Kitchen Wench

Despite having lived in DC for two years, I hadn’t taken the requisite weekend trip to New York, until now.  For Labor Day weekend, I went to visit some friends who had recently relocated.  It was the perfect vacation, because all we did was eat, drink, shop, and walk around.  Here are some tasty highlights:

Ramen from Rai Rai Ken
Nestled on a quiet street in the East Village,  Rai Rai Ken is a little shoe box of a restaurant. There is an L-shaped bar that seats maybe 12 people, and chefs lowers steaming bowls of ramen over the edge of the counter.  Rai Rai Ken serves miso, shoyu, and curry ramen, along with a handful of other seasonal noodle dishes, appetizers, and yakitori.  This place kind of reminds me of the movie Tampopo and the protagonists’ quest for the perfect broth.  Rai Rai Ken’s is rich and multi-layered, and the egg noodles are fresh and wonderfully chewy.

Rai Rai Ken Japanese Restaurant
214 East 10th St, New York, NY 10003
(212) 477-7030

Chocolate Covered Bacon from Roni-Sue’s
Bacon + Chocolate?  How could we go wrong?  My friends and I saw this on Serious Eats and thought we’d make a stop at the Essex Street Market to give it a try. The first bite is all creamy chocolate, but then as you chew, all the salty, porky, bacon-ness starts to come out.  It’s very strange, fatty, and delicious.  Roni-Sue also make some great truffles.  Big ups on the coconut, pineapple, and toffee flavors.

Roni-Sue’s Chocolates
Essex Street Market #24, 20 Essex Street, New York NY 10002
(212) 260-0421

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Today, celebrity chef/world traveler/incredibly macho dude Anthony Bourdain made an appearance at Olsson’s bookstore in Washington, D.C. Olsson’s is a scant five minute walk from my seafoam green office cubicle, and although I’m not a die-hard Bourdain fan, I wasn’t going to miss this opportunity.

Bourdain was in town today to promote his latest book, No Reservations. It’s basically a collection of food porn-y (and sometimes Bourdain porn-y) photographs collected while on the road for his show on the Travel Channel. I didn’t realize this until after I handed the cashier my credit card and suddenly found that I had paid 36 dollars for a coffee table book. Yikes.

However, my 36 dollars also bought me a little slip of paper with a number on it. This number ensured me a place in line to get my overpriced photo album signed by the man himself. This would become important later, when it turned out that it was so crowded in the store that I couldn’t actually see Mr. Bourdain the entire time he was speaking.

Olsson’s is a small, independent chain, and Bourdain’s celebrity was definitely too large for the tiny row of folding chairs the set up for the audience. While I’ve always known the DC professional population to be unnecessarily competitive and aggressive (this is what happens when you build a city entirely of lawyers), the lack of seating made for some especially nasty interactions. Read the rest of this entry �

Labor Day weekend was my first real experience with the Orange County and Los Angeles, CA area. It was sort of everything I was expecting to be, all dry heat and sprawl, palm trees and highways, dirty and slick, revolting and yet strangely captivating as well.

Mostly, it’s not for me. I knew that, but this trip definitely confirmed it. Lee and I booked a cheap flight to LAX, rented a car, and headed across massive highways to Fullerton to attend Inspiration Weekend (not related to Jesus in any way). Downtown Fullerton is pretty cute, but it’s surrounded by industrial office parks, strip malls, and miles of asphalt parking lots. As we rode along in our rented PT Cruiser, belting out what few lyrics we know of “The OC” theme song (“Californnniiiiyaaa, here we caaaaaa-uhhhmme!”), it seemed eerily quiet. No one was out on the street. They were all in their cars.

There are subcultures in America and there are regional cultures. I am fully aware of how stereotypical it all sounds, but I walked away with a strange sensation of being surrounded by a lot of flash, but little actual substance.

But, enough of the creepy surface details. The only real saving grace about the OC (for me, anyway), was the food. Read the rest of this entry �

After sleeping for an entire day and putting myself on a Special K and fruit diet, I think I may have finally recovered from the gastronomic assault of Thanksgiving. If I had gone back to Minnesota, I suspect I could have excercised much greater control, but this Thanksgiving was my first foray into the strange and awkward world of Holidays with Your Significant Other’s Family. But let’s not get into that. There are enough holiday family movies that pretty much cover it.

This was also my first Thanksgiving travel experience, and, I have to say, what really makes traveling insufferable (aside from my proclivity to motion sickness) are other travelers. People who pack three suitcases for a weekend trip. People who stare in confused horror at the self check-in kiosk, even though the touch screen could not get any more basic. And now, the people who hold up the entire security line because they packed 18 different liquids in their carry on and then realize they were supposed to put them in a plastic bag. There are signs all over the airport and TSA people passing out baggies at every entrance, yet the woman in front of me stops the entire line because she has to dismantle her suitcase (on top of the stack of metal detector trays no less) and then can’t figure out if her lipgloss is a liquid or gel. I know where I wanted to put her lipgloss, and it wasn’t in a plastic bag.

