I had a meal with a boy that I hold hands with.
It was our birthday dinner.
The room was industrial, and oddly wood-crafty with a particular northwest air. Clean, modern but unpretentious and warm.
our server would not serve me alcohol because my driver's license was expired-- for 3 days. I cursed her and the OLCC under my breath, but smiled nonetheless. Rosemary lemonade (not so)regretfully stood in as my glass of wine. Mr. Z, although not the heavy-drinker, ordered a beer only to spite my untimely predicament.
My pasta looked like meal worms(cavatelli), but tasted like happy cheese pockets that had just enough tooth in it all complimented with the delightfully greasy duck confit.
I whipped out my camera to take a picture of the clever and efficient way they designed their votives, but he told me to wait while he was in the bathroom to do something so silly.
I kicked him in the shin.
We shared something called a brutti ma buoni for dessert. I suppose it meant ugly but good. It was lumpy nutty meringue. Ugly, and okay.
The meal itself was fine but mostly I enjoyed the boy I got to hold hands with
:)
Friday, December 11, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
Organic food, Moleskin books, and Gentrification
I stumbled upon this website:
http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/
I love it.
http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/
I love it.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Ringside Steakhouse
I woke up at 10 AM this morning, with an uncomfortable layer of heat emanating from my body. I am spread out like the Vitruvian Man on my bed and my sheets are tossed on the floor. I've got nothing but a bra and boyshorts on and am stuck between a torturous lethargy from the heat and restlessness from laying in bed awaiting the arrival of REM cycles that never came. It is hot, and I think I may still be drunk from the Makers Mark the night before.
Alexis calls me up. I let it buzz for a few rings, teetering on the edge of screening her call. Alas, I suck it up and answer.
"what up?" i groggily answer
"I'll be there in an hour or so!"
Oh, god. Why?
Hiking.
Yep.
I was happy to go because I knew it would help me work up an appetite for some steak later in the evening. Since Mieky only had a few more days before he went back to the military base, and since the last time we went out to eat it was a horrendous failure, I decided to take him out proper. I knew he would not be down for my normal fare(beef tongue, marrow butter, sweetbreads, and such), but there is something we both could agree on. Nobody can hate on some delicious steak, El Gaucho and Ringside being the two more notable steakhouses in Portland. With my meager server's allowance, and the fact that El Gaucho is lovingly termed "El Gouge-O", I chose the offerings of Ringside.
Steak. This is a realm I have really yet to explore. Some people take this shit very very seriously. Like wine, there are many different ways to enjoy steak. You can dry age it to achieve optimal flavor. Different cuts require different temperatures. I will admit, I am entirely beef stupid. New York? Rib eye? Porterhouse? Top Sirloin? I have no idea what you are talking about. I did learn the deliciousness of the underrated Hangar steak at my restaurant.
(Back story: I lost my credit card, consequences of the debaucherous night previous. So i extracted 200 dollars cash from my bank account. remember this)
So tonight, I was simply a novice. I dressed in my i-don't-want-you-to-fuck-me-but-i-hope-my-calves-look-good pumps, a simple hipster cardigan, and gold hoops. Baby, we're going to Ringside! The decor is old-school. Like fedora hats, and mink coats and pinstripe suits old-school. The bar is sunken below the rest of the floor, so the bartender stands at eye level with his seated guests. It is very dimly lit and the tables are private leather booths.
Our sever was equally old school. An older asian woman, who bordered on ragged lifer rather than respected institution, who was pushier than I cared to have had.
"We just got a shipment of (insert local name and place) oysters this afternoon, they are fantastic"
Bitch, please. It is Tuesday. I know your game and do it better than you.
Actually I would have gotten them, but I had horribly underestimated the potential damage that Ringside would do to my wallet. Like i said earlier, I didn't have my credit card with me and I figured 180 dollars would be good for the evening. Ugh, I shame myself. We decided to focus on the main part of our experience: the steak.
