Food – Page 2 – Thiefhunters in Paradise

At a thief’s home

Paccheri pasta, prepared by the pickpocket's wife.

Paccheri pasta, prepared by the pickpocket’s wife.

The shouting at dinner surprised me. It was like the stereotypical Italian dinner: loud and full of gesturing, standing up and leaning forward, voices rising over other voices and at the same time everyone is putting more food on each others’ plates.

But we were talking about the steal business—about pickpocketing—and the window was wide open. All the neighbors could certainly hear us discussing the thievery profession. Anyone within a block could hear.

Yet, the thief’s ten-year-old twins were farmed out for the evening to shield them from talk of daddy’s job. How could they not know if all the neighbors and passers-by hear about it?

Okay, so you now know we were in Italy. Well, it’s a big country. I’m giving you this much.

It was a nice apartment, neat and spotless. Two computers, huge flat-screen TV, dishwasher, even a Vitamix-type appliance for the serious cook. A dust-free collection of miniature silver clocks was displayed on dark wood shelves below the good china—for more important guests, I presume.

Our host maneuvered gamely at the kitchen counter, clearly not used to practicing the culinary arts. He sliced a fresh peach into a pitcher of white wine while explaining that the business was much easier ten years ago. Things are changing in this town. Younger plainclothes cops have joined the force; they’re more aggressive and harder to spot.

Mrs. Pickpocket had prepared a feast for us. Mozzarella balls, prosciutto on melon, hunks of provolone, olives, gorgeous crusty bread, marinated anchovies, octopus salad, cold eggplant… and that was just the antipasti. She had opened her polished wood table to seat all nine of us.

The home was ordinary—only noteworthy for its means of support. For twenty years, the family breadwinner has financed it all out of other people’s wallets.

Except when he’s in prison, of course. Then it all falls to his wife, who’ll get a job—or a couple of jobs—cooking, cleaning, whatever she has to do. Not easy in a town with perennial sky-high unemployment.

The thief used his skillful hands to grate the parmesan while his handsome wife brought out the pasta. Very al dente paccheri with a delicate sauce I think she called King Ferdinand. She learned to make it when she worked as a cook.

Another pickpocket was at the table with us—best friend and partner of our host. He’d brought his glamorous blond wife, who busied herself clearing plates and serving as if the kitchen were her own. As a couple, the two looked like any professionals you’d see at the bank on lunch hour. In fact, they’d had a life on the law’s side. A 30-year legit career had morphed into outright thievery. “I’ll explain how that happened next time we meet,” he told us.

The men kept hopping up to wash and reuse all the dishes and silverware between courses. Everyone except Bob and I and our translator smoked continuously. Thick slices of cold roast beef and chilled carrot puree came out long after Bob and I were fully satisfied.

“Sometimes police see us at work and look the other way,” our criminal friend explained. His handsome face looks almost angelic from some angles. Then I see something hard around his archer-bow mouth. Just nerves? Tension? “The police know there are no jobs here and that we have families to feed.”

Interesting! I had always assumed that cops looking the other way meant payoffs and corruption. The humanitarian possibilities hadn’t occurred to me.

A giant cream-topped baba cake was sliced for dessert, and tiny glasses of limoncello, a lemon liqueur, were poured. It was after midnight by the time we were drinking espresso and told not to worry, we’d sleep just fine.

I won’t bore you, readers, with technical talk of the pilfering profession. The evening was long and jovial, loud and serious, sad and enlightening. As I said in To Like a Pickpocket, we are conflicted in our relationship with this thief. One can’t suppress affection if that feeling exists.

This man comes from a world so different from ours. It’s not just his profession that is the inverse of ours; his country, his temperament, his education are all antithetical. Yet, on a baser level, a human level, we want the same things, feel the same emotions, have the same needs. If you pay attention, you see through a fake smile. And you recognize a real hug.

Japanese kaiseki dinner

Kaiseki: Steamed icefish on raw sea urchin

You are lucky indeed if you ever get the opportunity to experience a kaiseki meal, especially one in a ryokan, a traditional Japanese inn. You’ll enjoy a long, relaxed procession of delicacies in small portions, exquisitely presented, and usually specific to the season.

