“Dude, that’s a gnarly one!! How’d you get it?”

“Damn, that one’s gonna sting like hell when you shower.”

After missing pieces of fingers, peppered arms, missing chunks of fingernail, one eventually comes to accept these battle wounds as the mark of the industry. The symbol of time spent fighting, battling on the line. And with time, they become more of an afterthought, rather then potential girlfriend-repellant.

Indeed, every scar has a story, every horrifying burn is a lesson learned, every callous a measure of intestinal fortitude. But above all, each is a rite of passage. A badge of honor to be displayed to the general disgust of the public, but to the appreciation and delight of other cooks. And I wear the few I have with pride.

WARNING: Don’t click “Continued” if you have a) just eaten b)are a pansy. (Well…are you?)

Actually, looking back on these now…that is f*cking GROSS. Ugh…I need a beer.

]]> http://www.theragingspork.com/blog/2010/04/13/battle-scars/feed/ 3 http://www.theragingspork.com/blog/2009/01/06/by-the-way/ http://www.theragingspork.com/blog/2009/01/06/by-the-way/#comments Wed, 07 Jan 2009 05:55:10 +0000 Nate http://www.theragingspork.com/blog/2009/01/06/by-the-way/  So if you’ve known me long enough, chances are you’ve probaby been victim to one of my long tirades about the status of Chinese food in the States…

I’ll spare you guys the speech, but one book (of many) that you may consider reading on the topic is The Fortune Cookie Chronicles by Jennifer 8. Lee. Incidentally,  there’s a video of one of Ms. Lee’s presentations floating on YouTube. Check it out, and by all means, share your thoughts.

I’ve a confession to make…the whole Christmas ham thing?

Not a fan.

Christmas dinner always seems to play second fiddle to Thanksgiving. No one’s finished recovering from planning (or eating) that feast, so it seems like Christmas dinner becomes a matter of, “What the heck can I make that won’t require me to prep the whole day before?”

In our house, this has usually meant…the ubiquitous hot pot. Hearty, humid, communal sustenance for the cold winter months. And nothing constitutes family bonding quite like clacking chopsticks, sweaty faces, and fighting your cousin for that last piece of crab.

So the question I pose to you, dear reader, what’s the traditional Christmas dinner in your house? Cause…no one I know really does the whole Christmas ham business anyway…

Hope everyone’s Christmas was pleasant, restful, and fulfilling…and from us here at the Spork, we wish you a happy, safe New Year!

Keep eating folks.

Ever since I started realizing my preoccupation with cooking, I had always toyed with the idea of going to culinary school. Anyone who knew me in college (and now) would tell you, I spent probably too much time stressing, bemoaning, and being a general complaining sad sack (sorry all) over the whole thing. Anyway, after no small amount of deliberation, I am now part of the Fall 08′ class at the Professional Culinary Institute.

What does that mean for the blog? Well, for those of you that are interested, I’ll be updating periodically on the various trials, funny episodes, and striking new revelations that today’s culinary student faces, in what is becoming a increasingly burgeoning business. Don’t worry, I’ll try to stay away from the whole “Today, I did this…and then that…it was soooooo coool,” business.

So that’s it for now. As always, keep eating folks.

So it’s been a good two months since I’ve gotten back and I’ve had some time to mull over my experiences. And while I’d like to spill them all into writing…I realize (as usual) that it would be just incoherent babble without at least some measured thought. Point is, this is (hopefully) the first of a series of entries I’ll be writing about my experiences in China, and more broadly, about Chinese food in general. In reality, there are few other things that I actually feel strongly about, so I want to mark my words and arguments with at least some degree of articulation. But for the sake of keeping things simple, I’ve decided to tackle a considerably simpler issue for the first entry.

With four months worth of amazing food, it’s really quite hard for me to say which was the best meal. But of them, this particular meal is the most clearly etched into my memory…if only for the experience. So I guess the more appropriate title would be. “The Most Memorable Meal I Ever Had.” …but that would be an alliteration…and an ugly-sounding one at that.

Sadly, I have no actual photos from that meal…so the following photos are from various meals I had while in China.

The best meal I had in China was on a frigid winter night in Shenzhen.