In a manner that is so unlike myself and so against how I like to dine, we skipped courses and just ordered our slabs of beef. I had failed myself. If you know me, I go all out when we do restaurants. When I write this, I do not mean I am a total FatKid, that like to eat everything in sight. I am a firm believer that eating should be an experience. There is process. There is ritual. Through this we are not only nourishing our bodies, but also enriching the soul and cultivating relationships with the people we care for. I look at a meal like I try to feel my architecture. I crave sensory bliss and I crave narrative. There must be the apertif, Hendricks gin, stirred, up and with a twist. Our threshold. I love an amuse-bouche, something to whet the appetite, maybe a few oysters on the half shell or some dungeness crab on a blini. Then finally, halfway through my second glass of a Walla Walla Cabernet, will I be ready to look at my Medium Rare 14 oz. Prime Rib Eye with ravenous determination. slowly sawing through the well marbled flesh, I would take dainty bites, savoring its buttery and flavorful texture as it danced with the residual tannins of my wine. In between chewing and sipping, there would be choice conversations about politics, social-issues, light gossip and awkward but platonic flirtation. I eat plenty, but not gratuitously, and hardly make a dent in my steak before crying "uncle!". When my gracious server arrives with a box of leftovers, she also brings me a fernet branca or perhaps some averna to finish the evening.
That's what I would have loved to have happened.
it did not.
Our steaks were wonderfully cooked. Perfect at medium-rare and yes, it was a wonderful chunk of entwined fat and meat. Delicious. The garlic mashed potatoes were excellent, and I realized why the next morning when i took it out of the fridge and it was as hard as a stick of butter. The asparagus was beautifully prepared, green, bright and not soggy at all. Our wine, I was informed, was a cabernet blend. it turned out to be mostly merlot. It was a fruit bomb and not much else.
I felt horrid when the check came, and totaled 160. I only had 180 in cash, and twenty dollars is hardly worthy of a tip. Thankfully, Snowtronimous had 13 bucks on hand. We squeezed by, barely.
All in all, the meal was pleasant, but it was not worth the experience for blowing nearly two hundred bucks. and i didn't even get laid. I just am kicking myself for not bringing more cash. There really are no complaints, but I think that steakhouses just might not be my cup of tea. I'm not about Dean Martin and the standards. 200 dollars for steak, potatoes and asparagus does not seem as enticing as poached octopus, halibut ceviche, or saffron gelato. If Ringside is where you are planning to have dinner, do not half ass it like I did. prepare to feast like a king and spend like a senator.
Go big, or go home.
Alexis calls me up. I let it buzz for a few rings, teetering on the edge of screening her call. Alas, I suck it up and answer.
"what up?" i groggily answer
"I'll be there in an hour or so!"
Oh, god. Why?
Hiking.
Yep.
I was happy to go because I knew it would help me work up an appetite for some steak later in the evening. Since Mieky only had a few more days before he went back to the military base, and since the last time we went out to eat it was a horrendous failure, I decided to take him out proper. I knew he would not be down for my normal fare(beef tongue, marrow butter, sweetbreads, and such), but there is something we both could agree on. Nobody can hate on some delicious steak, El Gaucho and Ringside being the two more notable steakhouses in Portland. With my meager server's allowance, and the fact that El Gaucho is lovingly termed "El Gouge-O", I chose the offerings of Ringside.
Steak. This is a realm I have really yet to explore. Some people take this shit very very seriously. Like wine, there are many different ways to enjoy steak. You can dry age it to achieve optimal flavor. Different cuts require different temperatures. I will admit, I am entirely beef stupid. New York? Rib eye? Porterhouse? Top Sirloin? I have no idea what you are talking about. I did learn the deliciousness of the underrated Hangar steak at my restaurant.