I had the incredible good fortune to indulge in a week of kaiseki lunches and dinners in Japan. One meal featured tofu in many forms. One featured tempura. Another was Buddhist vegetarian. The most breathtaking were those served at Yagyuno Sho Ryokan in Shuzenji, on Japan’s Izu peninsula.

I’m in awe of Takashi Shibayama, Yagyuno Sho’s chef, who showcased an endless variety of glorious creations in perfect balance, meal after meal. As you’ll see in the following photos, his magnificent presentations are the synergetic result of his ravishing edible works of art complemented by precious serving pieces, and owe a nod to whimsy.

These photos are from a single kaiseki dinner titled “A Picnic Under the Cherry Blossoms.” A menu was provided in Japanese calligraphy, along with an attempted English translation.

One Kaiseki dinner

Kaiseki: Sake in iron pot — Cold sake in iron pot

The meal begins with a treasured sake poured from iron pots into flat red lacquer bowls. Just a sip, it’s a fruity and fervent taste bud wakeup call, accompanied by a tiny red lantern glowing with a short-lived candle. In a deeply-textured covered bowl, a surprise awaits.

Kaiseki: Foie gras Japanese style — Foie gras Japanese style

Surprise indeed! Who would expect haute cuisine—and foie gras, no less? It’s a silky paté “with white radish agar (moon) and salty meringue (cloud),” a garnish of gold foil and cherry blossom petals—an edible haiku in beige. How about…

Fat goose flies in spring
Cherry blooms, moon in cloud, his
Liver is dinner

Kaiseki understatement: "Simple Meal" — Kaiseki understatement: “Simple Meal”

A wooden tray is presented. Paradoxically called “Simple Meal,” it is anything but. In the gorgeous little covered bowl: “bamboo shoot, udo, butterbur dressed with young Japanese pepper and moso.” In my excitement, I forget to take a picture of the opened bowl. The central plate of gold-leaf floats on a gold-leaf-spattered strip of handmade paper. It holds “sushi balls, picnic dumpling, and dried wheat.” On the black ceramic dish, sesame seed tofu with caviar. In the beige: “rape blossoms with dried wheat gluten.”

Gluten makes frequent appearances. Itself bland with a pleasant, chewy texture, it’s an excellent sponge and carrier of flavors.

Our cold sake arrives in crystal glass decanters deep in red lacquer bowls of ice and flowers. You must not pour your own sake—but look after your neighbors, and make sure their cups are full. I can’t help noticing the uniformity of the ice—crushed to perfection.

Kaiseki: Small soup in big bowl — Small soup in big bowl

A small “clear soup with red sea bream dumpling” is in a large lacquer bowl, black with gold bamboo on the outside, dark red on the inside. We are reminded that we are not expected to like or consume everything, but I can’t help myself. I do and I do.

Kaiseki: Covered boat sashimi — Covered boat sashimi

Boat-shaped dishes with tantalizing covers are set before us. Our chopstick rests are swapped for porcelain cherry blossom petals. We begin to wonder how large the ryokan’s tableware pantry is.

Kaiseki: Sashimi revealed — Sashimi revealed

Lifting the bamboo roofs, we discover sashimi: tuna, sole, and horse clam. We’re gently instructed on which condiment highlights each fish. All the garnishes are edible, including the cherry blossoms.

Kaiseki: Hot stone at table — Hot stone at table

Done with delicate for the moment, a hot rock is brought to each of us wrapped in fresh juniper branches in a wicker basket. We are served at meals by the same women who look after our rooms, and now they cook for us. Izu beef, shrimp, squid, and a green chili pepper are placed on each heated stone, which sears the food in a minute or two. I get two fat scallops instead of beef.

These colorful popsicles are called dengaku: “grilled tofu and dried wheat gluten on skewers coated with miso glaze.” They’re balanced on a bamboo cane on a rough plate the color of bamboo.The plate is a mossy pond whose surface is disturbed by koi kissing air.

Steamed icefish on sea urchin. The tiny white fish are complete with little eyes. The beautiful bowl and urchin-colored saucer are paper thin. We’ve learned to recover our bowls when finished with a dish. The staring fish and raw sea urchin gonads are too much for some; their bowls are quickly covered.