I climb the last few stairs, the sights and sounds of Shennan Lu assaulting my senses as I exit the subway station. “Damn, it’s cold,” I think, zipping up my jacket. The sidewalk is a flurry of people, taxis, loud honking, and food stalls, and I struggle to keep sight of my co-workers among the masses. “Let’s go out tonight, we’ll take you for some good food,” they had said. I was excited by the premise, but the chilly winter air currently has me yearning for the comforter back at the apartment. We wind away from the sprawling main streets and bright lights, into a convoluted mess of alleyways and backstreets. Suddenly, the streets become narrower and dustier. Light becomes dimmer, and people swarm on all sides. A cacophony of boisterous Cantonese and shrill Mandarin permeates the air, while the walls seem to loom higher, enclosing us. Like walking into the heart of darkness. “Watch your wallet,” my co-worker whispers to me, “this is where all the pickpockets and shit people hang out.” Indeed, this is not the polished, pristine city of skyscrapers and lights that the authorities and businessmen would have you believe.

 The best meal I had in China was eaten in some dingy backwater alleyway.

After several turns through the maze-like alleys, we sit down in a nondescript, tarp covered stall, the shoddy plastic stools threatening to collapse under our weight. The food stand next door is hawking goose tongue, and cages full of live animals are being wheeled through the narrow alleyway. A single lightbulb hangs from the top of the tent stall, casting an unnerving, unnatural white light against the blue tarp walls. At one table, some middle-aged businessmen argue, still clad in their weathered suits. While at another table, an older couple enjoys the meal in silence. Little children skitter in and out of the tent, kicking up dust while chasing each other and laughing. The fold-out table is simple enough, if not for the indiscreet 12-inch hole carved out of the middle of it. I peer inside and see what looks like a jet-burner attached to a propane tank, the metal grate still smoldering from the last table.  “I like where this is going,” I think.

 The best meal I had in China was probably alive only 30 minutes ago.

Flimsy plastic cups are passed around and the Tsingtao starts to flow. “Gan bei!” we shout,  toasting each other and to a hard day’s work. It’s then that the food starts coming. Little red and blue baskets of fresh, leafy green vegetables. Plates of uncooked, unidentifiable meats and organs. Some I recognize, others are completely new to me. Steadily and seemingly unceasingly, they keep on coming, the prelude to the main theme. Pretty soon there’s little room left on the table. Then the cook, clad in white undershirt and soiled apron, brings a bubbling, brimming earthenware pot to our table and sets it on the burner. It’s the aroma that hits me first. The unmistakable smell of chicken broth. With no small amount of anticipation, I look inside to see a golden-colored opaque broth bubbling away, spiked with herbs and cilantro. The aroma is wholesome, evocative of every chicken soup I’ve had before. I drink in the smell deeply, and suddenly the cold doesn’t seem to matter that much anymore. “But where’s the main meat?” I wonder.

We begin loading in vegetables and meats when I hear an awkward sounding “Gawwwwk!” behind me. I look over to the “kitchen,” which is really just a small cart in the street, equipped with a single wok and a cutting board. The cook is already furiously working the wok. He dumps the contents onto the board and begins chopping away. 5 minutes later, a beautifully golden-skinned, neatly cut, whole chicken is brought to our table. I get a few brief seconds to admire the bird, the quick-frying has given the skin a beautiful light amber color, and the skin scintillates with still hot oil. With the pieces assembled to resemble the bird’s original form, the skin on each piece slips back a bit, giving an almost teasing look at the glistening, moist white meat underneath. Meanwhile, the aroma of rendered chicken fat hits my nostrils, and I struggle to hold my chopsticks still. I have a moment to think,  “It’s beautiful…” right before the bird is unceremoniously shoveled, head-and-all, into the earthenware pot. My eyes open wide as I think to myself, “Holy crap. I am freaking hungry.”

The best meal I had in China was a simple, unassuming hot pot.

Minutes later, we’re busy fishing delectable bits from the boiling cauldron while we complain about co-workers and talk about our lives. I plunge my chopsticks into the opaque broth, feeling for pieces of meat. Sometimes a chicken claw breaks the surface, a leg another time, even the head…all of which go into my bowl, and eventually my mouth. The chicken is simple and unassuming in flavor. No fanciful purees, no truffled sauces. The meat is delectably tender, almost criminally succulent, and the taste is of natural, fresh chicken. A light smattering of Chinese herbs fills out the flavor, while the molten broth warms to the core. Time slows and I lean back, a little tipsy,  and look at the smiling faces of my friends, thinking…”this is it, this is what I live for.” We eat, drink, trade jokes and laugh, spitting chicken bones straight onto the table and downing several rounds of Tsingtao. Sporadic “Gawwks!” spring up behind us from time to time, while we tenderly sip and savor the delicious broth, breathing hot steam from our mouths that dissipates in the chilly night air. And outside in the streets, on a bone-chilling winter night…it’s all perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

I later find out what we had eaten was called ji bao, which roughly translates to “chicken bag” or “chicken purse.” My friends insist that this isn’t even the best ji bao in town. But to me, this food, and this night…it’s all I need. I’ve never had anything remotely like it in the States. This is Chinese food for Chinese people. And in a way, it saddens me to think that with every amazing new thing I eat in China, I know I’ll never find it at home. But yes, I think to myself, this one dinner will be the one I’ll remember with greatest affection. Eating simple, great food at an unassuming, humble little stall, trading jokes and sharing lives with friends and colleagues, smoking cigs, toasting, and drinking until the cold night air takes on a welcoming, enveloping warmth. These will be the memories I will carry with me, and the moments I will live for.

