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.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
The coded language of snacks, sandwiches and seasonings, in NYC and beyond.
Archives
February 2022
Categories
All
|