Stickyrice

Rangoon Market Shot: Goats Heads

This photograph does not horrify me. When I encountered this scene in a Rangoon market, I did not recoil nor turn my head. I did not feel sorry for the goats. For I've been away from the developed world for some time. Seen harsh things. Become a bit hard myself. Had a change of world view, in some respects.

In my local market in Hanoi, I'm amused when I see the pork vendor removing the porcine hair from a pig's belly with a man's razor blade. It makes me think of myself that very morning. When the duck's neck is slit and blood is squirting, then trickling into a basin, I see the patience in the process, in not wanting to see blood split. What was running through this duck's veins will not be flushed away. It, along with its organs and tubes, will be consumed. The duck's beak may protrude later, after it's been boiled, at the duck noodle soup stall as a sign that this bird was quacking this morning. Fresh duck is going with these noodles, it says, with dignity.

Here, there is grooming after death. A woman rubs a chicken carcass under water with a tender pressure to remove its feathers. The goats' heads are arranged in a tidy row, all facing the same way, ears smoothed down; not just tossed in some messy pile. Organs and other insides are displayed as glossy abstract art installations. I see a meaningful relationship between man and beast here. That a goat butcher's customer can see what kind of animal was killed by him, that a chicken seller can take pride in the fact that a customer admires a bird of hers is surely some kind of testament to the value of these animals' lives.

What disturbs me is the meat department in the supermarkets of my origins. All signs that the product used to be an animal are removed. Styrofoam, cling wrap, stainless steel and flourescent light make it all very clear that this is the end of some clinical factory process, where humans can't even be bothered to do the killing anymore. Automatons in white coats, surgical gloves and hair nets march out with loaded trolleys to fill up the shelves.

With products.

When I'm shopping for meat, I now want to recognise the animal.

Rangoon: Up and Down

In Rangoon, I looked up a lot. And I looked down a lot, too.

Up at buildings and down at food.

I don't profess to know much about buildings but I know what I like. I particularly like old. I also tend to like buildings that progress hates. Ones that are crumbling and faded. With timber window frames perishing and cracked. I like buildings where humans are visibly present; their linen drying, their mattress airing or indeed they themselves leaning over the balcony, smoking. I like buildings with rusted pipes, weeds growing out of the spouting, birds nesting in the eaves and on the ledges. Gargoyles and scalloping, dilapidation and lichen. All good.

Buildings like this - in such numbers - do not exist in Burma's neighbouring countries, where development is almost faster then the human eye can see it. In Hanoi and Saigon, it's a case of here one day, gone the next. While a process may be adhered to in the case of historic buildings, the preservation of other period structures that may simply have been private houses or government offices is not as assured. In Rangoon, at this time when political manoeuvres aimed at greater democratisation are afoot, the opening of economic doors to foreign investment may have marked a countdown to demolition for many of these majestic buildings. If it were not for an initiative under the Yangon Heritage Trust. Writer and historian Thant Myint-U has just last week spearheaded a deal with the government to temporarily halt the razing of any buildings over 50 years old.

But as I tripped along the broken pavements of the numbered streets between the Scott market and the river in November last year, I feared the worst. So I took a lot of photographs.

Of ordinary buildings with extraordinary aura.

However, this little project was never going to be to the detriment of my appetite. So with my cricked neck from looking up, blurry vision in one eye from looking through the view-finder and a slightly sprained ankle from not watching my footing, I started to tilt my head down. To street food level.

This is a food blog after all; not a bloody building blog. And along the narrower streets south of the market, markets themselves in actual fact, I found many culinary vignettes of interest.

A wok full of oil for one. In what seems to be Indian influence, deep fried snacks are sold at fairly regular intervals up and down these thoroughfares. Both chick pea and rice flour batters bind together vegetable and animal ingredients into fritters. Displayed stacked high on metal trays, I make a bee-line for them. There is something in the human genetic make-up (mine, anyway!) that has an intuitive appreciation for crispy golden brown food items.

There is also the little calorie-conscious voice in the brain that says "at least, choose the green one." And I had to admit, on this occasion it was this 'grass fritter' that caught my intrigue. I questioned the incongruity of deep frying herbs or leafy greens, the coating of oil on which must significantly reduce nutritional value and original flavour.This was confirmed when I put 'grass fritter' to mouth. It's all about the texture of crunch, essentially a non-food.

