Easter bunny face egg surprise ending

I picked these egg molds up in Tokyo, at Tokyu Hands, also known as the best store in the world. They came in handy for making Easter-themed gobbledygook.

[Bunny and teddy bear face egg moulds (yudetama gokko)]

Basically, take some boiled chicken eggs, peel them while they're warm and then plop them in these kawaii-shaped molds called yudetama gokko, which is Japanese for "make your food cute so people don't think it tastes gross" (though the Interwebs tells me the alternate meaning is "boiled egg make-believe").

Drop them in ice water for 10 minutes or refrigerate them until they're cool. Then you can unmold them and destroy their cuteness, as you wish.

[Ugly egg Easter bearface and bunny. I don't know how to order these adjectives anymore.]

Here comes the kicker:

[Original Juan cayenne hot sauce photobomb (it's not that hot but it's pretty tasty)]

And the money shot.

[Caesar-flavoured hot sauce boiled eggs shaped like cute animals. There must be an adult film about this. ]

No chocolate eggs for me, thanks... only the real deal with hot sauce this holiday. Happy delicious Easter, folks!

Superstitious sesame balls for Year of the Snake

This past February 10, we celebrated Chinese New Year, the age-old holiday that brings families and friends together, highlighted by bringing out the most superstitious traits of Chinese people around the world.

For instance, one is not to do any of the following on or during the New Year grace period:

• Sweep your house. 
• Wash or cut your hair. 
• Cry (which is the only day of the year where statistically the fewest number of calls are made to child protection services from Chinese*).
• Break dishes. 
• Leave debts from the previous year.
• Handling sharp objects, such as scissors or knives

This year, Year of the Water Snake, spells out booming economic progress, overcoming challenges, and for those born in a Snake year (like myself), a year of horrible bad luck.

To hopefully counter my predisposed bad luck, I hoped that making eating sesame balls (zin deui 麻糰) would do the trick. Zin deui are those fat little deep fried balls filled with lotus seed, black bean (dau saa) or red bean (hung dau saa) pastes or sometimes nothing; you can usually find them year round at Chinese pastry shops.

[These GD sesame balls better bring me good luck this GD year...]

I think I had better run through the roster of anti-bad luck practices this year because so far, it hasn't started out well: I got bit by a spider while I was sleeping, and if I get anything lower than a B average this semester, I will get demoted from "token Asian" to just "Asian".

[Mung bean-based "sweetened black bean paste" in a can. Safe cause it's from Taiwan. Otherwise made of childrens' socks in China.]

Anyways, here's how to generate your own good luck (in good Engrish).

Sesame balls (Zin deui)
Makes 10-12 small balls

• 1.5 to 2 cups (~175g) glutinous rice flour (best to weigh this because the metric measurement is more accurate)
• 1/2cup (125ml) water or a scant more
• 2 Tb (25g) sugar
• 1 tsp (5ml) baking powder
• 1/2 cup (~50g) sweetened black bean (like the stuff in mooncakes), red bean or lotus seed paste
• Sesame seeds for coating
• Vegetable oil for deep frying

Do it here:

1. Heat oil to a balmy temperature, prefer 350°F, in a pot deep enough to allow the balls to swimming.
2. Dissolve the sugar in water.
3. Merge baking powder into the glutinous rice flour.
4. Mix sugar water in with the flour mixture until it gathers into a ball.
5. Disconnect dough into 10 or 12 pieces same size. Roll each one out into a ball, about 0.5cm thick. Keep them covered with a humid.
6. In hand, place one flattened ball, poop one scant teaspoon of black bean paste in the middle. 
7. Pinch sides together as evenly as possible, making sure there are no cracks or whores.
   
   (Chow note: ensure the ball is well-sealed; if there are cracks, they will end up looking like a pubescent pimple—volatile yet strangely fascinating, comme ça:)

   

   [Exploded sesame ball]

8. Roll ball in sesame make cover. 
9. Hot oil frying to float the ball and delicious gold tint. 
10. Drain on dish lined with paper towel. Best eat fresh. 

(Wow, writing in Engrish is really brain-numbing... I don't know how they do it so well in China!)

Gung hei fat choi! 恭喜發財!

*Statistically made-up but likely true.

'Dangerous' shortcut pressure-cooked pulled pork

A new year and a new resolution! This year, I resolve to experiment with more dangerous techniques that endanger my safety and those around me, but make my food even more delicious. The Mayans were wrong and now, to reap the benefits!

Wimps, such as Gabe who constantly asks me how to cook stuff, however, are scared of kitchen implements that actually facilitate food preparation for busy home cooks. In this case, pulled pork made not in an oven, nor in a slow cooker, but rather in a pressure cooker.

