what I’m talking about! I remember vividly the pure elation that friends and I felt when, a couple of weeks into our year abroad, we realised that it is socially acceptable to eat a döner during the day. IMAGINE! Rather than resorting to it as a last option on the way home after a night out on the tiles (or sticky dancefloor) – then promptly regretting it the second you wake up – in Germany, land of dreams, you just saunter down to your local döner joint on your lunch break and not a single person would suspect you of having some kind of booze problem! I mean, co-workers might object when you come back to the office honking of garlic and fried meat, but they’re just being precious. Plus, they’re probably just jealous that they didn’t go with you, the fools.

Baklava station

But why is Turkish food so popular here? Well, the nub and gist of it is that, back in the 50s, 60s and 70s, West Germany was in need of a whole host of workers in the industrial sector to help rebuild the country after the Second World War, so it signed bilateral recruitment agreements which allowed it to take on so-called Gastarbeiter (guest workers) in industry to do jobs that required fewer qualifications. Italy, Greece and Spain were the first countries to sign, and Turkey followed in 1961. The whole history of Gastarbeiter is super interesting, but this little bloglet is not the place to delve into the topic. Important to know is that, over the years, the population of Turkish people working and living in Germany continued to grow, reaching 4 million in 2010 – a significantly larger number than any other non-German nationality. In fact, Berlin is home to the largest Turkish community outside of Turkey and accordingly, the common consensus is that the closer you live to Berlin, the better the döner. Heck, the döner is even said to have been invented in Berlin, by an enterprising Turkish immigrant. The day that fella passed away, Germany lost a piece of its cultural history, and it knew it: national papers and journals covered the story, highlighting just how much of an integral part of the national cuisine his invention had become.

Of course, the Turkish food available in Germany is not representative of all the grub that Turkey has to offer. Just looking at the sheer size of the country makes that pretty clear - it’s almost four times the size of the UK, man! A country that big, you’re going to be able to pack in a LOT of different dishes. Not only that, but it straddles two continents, bringing in flavours from all over the shop and throwing them all in a mixing bowl together to produce some pretty spectacular results. However, I felt a little overwhelmed by the task of giving a “brief insight” into Turkish cuisine in general (plus, I would just get hungry for ALL OF IT), so, when choosing a dish to cook, I decided to look a little more closely at the Turkish food I know and love from my time here in Deutschland.

Ready to roll

If I head out for Turkish food here, I generally try (and generally fail) to ration myself during the day ‘cos I know dinner in a Turkish restaurant means getting a LOT of bang for your buck. Döner aside, lamb is undoubtedly the star of the show, especially since Germans don’t seem to appreciate it in any other context (one of the few downsides to living here). In most joints, lamb lovers will have their pick of whatever form of the meat they want, from hunks of it hanging out in a dish of saç kavurma (chunks o’ lamb fried up with onions, pepper and peperoni), a saddle of it in the form of hünkar beğendi (grilled, on a bed of aubergine puree) or minced, skewered and grilled to produce köfte. Obviously, other meat does make an appearance, but to be honest, if it didn’t used to look like a cloud with legs, I ain’t interested. If you aren’t so keen on tucking into a monster portion of cute little lambs, you’re in luck – Turkish food is an absolute party for vegetarians, too. You barely even need to move past the starter page in a restaurant menu to sort yourself out with a bloody good feed, full of beauties such as sigara böreği (filo pastry “cigars” filled with white beyaz penir cheese and various herbs), cacık (yoghurt, garlic and cucumber) and patlıcan ezmesi (pureed aubergine with garlic and yoghurt). Even though my love of lamb can at times be overwhelming, I had the feeling that I’ve been neglecting my sweet tooth so far in this blog. And so, to make up for allllllll the weeks of savoury goodness, I thought I’d give my tastebuds the sweet equivalent in a single, teeth-rottingly sugary explosion. Friends, loosen your belts – it’s baklava time.