But my ignorance of Rangoon's street food scene corresponds to my ignorance of its architecture, reduced to simply knowing what I like and what I don't.

Flowers Trump Food in Bali

There is food in this post. Something will be eaten.

But first, admire the floral world of Bali. It deserves attention, for flowers seem to consume time here much like the preparation of a meal. They command market space almost equal to that taken up by the produce we put in our mouths. They are handled with a care verging on sanctity.

Wandering the boxes, crates and baskets of the Ubud Central Market one early morning, the evidence is clear. Flowers and petals are traded equally as routinely as rice or mangoes, or peanuts, or salt. One gets the sense that the floral transaction at a Bali market is part of a custom of duty, age-old and divine. Linked to holiness. Linked to luck.

The selection of variety, hue and shape is done with perhaps a particular design aspect in mind; what will please the gods today?

For those of less artistic bent, the design work is done, a splash of marigold, hints of blue chrysanthemum, a single perfect frangipani, all arranged just so in a tray woven from plant matter. It could be "buy three, get one free" - a kind of fast flower for the busy woman on the go.

Placating the gods, ensuring the harvest, making a happy and harmonious home is not just some whimsy undertaken when the mood strikes or when a favourite flower is in season. Part craft, part chore, the ritual of preparing and placing these little floral installations about one's surrounds is a task which takes time, including that taken at market to buy the 'ingredients'. Or alternatively, the period spent harvesting flowers from the botannical exotica of those surrounds.

Secateurs on a long pole or a rudimentary stick is used to gather flowers located up high. Down low, thumb and forefinger pluck but do not exploit. The garden still looks colourful. The trays are loaded methodically, much like the way chefs plate up dishes at a function. And, as alluded to earlier, there is food involved at this step. Amongst the flowers, tiny squares of banana leaf dotted with rice are placed; a tiny cracker, a sweet, a slice of banana also, perhaps.

Only is all in readiness, however, once the woman performing the ritual is dressed for the occasion. A sarong must be worn, secured around the waist by a narrow sash. Flowers adorn the hair. Incense is lit. Grace transcends. 

Bali is renowned for it's dances and this is one of them, enacted on the pathways and in the doorways all over the island. There is something catholic to it; trays held upon high, plumes of smoke curling, water flicked daintily by a frangipani flower, serene but knowing looks. 

When the offerings have been placed at various points on the property, the sarong shashays back to a work station, most likely a kitchen. When a rest would appear warranted after such undertakings, what actually begins now is the working day. Breakfast needs preparing, guests (like me) need attending to, children need to be hurried to school, other bigger rituals need more thorough preparation.

This marks meal time for Bali's wildlife. Down from trees, up from drains, from the air they come, but not to admire the flowers. 

Coastal Noodle Cart, Bali

Bali is not Vietnam when it comes to street food. It has other things to recommend it.

Like the smiling faces of the locals. Not just those who can say "G'day mate" like an Aussie and shunt a beer lodged in a stubbie holder down the bar or those who can speak strine better than the bogans who taught them. It's also the locals driving the noodle carts on Bali's notorious south-west coast, those not regularly trading their threads in English, but instead in a sequence of shy gestures and broad smiles.

And me, I'm pointing and smiling, too. That is, when I haven't got my nose angling into this local's cart cabinet, checking on his mise en place. All the ingredients and apparatus required to put this bowl of noodles together is sitting astride the back portion of the vendor's motorbike seat, a design arrangement that streetfood vendors in Hanoi would envy.

A sliding glass door reveals two storeys; on the bottom, the vegetable and carb elements of the dish are prepped, some into containers, others into simple piles. Shredded cabbage, finely chopped spring onions and crunchy fried shallots reside alongside some kind of rice noodles, strangely blue in hue. On the top, there is mystery in meat. Golf ball sized orbs of grey are nicked with a cross at top before being stacked into an aluminium steamer alongside triangles of tofu. This steamer also contains the broth which wets the noodles and is ladled over all once assembly is complete. Further crunch exists in the wings of deep fried wontons, also containing a little wad of mystery protein.

My vendor layers the noodles, vegetables and wonton into each bowl while the tofu and and the balls take some heat in the steamer. Two sauce options, both in the brighter spectrums of red, get offered. One is tomato, the other a fiery chili.