“100% fresh tomato juice.” It is thick enough to eat with a wooden spoon, and very cold in a crystal shot glass. A concentrated flavor break between two hot dishes.

Kaiseki: Bamboo shoot in liquid starch — Bamboo shoot in liquid starch

In a brown and gold covered lacquer bowl, “deep fried bamboo shoot with liquid starch.” There must be a better translation for “liquid starch,” but the Japanese haven’t found it. Enriched broth? Thickened consommé?

Kaiseki: Miso soup mystery — Miso soup mystery

This one has an element of mystery. The menu translation is “dark brawn miso soup with bean curd tofu skin.” Is that dark brown soup or dark prawn soup? Either way, it is delicious. Ahhh… another bottle of sake, please!

Kaiseki: Rice finale with small shrimps — Rice finale with small shrimps

Finally, and always last, comes the rice. It’s in a stunning stoneware bowl with an accompaniment of cooked small shrimp. A plate of pickled vegetables on the side.

Kaiseki: Sweet summer yellow orange — Sweet summer yellow orange

And for dessert, something small, cold, and light on a silver dish. “Sweet summer yellow orange,” a strawberry for contrast, and a sweet drink made from fermented rice with soybean milk pudding.

Breakfasts at the ryokan are just as spectacular, but served expeditiously, in well over a dozen different little plates and bowls. I’ll spare you the photos.

Over five dramatic meals on the property, I never saw the same serving piece more than once. And all of this was managed just days after the earthquake and tsunami, under the threat of nuclear meltdown, between scheduled rolling blackouts. Praise and thanks to Yagyuno Sho Ryokan and its wonderful chef and staff.

* * *

Read about Japan’s complicated shoe rules.

Read what it was like to be in Japan’s 9.0 earthquake.

food japan restaurant travel

Beijing street food

Arachnid kebob, anyone? If you haven’t lost your appetite from all the lusty hawking and spitting and splatting, your stomach will certainly rumble as you browse Beijing’s edible temptations. Between great steaming caldrons and vats of bubbling oil, squirming specimens are lined up, already impaled, ready to be plunged to their crispy deaths. They’re simply waiting to be chosen…by you?

If you’re bored by the ordinary, fed up with fishballs and fried octopus, sick of spicy noodles and delicate dim sum, why not try the next level of Beijing street food? Have something on a stick.

The adorable seahorses must be all crunch when fried, but who’d want to eat such a fantastical creature? I’m heartbroken to see the splintery skewer piercing the armor of its chubby belly while it’s big round eyes stare sadly… Excuse me while I anthropomorphize. Don’t call me ethnocentric!

On the other hand, I get the shivers looking at the seahorses’ stick-mates. The headless scorpions curl and straighten their tails and claw the air. They’re certainly fresh, but not terribly appetizing, even though my heart holds no soft spot for them.

When I see them fried, they’re no more offensive than a barbecued shrimp: a thin-shelled body with a lotta legs. Crisp and plump, with the promise of succulent sweetness inside. It’s mainly a difference in attitude and behavior, isn’t it, between the shrimp and the scorpion. One swims, one hikes. One fishes, one hunts. One has charm and magnetism, the other is furtive and hostile. The scorpion’s reputation makes him repugnant. It’s prejudice! And look: unlike the shrimp, the scorpion’s fully edible—no legs or tough shells to spit out. Still…no thanks. I can’t bring myself to nibble one.

The young woman in the video is a Russian tour leader. And yes, she ate them all—I watched. She judged the fried scorpions “actually quite pleasant.” She was hesitant to eat their tails, but I know about these things and told her the shop would have removed the stingers if they were harmful. She bought it and chowed ’em down.