Daaaayyyummmm, lookin good

The origins of beautiful, heavenly baklava are unclear, but common consensus states that it was developed in the imperial kitchens of the Topkapı Palace in Istanbul, with the Sultan getting his minions to roll out metres and metres of the stuff every 15^th of the month of Ramadan. Prior to this, it may well have developed from – sick bags at the ready, folks – Roman placenta cake (vommmmmmmmmmmm). Don’t worry, it wasn’t a cake made out of actual placenta, that was just a fun-time name for an ancient Roman dish of about a bajillion layers of dough, interspersed with a mixture of honey and cheese, then baked and covered in honey (almost as vomit-inducing as the idea of placenta cake, actually). Whatever the origins, baklava is a celebration of all that your dentist hates in life: sugary chopped nuts layered with buttery, crisp filo pastry and held together with either about a pint of honey or sugar syrup. There is an incredible variety of baklava to be had, featuring various nuts and ‘construction’ techniques, but for my own attempt I kept it simple, following a recipe in a fantastic book given to me by my big sis. After some initial scepticism about my capacity to create what I perceive to be the king of sweets, I was delighted to discover that simple baklava is precisely that: simple as you like! Sure, there are a lot of stages and it’s kind of time-consuming, but it is in no way complicated – a dangerous revelation. And my my my, was it worth the time and effort – Jesus, the SMELL in the flat was worth it alone! Hot, crisp and buttery out of the oven, I don’t know that I’ve ever produced any dessert that satisfying before. Whether my dentist would agree is another matter entirely.

S is for Spain

S is for Spain

Well, this was an overwhelming week in terms of choice. Truly, I was in something of a quandary when I looked up how many countries start with the letter S. There are 27 to choose from – the same number of EU Member States now (sob sob sob), to give you some idea of context. And boy, are there some GREAT places in this category: Sri Lanka was speaking to me in a big way after having read a recipe for so-called hoppers (Sri Lankan crepes, if you will); Switzerland of course has the healthiest of all the foods, cheese fondue; Sweden has all kinds of spicy buns (watch yourselves, those who are thinking the ‘bluer’ definition of buns – oo-er); Syrian cuisine is brimming with many of my absolute favourite foods, and Singaporean food is a melting pot of delights I’d quite happily dive face first into and lollop around in for…well, forever. While all these places had me drooling all over my keyboard, I felt that, having spent several years of my life studying the beautiful language of Spanish, I had no other choice but to dedicate this week to España. Vamos, chicos!!!

The beginnings of the pan

I have a kind of complicated relationship with Spanish. For some reason, although I know I am quite competent in it, it requires a gargantuan effort for me to actually reel off anything more than just ‘hola’. German has a delightful phrase to describe the notion of getting over your inhibitions, which, when literally translated, becomes ‘to overcome your inner pig-dog’ (den inneren Schweinehund überwinden, in case you were wondering). Friends, the Spanish language is my personal pig-dog: for all the best will in the world, I simply freeze up when it comes to speaking it. There is a large school of thought that considers it one of the easier languages to learn, which I’m sure is true in many ways; however, having accustomed myself early on to the rigidities of the German language, the slightly simpler grammar rules of Spanish leave me floundering in a sea of sangria. That said, I still enjoy a good bit of Latin pop and am thrilled when I can actually decode what Enrique Iglesias is singing about (hint: it is often sexy Latinas and dancing).

Having a right laugh with my pepper

The Spanish cuisine is famous the world over, and with good reason. Before you even get to looking at the human history that has influenced the country’s food, you have to do nothing more than caste an eye over the geography of the country to see that it certainly lends itself well to cultivating an eye-popping array of goodies. Not only is the climate pretty darn good for growing all kinds of treats (although global warming is making its unwelcome presence felt there, affecting growing patterns), but Spain has a full house when it comes to the physical side of things: coast, mountains, a whopping great big plateau. It even has some volcanic areas dotted around, providing some good fertile land for growing (not actual fact, just GSCE-geography-based speculation there). I’m almost certain that anyone who has visited a supermarket in another, less climatically favourable European country has come face to face with Spanish oranges, aubergines, tomatoes, artichokes and tomatoes at some point. Also, all that coast not only means plenty of space for British tourists to get burned to a crisp on day 1 of their holiday, but also an abundance of glorious seafood. As controversial as the European fishing industry is (a cursory peek into the first few Google hits is evidence enough to confirm that little statement), there is no doubt that Spain is a major player, making the most of all those little critters swimming around its waters and supplying the millions of locals and tourists with beautiful plates of paella de marisco, boquerones en vinagre (sardines in vinegar – divine) and percebes (gooseneck barnacles). The latter, by the way, is a prized delicacy which is unfathomably impractical to harvest, so you know people will be willing to pay big bucks for it (€ 100 per plate, anyone?). In fact, it is so highly prized that harvesters are genuinely risking their lives to get at the little buggers, hurling themselves into choppy waters that are littered with perilous rocky outcrops. I tell you what, though, they must taste sensational, ‘cos one look at a plate full of these ugly little alien barnacles would be enough to send me running for the hills. Seriously, look ‘em up – so gross.