The piping-hot balls roll into the bowl from tongs, then the tofu, then the ladle of broth. A spoon and another shy smile from the vendor finalise matters. More grinning and what I suspect is gentle ribbing from the vendor's mates nearby suggests that he doesn't serve his noodles to foreigners very often.

So, in Bali, where streetfood does not seem to be a strong point, I found a motorcycle cart on the coast and I sampled a bowl of noodles.

Then I went to the beach. 

Nha Trang Jaunt

The official reason I went to Nha Trang a while ago was to attend a wedding.

And the wedding was fun, a variety show with more highlights than a royal command performance. There was even a red carpet of sorts but that old western adage of never trying to outdo the bride was not being adhered to here. Out of taxis, a parade of glamour from the old world and the new stepped up into the reception centre, áo dài interspersed with revealing black cocktail dresses, glitz and shiny spangles and sequins catching the light, Revlon making a killing on make-up sales.

Inside, the MC facilitated the proceedings, wired up with decibels surely exceeding the limit recommended for prudent ear care. In turn, he delivered us a parade of virgins adorned in white with fluffy fairy wings, their walk up the aisle terminating on stage with thespian-like twirls and waves. A troupe of what looked like Swiss guards in red berets marched up next, brandishing large sticks attached with flowers, out the top of which industrial grade sparklers were shooting fire at their feet. A pre-pubescent ballroom-dancing couple shook their booty about in the next act. Nha Trang's wedding singers belted out a few tunes as did the father of the bride (beer in hand) and an aunt of the bride. Singing a traditional song from the Central Highlands, she nearly brought the house down.

Meantime, the people whose union we were gathered to celebrate were being given the rounds of the table.

Literally.

After pouring red champagne through a science experiment of tubes, flutes and dry ice and cutting not one, not two but five (three are fake) wedding cakes, the couple are being dragged from one table of guests to the next for toasts, smiles and pleasantries. By table number 33, the barely sipped champagne is as hot as tea, the smiles somewhat strained and the pleasantries reduced to "how did you get a berth at my wedding?" After such a marathon, they are craving food, drink and familiar faces.

But by then the guests are leaving. It's all over. And, without wanting to sound ungrateful, so was the official part of my journey to Nha Trang.

The next night I was seeking simplicity, not so much entertainment...and seafood. On the road that hugs the coast north of Nha Trang is a restaurant I've been visiting regularly since 2002. The menu is all things ocean and just across the road is the sea. The fish that night was raw and so fresh I convinced myself its nerve endings were still feigning movement.

Gỏi cá mai translates as raw salad of the tomorrow fish. On its platter, it spoke of promise. I wrapped the fish's little fillets in rice paper with lettuce, herbs and finely julienned pineapple, young banana, red pepper and cucumber. In a tương with chili and crushed peanuts, the completed rolls got their finishing touch.

And I got what I really came to Nha Trang for.

Biển Tiền Hải Sản
ride 3km north out Trần Phú St
( it's on the left )
Nha Trang 

On Huế Cuisine (and Colour) in Hanoi

When I first came to Vietnam in 2002, the streets were frenetic with colour. The people were all go and no stop, possessed with an industry that made me tired. The mangoes were going by bicycle, the chickens and ducks faster, feathers ruffled in the slipstream of millions of motorbikes in a hurry. Hanoi was positively floral, each street corner a mini-Chelsea flower show. The hats on the heads of the country's women were crazy paisley psychedelia, hot pink lace, big yellow bows, rainbow rims. In short, the joint was a kaleidoscopic blur, hard to process.

But I persisted. And nine years on, I've changed and Vietnam's changed. It seems that my views have been coloured while the vibrancy of the colours around me seem to have dulled. My personal vista is greyer.

The tables I graze at are not, thankfully.

On one of Hanoi's blue formica tables last weekend, I went central. That is to say I reacquainted myself with a taste of Huế, Vietnam's old capital located on the country's middle coast. Famed for its eccentric 'royal cuisine', the city also boasts a sexy range of savoury rice and tapioca flour snacks as well as the ballsiest noodle soup of them all, bún bò Huế.

Before I go any further, let me just say that this establishment in Hanoi does an interpretation of bún bò Huế, which would not please purists. Yes the dish is a celebration of protein in all its visceral glory, a porky-beefy marriage in a bowl. There is beef shank, chunks of pig's blood, pig's trotters, sliced tender 'corned beef' (chin), steamed pork balls...in short, the butcher involved is making a good profit. A pleasant side plate of crisp vegetable content in the form of bean sprouts, shredded banana flower and herbs also scores points.