(Back story: I lost my credit card, consequences of the debaucherous night previous. So i extracted 200 dollars cash from my bank account. remember this)
So tonight, I was simply a novice. I dressed in my i-don't-want-you-to-fuck-me-but-i-hope-my-calves-look-good pumps, a simple hipster cardigan, and gold hoops. Baby, we're going to Ringside! The decor is old-school. Like fedora hats, and mink coats and pinstripe suits old-school. The bar is sunken below the rest of the floor, so the bartender stands at eye level with his seated guests. It is very dimly lit and the tables are private leather booths.
Our sever was equally old school. An older asian woman, who bordered on ragged lifer rather than respected institution, who was pushier than I cared to have had.
"We just got a shipment of (insert local name and place) oysters this afternoon, they are fantastic"
Bitch, please. It is Tuesday. I know your game and do it better than you.
Actually I would have gotten them, but I had horribly underestimated the potential damage that Ringside would do to my wallet. Like i said earlier, I didn't have my credit card with me and I figured 180 dollars would be good for the evening. Ugh, I shame myself. We decided to focus on the main part of our experience: the steak.
In a manner that is so unlike myself and so against how I like to dine, we skipped courses and just ordered our slabs of beef. I had failed myself. If you know me, I go all out when we do restaurants. When I write this, I do not mean I am a total FatKid, that like to eat everything in sight. I am a firm believer that eating should be an experience. There is process. There is ritual. Through this we are not only nourishing our bodies, but also enriching the soul and cultivating relationships with the people we care for. I look at a meal like I try to feel my architecture. I crave sensory bliss and I crave narrative. There must be the apertif, Hendricks gin, stirred, up and with a twist. Our threshold. I love an amuse-bouche, something to whet the appetite, maybe a few oysters on the half shell or some dungeness crab on a blini. Then finally, halfway through my second glass of a Walla Walla Cabernet, will I be ready to look at my Medium Rare 14 oz. Prime Rib Eye with ravenous determination. slowly sawing through the well marbled flesh, I would take dainty bites, savoring its buttery and flavorful texture as it danced with the residual tannins of my wine. In between chewing and sipping, there would be choice conversations about politics, social-issues, light gossip and awkward but platonic flirtation. I eat plenty, but not gratuitously, and hardly make a dent in my steak before crying "uncle!". When my gracious server arrives with a box of leftovers, she also brings me a fernet branca or perhaps some averna to finish the evening.
That's what I would have loved to have happened.
it did not.
Our steaks were wonderfully cooked. Perfect at medium-rare and yes, it was a wonderful chunk of entwined fat and meat. Delicious. The garlic mashed potatoes were excellent, and I realized why the next morning when i took it out of the fridge and it was as hard as a stick of butter. The asparagus was beautifully prepared, green, bright and not soggy at all. Our wine, I was informed, was a cabernet blend. it turned out to be mostly merlot. It was a fruit bomb and not much else.
I felt horrid when the check came, and totaled 160. I only had 180 in cash, and twenty dollars is hardly worthy of a tip. Thankfully, Snowtronimous had 13 bucks on hand. We squeezed by, barely.
All in all, the meal was pleasant, but it was not worth the experience for blowing nearly two hundred bucks. and i didn't even get laid. I just am kicking myself for not bringing more cash. There really are no complaints, but I think that steakhouses just might not be my cup of tea. I'm not about Dean Martin and the standards. 200 dollars for steak, potatoes and asparagus does not seem as enticing as poached octopus, halibut ceviche, or saffron gelato. If Ringside is where you are planning to have dinner, do not half ass it like I did. prepare to feast like a king and spend like a senator.
Go big, or go home.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Carafe
fuckin' bomb happy hour, yo
Hung out with Alexis and Hambino in celebration of Ham's engagement. I had some greasy escargot swimming in garlic-hazelnut butter. Spongy, with a little bite. A pair of deviled eggs, and braised veal tongue. It was all good and all really bad for me. I think i was fairly unimpressed with the veal tongue though, it seemed like the braised all texture out of it. I am surprised Ham ate anything at all. The croque monsieur took care of my picky eater. This brief because it was two months ago, but worthy of some sort of mention. The happy hour is CHEAP. It was a sunny day and a peculiar location, next to a parking garage across the street from the Keller Auditorium. I had to take a key to the parking lot restroom to pee-- almost a deal breaker.