Silkworms, locusts, and grasshoppers are other potential snack options, sold separately or in colorful combinations. Big fat larvae, mahogany brown and shiny with oil, are five on a stick. They look like beads of exotic hardwood, but I know their liquidy centers would gush out at the gentlest squeeze. Wait, on closer inspection they appear to be candied. My mouth waters in anticipation of a brittle coating of burnt sugar shattering against my teeth. Maybe they’re buttered, not oiled… I’m close to grokking the allure of the delicacy. If it weren’t for the damn ick factor.
Read the rest with more photos… Continue reading

china street food video

Pattaya’s sex tourism

Pattaya, Thailand’s got to be the seediest, one-track party-town in the world. It doesn’t pretend to be anything else. Huge signs advertising the Fcuk Inn Bar and Kiss Food and Drink make the theme obvious. Couples like this one are ubiquitous.

Hot, sweaty days are for advertising the possibilities of hot, sweaty nights. Bored “massage” girls pose on plastic chairs in front of their shops, long bare legs ending in spike-heeled evening shoes dangling in the trash-filled gutters.

Just across the narrow lanes, clusters of old, fat, ugly, white men slouch and slump over beers, gathering confidence from one another. They all look the same. They all wear floppy shorts and t-shirts and sandals. Some wear socks with their sandals. These are the tunnel-vision men those pretty Thai girls are dreaming of.

The local specialty, called ladyboys, also ogle these men. Look at the 23-year-old ladyboy pictured at left, who just had her bag snatched while riding on the back of her Italian boyfriend’s motorcycle. (A reversal of the classic Italian scippatori theft, in which the thief—not the victim—is the backseat rider.) The Italian “boyfriend” may or may not have known what was under the coy ladyboy’s skirt.

After dark the lanes explode with open-air billiards bars, tiny beer bars, bars named for your country, pole-dancing bars, and enormous “pussy bars” offering “pussy menus” and buckets of ping pong balls. Establishments large and small feature alluring girls.

The city’s other passion is food. I love the street food culture in Pattaya. Entire restaurants zip through the streets on the backs of tricycles and on motorcycle sidecars, their sauce buckets sloshing and condiments precarious. In grubby plastic baskets they carry the myriad fresh and fermented ingredients that their specialties comprise. Seductive food is cooked to order on smoky charcoal grills or stirred over car-battery-operated stoves.

Hot, ready-to-eat curries are peddled from wooden trays on the backs of bikes, single servings tied up in clear plastic baggies. Mysterious delicacies are baked in bamboo canes—the ultimate environmentally-friendly fast-food container. Longons, lychees, mangosteens, jackfruit, dragonfruit, durian—the tropical fruit displays are mouthwatering.

Whatever your pleasure, Pattaya is to drool for. Western men tend to visit for three week stays. Many or most have met their exotic girls online and come specifically to see them. They pay the girls about US$100 a night to stay with them in their hotels. They might visit their girls two or three times a year. Sometimes the couples marry and the men take the girls away to live in their Western countries.

For a beach resort town, Pattaya’s remarkably unattractive. Where trees should be, tangled electrical wires form a shadeless canopy over streets, the thick cords nearly obscuring the mosaic of signs for Cialis, Viagra, pharmacy, clinic, laundry, and rooms-for-rent. There’s nothing for the eye here—just hard-driven business: that is, the business of the sexual drive. It’s a lewd town, but an honest one, advertising what it’s about in every way it can.

bag snatch prostitution sex industry street food Thailand thieves

Japanese Breakfast

“Burning condition salmon” on the breakfast buffet in our Tokyo hotel. I guess we might call it “blackened.” Good for an early morning smile.

hotel Tokyo

Bob Arno and Bambi in a den of thieves—18

Dinner with thieves, continued. Carafes of white wine land on the table. I join Andy and Lou and have beer. Among much laughter, the feast begins, family style. Plates of bruschetta arrive, and large rounds of mozzarella draped in prosciutto. Andy stands, carves the cheese, and serves everyone. Before he finishes, platters of fried items are placed on the table. Fried cheese, fried mashed potatoes, fried fishballs on sticks, fried squid, fried octopus. Before anyone begins, all glasses must clink all other glasses. Then men stretch across the table, serving themselves and each other with their hands. Ed puts handfuls of crisp-fried squid on my plate, and squeezes a lemon over it all.