Delicious but deadly: pan candeal

As we all know, the Spaniards have been pretty industrious over the last few centuries with regards to setting sail and putting their stamp on various parts of the world, so it is only natural that the fruits (literally) of that labour found their way into the food back home. Most notably, following the arrival of the Spanish in the Americas, kitchens back in España were suddenly full of new ingredients to play with, such as tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers and potatoes. Fiesta time! Of course, that does not constitute the only great foreign influence in Spanish cuisine, but quite frankly, there are not enough hours in the day (or readers with sufficient patience) to go into it in great detail. What I will say, though, is that anyone who has ever enjoyed a bucket of sangria while sunning themselves on the Costa del Sol can send their thanks in the direction of Rome and Greece – it was those chaps who introduced viticulture to Spain. So yeh, cheers for that guys!

Spanish cuisine, more so than other places I’ve come across, is a battlefield of regional cuisines. Sure, the food you get down in Provence in France is going to be different to what you’ll get up in a traditional Breton restaurant, for example, but it appears that the Spaniards really take their regional food seriously. Again, there simply isn’t enough time to get down to the nitty gritty of it all, but I reckon you could get into a nice ‘healthy’ debate with a few Spaniards about who has the best food: the Andalusians, with their zealous use of olive oil; the Basques with their otherworldly pintxos (Basque tapas), or the Asturians, serving up mega pots of bean stew and honking cheeses. Needless to say, I was slightly overwhelmed when it came to deciding what to cook. Maybe I should have headed to Saudi Arabia and made a trusty rice, meat and veg dish, after all.

Viva Espana!

I guess for a lot of people, the go-to Spanish food is paella: a properly generous pan of saffron rice, vegetables, chicken, seafood, chorizo – whatever takes your fancy, really. Me, I was still suffering from a bit of rice fatigue, so decided to delve into a cookbook of European peasant food (sounds like a laugh a minute, eh?) to see what it could offer me in the way of less obvious Spanish treats. While I may be a bit tired of rice, I will never bore of bread – the one true love of my life – and so it was that I found myself writing down the ingredients for pan candeal and migas del pastor. Pan candeal is described as Andalusian sourdough bread, the rounded edges of which are well-suited to being lugged around on the back of a donkey. Granted, I don’t make a habit of heading to work on a donkey these days, but nevertheless, I am a fan of the more rustic food in life – it is infinitely more forgiving if you have a slightly heavy hand in the kitchen or, in my case, have a tendency to get distracted by pigeons flirting in the tree outside the kitchen window (the saucy devils). I’ve never made sourdough before, but I did have some vague notion that it requires a few days to really get going, but my God, this bad boy took it to another level: I started it off on Friday and it was MONDAY NIGHT before I had my first crumb of the damn thing. According to the recipe I used, the longer-than-average time scale makes this bread basically a guaranteed success, light and fluffy like a little floofy cloud. Um, well, I am living proof that this is absolute codswallop. Although the mixture was all bubbly over the few days it was sunbathing in my flat, something mysterious happened when it came to the actual baking, producing something that could legitimately be considered a dangerous weapon in the hands of an angry Spanish housewife. The flavour, actually, was delightful – very intense and savoury – but the texture definitely left more than a little to be desired. Luckily for my jaw and teeth, I had other plans than the simple consumption of my pan candeal: migas del pastor.

Shepherd's crumbs!

So guys, migas means crumbs in Spanish, and a pastor is a shepherd: shepherd’s crumbs. That was what I chose for Spain. No paella, no patas bravas, no churros¸ no tortilla. No. Instead of choosing any one of these flavoursome feasts, I, in my infinite wisdom and love of the unusual, decided to make shepherd’s crumbs. *Sigh* The story behind this dish is that it was what shepherds whipped up with the meagre remains of their supplies after days of chasing sheep around the Andalusian countryside. Another, perhaps more fanciful notion, is that it came about during the days of Al-Andalus (back when the Moors were checking out what Spain and Portugal had to offer), the crumbs acting as a substitute for North African couscous. The Christians in the area got wise to the dish and then decided to throw in some manifestation of pork to differentiate it from the food of the Arabs and Jews. But really, no one seems totally sure of the origins of the dish. Oh well, onwards and upwards. If you decide to forego the waiting game of making your own pan, this is not a tricky dish to make: basically, fry up some onions, garlic and red peppers, then chuck in a bit of old bread. If you’re feeling extra fancy, top it all with a fried egg. That’s it. I have to say, despite the slightly inedible quality of the pure, unadulterated bread, it was marvellous fried up a few days later – the fact that it had been stewing in its own juices for the best part of the week meant it was so savoury that I barely needed to add any salt or anything to produce flavour. And of course, the egg was a happy addition, as eggs almost always are. All in all, I’d say the following: pan candeal is a bothersome lump that was not worth the effort, but the migas were pretty delish…just save yourself the fuss and buy the bread instead. 

