Friday, March 7, 2014

The Phở Story

When I was twelve years old I spent the whole summer sleeping over at my best friend's house. She was Chinese, and practically living with her day to day was like an incredible immersion into the East. We had a lot in common because we both came to America at about nine years old and we had similar experiences trying to fit in, missing our lives back home and trying to figure out how to navigate the treacherous world of a California middle school. Although our cultures were completely different, we saw so many similarities that we naturally gravitated towards each other - our parents were busy but tried to keep us within the bounds and rules of our separate cultures while pushing us into the American world around us.  It was a schizophrenic time, and we took comfort in each other's experiences. She was an artistic spirit who liked poetry, calligraphy and literature and we spent our summer painting, reading Walden and eating. 

That particular summer was the summer that I found out what a rice steamer was, how to eat with chopsticks and was treated to many trips into Vietnamese noodle houses, where my friend's mom's friends marveled at the blond adopted kid who braved on through a whole bowl of phở, slurping and fighting with chopsticks until she reached near perfection. "Where did you find that child??" Followed by goodhearted laughter, quick Chinese chatter, and a pat on the head.
Phở will always be one of the ultimate comfort foods for me. The sweet smell of broth and the texture of velvet rice noodles will create a warm pang in my heart and in my stomach. I have had many species of phở since then, but I've been almost scared to learn how to prepare it, mostly for the fear that it would lose it's magic in my hands.

Part of the wonder of comfort food is that it is a gift, an assurance that is received into our hands from someone else's, like a medicine or a kiss on the forehead when you're sick. I was afraid to spoil that magic. 

On the other hand, there is also a comfort that lies in being able to help yourself when you're not able to go out, in figuring out how to create something so nostalgic and homey without having to change out of pajamas. It was becoming self reliant, like learning how to drive a car or being a cave person who figured out how to make fire and warm themselves. (Too much?) I finally learned how to make basic phở, and realized this was a gateway drug - I was soon experimenting with a multitude of different options, styles and tastes. Duck, pork, dumplings, egg noodles, rice noodles, prawns, basil, hot sauces, plum sauces, chili sauces... The list goes on and on.

This is the recipe to a very basic chicken phở. I love the traditional beef broth but hey - I still have a LOT of chicken broth to get through! There will be more phở later. Much, much more. 




I often experiment with different toppings and different herbs. There are so many of them in any Asian market - I usually pick off a piece of the leaf to see how it tastes - bitter, sour, spicy... Experimenting is great, and I never know what I'm going to find.



I prefer flat rice noodles, but there are hundreds of different options.


Makes one large serving, for a rainy day

1 liter of chicken broth (I like mine more fatty - so I cook it with a little added chicken fat)
2 star anise pods
1 lemon grass stalk, cut up 
1 tbsp fish sauce
1 piece of oxtail, meat on
1/4 lb beef brisket, partially frozen
1/4 onion, sliced
1 bunch green onion, chopped
1 tbsp chicken fat
Flat rice noodles, a fair amount

Toppings

Sriracha sauce!
Vietnamese basil
Cilantro
Mung Bean Shoots
Limes, sliced


Basic rules of the road:

-NEVER cook noodles and broth in one pot. Cook them seperately.
-To cut beef into paper thin strips partially freeze it first.

In a large pot melt the chicken fat, and sautee the sliced onion.  Put in the star anise, the lemon grass (this is usually not in the recipe, but it adds incredible flavor and hey, this is my recipe ;) ) and oxtail into the simmering onions and brown for about 3 minutes on high heat. Pour in the chicken broth and simmer on low heat for about an hour, or until the meat is tender and falls off the bone. This adds so much more flavor to a plain chicken broth, although it's already delicious. At the end, add fish broth.
With tongs or using a sieve, separate the lemongrass and star anise from the broth (people also use little spice bags for cooking them, but I firmly believe that sauteing them at the beginning adds to the flavor more. You can't saute a muslin bag ;) Then, separate the meat from the bone.
In boiling water, cook the noodles and set them aside in a large bowl. I rinse them, to get rid of any left over rice goo - it will thicken your broth, and I like my broth clear.
Cut the brisket into very thin stripes - I LOVE rare brisket and I probably cut it a bit thicker than most people, but that's the great thing about doing this yourself - you can pick your favorite things about it and go crazy with them. I am planning on doing an "ultimate phở" post, where I can share the pure everything but the kitchen sink insanity that is my perfect phở. Serve and top with favorite toppings!





Today's inspiration:


"Still Life With the Red Cock"







Monday, March 3, 2014

Have I the Guts?

The weather is turning balmy - there is a teeming new wasps' nest next to my window. New life, new leaves. Romance. It brings the cat constant visual entertainment. Spring bulbs are rising to the surface with a fresh promise of perfume and colors and... what am I talking about? It's still February! I haven't had my fill of hearty, warming soups and stews, scarves and mittens! At this point, the only place where I wore a hat was in Yosemite during new years. I have thrown in the towel on the weather - the only thing I have control over is hearty stews.

Let us have the guts to keep winter around just one more week... Guts. Tripe. Or Flaki, in Polish. A spicy, thick stew dish of... well - tripe. Our version of menudo. My grandma did not make them. My mother certainly did not make them. They were the stuff of restaurants and roadside inns, road trips and someone else's grandma's house. No, not all Polish people like it. Many recoil in apprehension and horror. But I dreamily think of the earthy, spicy broth, thickened with a good roux and full of marjoram, paprika, carrots... Oh, how I long for a bowl.

Here in San Jose, there are many Mexican markets to chose from. Any good Mexican market or carniceria is going to have a fresh picking of white, washed and ready to cook tripe behind the meat counter. I glance over the white lace stacks of it and decide that one pound is enough. I am about to break the family tradition.

Tripe is almost beautiful in it's lacy meatiness. It has an earthy, particular, almost maze smell to it. To prepare it, you have to wash it thoroughly before cooking.

As this is part of the chicken broth challenge, I take out one of the larger jars of broth, and put it in a large pot with pork and beef bones I have collected. The Starving Artist always buys meat on the bone, even when doing stews. It is less expensive, and allows me to cut the meat the way I want it. The bones can be reserved for stocks. Adding extra bones when cooking Flaki will make the broth even more flavorful, especially since I never scrape the bones when cutting meat off of them - there will be plenty of extra pork and beef floating around in this stew. I'm thinking thick, rich, with the added meaty texture of the tripe. I'm thinking I can't wait until this evening...

We begin by cutting the tripe into thin strips, about half an inch wide - or even thinner. Bring the broth and bones to a simmer and put in the cut up tripe.

I immediately toss in a heaping tablespoon of marjoram a teaspoon of paprika and two teaspoons of pepper for good measure. I add more as I taste. I like to slow cook as much as I can, and since I do have time today I will just keep it on low for about 2 to 3 hours. Three is better.






When the tripe turns soft, I add sliced carrots and prepare to make the roux. In Polish, we call this "zasmażka" - or "something fried"... No... more like "fried thing" in the feminine form. Did I mention Polish is super complicated? Let's call it a roux. We use equal amounts of butter and flour. When I was little, about eight years old, my grandfather taught me how to make this basic culinary miracle. I thought that immediately classified me as a grown up. The roux goes in towards the end. Once you put it in you can start tasting the soup for any adjustments - pepper, salt, paprika... Pepper... 

Flaki always come with a ridiculous amount of marjoram and pepper. The spicier the better, and my husband remarked that I haven't put enough in when he came into the house. Before he looked into the pot. Before he even entered the kitchen.



Garnish with parsley (I garnish it with cilantro, Polish-Mex style!) and serve.

Trial and Error






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