Bob and several of the pickpockets are standing again, clowning around and swiping stuff. Watch me! No, wait—try it this way! Our plates are cleared and fresh ones laid down. The room is thick with smoke and loud with laughter. Ed is taking pictures with his mobile phone, or maybe he’s taking video. Bowls of stewed octopus come, and others heaped with steamed mussels. Bob borrows someone’s lit cigarette and pushes it though a handkerchief—no hole!—no burn! The men love it. More beer, more wine, more bread… Bob calls for dessert—maybe some fruit. The thieves laugh. Not yet! We have more courses coming!

Michele is translating for six pickpockets and Bob, as fast as he can. In such demand, he sometimes forgets he’s also sound recordist for a big-time film and someone has to remind him: “Michele, the boom!” I make a little conversation with Ed, on my left, but since I don’t have a translator, I mostly just observe.

A huge platter of pasta comes, covered with buttery mussels and a variety of clams. Its fragrant steam masks the cigarette smoke for a few minutes. It’s a work of art. The pasta is thick and chewy, the clams sweet, garlicky, divine. This dish, served in the den of thieves, is my favorite of all the spectacular meals enjoyed in our host city. It pains me to withhold credit where credit is due. I want to shout the name of the restaurant, and the city we’re in. I will… later.

There’s serious eating for a while. This is food to pay attention to, and these men are no strangers to fine cuisine. Another platter is added to the table, this one heaped with shell fish, crustaceans, and fish. Really, it is too much. Yet Ed is popping baby squids into my mouth with his fingers, and I’m enjoying them. There is some metaphor here—something about the fingers of a thief being exempt from all rules.

The men rise for more demonstrations. Bob swipes the restaurant owner’s wallet, then Andy shows how he can take cash without removing the wallet. Finally, they get to that special front pocket technique, unique to this city. Andy crushes against Bob, as if on a lurching bus. Frank holds Bob in place from the other side. Andy removes bill after bill from Bob’s front pocket, handing them off to Marc. Then Andy turns and skulks away. Playing along, Bob shouts “who took my money!” Marc passes the cash back to Andy, who presents it to Bob with a half bow and hand up in apology. Bob accepts the cash and Andy departs.

Left: Andy takes cash from Bob's front pocket. Right: After Bob's accusation, Andy returns the cash—but his left hand palms half of it in a practiced short-change move. — Left: Andy takes cash from Bob’s front pocket. Right: After Bob’s accusation, Andy returns the cash—but his left hand palms half of it in a practiced short-change move.

“We return the money when we have to,” he explains, “but it’s never the same amount.” Exactly like a magician, he has palmed half the cash before returning it. The victim never counts it on the spot. Andy grins hugely, full of pride.

Lou, now retired, sits out most of the demonstrations, but can’t help getting into the action to show his own wallet extractions. He rocks the wallet—zig-zags it out. The demonstrations and raucous laughter extend through dessert and beyond; through coffee, through liqueur. Then it’s time for picture-taking. All the thieves want to get between Bob and me for a photo.

There’s a surprise: everyone signs full releases agreeing to be in our film, faces shown. We are ecstatic. The thought of blurring these expressive, lively faces was distressing. Now these men, the true stars of our pickpocket documentary, will be laid bare; not only their identities, but their emotions, their humanity.

And there’s a challenge. The pickpockets have admired Bob’s steals, but insist their work is different. Can he perform in their world? Has he got the heart? By that they mean the guts—the nerve. They summons Bob to a test. We’ll meet in the park. Tomorrow.

Part one of this story. — Next installment

Bambi Vincent Bob Arno documentary film filming thieves

A Stockholm garden

Every frequent traveler has a personal list of what he misses about home. The list varies depending on the type and length of travel. Items high on my list are gardening and cooking.

My garden at home is of the type a frequent traveler can maintain. Specifically, that means it will survive, if not thrive, with a sprinkler system on a timer. Save for a few herbs there’s nothing edible, since I’d certainly miss fleeting moments of ripeness.

We’ve spent this spring and summer bouncing around Europe. By the end of September, we’ll have been on the road five straight months. Flying every three to six days, changing time zones, putting new names and faces into short-term memory, packing and unpacking, all while trying to keep up the administratrivia of business.