R is for Russia

R is for Russia

Ahhhhh R, how you spoil me! After the exiguous offerings of the last weeks (not you, P, you were great), I felt a little spoilt for choice when it came to selecting a country for R. I had not one, not two, but THREE whole countries to choose from! Imagine, three countries – and not small ones, I hasten to add – whose greatest culinary exports, for the most part, do not include rice. Christmas has truly come early. Of course, in the grand scheme of things, three is not actually a substantial number. My choice this week was limited to Russia, Rwanda and Romania, none of which I have any particular personal connection to. My one Rwanda-related anecdote came in the form of a witness for whom I translated at court here in Germany. I won’t go into too much detail, but the nub and gist of the whole thing was that, having learnt on the day that Rwanda does in fact have two official languages (English and French) and that said witness declared himself to be far more proficient in French, I found myself dusting off my good old A-level French in that most opportune of moments, a murder trial. Unfortunately, though not wholly surprisingly, ‘la région Rhône-Alpes’ (A-level French topic, fyi), did not feature too prominently in his statement. That riotous situation aside, my links with Rwanda, and also Romania, are non-existent. This of course left me with Mother Russia. As luck would have it, my guinea pig/sous-chef this week has an actual Russian mother, so voila, all was well in the kitchen.

The sacrilegious herbs

Before I continue, I would like to say right now that there is no way on this earth I could even attempt to recount the history of Russian cuisine in a nutshell without boring you to tears, so I shall quit while I’m ahead and focus on more specific aspects of it. But first, some words on the country itself. I don’t know about you, but thinking about Russia produces a similar reaction in me to when I ponder the very existence of space: basically, my brain can contemplate it up to a certain point but then it starts to feel woozy and needs a little rest because it’s all a little bit too much and, yes, I would like a cup of tea to calm my nerves, thank you. What I’m trying to say is that Russia is vast. Stating the obvious, yes, but consider this: Russia – a country here on little planet earth – has roughly the same surface area as Pluto, a.k.a. an ENTIRE GODDAMN PLANET. Not only is it big, but there are a whole lot of people living there, too. Apparently, more people flit on and off the subway in Moscow every day than in New York and London…combined. 9 million of ‘em, to be “precise”. Are you gobsmacked? I am. My gob is well and truly smacked. There are so many mind-boggling facts about Russia, I could fire them at you all day, but we are not here purely to pick up points in a pub quiz. No, kids, as we know, I’ve got my knife and fork ready and I’m waiting for the buffet to open.

Rollin in dough

I think it’s fair to say that Russia is probably one of the more misunderstood, or simply mysterious, nations.  It’s shrouded in secrecy, with all kinds of rumours swirling around it like a snowstorm in Siberia, feeling almost impenetrable to outsiders. To a lesser extent, Russian food is also an unknown entity for great swathes of the global population. Hand on heart, when was the last time you heard someone say “By Jove, I had an absolute corker of a meal last night, little Russian joint round the corner. Really, Denise, you must try the rassolnik…”? OK, that sentence was very specific, but you get my point: Russian is not necessarily lauded as one of the world’s great cuisines in the same way that French, Italian and Indian are, for example. However, it’s simply not possible to have a country so preposterously large without a good solid dinner to back it up - but what, then, is on the plate?

First of all, one must distinguish between Russian and Soviet cuisine. Traditional Russian cuisine is based on peasant food and, as we are all aware, Russia is no tropical paradise (see Siberian snowstorms above), resulting in a diet based on hardy staples such as rye, fish, pork, barley, berries and vodka. Language nerds among you, the word vodka is a diminutive form of the Slavic word for water (voda), so vodka basically just means ‘little water’. Sounds harmless enough, but it’s a different story when you’re three sheets to the wind off the stuff and making the oh-so-wise decision to get on the karaoke machine and give the world your best rendition of ‘Lady Marmalade’ while swinging your bra around your head. Vodka aside, traditional Russian fare is awash with good hearty soups like solyanka (a thick, salty-sour soup) and borscht (beetroot, tomato and beef soup), cereal-based porridges (kasha), meat-tastic dishes like shashlyk (yep, shashlik to you and me) and a curt nod to fresh vegetables in the form of salads such as sel’d’ pod shuboy. Rolls off the tongue, that one, eh? Known as ‘herring under a fur coat’ (errr….), this little delight consists of a layered salad with pickled herring covered in grated boiled vegetables, chopped onions and mayo, finished off with a flourish of grated and boiled beetroot mixed with mayonnaise, lending the dish a rather alarming purple colour. As if that weren’t enough, it’s garnished with grated boiled eggs, producing a final product that is, essentially, my sister’s idea of living hell.