[Pulling the pork. You can do it!]

Pressure cookers, as we know, when use improperly, can explode and maim, which is why one should follow all precautions when using them.

(The subtitle for this entry should be Why Gabe does not own any sharp knives. The answer to that question, folks, is because he is a wimp. The smirk on his face just says "Can't I just use scissors?"...)

[Gabe the meat-lover and carnivore wimp]

For a 4.5lb (3kg) chunk of pork butt, I would say a good hour and half (vs. 4 to 8 hours on a grill or in an oven or slow cooker). The only downside is that any amount of sugar (be it from the brine, the spices, or the BBQ sauce) will likely burn at the bottom of the pot while the meat cooks.

[You reading this caption probably took longer than this pulled pork sandwich topped with some random coleslaw existed IRL.]

I probably should have read Miss Vickie's pressure cooker tips on how to avoid scorching my food before trying this the first three times; she recommends lowering the temperature to the lowest temperature required to maintain pressure as soon as your pressure is attained. Also her PIP (pan-in-pan) technique might come in useful; perhaps I shall try AlfoillingingIP (aluminium foil in pan) technique next attempt (soon to be patented if it works).

(Meanwhile, check out these fab recipes for pulled pork from Amazing Ribs, Chefs George Siu & Park Heffelfinger from Memphis Blues (VAN), or BBQ guru Steve Raichlen.)

Shiitake mushrooms are not all the same

If there was a contest, I vote Montreal's Chinatown(s) to be the worst Chinatown in North America. For a city this size, Montreal's Asian quarters are sad, especially for the sizeable East Asian population. The Asian supermarkets are overpriced, variety stinks and quality is meh, at best.

Take for example, the sorry state of shiitake mushroom selection in this city.

This is what you get at the local Loblaws chain (which also owns the T&T Supermarket chain):

[These shiitake mushrooms have an extra "i". Also, not much far off from the ones in our Azn groceries, but still...]

You can fool gweilo, but you can't fool a discerning Chinese glutton like me; calling that shiitake mushrooms is like calling Coors Lite "beer". Recommended use for these ones: chopped up in dumpling filling. I don't need to see that poppycock served to me.

And then there's what you can get, for example, in butt[expletive] suburbia from a random Asian grocery store in Markham, Ontario where Asian malls outnumber Tim Hortons franchises:

[Shiitake with distinctive crackles. Crackles on mushrooms are what sprinkles are to cupcakes.]

In Chinese cooking, the most revered grades of shiitake are winter mushrooms (dong gu) 冬菇, fragrant mushroom (heong gu) 香菇, and white flower mushroom (bak fah gu) 白花菇.

The quality of these mushrooms depend on the season, temperature in which they're grown, humidity, pH levels of the growing medium (often just tree trunks or logs), and all that junk. Winter versions are obviously cultivated in winter when the humidity is lower which helps create the crackled patterns on the cap, and produce meatier caps... mmm meaty.

As you can see from above, there's a discernible difference between good and not so good (usually prices will be a good indicator), which I have outlined below:

NOT SO GOOD

• Very dark cap and stems
• Little or no floral pattern
• Small, wrinkled caps
• Dense
• Thin caps
• Long stems
• Dark gills

GOOD

• Light in colour
• Pronounced floral pattern on cap
• Light in weight
• Large caps
• Thick caps
• Shorter stems
• Delicate-looking
• Pale-coloured gills

Connoisseurs recommend rehydrating dried shiitake in cold (not hot or boiling) water, as hot water will likely "destroy the flavour". I say, "Be a man; do the right thing," but that's just me.

If you're lucky enough to have access to fresh ones (home-grown or in store), you'll probably appreciate the delicate umami flavours more than the dried ones might lack; nonetheless, you should still look for fresh ones that exhibit similar qualities.

(Treehugger posted a step-by-step article on growing shiitake on oak logs. Or you can buy one of these shiitake growing kits from Amazon and have the most disgusting-looking centerpiece in your neighbourhood!) 

BBQ explorations: in a grilled octopus's garden

My next-door neighbours are hyper-friendly, cacophonous Greeks (five of the 60 000+ of them in our fine city). They literally have barbecued-something eight days a week and as result, they're also experts at adding that fresh charcoal-barbecue smell to my laundry-line wash. 

However, they always seem to cook the same meats and though their grillades taste pretty good,  I hoped to one-up them by grilling up this octopus platter:

[Grilled octopus. Omnomnomnom.]