Between business trips, we made Stockholm our base, and our Swedish garden is what kept me sane. Growing food thrills me. Picking the bounty of the garden is a joy. A fistful of fragrant parsley makes me breathe deeply. A bowl of basil leaves or a palmful of oregano make me salivate for the possibilities. Weeding brings tranquility, and flavor explosions in the form of smultron, tiny wild strawberries found throughout the yard.

When we arrived in May, the rhubarb was ready and the cherry trees were flowering gloriously above it. I carried long, thick bundles of the red and green stalks up to the kitchen the afternoon of my first day, chopping and baking it into a crispy-topped pie. Later in the season, I simply chopped it and cooked it in a pot for ten minutes with nothing but a little sugar and cinnamon.

The elderberry trees burst into big, feathery flowers. They’re called flÃ¤der in Swedish, and we make a sort of juice-concentrate from the flowers. Worth a separate post.

Cherries, huge black ones and shiny white ones, required long ladders to harvest. The birds like them before they’ve reached their peek and, with easier access, always win the lion’s share. Those we manage to gather are too delicious to eat any way but out-of-hand. But why, we wonder, do the birds have to take a little bite out of each cherry? Why don’t they eat a whole one instead of pecking at a dozen?

Raspberries ripened next; I all but ignored them for my garden favorite, the deep and complex svart vinbÃ¤r, black wineberry, aka black currant. These I gorged on—plain, on ice cream, with yogurt, thrown into a pan with a roasting chicken. It’s no wonder the most interesting red wines tout “flavors of black currant.” (Sure beats aroma of cat pee!)

Black currants are tedious to harvest, as they hang in loose, delicate bunches of only a few berries. But our bushes were so laden I could fill bowlfuls without moving my feet. Before each trip I took in July, I cooked a pot of these for five minutes and filled a jar to take with me.

Snails love black currants, too. The adorable baby ones, smaller than a bedbug, are impossible to see among the black berries. They quickly flee to the rim of the bowl though (as quickly as a baby snail can go), when I fill the berry bowl with water for a few minutes.

As the black currants dwindled, the red ones ripened, the berries becoming so dark and heavy in their grape-like clusters that the lower branches of the bushes laid in the grass. Red currants are easy to pick, and a fork quickly strips them from their little stems. They’re gorgeous, like little ruby marbles, but I find them too tart and one-dimensional in flavor. Still, they’re excellent over ice cream…

Golden green gooseberries fattened to perfection, overlapping the black and red currant weeks. My thumbnail was black for a month from topping and tailing them. I baked them with curried chutney chicken and chopped them with sugar for the freezer, to be eaten slushy through winter. Turns out they’re sublime arranged cut in half on a peanut butter sandwich. I always start eating the gooseberries too early, and only realize it when they’ve turned honey-colored and thin-skinned on their branches, and half of them are already gone.

Now the rhubarb has gotten a second burst of energy and the plums are ripe. These plums, called Victoria, are sweet as sugar, another favorite of the birds, and alas, this year, a little wormy. I can’t eat them without cutting them open for examination. But that just requires a bit of knifecraft.

It’s September 4th, and we’ve already had to turn on the heat. Sunny nights are long gone. The days are more often gray, rainy, and windy than otherwise. Bob and I are packing up, leaving Sweden for the last time this year, full of antioxidants and phytochemicals and glowing with good health. From our upstairs windows, we look down on reddening apples, but we’ll miss them.

food Stockholm Sweden

Coffee on the road

Go ahead—laugh.
I did.

Is there a more phallic kitchen tool on the planet? Or one more ridiculous?

You should see the thing in action! This is an espresso-maker for the coffee-obsessed traveler. To work it, you grab the black “head” and pump vigorously. I am not kidding.

Of course, first you need a source of boiling water, which sort of spoils its promise of convenience. You can’t just pull to the side of an endless desert road and pump out a shot of espresso; or whip one up on a beach blanket. But in a hotel room equipped with a water boiler, it makes a passable coffee with a nice crema. You need to carry around the coffee, sugar, and the right cups, too. Maybe even a grinder. It’s not my idea of convenient. For all its trouble and the extra stuff that must be carried, it’s not, in my opinion, trip-worthy.