The problem lies with the soup. The pungency and colour of bún bò Huế is delivered by lemongrass, annatto and chili. Here it's virtually a clear pho broth with only the slightest hint of the right aromatics.

But there is a bright side.

Bánh bèo is the simplest of snacks done up with a colourful throw of dried shrimp dust (tôm khô), slightly sweetened croutons and perfect sprigs of mint. The flat white disks of steamed rice cake lay underneath, camouflaged by the plate. In many Huế restaurants they are served separately in their own small ramekins. Of course, this dish is nothing but dry and bland without nước chấm, a nước chấm with extra chili, in the true spirit of Huế cuisine.

A similar colour scheme is seen in another of Hue's specialties, bánh bột lọc, also on offer at this eatery in Hanoi. These dumplings consist of a filling of shrimp and sometimes pork encased in a dough made not from rice flour, but instead tapioca flour. This gives the dumpling a semiopaque appearance and quite an unusual sticky quality in the mouth. Again, the dipping sauce is essential to this dish's success.

 

This orange and green on white is a spectacular foodscape, photogenic and reminiscent - at least in my sensibility - of nature.

In one way or another, Vietnam's plates are continuing to string me along.

Bún Bò Huế O. Xuân
3 Quang Trung
Hanoi
(next door to Vietnam Airlines ticketing HQ)

Knowing the Ouzeri

I opened a bottle of ouzo the other night and was immediately transported back to Greece. To the large seaside town of Volos, a place I keep coming back to in my mind and in the pages here.

Like all of Greece, there is a sense of history about the place. Strategically located at the foot of Mount Pelion where the centaurs were said to have roamed, the port city is also linked to the myth of Jason and the Argonauts. Every road taken and every footstep trodden is on thousands of years of civilization. Our trip in the Fiat Panda into the villages of the surrounding hills took in orchards and vineyards where time stands still, where the rhythms and routines of generations long gone continue. Likewise along the city's portside promenade, where the rusting fishing boats and millionaire pleasure craft are docked; if you close your eyes for a second, it is possible to imagine sails, oars and momentous incidents in Greece's maritime history.

Of course, taking in all of the history, extending the grey cells into the realms of the imagination requires adequate sustenance, which Volos is more than capable of providing. History and geography aside, the town is also an exemplary bearer of one of Greece's culinary fillips, the ouzeri.

As the name implies, there is drinking involved. Ouzeria are essentially taverns where Greece's most famous beverage is served with ice and water. Preparing this aniseed-flavoured aperitif is like a simple chemistry experiment, as when the liquor hits the ice it becomes a cloudy subtle blue-grey. Water can be added to weaken the alcohol kick. In taverns of this type across the country, mezédhes (snacks) are served alongside the ouzo, typical examples of which would be olives, feta and pickled octopus.

What makes Volos unique is that the ouzeria here do not serve ouzo but rather an anise-flavoured version of tsipouro, an older liquor made from the residue of the wine press and known as raki in other regions. This variation warranted a name change it seems, for these kinds of restaurants in Volos are known as tsipouradika rather than ouzeria. And in contrast to our earlier exposure to simple ouzeria in other parts of Greece, where we might have been waiting for a ferry or bus and the mezédhes served would be three kalamata olives and half-day-old bit of bread, the tsipouradika of Volos are truly gourmet affairs.

But it pays to understand their workings.

On our first visit to the dockside's Iolkos restaurant, we chose the tsipouro in little 50ml bottles and ordered up big from the menu. As we individually customised the tsipouro with ice and water, several small plates of what we hadn't ordered arrived. In poor Greek and dodgy sign language, we postured no, there had been a mistake. In poor English and oppositional sign language, the waiter postured yes, the order was indeed correct. This yes-no business went on for a while until it slowly dawned on us that the snacks were included with the drink order and we were destined for a night of monumental eating that could be injurious to the fasteners on our trousers.

The aforementioned small plates kept coming with every further small bottle of tsipouro we ordered. A dining disaster that only gluttons could endure ensued. On the table with our growing collection of little bottles sat plates of swordfish fillet with a crunchy salad of yellow peppers and red onion, mushroom caps grilled with cheese, ham and red peppers, shrimps done in a butter, lemon and parsley sauce, octopus tentacles, their suction cups grilled crisp and black on a vinegary salad of carrot and cabbage...and more, all delectable, all from fields or seas nearby.