While I’m being peevish, there is one more thing that always perplexes and upsets me about Thanksgiving:

In my world, sauce is not shaped like a cylinder, and it is definately not sliceable. Cranberry sauce is actually made of cranberries, not high fructose corn syrup, gelatin, and red #5. Frankly, there is no excuse for fake (and that’s what this is, fake) cranberry sauce. While I cannot account for anyone who actually prefers this bland, Jello-like substance to the real thing, if you are going to go to the effort of roasting a turkey and making at least 12 side dishes involving squash, marshmallows, and those crunchy onions in a can, you can most certainly make homemade cranberry sauce.

Cranberry sauce was one of the first things I ever learned how to cook–you put cranberries into a pot, add enough water to cover the berries, and simmer the berries have popped and become mushy. Add sugar, and, if you’re feeling fancy, some orange zest and you’re done. Of course there are endless variations on this; cranberry sauce is really a very versatile thing (as evidenced in Iron Chef America Flay/DeLaurentiis vs. Batali/Ray Cranberry Battle). Try it–really. Because I just can’t stand this tyranny of jellied cranberry tubes. The sauce keeps forever in the fridge and goes great with all sorts of foods, not just turkey. And, when traveling this holiday season, remember: Real cranberry sauce is definately a liquid or gel, so be sure to put it in a ziploc baggy. (I’m pretty sure that other stuff is actually a solid. And that’s just not okay.)

I can’t believe I haven’t posted in this since Shanghai. That’s shameful. Here’s a brief tour of what happened in the last two weeks.

I returned to Beijing for my final week and spent most of it buying a new wardrobe for myself, swing dancing multiple nights a week, and eating all my favorite foods for one last time (sizzling eggplant with lots of garlic and minced pork, crispy Japanese tofu in sweet and sour sauce, Korean bbq, bottled green tea, and “plain” yogurt that tastes just like a sweet Indian lassi).

I spent my last 4 days in Hong Kong, with a day trip to Macau, which has some fascinating history and a whole lot of casinos. In Hong Kong I ate Indian food twice–at the Delhi Club in Chungking Mansions and at Branto (all veg) on Lock St in Tsim Sha Tsui. I cannot get over how much they’ve cleaned up Chungking Mansions (this slummy block of old apartments and the only place to find “cheap” hostels, mostly inhabitated by East Indian and African folk). It’s better lit; the floor isn’t sticky; there’s much less hawking; and there are security guards that help you navigate the weird maze of buildings, shops, and elevators that only go to odd or even floors. I suppose it’s for the best, but part of the charm was the weird, sketchiness of the place. It’s worth a visit in any case, though I really liked the food at Branto, and the atmosphere was nicer. They had delicious fresh mango lassis.

I also had my fill of dim sum and ate 3 servings of mango pudding in 3 days. Hong Kong is definately not designed to be eye-level; all these great restaurants are tucked away on the 2nd floor of rather run-down buildings. Half the time I walk past the signs because I forget to look up.

One thing I love are all the fruit juice stands on the street. For 5 or 6 HKD you can get freshly squeezed juice, smoothies, and tapioca drinks. There are also all sorts of little dessert shops (in TST and also dotted around Mongkok) that specialize in various fruit and geletin concoctions. They’re delicious on a hot, sticky day (which is most days in Hong Kong).

But, the bottom line is, it’s all over now.  I’m back home and recovering from my jetlag. I think my life might suddenly become a lot less interesting. We’ll see.

So, I’ve been pretty bad about posting lately.  Needless to say, I survived spring break unscathed only to be hit with a paper when I got back. 

 This last weekend has been fabulous.  We traveled to Shanghai for the weekend, most of which I spent tromping up and down Nanjing Lu, the Bund, and French Concession, not to mention burning a giant hole in my wallet at the Yu Gardens bazaar (touristy stuff and some sweet clothes) and Xiang Yang market (a treasure trove of knock off handbags, jackets, and shoes).  I also soaked in a little culture at the Shanghai Art Museum, which is currently featuring a selection of works by modern Latin American painters.  

We also hit up some of my favorite spots from my last trip, including Simply Thai in Xin Tian Di, and Number Five bar on the Bund.  We also listened to the jazz band at the Peace Hotel, which is composed of adorable geriatric Chinese musicians.  The playing wasn’t the great, but I felt like I’d just stepped back in time (aided by the purchase of a retro-style dress earlier that day).   The jazz at Number Five was much better and featured a very nice vocalist, though the chill atmosphere almost had me passed out in my oversized leather chair.