But it sure is amusing to watch a man operate it. I don’t mind drinking the coffee, either.

food odd travel

Eating in Mumbai

Delicious do-it-yourself panipuri at the upscale restaurant Soam, in Mumbai.

Eating Mumbai

Bhel puri just might be my favorite Indian food. A snack commonly prepared and served on the street, you can find it in restaurants, too. It’s hard but not impossible to find it in the U.S., where Indian restaurant almost always means a predictable menu of Northern Indian dishes, often dismal and boring.

The dish is a perfect mix of sweet, sour, hot, and spicy, plus soft and crisp. It always includes sev—delicate crispy yellow noodles—and puffed rice. There’s usually chopped potatoes and onions, and sometimes tomatoes. It’s all tossed with a spicy sweet-hot sauce and topped with green coriander leaves. It must be eaten as soon as the ingredients are combined.

Eating Mumbai: Bhel puri walla, Bombay, 1989. — Bhel puri walla, Bombay, 1989.

I discovered bhel puri in 1989, my first trip to Bombay. I was intrigued by the long line of people buying from this humble bhel puri walla. Using only his hand, he mixed fistfuls of the ingredients in a bowl, then transferred the concoction to another bowl for the customer to eat from, right there. Yep, I got in line. Nope, I didn’t get sick.

Eating Mumbai: Bhel puri cart, Bombay, 1989. — Bhel puri cart, Bombay, 1989.

Eating Mumbai: Bhel puri and other street food for sale, Bombay, 1989 — Bhel puri and other street food for sale, Bombay, 1989

Once I recognized the ingredients, I began to see dramatic displays like these all over the city, each more artistic and appetizing than the next. I ate at many of them.

Eating Mumbai: Savoring the last few bites of bhel puri on Chowpatti Beach — Savoring the last few bites of bhel puri on Chowpatti Beach

In March of 2010, I saw very few street food vendors, no bhel puri wallas. Perhaps I just didn’t walk in the right streets, though I criss-crossed the city and spent much time in Colaba, as I did in 1989. The food stalls on Chowpatty Beach, long famous for bhel puri, have been swept into a permanent organization of stainless steel stands, similar to Singapore’s street food culture.

Eating Mumbai: Chopping onions at Chowpatty Beach. — Chopping onions at Chowpatty Beach.

I had excellent bhel puri (and many other dishes) at the vegetarian Kailash Parbat on Colaba Causeway. Across from the restaurant, they run a sort of glorified street food stand, at which one can order all the standard snacks and sweets. I had incredible panipuri there, one after another until I had to hold up my hand and reject the last of the six that come in an order, handed over one by one. Panipuri are crisp hollow spheres, punctured and filled with spicy potatoes or chickpeas, then topped off with spicy, cumin-flavored water. The entire fragile globe must be placed in the mouth, sometimes a tricky maneuver for a small mouth. The payoff is a satisfying burst, a crackling, a flood of liquid, an explosion of flavor and texture like no other.

Eating Mumbai: Delicious do-it-yourself panipuri at the upscale restaurant Soam, in Mumbai. — Delicious do-it-yourself panipuri at the upscale restaurant Soam, in Mumbai.

Eating Mumbai: Mysore paanki, steamed between banana leaves, is peel-and-eat spiciness. — Mysore paanki, steamed between banana leaves, is peel-and-eat spiciness.

The vegetarian restaurant Soam is a few block’s walk from the north end of Chowpatty Beach, and definitely worth the trip. The small, trendy place serves upscale versions of street food and Gujarati home cooking. Bob and I loved it.

Jackfruit for sale in 1989 Bombay. I didn’t see any this time, though it was the same month.

Eating Mumbai: Beer is served in tall, iced dispensers at Leopold's the famous cafe that was bombed in 2008. — Beer is served in tall, iced dispensers at Leopold's the famous cafe that was bombed in 2008.

I drank fresh coconut every day from this vendor around the corner from our hotel.

Reviewing my 1989 photos, I found the same heap of coconuts in front of the same temple on Colaba Causeway.

bombay food India mumbai street food

A pudding

After twenty years of baking this decadent dessert, which I’ve called by a name I’m quite fond of, I must finally, if fleetingly, commit to its spelling. I’ll take its lovely, ambiguous, oral name, so full of interpretation, possibility, and nuance, and relegate it to a finite, deficient, inadequate written one which prevents the mind from wandering.