(Thanks to Dan for playing editor.)

You might have noticed a few tweaks here and there already, but some more changes should be on the way.  I also will be moving away from strictly reviews, due to both a lack of restaurant adventures (which is in part due to a lack of greenbacks) and to liven up this blog a bit.

Many of you might know that I am a food snob, but necessity has dictated a new course for me.  These two single serve packs, taken straight from the office cafeteria, have pretty much been my two best friends.  Take a few each morning, buy a preservative-laden loaf of bread and bam, lunch for weeks.  Yeah, I’m frugal/cheap/a scavenger/sad.  I even skipped two chances for Dine about Town!  I sound as if I’m regressing into poor college student mode; at least the kimchi ramen has not entered the picture.

In an effort to cut down on frivolous spending, I’ve been eating much more simple fare.   Yogurt or cereal for breakfast.  Leftovers and PB&J dominate my lunch time eating.  Dinner varies, but usually our house eats pasta at least once a week.  Waffles topped with whipped cream and strawberries on the weekend.  Hasn’t been bad by any means, but no juicy steaks or rack of lamb.

Well that sums up my gastronomic history these past few months.  Hopefully it will get a tad more interesting in the near future.  Until next time, stay tuned!

Notice the intimidating eyebrows and the far more intimidating (and heavy) cleavers. They say that you know you’re Chinese if your mom owns a cleaver bigger than your head. Anyway, so if the above picture isn’t indicative enough, (which it isn’t) my last four months have been spent in China. And what was I doing you ask? Well, apart from taking ridiculous pictures, I’ve spent the last four months working for Chef Martin Yan of Yan Can Cook fame, helping to establish, observe, and ultimately learn at Chef Martin Yan’s Culinary Arts Center in Shenzhen, China.

…That was a mouthful.

Unfortunately, condensing and processing all that I’ve learned, seen, smelled, and, of course, eaten, will take much longer to figure out. It’s all whizzing around in my head waiting to be made sense of. So, before I mount the pulpit and expound on Asian food philosophy, (as if I had any) I’ve decided to leave this little blurb first, to let you all know that:

Firstly: No, we are not dead.

And secondly: entries will be resuming. I hope.

That’s all folks. Keep eating

In my mind, there is a clear dichotomy in one’s perception of cuisine. There is gastronomique/fine dining, and then there’s comfort food. Even as I can experience transcendental, mind-blowing flavors in fine dining…sometimes that buttered lobster simply can’t “do it” for me like a hot bowl of shi fan (rice porridge) or grandma’s hand made zhongzhi. (sticky rice in tea leaves) Sometimes, mom’s cooking is…simply put…untouchable. This is the food I grew up with, the food that warms my stomach and my soul alike. This is the food that makes me sigh and think about when mom would let me help her hand-make dumplings. Or when she would take me to the market to watch the fish swimming in their tanks, to play with the live crabs, and smell the roasted ducks hanging in the window. This is the power of comfort food, and the inherent meaning it has for each of us. That’s what this entry is about.

There it is, my childhood on a plate. (or steamer, rather) Lotus custard buns, or nai wong bao have always been my dim sum favorite ever since I was a kid. Biting into them reminds me of the Sunday mornings my parents would drive us out to Monterey Park for dim sum. I would always demand nai wong bao, my pouting unabated until the steaming morsels were placed on the table. And before they even had the chance to get cold, I would happily grab and gobble them up faster than I should have. The taste and feel of silken, steaming bread hid the yellow surprise on the inside, a warm filling of sweet lotus custard. Simply delectable. To this day, when I eagerly bite into a nai wong bao, I find myself back on one of those Sunday mornings, among the metal carts patrolling the floor with various steaming treasures, the noisy clang of plastic chopsticks on porcelain heard over boisterous shouts of Cantonese. And it makes me sigh and smile. My childhood on a plate.

So, dear reader, I know that I’m not alone in experiencing this profound power of comfort food. What are those foods that bring you back home? What are those foods that make you sigh and remember? This is your opportunity to share, and we’d love to hear. What’s your childhood on a plate?