What we know in America as Turkish Delight is, somewhat obviously, not referred to by that name in Turkey. Instead it goes by “lokum,” a word which seems to derive from Arabic for “morsel.” These are, however, a definitively Turkish invention, dreamed up at some point in the late 18th century, as traditional Ottoman confectionery was honed to a point of sugary perfection. Perfection in this case means small cubes of rosewater, lemon peel or bitter orange-flavored candy, thickened and bound with glucose to an ethereal chewiness that stops somewhere just short of a marshmallow. They made a huge impression on Europe upon their import in the 19th century, thus branding them with their current Western name, although it seems worth mentioning that they were initially known as the much goofier “Lumps of Delight.” As sold at Gulluoglu, a Turkish oasis amid the sea of Greek shops in the heart of Astoria, the rows of lokum are a beautiful sight, forming a tessellated horde of similarly-shaped brethren, all of them cast in soft pastel hues. This one had its surface dusted with a straw-like layer of toasted coconut, a popular topping at this export franchise, one of three locations in the city, which have operated in Turkey since 1871. It’s hard to say when and how a tropical fruit accompaniment became so connected to this characteristically Middle Eastern snack, but the two form a perfect pair, the softness of the lokum cosseted inside the coconut's toothsome sawdust coating.
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I’ve always had a special fondness for Vegetable Thins, a snack that’s long occupied the second string of Nabisco’s cracker team, paired with perennial misfits like Chicken In A Biskit, Better Cheddars, Sociables, and the VT's polar opposite, the now-defunct Bacon Thins. Even in my early years, when I refused to touch a single earth-hatched tuber or legume, the taste of freeze-dried vegetable scraps preserved inside vinegary, MSG-laden crackers was alluring. even more so for the way the snack appeared in approximated vegetable shapes, all of them tasting exactly the same. Things have changed now in Nabisco Land, and while I do enjoy the fact that the above Wiki cites separate varieties clocking in at 40% and 44% less fat, respectively, it's likely that the VT will never be the same.
Nostalgia for this bygone taste may explain my tolerance for these Veggie Sticks, which are in many ways pretty foul. Purchased at Elmhurst Filipino grocery Sariling Atin, their packaging promises a bountiful field of baton-shaped crackers, sprouting from the soil like the Emerald City skyline. Instead the contents resemble a bizarro Cheez Doodle, with the cheese substitute swapped out for a sweet vegetal taste, dusted with a substance that's gently redolent of mulched grass clippings. Yes these are formed from a base of rice, not corn, but when you get down to the core mechanics of food-grade styrofoam snacks it appears that the grain of origin doesn’t matter too much. If nothing else, the bag at least blends nicely into the surrounding landscape. I recently spent a little over two weeks in India. During this time I consumed untold quantities of rice and coconut milk, figured out how to passably eat curry with my hands (the right one, specifically), and learned the appropriate method of finishing off a banana leaf feast (the leaf should be folded toward you, not away, which is a sign of disrespect). Yet while the exact proportions of the ingredients consumed were not quantified, just about everything else was, as I obsessively documented everything I ate (and some things I didn’t) in order to create a rough food index for the parts of this country that I managed to visit. “Parts” is another key word, since India seems to only grow in complexity the more closely you examine it. Even minute sub-areas within one state vary wildly in terms of history and cuisine. This index is obviously wildly incomplete and rudimentary, an outsider’s perspective that hopefully contains a few insights nonetheless.
That said, the entries which will follow here involve a particular focus on Kerala, where I spent nearly two weeks, with a smaller pair of posts dedicated to Mumbai, where I only had 3.5 days, and thus got nowhere close to decoding its labyrinthine culinary system. It’s worth noting that each of these dishes/items/snacks could easily merit its own post. Befitting the hectic, vivid craziness of India, and in the interest of preserving my own sanity, I’m smashing them all together as one. I’ve at this point come to accept the fact that, despite numerous attempts to get on their wavelength, the pleasures of certain snacks will always remain elusive to my palate. One particular weak spot seems to lie in the cold-served, offal-based bar foods of Southeast Asia. I’ve already twice failed to comprehend the complexities of soondae, the Korean sausage stuffed with pig’s blood and cellophane noodles. This may have had something to do with the circumstances of consumption; I nibbled on it once amid a spread of far-more-palatable dishes at a group dinner, then again by my lonesome with a beer at home, my vegetarian companion sneering with disgust at idea of supermarket-purchased intestines invading our kitchen. Hoping for a better atmosphere, I brought this package of Nem Chua, purchased on impulse from the counter at Tan Tin Hung to a rental house upstate, hoping the convivial atmosphere therein would inspire at least some drunken inquisitiveness. Unfortunately, the sight of these candy pink meat squares, looking like misbegotten Starbursts topped with bird’s eye chili slices, did not strike a chord with anyone. I ate one, sort of admiring the souse-like snap of this portable meat cube, individually wrapped in plastic within the confines of its cellophane package. I also appreciated the appearance of vermicelli strands, hidden inside like subterranean grubs, which added some additional textural interest. Beyond this, however, I can’t express much love for this vinegar-cured pork delicacy, although I’d be willing to try the dominant variety of this snack, which seems to come in a less-processed-looking roll form, under more preferable circumstances. Three days after my first fress, still trying to convince myself that I’d finish off the package, I found that the nem chua, which did not seem to require refrigeration (I refrigerated them anyway, for the sake of safety) had developed a few scattered mold spots and acquired an even more intense sour taste. Not wanting to risk food poisoning over a snack I wasn’t crazy about in the first place, I tossed the rest of the batch, marking this one down as another failure. The Bánh da lợn, which I purchased from the grocery counter on the same trip, remains resilient in my fridge, also waiting for its time in the sun. Its name translates to “pig skin cake,” a fitting bit of serendipity if nothing else.
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The coded language of snacks, sandwiches and seasonings, in NYC and beyond.
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