Afterwards, we went to the Gilt club to drink and pontificate, er gossip, with Broyles. Drank a bottle of something good and chain smoked on their patio. MMm
Hung out with Alexis and Hambino in celebration of Ham's engagement. I had some greasy escargot swimming in garlic-hazelnut butter. Spongy, with a little bite. A pair of deviled eggs, and braised veal tongue. It was all good and all really bad for me. I think i was fairly unimpressed with the veal tongue though, it seemed like the braised all texture out of it. I am surprised Ham ate anything at all. The croque monsieur took care of my picky eater. This brief because it was two months ago, but worthy of some sort of mention. The happy hour is CHEAP. It was a sunny day and a peculiar location, next to a parking garage across the street from the Keller Auditorium. I had to take a key to the parking lot restroom to pee-- almost a deal breaker.
Afterwards, we went to the Gilt club to drink and pontificate, er gossip, with Broyles. Drank a bottle of something good and chain smoked on their patio. MMm
Friday, June 19, 2009
Rogue Ales Brewery and Pub
You can take the girl out of Beaverton, but you can't take the Beaverton out the girl.
bear with me friends, its been a few months and I'm rusty.
I have been trying to run away from my Beaverton roots. When i meet new people at bars, or where i work they often ask me "where are you from?". As vaguely as possible i reply "near Portland". total cop out. Portland has quite the hipster stigma about the 'burbs. you do not know how many times I've heard someone say "oh totally LO", "Gresham this", "Beaverton that", "of course she grew up in the West Hills".
I became self conscious in college when I realized my heavily branded Abercrombie & Fitch wifebeater suddenly became uncool. Mall branding was not status-quo, but individuality was(Still up for argument, ahem hipsters). Portland: the city were the geeks are the cool kids. So I traded my American Eagles for American Apparels, and went to this place called the bins. (yes, I am a tool)
I'm going to be honest. As much as I say I hate my Beaverton upbringing, that I think anybody who stays in Beaverton is a loser, I totally love the Tron. The Bins are gross, and i think fixed gears suck. I know I'm not supposed to but I LIKE shopping at Target, dammit.
Most of all I love my childhood friends. While some may have explored new horizons, many have remained in Beaverton. They vehemently talk about how much they love it and will never leave. My friends, although, have remained in stagnant waters for the past six years. Rather than growing up, they have remained man-children. It has been the same weekend party, working the same part-time(now full-time manager!) job. and apart from the occasional trek to Portland City Grill, Henry's Tavern, or Dirty they remain rooted in their comfortable labyrinthine city.
I am not above traveling to Beaverton for the occasional barbeque, birthday party, or perhaps some Korean shabu shabu. But I am definitely not going to travel an hour into the burbs to smoke weed, and listen to the new Murs album.
But there is one way I can lure them into the city.
BEER
Hometown boys are always a sucker for some really good, super local beer. Luckily for portland, we have handfuls of them scattered everywhere. My old friend, Mikey, was in beaverton taking a break from his military base. As tradition we go to The Rogue Ale House and drink their delicious beers, and we drag our other friends out too.
Rogue has some wonderful beers. The Hazelnut Brown Nectar is my favorite. Thick, nutty, and hints of chocolate. I never have considered myself interested in beer. It was always the means to an end, but hand me a pint of that and I'll be whispering sweet nothings to my inanimate friend. I really dig on the unpretentious vibe that they have in contrast to Deschutes' over kitschy woodwork and Bridgeport's severely modern design. It's T-shirts and beer bottles, and a pub really should be nothing more.
The food however. The food.
