Haw mok (also known as mok / amok / ho mok / hor mok, mok pa, etc.), has roots in Cambodia, Laos and Thailand, with plenty of regional quirks distinguishing the different versions. The Cambodian variety utilizes the spice mix Kroeung, while the Lao might involve dill and a different use of banana leaves, although it seems likely that most variations occur from personal preference rather than along strict national lines. All of these preparations, with their baseline of fish mousse simmered in sauce, seem to be derived from the French quenelle (itself rooted in the German knödel), a fine-dining delicacy left behind in Indochina after colonial occupation, then transformed into something entirely new. One important lesson learned too late: kaffir lime leaves should be julienned, not sliced, thus eliminating the need to work through their thick, waxy exteriors.
On a winter visit to Elmhurst’s venerable SriPraPhai, I’d planned to order the Haw Mok, a fish curry custard not commonly found around these parts. It was no longer on the menu, and rather than use MenuPages invaluable ‘Find-a-Food’ function to scare up another version elsewhere, I set down to replicating the dish myself. First, a trip to Bangkok Center Grocery on Mosco Street, where I purchased some Thai essentials, as well as an unfortunate squid snack that’ll be the subject of a future post. Then fresh red snapper from Mermaid’s Garden, and some banana leaves left over from a New Year’s Eve barbacoa, with structuring provided by this recipe. Despite a slightly-too-liquidy broth, which collapsed a few of the wrappers like overfilled backyard pools, the dish came together beautifully, toothsome chunks of fish floating in a curry-flavored custard, the overflow providing perfect seasoning for a side of jasmine rice.
Haw mok (also known as mok / amok / ho mok / hor mok, mok pa, etc.), has roots in Cambodia, Laos and Thailand, with plenty of regional quirks distinguishing the different versions. The Cambodian variety utilizes the spice mix Kroeung, while the Lao might involve dill and a different use of banana leaves, although it seems likely that most variations occur from personal preference rather than along strict national lines. All of these preparations, with their baseline of fish mousse simmered in sauce, seem to be derived from the French quenelle (itself rooted in the German knödel), a fine-dining delicacy left behind in Indochina after colonial occupation, then transformed into something entirely new. One important lesson learned too late: kaffir lime leaves should be julienned, not sliced, thus eliminating the need to work through their thick, waxy exteriors.
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"Sergeant my wife is currently taking a course at the continental school of gourmet cooking. Apparently they’ve never heard of the principle that to eat well in this country, one has to have breakfast three times a day. And an English breakfast at that.”
Frenzy (Alfred Hitchcock, 1972) Foreign food as a nightmarish culinary imposition Street food certainly has its own specific charms, but the line between mobile and table dining can be a fuzzy one, especially when you're trawling open-air markets or sidled up against a narrow lunch counter with three worn stools. Sometimes it feels like the only demarcation point is whether your order can be consumed with one hand or needs to remain platebound. That said, I'm going to briefly expand the definition of street food for the purposes of this post, to include any meals accrued from Isla's many loncherias, hearty, rib-sticking fare that's simple in construction and low in price, if not always capable of being carried off with ease.
My first visit to Mexico, back in 2013, was pretty tame affair as far as eating goes. Imprisoned in a labyrinthine relaxation compound by well-intentioned, generous parents, I was able to snag one good local meal (turkey in chilmole) from the resort's 'traditional' Mexican restaurant, some respectable tacos and a few smoky glasses of mezcal. Otherwise the trip was marked by bizarre poolside burgers, serviceable selections (coldcuts, tinga taquitos and nance in syrup, among many others) from a breakfast buffet catering to a mixed American and well-heeled, cosmopolitan Mexican clientele, and the odd snack item from the Oxxo across the street. Here I went a bit overboard, purchasing Pinguinos, Gansitos and Bimbuenelos, the latter drying out in the plane's cargo hold and collapsing into a sugary dust, which slipped through my fingers Treasure of the Sierra Madre style. None of these products were very different from the American snacks they seemed to be emulating, and none of them were very good. On this trip, with so much else to eat and so little stomach space to waste on frivolous junk, I mostly opted out of digging into these mass-market nooks and crannies. That doesn't mean I stopped documenting, and compulsive photography under poor lighting did yield some new information, such as the fact that 'nuez de la India' is not a flavor but an alternate name for cashews, as well the much-less-snackable candlenut, which several translation services improbably claim are also known as 'hombre nervioso.' The hot chile and citrus pairing seems to be a popular one; I bought a bag of corn and cactus derived snack sticks which utilized it, and it also applies to the Takis wave which has swept north to consume so many American adolescents.
Originating in Veracruz, the coctel is a sort of super shrimp cocktail; instead of four rim-draped crustaceans chilling in a bath of tomato sauce, you get them floating in a thick, flavorful broth of tomato, lime, onion, hot sauce and cilantro. These are often supplemented with other seafood (conch, squid, octopus, oysters), avocado and crushed saltines, eaten from a large glass like an ice cream sundae. On Isla and throughout Mexico, these light dishes are the domain of the cocteleria, casual seafood joints which also serve a variety of other option. Among these are ceviche – the classic preparation of lime-cured raw fish, a bit milder here than in many spicy South American iterations - and aguachile , it’s hotter, crunchier cousin.
Liquors often have roots in religious communities, which sounds peculiar until you consider the medicinal history of booze, the traditional mercantile focus of these mini-societies, and the fact that alcohol prohibition within the church is a pretty recent development. Monks are responsible for myriad varieties of beer, as well as Benedictine and Chartreuse among other liqueurs. Nuns, as far as I can tell, are responsible only for rompope, the thick yellow beverage known as Mexican eggnog, which reputedly originated in a Pueblan convent during the 17th century. This story probably has some truth to it, although the drink has roots which stretch back to the Old World, specifically Spanish ‘egg punches’, Dutch advocaat and English posset.
Southern Mexico is a land of bountiful produce, overflowing with tropical fruits and the vivid juices which flow freely from these splendid orbs. Yet it’s also industrializing at the same general rate as the rest of the country, which means that it’s sweet tooth is being adjusted to suit the of desires the global economy and the corporations which service it. Corn and soy form the backbone of United States farm production. Corn is also Mexico’s #1 crop, and while much of it is put to traditional use, the rising price of cane sugar is causing that sweetener to be replaced with corn syrup in many sodas, with the odd consequence that so-called ‘Mexican Coke’ made with cane sugar is exported to the U.S. as a boutique product, while the Mexican version now often uses syrup.
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The coded language of snacks, sandwiches and seasonings, in NYC and beyond.
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