 

On this night, the mains followed: grilled lamb chops, other fish and squid dishes, a huge Greek salad, of course all served with bread.

We slept well.

On the following night, having learnt the ropes, we only ordered tsipouro.

Ouzeri Iolkos
Argonafton 32
Volos, Greece

Deck of the Fisherman

Whenever I come upon the deck of a fisherman, my imagination runs wild. I get all Ishmael and envisage an escape from humanity, an adventure on the high seas chasing something elusive, fish barbeques every night and swaying gently in a hammock with a book.

In reality, I'd be the deckhand with the land legs, talking in tongues into a bucket.

I do see these dockside scenes through rose-coloured glasses, I know. The gruff salt-crusted fishermen and their grunting form of communication. The wet, knotted nets and perishing lengths of rope. Rusted boat parts. Squeaking and clinking pulleys and levers. It all makes obvious the heavy toil involved in making a living from the sea.

What lies on the blinding red decks in the chipped polystyrene boxes is hardly the stuff to make a millionaire. For these blokes and their families, it's a hand-to-mouth existence.The deisel rainbows on the surface of the water, spluttering outboard motors and barnacled hulls are just as much a part of their day as the anticipation of pulling in a net heavy with shining silver swimmers.

In Volos, a port city on Greece’s Pagasetic Gulf, a walk along the harbour promenade in the morning is part fish market, part luxury boat exhibition and part old salt art installation. In the evenings, at the waterside ouzeries a few metres away, the experience is much more culinary.

And worthy of a separate post.

Shop Pray Eat

I've talked before about the compromises one has to make when travelling with others. Different agendas are inevitable even though one plans the trip, even starts the trip thinking that the group has so much in common. And then, not long after the 'honeymoon' of the arrival, divergent paths start getting trodden.

One companion's path might be a retail one, leading to the shops at each stop in the itinerary. In tourist heavy destinations like Greece and Italy, the business operators are shrewd and experienced at luring in travellers drunk on ambience and willing to pay for a memory. Even cheap crap can be made to seem appealing when one is shopping with the gargantuan ruins of the acropolis in view. Worry beads, evil eye key-rings, bottles of ouzo in the shape of the parthenon? Of course it would make a good souvenir for whathisname at the office. Conversely, wouldn't it be wrong to leave Florence's Pont de Vecchio without an expensive bit of bling to remember it by.

So if one turns around and this particular travel companion has vanished abruptly, it's just a matter of working out which shop.

The other companion may have a penchant for the religious. Churches, to be exact. Again, let me reiterate...this is a trip to Greece and Italy, countries in which counting the numbers of churches would be a task not unlike taking the census...in India! There are cave-like chapels built into cliff faces, the cross painted white on rock. And it's just across that valley, only a twenty minute walk. Rome, Florence, Lucca, the Vatican City...more stained glass, frescoes painted by masters, sarcophagi, relics of saints on every square centimetre of the tourist map than bus stops. After a while, you might expect that there is some kind of admission that they are all starting to look the same.

No! Not from this travel companion. If this one has been separated from the group, look for the nearest dome or steeple.

The third member of the trio, when not looking for the other two, is in his own little world, too. They shudder when he comes upon a produce market or a cake or deli shop window. That's a couple of hours gone. He's the one interested in the 'grass' the old women are gathering in the field. He takes pictures of old cheese tins being used as flower pots. He notices everything related to food. In one hotel driveway, apart from the flower pots, he's angling the camera at some shrivelled old grapes. He even says they'd be nice on a cheese plate. And then he wanders off to the olive tree.

But we put up with each other's proclivities and, if we veer in different directions for part of a day, there's always tales to tell, gifts to show, church apses and mosaics to hear about, varieties of radicchio to describe. The advantage for the third member of the group is that these meet-ups invariably occur around a table.

In his sphere.

Hội An Market Shot

The old port town of Hội An is picturesque, no doubt. Though somewhat gentrified these days with piped muzak and coloured lanterns, its streets still reflect the town's historic merchant past if one turns one's head the right way at the right time. It might be a bicycle leaned up against the back of the old Japanese bridge. Or ochre walls streaked with mould, on which hang birdcages and a bouquet of wilting flowers. Moments and vignettes to dwell on.

For a second or two.

Before I get me to the market.