Now, above I just stated how much I really liked Rogue. For any sunny day when I am craving a beer, and JUST a beer, this is where you can find me. I'll be damned if i eat their food ever again. Mikey and I had eaten there before and while it was decent (albeit) pub food, its price tag beckoned something of quality. It didn't suck enough for us to not come back, so on this last trip I was extremely disappointed. Maybe this is my fault, I just should have known. Why in the world would you grind up Kobe beef? WHY? and yet, I just had to try the Kobe beef cheese burger, it could only make a burger better... right? Mikey ordered the kobe blue balls pasta (less for his interest in kobe beef, more in his hate for kobe bryant), and our tagalong Grey called us stupid and ordered a normal beef burger.
While my burger was not horrible, it was over done, and honestly unimpressive. I had a bite of the normal burger and I hardly noticed the difference. My friend's meat balls were rubbery and tough and the angel hair pasta was soggy and swimming in a something comparable to a jar of Safeway brand tomato sauce. I usually expect pub fare to be a little sub par. I'm not expecting anything outstanding, but i hope that i am eating something decent. However, If i am spending 16 dollars on a burger it had better blow my mind. It did not. In fact, I'm pretty sure Red Robin produced better and (dare I say it?) more creative slop.
I pulled hairs to get my friends out to Portland, only to offer them overpriced tough Japanese ground beef. I remembered rolling my eyes when Grey complained about the 5.50 pints, and the 16 dollar burgers. While I was trying to explain Kobe beef to him, I was thinking of how uncultured and cheap he was being. In fact, it was I who was being the pretentious bitch, and my dining experience proved it so. Grey smirked at my friend and I as we shelled out cash for a meal neither of us cared to finish, while he happily flung twelve bucks on the table(tip and all) So i did not flinch when it was decided that we were going back to Grey's house to pound some bud light and play Rock Band.
i know that this was not eloquent. sorry, i'm just putting it out there. kobe beef should be a steak. to put it through a meat grinder is like painting a masterpiece and using it to wipe your shit.
(Also, I have discovered the mindblowing goodness of an OBA burger. bomb. dot. com. yea i said it)
bear with me friends, its been a few months and I'm rusty.
I have been trying to run away from my Beaverton roots. When i meet new people at bars, or where i work they often ask me "where are you from?". As vaguely as possible i reply "near Portland". total cop out. Portland has quite the hipster stigma about the 'burbs. you do not know how many times I've heard someone say "oh totally LO", "Gresham this", "Beaverton that", "of course she grew up in the West Hills".
I became self conscious in college when I realized my heavily branded Abercrombie & Fitch wifebeater suddenly became uncool. Mall branding was not status-quo, but individuality was(Still up for argument, ahem hipsters). Portland: the city were the geeks are the cool kids. So I traded my American Eagles for American Apparels, and went to this place called the bins. (yes, I am a tool)
I'm going to be honest. As much as I say I hate my Beaverton upbringing, that I think anybody who stays in Beaverton is a loser, I totally love the Tron. The Bins are gross, and i think fixed gears suck. I know I'm not supposed to but I LIKE shopping at Target, dammit.
Most of all I love my childhood friends. While some may have explored new horizons, many have remained in Beaverton. They vehemently talk about how much they love it and will never leave. My friends, although, have remained in stagnant waters for the past six years. Rather than growing up, they have remained man-children. It has been the same weekend party, working the same part-time(now full-time manager!) job. and apart from the occasional trek to Portland City Grill, Henry's Tavern, or Dirty they remain rooted in their comfortable labyrinthine city.
I am not above traveling to Beaverton for the occasional barbeque, birthday party, or perhaps some Korean shabu shabu. But I am definitely not going to travel an hour into the burbs to smoke weed, and listen to the new Murs album.
But there is one way I can lure them into the city.