Fill dem pelmeni

Be that as it may, Russian food has some bloody tasty niblets tucked away, but first I would quickly like to touch on Soviet food. That is a beast unto itself, formed by bringing together the national cuisines of countries that belonged to the Soviet Union. As you may well expect, the cuisine was characterised by a somewhat limited selection of ingredients and generally comprised ‘watered down’ versions of French, Austro-Hungarian and traditional Russian dishes. The notion of Soviet cuisine not only refers to the food itself, but also to the general approach to eating it: a typical full-on Soviet meal consisted of 3 or 4 courses (logically, “the first”, “the second” etc.), each of which was distinct from the one before. The first course was normally a soup or broth, followed by a ‘solid’ dish of meat, fish or poultry and a garnish for the second; third out of the kitchen was something to drink, and finally the whole thing was topped off by the fourth course, a dessert. Find your way into a restaurant and you could go mad, ordering whatever your heart desired on the menu; however, in the state-run canteens (so-called stolovaya), you ran the gauntlet of a more restrictive kompleksny obed, or combined lunch, when your tastebuds were truly at the mercy of the guys and gals cooking it up. The common approach to food was, and to some extent continues to be, ‘eat a lot, a few times a day, and nothing between meals’. Whatever you think about pickled cucumber soup and stuffed cabbage, you can’t argue with that sensible logic.

Before being boiled aliiiiiive

When considering what to cook this time, I allowed myself to be guided by the aforementioned guinea pig/sous-chef. He led me straight back into my new-found comfort zone, to the world of dumplings – in this case, to pelmeni. These babies supposedly tipped up in Siberia, though precisely when and how isn’t exactly clear. One theory is that they are a Siberian version of the Chinese wonton; another is that the Mongols lugged a load over to Siberia with them, from which they spread across the Urals and beyond. The word pelmeni itself means ‘ear bread’ in a number of native Uralic languages, which most likely alludes to their form, rather than to the ingredients (at least, I hope that’s the case!). Just to give you an idea of what pelmeni look like, imagine any one of the following and it should help you out: Turkish/Kazakh manti, Nepalese and Tibetan momo, Korean mandu, Japanese gyoza, Italian ravioli, Ukrainian varenyky or Polish pierogi. Get the picture? Apparently, all these different types of dumplings are in fact cousins, coming together to form one big, doughy family. The crux, I’m informed, lies in the thickness of the dough: for pelmeni, it should be quite thin, with a high proportion of filling. The filling is simple, just minced beef and/or pork with perhaps a few simple herbs and seasonings thrown in. Sounds easy enough, right?

The final product!

Well, I have to hold my hands up here and say that, while I made the dough and the filling, the real artistry of folding the little blighters must be credited to the sous-chef. Thanks to the addition of an egg, the dough was extremely soft and quite tricky to work with, but it meant that the final product had a very pleasing richness, particularly when compared to the less than thrilling flour-and-water Qatari dumplings last week. Judging by the sceptical look on the S-C’s face when I produced the filling, I went for a more “out there” recipe that included a smattering of dill and parsley – shock, horror – which produced a nice little herby respite from the meaty meatness of the dish. Fiddly as they were to fold with such thin dough (I mean, they looked very fiddly from the right side of the table), the final product tasted rather spectacular in a simple, homely kind of way. Of course, pelmeni isn’t pelmeni without a good dollop of sour cream on top, immediately undoing any notion one may have had about this dish being vaguely healthy, a point which was also not helped by the addition of a couple of measures of neat vodka. But you know what, it’s flippin’ cold in Siberia! I’d be fattening myself up too in the face of sub-zero temperatures all the live long day. So to Siberia, and Russia, and pelmeni, I say ‘здоровье’ (sorrysorrysorry to Russians if that is totally wrong – I tried!).

Q is for Qatar

Q is for Qatar

I’ll put it out there now and say I reckon this might be shortest entry there’s been for a while (please try and keep your rejoicing to a minimum – the neighbours are trying to sleep). Only a couple of weeks ago, for lack of any other option, my hands were tied and I had to cook Omani cuisine. Delicious as it was (damn, it really was good), I wasn’t overly thrilled at the prospect of once again being faced with a one-country letter, particularly given the fact that the two cuisines in question – Omani and Qatari – aren’t exactly what you would call ‘polar opposites’. Not only that, but there was just one measly week between the two (thank God for the Philippines), which meant eating two very similar meals in very quick succession. So, suffice it to say I was heading back over to the Persian Gulf with something less than buckets than enthusiasm. Maybe a bowl of it. Maybe even just a dainty little teacup. No offence, Qatar!