However, the greatest amount of my time was definately spend stumbling around the JC Mandarin Hotel buffet, wide-eyed and drooling.  I don’t even like buffets.  I have eaten at an awful lot of buffets on this trip, and it’s safe to say that it was probably the best I’ve had thus far.  The food was actually so delicious that I became paranoid about supply shortages and began hoarding plates of pizza, cheese, and museli.  (Hey, everybody else was doing it too.)  The JC Mandarin was also the first hotel I stayed in that actually had a bathroom scale, allowing me to monitor the progress of my rapidly expanding waistline. 

Sadly, we left Shanghai on Monday, a little bit poorer and a little bit fatter.  I’ll miss the fabulous restaurants, trendy bars, shopping, glitz, glamour, European architecture, beautiful subway system, and cab drivers that wear uniforms and white gloves. 

I already miss the buffet.

To quote my Korean travelmate, “Really, where are we?”

I arrived in Dalian this morning, after having my intinerary reversed by the tour company.  Dalian is very modern, clean, and actually has trees.  A very nice Chinese coastal city.  We did some sight seeing things… then we drove out of the city… then into the new Dalian Development Zone… then out of the development zone… to nowhere, to these little cabin things… and this is where we are staying, an hour outside of the city (in clear traffic). 

There are no cars on the street here.  I am in this internet cafe that I had to walk like 20 minutes to find because we are literally staying in THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE by a beach.  Except we can’t even find the beach.  And it is not well lit here.

Most of our tour group is Korean.  I think most of the students on our tour are afraid to talk to us, except for these two clearly Asian people who are from France.  At least they blend in physically–they look Vietnamese or otherwise South East Asian.

I feel white.

Tomorrow night I leave for Qingdao via boat.  I hope I’m not staying 25 miles out of the city again.  Things are getting very Chinese, very fast.  This is definately ridiculous.

Only in China could the weather forecast for my vacation destination be “widespread dust” and “smoke”.  Not sunny, not rainy, but dusty and smoky.  My lungs are loving this place. 

Tomorrow is the official start of China’s week-long labor day holiday, where apparently the entire country (or close to it, since there are hardly any train tickets to be had) picks itself up and goes on vacation.  Well, of course it’s not everybody, but since there are 1.3 billion people, it’s still going to be a lot of Chinese vacationers out and about this week.  Unable to make train arrangements and unwilling to spend hundreds of (US) dollars on a plane ticket, Michael and I are heading into the thick of it on a Chinese tour. 

A Chinese tour.  I don’t quite know what we’ve gotten ourselves into; the guides will most likely not speak any English, my translation skills are rather subpar, and the tour brochure has such broken English that I’m not even entirely sure what sights we are supposed to be seeing.  In any event, somehow we will board a train to Qingdao tomorrow night, “live active freely by the sea”, take bus to Yantai, boat to Dalian, “live active freely in the People’s Square” and do some other stuff, like visiting “Tai qing pour”, “Eight Strategic Borders”, and a military port/base which foreigners are not allowed into. 

I looked up the word for “arrested” in the dictionary today. I’m going to start working on that self criticism.  Wo wanquan bu zhi dao waiguoren bu keyi jin qu.  Zhen de.   Wish me luck.

I returned to Beijing last night.

Thank GOD.  I have never been so thankful to return to a place in my life. 

Words cannot really describe the last week spent in Shanxi Province.  Most of it ranged from polluted to uncomfortable to utterly absurd.  Things like… scratching the top of my head and having my fingernails turn black from the coal dust…  Or drinking fen jiu (the local liquor that smells and probably tastes an awful lot like rubbing alcohol) with Communist party officials… being mobbed by small schoolchildren asking for autographs… eating three Chinese banquets in four days… or having a random man off the street walk uninvited into my hotel room because he wanted to see some foreigners.  I felt like an alien/celebrity, and not in a good way.

Walking around Beijing today, Gobi desert grit has never tasted so good between my teeth. 

First off, Beijing is great. 

Second off, I ate some absolutely delicious German food here last night, at this place that translates to Schindler Fillingstation, a few blocks from the Xi Shui silk market.  The potato salad was out of this world: tangy, vingary, sweet, bacon-y.  I had pork filet with mushrooms over spatzle with cheese.  It was salty, creamy, and delicious.  We also had some wonderful German beer (Erdinger) and great Riesling as well–lots of flavor!  I’m not a dark beer fan, but the Erdinger wasn’t bitter at all.  As much as I love Chinese food, this has probably been my best meal here so far.  I think we’ll definately be eating there again.

In other news, tonight I am Shanxi bound, slated for one of the most ridiculous schedules I have ever seen (sightseeing from 6 am to 8 pm?!).  Who knows if I’ll have time to write, let alone sleep.  In any event, I’m sure the forthcoming stories will be interesting.