BEER
Hometown boys are always a sucker for some really good, super local beer. Luckily for portland, we have handfuls of them scattered everywhere. My old friend, Mikey, was in beaverton taking a break from his military base. As tradition we go to The Rogue Ale House and drink their delicious beers, and we drag our other friends out too.
Rogue has some wonderful beers. The Hazelnut Brown Nectar is my favorite. Thick, nutty, and hints of chocolate. I never have considered myself interested in beer. It was always the means to an end, but hand me a pint of that and I'll be whispering sweet nothings to my inanimate friend. I really dig on the unpretentious vibe that they have in contrast to Deschutes' over kitschy woodwork and Bridgeport's severely modern design. It's T-shirts and beer bottles, and a pub really should be nothing more.
The food however. The food.
Now, above I just stated how much I really liked Rogue. For any sunny day when I am craving a beer, and JUST a beer, this is where you can find me. I'll be damned if i eat their food ever again. Mikey and I had eaten there before and while it was decent (albeit) pub food, its price tag beckoned something of quality. It didn't suck enough for us to not come back, so on this last trip I was extremely disappointed. Maybe this is my fault, I just should have known. Why in the world would you grind up Kobe beef? WHY? and yet, I just had to try the Kobe beef cheese burger, it could only make a burger better... right? Mikey ordered the kobe blue balls pasta (less for his interest in kobe beef, more in his hate for kobe bryant), and our tagalong Grey called us stupid and ordered a normal beef burger.
While my burger was not horrible, it was over done, and honestly unimpressive. I had a bite of the normal burger and I hardly noticed the difference. My friend's meat balls were rubbery and tough and the angel hair pasta was soggy and swimming in a something comparable to a jar of Safeway brand tomato sauce. I usually expect pub fare to be a little sub par. I'm not expecting anything outstanding, but i hope that i am eating something decent. However, If i am spending 16 dollars on a burger it had better blow my mind. It did not. In fact, I'm pretty sure Red Robin produced better and (dare I say it?) more creative slop.
I pulled hairs to get my friends out to Portland, only to offer them overpriced tough Japanese ground beef. I remembered rolling my eyes when Grey complained about the 5.50 pints, and the 16 dollar burgers. While I was trying to explain Kobe beef to him, I was thinking of how uncultured and cheap he was being. In fact, it was I who was being the pretentious bitch, and my dining experience proved it so. Grey smirked at my friend and I as we shelled out cash for a meal neither of us cared to finish, while he happily flung twelve bucks on the table(tip and all) So i did not flinch when it was decided that we were going back to Grey's house to pound some bud light and play Rock Band.
i know that this was not eloquent. sorry, i'm just putting it out there. kobe beef should be a steak. to put it through a meat grinder is like painting a masterpiece and using it to wipe your shit.
(Also, I have discovered the mindblowing goodness of an OBA burger. bomb. dot. com. yea i said it)
Friday, April 17, 2009
Tuk Trey
Happy Cambodian New Year!!!!
I have thinking about my heritage lately. Currently, I am participating in CACO's Oral History Project in light of the Khmer Rouge Tribunal that is (finally) taking place. 24 years I have lived among survivors who have never told their story. This coming month, I will sit face to face with my grandmother and help her tell her story. A story that I've only heard bits and pieces of. One that will be hard to tell, but cannot be hidden in the shadows or brushed under the rug. I am eager and proud to be participating in this important part of my heritage.
If you don't know anything about the Khmer Rouge. Google it.
So I've been thinking about all sorts of it. Cambodian stuff. I Netflixed The Killing Fields and City of Ghosts. Y'know, just to get in that depressing "my peeeooplllee!!" mood. I called my mother. I almost lit a little incense in a little bowl of rice and left an offering of fruit and coconut soda on the back porch, like I did as a kid. And, as I often do, I started thinking about Cambodian food.