Off to a great start

As anyone who keeps half an eye on the news (eugh, flashbacks to cutting open sheep eyeballs at school – bleeeeuuuuggghhh) will know, this little nation makes up in headlines what it may lack in physical size. And boyyyyy has it been causing a fuss recently! I am about as far from an expert on the Middle East as it is possible to get, but even I know that this former British protectorate is definitely not the most popular kid in the class over there. I have to say though, considering the overwhelming attitude of bewilderment and, to some extent, disdain towards Britain that seems to be emanating from an unfortunate number of countries right now, I can empathise a smidge with Qatar. To clarify, I mean this like in the same way I could empathise with the other kid in my class at school who used to have to wear an eyepatch and headbrace (true story, folks): comrades in arms we were not, but there was a certain sense of “I get ya, kid”. (Please note: I am in no way taking a political stance on whatever the heck is going on over there. I’m just here for the chuckles).

Less of the childhood sob - or for you, perhaps, wildly entertaining – stories, and back to Qatar. Let me tell you, for a little splodge of a nation, the Qataris haven’t done badly for themselves at all, at least in terms of moola. It officially has the highest income per capita in the world – bet you didn’t know that, did you? And even though you’d not necessarily notice this little fella in a crowded room at some fancy soiree, Qatar packs a disproportionate punch on the world stage, being identified as a ‘middle power’ (a step away from a ‘great power’ and two shades off ‘superpower’). Having said that, if Qatar were to head to a fancy soiree, it’d probably be dripping in gold, silk and truffles, so it’d maybe be a little tricky to ignore. I just one to mention one final little fact on the country itself: earlier this year, the population of Qatar was 2.6 million. Not so special, eh? BUT 2.3 million of ‘em are expatriates. 2.3 MILLION. OF 2.6 MILLION! The mind boggles.

Bootiful veg

The question, of course, is what do all those expats, and the smattering of locals, eat there? Well, no prizes for guessing that rice is back on the menu. And chicken and lamb. And all manner of spices. And a bunch of veggies. Can you sense my enthusiasm?? Apparently, the national dish of Qatar is machbous – a good ol’ reliable mix of rice, meat and vegetables. Though there may be some contention considering its origins, machbous is said to come from Saudi Arabia. Its neighbours were then apparently like “yeh, cool, we’ll have some of that too” and the rest was history. So, what about something that is typically Qatari? I’ll tell you this for free, it’s not easy to track down. Many of the country’s most popular dishes, such as kabsa (rice, meat and vegetables mixed with spices – notice a pattern emerging?) and balaleet (noodles cooked with sugar, cinnamon, saffron and cardamom and topped with – gulp – an omelette) tend to be rather vague as to their origins, and are enjoyed by many countries in that corner of the globe. However, after MUCH trawling the backwaters of Google, I chanced upon an intriguing dish which, while once again of vague origin, presented a slightly more interesting experience than the standard rice-meat-veg combo. Plus, as a bonus, it has a downright glorious name: margoog.

Said curious dumplings

Ma gawd, margoog, what a funny little thing you are. On first glance, it’s nothing but a harmless lamb and vegetable stew, with the customary 10-page list of spices. HOWEVER, just where you think the list of ingredients should stop, there comes the heading ‘dumpling ingredients’. Errrrr what? What are dumplings doing in a lamb stew all the way over in Qatar? Did some oil baron come over to Britain and sneak a pot of some granny’s stew back in his carry-on? To me, that is the only explanation. Dumplings have been a fairly regular theme in many of the cuisines I’ve looked into so far, but not in any of the Persian Gulf countries. What’s more, these dumplings aren’t your typical globs of stodge that are lurking around in a hearty British stew. No no, margoog dumplings are flat. Literally just a flat disc of flour, oil and water that floats around on top of the stew, occasionally dipping below the surface if a chunk of aubergine decides to wash ashore on it. Very strange indeed.