Twenty years ago (wow!) Bob and I took a one-year contract in South Africa. We were given an apartment with two servants, a cat, and pesky baboons (another story), and a rudimentary kitchen. At some point I started baking a dessert recipe that I found in the local alternative newspaper, The Weekly Mail. Part of a flour ad, the recipe had a dull, generic name, something like Snowflake Flour Pudding, or Baked Apricot Pudding. I’ve called it Weekly Mail Pudding ever since but, not having written of it, I’ve never had to spell it. I’m sad that I must now, in order to tell the story of the pudding. Bob and I refer to it so casually that, when I serve it to friends, I forget how odd the name sounds.

Malva Pudding

That was the first third of the story. The third third is the recipe itself, at the end. The second third is this. A few months ago in Cape Town, I suddenly came to realize that this dessert is properly called Malva Pudding, and is a South African classic of Dutch origin. (I should also mention that pudding is a generic British term for dessert. This one is a moist cake; not at all a custardy pudding.)

Bob and I stopped at a Cape Town cafe for coffee. I sat down and opened the laptop while Bob looked at the treats on offer. He returned to the table with a gorgeous little cake, not much bigger than a muffin. Its deep brown, shiny surface had large pores and a little buttery froth, like an over-tanned face with a smudge of Coppertone. The cake was not decorated or garnished. It looked moist, and smelled like toasty caramel. Makes my mouth water just thinking of it, even now.

“What’s that?” I asked Bob.

“I don’t know, it just looked good,” he said.

“Looks like Weekly Mail Pudding,” I said.

One bite confirmed it. Examining the cafe’s display case, I saw that the cake was labeled Malva Pudding.

Subsequent research indicates that apricot jam is one of the dessert’s defining characteristics. I never sense much flavor from the jam. Therefore, I’ve always used whatever jam I have on hand: ginger, orange, raspberry…. I used pomegranate jam in the one pictured here.

I give you my scrumptious version of this recipe on the conditions that, if you call it anything at all, you call it by its lovely, ambiguous name; that you refrain from writing its name; and that you forget any spelling of the name that you’ve seen here.

The recipe:

Weekly Mail Pudding

1 Egg

1/2 cup sugar (125 ml)

2 T jam (25 ml)

1 cup milk (250 ml)

1 t baking soda (5ml)

1/4 t salt (2 ml)

1 cup CAKE flour* (250 ml) (or “self-rising” flour)

Directions

1. Preheat oven to 350 F. (180 C)

2. Butter a glass baking dish, at least 12″ x 7.5″x 2″. (18 x 30 x 5 cm) Preferably a little larger.

3. Beat egg and sugar and salt together well.

4. Add the jam and mix well.

5. Mix the milk and baking soda together.

6. Add flour and the milk mixture alternately to the egg mixture, beating well.

7. Pour into the greased glass ovenproof dish.

8. Cover the dish with a lid of foil.

9. Bake for 40 minutes.

10. Meanwhile, make the sauce.

Sauce

1 cup milk (250 ml)

1/2 cup water (125 ml)

1 cup sugar (250 ml)

4 oz. butter (125 g)

1 t vanilla (optional) (5 ml)

Directions

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2. Stir until the sauce boils, to dissolve the sugar.

3. Boil mixture for 5 minutes.

4. Take the pudding out of the oven, uncover it, and stab it here and there with a knife.

5. Slowly pour the boiled sauce over it.

6. Return it to the oven, uncovered, for 15-20 minutes or until the pudding is brown.

You might serve the pudding with whipped cream, ice cream, or custard, but I think that’s overkill.

Cape Town's Table Mountain. — Cape Town’s Table Mountain.

Kitchen notes:

•No cake flour? From 1 cup all purpose flour, subtract 2 T of it. Add 2 T corn starch.

•Yes! you can use soy milk instead of dairy!

•Placing a sheet of foil on the oven floor may save a nasty clean-up.

food recipe South Africa

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