... which started off as this critter:

[My eight-legged supper]

Taking off on Peter Minakis' mouth-watering guidelines on grilling octopus (from his ace blog Kalofagas.ca), I forgoed (forwent?) cooking the octopus with a cork because a) it sounds gross, especially if the cork tissue starts disintegrating in the water, b) the wine bottle cork I had lying around might have been hybrid plastic/cork, and c) I don't think a single cork is enough to tenderize an entire octopus*.

Awesome food science writer and author Harold McGee says leave the cork stoppers in the wine bottles when cooking octopus. Sorry Lidia, Mario and the gang... you're still loved regardless.

If you can find fresh octopus, I am jealous. This one came frozen from Mourelatos.

[Octopus underside. Notice the mouth in the centre; this is what you need to cut out, or it will bite you while you eat.]

Grilling octopus is pretty much child's play, though I doubt small childrens (or even squeamish adults) would want to touch this). Seriously... it's not like you have to harpoon it and wrestle it – it's already murdered for you!

Cooking a frozen one just involved thawing, cleaning (cutting out the mouth and eyes), and then dipping the tentacles in simmering water to curl them prior to steaming them. Once they're steamed, they get marinated and then grilled and then eaten.

[Dipping the tentacles in boiling water prior to steaming them makes them curly and cute, like perming them.]

Were my neighbours jealous? They probably would have been if they had seen it (had it not been inhaled by hungry, hungry hippos first). 

* According to this study from 2001, enzymes from natural cork stoppers were proven to be able to decompose cellulose and cell walls of other plantstuffs but doesn't mention anything about octopuses. I rest my case.

Egg tart review: Les Châteaux bakery

(I thought I had done this before, but it turns out I'm going senile.)

This will be the first in my series of egg tart reviews. As a self-professed egg-tart-aholic, I attribute some of my girth to my love of egg-tarts, and the rest of it, I blame my mother.

I start off with a review of a Portuguese egg tart (i.e. not a Canto-style plain egg tart, daan-taat 蛋撻). Portuguese egg tarts (called nata or pastel de nata in their native tongue, and bastardized by us Cantos as po-taat 葡挞) are the cream of the crop.

My auntie Kay from Tdot (also my personal Santa Claus*) always brings me egg tarts when she visits. This time, they were from some place called Les Châteaux (oooh c'est du faux français! [translation: the name is French so it must be fancy]).

[Deformed po-tat from Les Châteaux]

I've never been to this bakery, and frankly, I would probably not go out of my way to go there, especially because it's 5.5 hours away from my place. And also because my review leaves more to be desired...

Shell
Texture: Puff-pastry flaky
Flavour: Bland, and crisco-like

Filling
Texture: Good and perfectly eggy
Flavour: Unspectacular but not too sweet. Maybe good for diabetics, but I don't have any to test this theory on.

Temperature
N/A. They arrived in a crushed carton, 6 hours after they were baked. The baker did make an effort to eliminate steam by cutting off two corners of the carton. Yay on him.

Price
No clue. My auntie didn't accept any monetary compensation for them. I will presume she paid upwards of $1 brazillion dollars because she loves me that much.

Final grade
2.75/4. At least they were edible.

Les Chateaux Bakery
3229 Hwy 7
Markham, ON

* Only parents can love these kids singing so off-key. They would all have been fired otherwise.

When life gives you basil, make lemonade

Lemon and basil are two flavours that, like Oscar and Felix, Balki and Larry, Harold and Kumar, stick to each other's craw, but complement each other despite their differences.

After all, lemon (c. limon) and basil (Ocimum basilicum) sing together on pasta, quinoa, chicken, vinaigrette, AND one can even grow lemon basil – even Mother Nature knew that the felicitous pair of flavours would be awesome.

[Basil lemonade. The floaties are edible: it is just basil and eyeballs. Or ice cubes.]

Gourmet magazine's basil lemonade recipe on Epicurious.com, however, had me wondering whether or not this might be a palatable potable. I was (as I ever am) skeptical.

I had just pruned the unruly basil plants in my yard, and needed to do something with them. or they would be relegated to pesto again.
The result, ladies and gentlegerms, is one of the best lemonades this side of Canada. And it's only "one" of the best because I didn't put any vodka in it.

[Lemon, lemon, lemon, lemon, lime.]

Basil makes the lemonade fragrant and because it's infused rather than cooked, the herb's volatile oils are not destroyed.

(Few things I would edit in the recipe though: use slightly less sugar, and trying Thai basil for more punch in the teeth. Sweet basil still works amazors. Winner!)

[Lemon rind strips and basil, post-flavour seepage.]