Marvellous margoog

As I was shopping for this dish, I decided to forego the meat and try a veggie version. Well friends, let me tell you that this was a very good decision. Although I left out the lamb, I left the stew to simmer and bubble away for almost as long, meaning that the vegetables broke down into a delightful mass of semi-indistinguishable mush. I appreciate that that doesn’t sound especially appetising, but who wants an undercooked aubergine? No-one, that’s who. My new friends, the dried Persian limes, also snuck their way into my dinner, which I was definitely not sad about, and the whole bonanza was topped off by above-mentioned dumplings/mini frisbees. I gotta say, after all that moaning at the start about the lack of choice this week, margoog turned out to be an absolute smash. I distinctly remember clicking my fingers in a ‘gosh darnit, that’s mighty delicious’ kind of way, surprised as I was about the whole shebang. So Qatar, you may be somewhat controversial in other areas of life, but you sure make a good margoog!

P is for the Philippines

P is for the Philippines

Lumpia filling

Compared with last week’s bleak outlook in terms of available countries and cuisines, P felt like hitting the gastronomical jackpot. Sure, it may not have the biggest selection of countries to go on, but it is not messing around. For starters, who in their right mind doesn’t LOVE a Portuguese nata? Y’all know them, for sure – those crispy, gooey, sweet-as-you-like custard tarts to which, upon purchasing, you say ‘oh gracious, I couldn’t possibly eat more than one’, only to find yourself soon 7 natas in and wishing someone would come along with a little wagon and drag you and your sorry excuse for willpower home. Yeh, those ones. And what about pierogi from Poland – another national take on everyone’s favourite carb-fest, the dumpling? A little plate of those bad boys smothered in sour cream is surely the stuff of everyone’s dreams (or perhaps digestion-induced nightmares). However, probably the most obvious choice this week for me was Peru because a) I’ve been there, many moons ago, and b) Peruvian food is something of a darling of the food scene at the moment. When I visited this wonderful land, I was a mere 16 years old and so my palate was a little less discerning than it is now. Indeed, my lasting memories of Peruvian food are the radioactive yellow of ‘Inca Kola’ (this really is the stuff of dreams, folks) and a tasty little dish of deep fried guinea pig. Yep, there we were, a bunch of rag-tag teenagers from rural England, breaking off limbs and gnawing on the ribs of what several of us had, until that very moment, only ever considered as a rubbish version of a pet rabbit. Disconcerting it may have been, but oooooeeeeeeeiiiiii it was GOOD! But even the combined goodness of Portuguese, Polish and Peruvian grub was not enough to tempt me away from one cuisine that is revered deeply by my fellow eating fanatic, Ms Shelley Pascual. And so, without further ado, I present to you…the Philippines!

Rollin' dat lumpia

Just a quick word about Shelley: a former work colleague and absolutely tip-top friend, Shelley has seen a lot of the world. Just when you think you’ve visited a lot of places and are silently congratulating yourself on being so very worldly, Shelley will just casually slip in that she’s been here, there and everywhere. Oh, and there too. Twice. Sometimes one may begrudge such traveling, but Shell is such a class act that it simply makes you wish that you were a little more like her. She’s also an A+ freelance journalist (check it out: https://shelleypascual.wordpress.com/), mountain biker and, importantly for this blog, daughter of Filipino parents. Thankfully, she also luuuurves food (check out her and her sister’s drool-worthy Instagram account @pascualeats: https://www.instagram.com/pascualeats/) and on several occasions cooked up some bangin’ dishes straight from her mum’s repertoire. So, while I may not have ever been to the Philippines, given Shell’s love of food and support for this project, I decided that the Philippines was the only way to go!

Siopao filling

Well, it turns out the Philippines are pretty eclectic when it comes to food: almost anyone can join the party – the Spanish (there they are again), the Chinese, the Malays, the Japanese and, of course, the Americans. Over the years, all of these guys have made their mark on the food found on this string of islands, resulting in a real mixed bag of delights. Rice, for example, was first cultivated by a gaggle of Austronesians from Southern China and Taiwan waaaaay back in 3200 BCE. A bit later, a few more of those entrepreneurial Chinese got wise to the ways of the ‘Pines and started trading in a range of goods, bringing some staples with them in the process, such as soy sauce (or toyo), tokwa (a.k.a. tofu) and fish sauce, or patis. Via the Malay-Indonesian trade connection, Filipino cooks even had access to the cuisines of such faraway places as India and Arabia, a notable example being puto, a type of steamed rice cake that apparently has its origins in Kerala. Pretty nuts, eh? Remember, this is before the days of supermarkets, mass food production and social media telling us all about what we should be eating right this second (apparently kouign amann is big deal right now – no, I don’t know either). THEN those wily Spaniards found their way to the shores of the Philippines and introduced a whole host of new and exciting ingredients to the local melting pot, including chili, tomatoes, corn and potatoes, which they in turn had picked up on their looting spree in South America. And, of course, with the spreading of American popular culture, fast food now has a firm foothold in the Philippines, too. PHEWF, that’s a lot of influences right there! Take a breather while I gather my thoughts for a sec.