Since I have moved out of my mother's house, the food in my house has not been the same. How I miss the giant pot of long jasmine rice, always plentiful and waiting, aromatic and sturdy. If I was ever hungry I would open the fridge and leftover Kha would be waiting for me, a soupy sweet caramelized pork dish with hard boiled eggs. And on those lucky days I had the flu, Mee Maam(not Cambodian, just what I have called my mother), would make Ginger Chicken Babaw (In Chinese, Congee): Rice porridge, scallions, ginger, and fermented soybeans. Cambodian food for the soul.
I miss it, badly.
Most of all, I miss a very potent dish, something that is not for the fainted hearted. Amok. To be... cautious... is a Cambodian seafood quiche. To be frank, it is a salted fish custard that is served with cabbage and other sorts of crudite. To me, its fucking delicious. I am also sure I can convince other people it is delicious too.
So, why is there no Cambodian restaurant in Portland?
This led me on a google adventure. I looked up recipes, compared them to how Mom makes it or Maht-Yeay(actual Cambodian, what I call my grandmother). I reminisced and tasted by reading, completely indulging in the recipe as if i were shoveling it into my mouth. There wasn't enough. I wanted Cambodian food.
And then I stumbled upon this old article:
http://www.salon.com/mwt/food/eat_drink/2007/06/26/khmer_food/index.html
very interesting. and also, just more drive for my whimsical fantasy of the future.
There is no silly judgemental write-up I can offer you on some "divy" Cambodian restaurant. Perhaps one day there will be.
Soor S'Day Chnnam Tmeay
Also: Tuk Trey = Fish sauce
I have thinking about my heritage lately. Currently, I am participating in CACO's Oral History Project in light of the Khmer Rouge Tribunal that is (finally) taking place. 24 years I have lived among survivors who have never told their story. This coming month, I will sit face to face with my grandmother and help her tell her story. A story that I've only heard bits and pieces of. One that will be hard to tell, but cannot be hidden in the shadows or brushed under the rug. I am eager and proud to be participating in this important part of my heritage.
If you don't know anything about the Khmer Rouge. Google it.
So I've been thinking about all sorts of it. Cambodian stuff. I Netflixed The Killing Fields and City of Ghosts. Y'know, just to get in that depressing "my peeeooplllee!!" mood. I called my mother. I almost lit a little incense in a little bowl of rice and left an offering of fruit and coconut soda on the back porch, like I did as a kid. And, as I often do, I started thinking about Cambodian food.
Since I have moved out of my mother's house, the food in my house has not been the same. How I miss the giant pot of long jasmine rice, always plentiful and waiting, aromatic and sturdy. If I was ever hungry I would open the fridge and leftover Kha would be waiting for me, a soupy sweet caramelized pork dish with hard boiled eggs. And on those lucky days I had the flu, Mee Maam(not Cambodian, just what I have called my mother), would make Ginger Chicken Babaw (In Chinese, Congee): Rice porridge, scallions, ginger, and fermented soybeans. Cambodian food for the soul.
I miss it, badly.
Most of all, I miss a very potent dish, something that is not for the fainted hearted. Amok. To be... cautious... is a Cambodian seafood quiche. To be frank, it is a salted fish custard that is served with cabbage and other sorts of crudite. To me, its fucking delicious. I am also sure I can convince other people it is delicious too.
So, why is there no Cambodian restaurant in Portland?
This led me on a google adventure. I looked up recipes, compared them to how Mom makes it or Maht-Yeay(actual Cambodian, what I call my grandmother). I reminisced and tasted by reading, completely indulging in the recipe as if i were shoveling it into my mouth. There wasn't enough. I wanted Cambodian food.
And then I stumbled upon this old article:
http://www.salon.com/mwt/food/eat_drink/2007/06/26/khmer_food/index.html
very interesting. and also, just more drive for my whimsical fantasy of the future.
There is no silly judgemental write-up I can offer you on some "divy" Cambodian restaurant. Perhaps one day there will be.
Soor S'Day Chnnam Tmeay
Also: Tuk Trey = Fish sauce
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