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.
0 Comments
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.
China is a big place, one whose seemingly infinite variety of regional sub-cuisines is further complicated by hastening modernization and circuitous internal emigration. I’m still nowhere near finished working through the ever-expanding options offered at Chinese restaurants in New York, and the growing infusion of Northern and Western immigrants into the city’s composite cuisine only makes attempting to do so more of a fool’s errand. There’s also the additional difficulty that, even if something appears to be unavailable in Flushing or Sunset Park, it may just be under-reported (no one can check every menu, especially when some aren’t even entirely in English) or operating under a different name, which I suspect may be the case with the exotic delicacy sometimes known as Golden Sand. I was put on to this stuff by Carolyn Phillips’ fantastic Madame Huang’s Kitchen; in short, it’s a rich combination of salted egg yolks, garlic and onion, which get wok fried, then joined in the pan by any variety of edible matter, usually vegetables or seafood.
While the unphotogenic nature of this odd candy may seem to have something to do with the waxy translucence of the packaging, I can report that, even unwrapped, it does pretty much look like a turd that’s been hung out to dry in the sun. The same can be said for the churchkhela’s fresher cousin, although I imagine these confections fare better when encased within the traditional layer of thickened fruit juice, instead of one formed from intractable high fructose corn syrup. The processed imitation, despite its “aphrodisiac” claims, seems more silly than anything, encased in a soft plasticine aspic that demands knife-cutting rather than direct biting chomping. The taste is passable, with some hints of grape molasses (technically grape must, according to the ingredients list) and large walnut chunks helping to combat the otherwise-overwhelming artificiality on display. As for real stuff, despite churchkhela’s popularity beyond its native Georgia, into Turkey (the origin point of this snack), Armenia, Russia and beyond, I have not seen it anywhere in NYC. The Turkish on the packaging describes a “grape walnut dried sausage,” (despite what the Engish/German/French translations read); I imagine the fresh version’s range is limited to places where grapes grow in abundance, their byproducts funneled into mass sweet treat diversions. Georgia is wine country, and so blessed with these sort of resources, necessitating similar overflow desserts like pelamushi, a beautiful, pretty delicious grape pudding. Churchkhela can’t compete in the looks department (at its best it seems to resemble a poorly made candle or a fire cracker), but I imagine that, consumed on some remote Georgian vineyard in the fading evening light, it can make for a pretty magical experience in its own right.
There’s something oddly evocative about the packaging for Marukawa’s fruit gums, with their neat little square boxes (containing three four small gums apiece) drawing aesthetic parallels to some bygone style of design (taxonomic charts? '60s-era juice bars? frozen juice concentrate packages?) that I can’t exactly put my finger on. The gum itself is equivalently mysterious, offering an ephemeral burst of faint, Chiclet-like fruit flavor, then evaporating into nothingness. The only issue with this is that, these being gum pellets, you’re left with the sallow, flavorless grub in your mouth as a reminder of the candy’s lingering connection to the cruel corporeal world. Another key reminder; the main breadwinner of the Marukawa line is not these ethereal little confections, but this garish product, which resorts to the allure of acrobatic musician bears and a free tattoo sticker to lure in a (likely juvenile?) audience. I imagine the taste is also a lot less subtle.
Beyond warily eyeing them during their bi-seasonal autumn/winter appearance at the borders of the supermarket fruit section, I’ve never really known what to do with the persimmon, a fruit that seems firmly (if not insistently) Asian in character. Finally, this year, emboldened by a recipe that provided a method for synthesizing these mysterious orange globes into bread form, I picked up half a dozen in Chinatown, where stores seem to be especially bountiful during the fall season. Here I disabused myself of a long-time misconception - that persimmons are mushy and/or pulpy. Maybe this has something to do with their offhand resemblance to a tomato, or a since-forgotten encounter with an overripe persimmon on a store shelf, but the ones I purchased were actually hard, with a fibrous inside that in some ways resembled a pear. Even after brown-bagging these guys for two weeks they stayed hard, and I was eventually forced to unceremoniously mulch out the semi-soft meat inside with a spoon.
I’ve also since learned that persimmons are not exclusively Asian, despite the majority of production occurring there, with the Japanese ‘kaki’ variant being the source of the main crop produced for global consumption. These are generally split into two categories, the rounder fuyu (which I purchased) and the heart-shaped, more-bitter hachiya, which requires a bit more massaging (and/or ripening) to get to an edible state. These widely available versions, as is often the case, are only the tip of the iceberg. There’s also the legendary date plum, one of the first fruits cultivated by humans and a favorite of the ancient Greeks, the Texas/Mexican persimmon, the charred-looking chocolate persimmon, and the velvety Filipino mabolo. Last but not least is the American persimmon, which grows wild across the Eastern United States, originally cultivated by Native American tribes. These are evidently quite bitter, and eating them before they’re ripe can lead to a coagulated mass of acids and food known as a bezoar, a nasty condition (do not Google image search this, especially if you’re planning on eating in the next twelve hours) that wreaks the most havoc in animals; humans can usually break them down through the nifty trick of drinking cola. With an appearance that sits somewhere between root and poop, the bezoar can also be polished into jewelry; Queen Elizabeth I had one in her crown jewels, cast in gold and apparently given as a gift from noted Renaissance Man John Dee. This gift likely had something to do with the bezoar’s reputation as a means of protecting against poisoning. All this from a fruit that seemed pretty much worthless at first glance. For every modern food craze, there’s some sort of historical antecedent. So while slurping down almond milk seems like a decidedly contemporary (and possibly environmentally deleterious trend, the practice actually has a long history, stretching back to the dark, dairy-deprived days of the Middle Ages and beyond. In a time before refrigeration and canning, when you needed to own a cow or live in close proximity to one to enjoy the benefits of lactose, plant milks served more than a niche purpose.
|
The coded language of snacks, sandwiches and seasonings, in NYC and beyond.
Archives
February 2022
Categories
All
|