Before hitting the steam room

Still with me? HEY, WAKE UP – YOU THERE, I SEE YOU DOZING!!! Alright? Ok. So, with all those cuisines and flavours vying for attention, what on earth constitutes a typical Filipino dish? Well, rice, for one thing. One dish I remember eating at Shelley’s house is champorado, or chocolate rice pudding to you and me. It seems that over on the islands, rice is a legit meal any time of the day, for any course – get your fix at brekkie with a steaming plate of sinangag (garlic fried rice), a serving of the above mentioned puto with spicy pork blood stew (yes) in the afternoon, and maybe later a sweet treat in the form of a sticky rice pastry, you know, if you’re feeling a bit rice-deprived. The Filipinos also have their own version of what is essentially finger food, called pulutan. This name comes from the Filipino word pulutin, which means ‘to pick something up’, and what better thing to pick up than a random part of a pig that has been either fried, boiled, grilled or minced, or sometimes all of the above?! Shockingly, it looks like these folks enjoy their porcine delights even more than the Germans, making use of almost every single part of a little piggy – the pork rinds, intestines, mesenteries (no joke, a membrane inside the body cavity of an animal – gahhhhhhhhh! And it resembles a FLOWER – GAHHHHHHHHHH!!!), ears, cheeks and liver. That is some serious nose-to-tail eating.

POW siopao

Despite the vast array of bloody delicious looking fare to choose from (I’ll say right now that bakeries in the Philippines must be a hell of a good time, based on what I’ve seen), I decided to consult my dear amiga on what to cook. She first gave me a comprehensive list of all her favourite snacks (mostly sweet and deliiiiiiish) and then said, in perhaps slightly different words, “people also love a boodle fight”. What? A WHAT? Pens at the ready, people, this is a good one: a boodle fight is basically when a giant – and I mean GIANT – pile of food is plonked in the middle of a table and the diners simply go to town on it. No room for knives and forks here, it’s all about getting stuck in with your hands (hence the ‘fight’ part of the name). The story goes that this style of eating originated in the Philippine military, when hungry soldiers would delicately and oh-so-gracefully shovel in food using nothing more than what the good Lord gave them, symbolising brotherhood, camaraderie and equality. Nice! However fun a boodle fight sounds, it’s not massively practical unless an actual army comes for dinner. Instead, I decided to whip up a round of lumpia and siopao.

Lumpiaaaaaaaaaa

Lumpia is what most of us know as a spring roll – simply a load of veg chopped up and stuffed inside a lumpia wrapper, then fried until crispy. Nothing too tricky there. Interestingly, the Dutch word for spring roll is loempia, as they were introduced to the country via their Indonesian colony, where the snack is also called lumpia. For their part, the siopao landed in the Philippines thanks to the Chinese, and is a filled and steamed bun. Once again, bread is on the menu – HOORAH! For this experiment, I decided to go for a classic Chinese-style pork filling, with plenty of soy sauce, oyster sauce and star anise. What could go wrong? Miraculously, not a lot! The lumpia, as expected, were an absolute doddle. Wrapping the buggers up was definitely a test of patience and dedication to the cause (expertly managed by my wonderful mum, who got well into the rolling), but the filling is definitely not rocket science: get a load of veg, mainly beansprouts, fry it all up and Bob’s your uncle, you’re done. We had ours with a fish-sauce based dip and a satay-style dip – both very tasty indeed.

The siopao required a little more care and attention, as is often the case with diva bread dishes. The dough itself has a pretty high sugar content, but don’t worry, ‘cos you also chuck in a whole lotta salt to balance it out. So far, so artery-destroying. Of course, there’s loads of resting involved (euuuugh, breeeaaddd), so you can toddle off and do other important things in the meantime, like drink tea and rearrange your underwear drawer. It’s not just the dough that needs time to do its thing – the filling also sits gently bubbling away for a couple of hours, until the pork falls to pieces the second you look at it. Once both elements were ready, I rather cack-handedly put them all together, desperately trying – and miserably failing - to achieve some level of beauty, then popped them in a steamer for 15 minutes. And that was it! Sure enough, we ended up with some average-looking but mighty tasty steamed pork buns, accompanied by a sauce made from the leftover juices from the cooking pot. Despite the OBSCENE amount of time they take, I can definitely recommend giving siopao a bash, and lumpia too. My guinea pigs and I very much enjoyed them, so all that is left to say is thank you to Ms. Shelley for some spectacular suggestions – once again, you’ve nailed it!