The Culinary Heritage of the Philippines

Posted on 16 August 2012 by sheg4184

Henry’s Halo Halo

Filipino food was prepared by Malay settlers, spiced by Chinese traders,

stewed in 300 years of Spanish rule and hamburgered by American influence…

Monina A. Mercado

 Filipina food historian Doreen Fernandez calls this culinary fusion ‘indigenization’ – the process of adapting alien dishes to Filipino tastes. It is epitomized by the ever-popular halo halo, which means mix-mix in Tagalog. Halo halo evolved from an early Filipino thirst quencher of gulaman or tapioca jelly, coconut milk and pinipig (think Rice Bubbles).  Over the years, the availability of Japanese, Chinese, Spanish and American ingredients provided inspiration for even greater flights of fancy.

But where did Filipino cuisine begin?

For centuries the original inhabitants of the Philippines were scattered across an archipelago of more than 7,000 islands. These hunter-gatherers of Malayo-Polynesian descent lived in isolated communities, separated from one another geographically, by sea, jungles and volcanic mountain ranges, and culturally by a wide variety of dialects and languages.

The one thing they had in common was an abundant food supply. This provided a simple, seasonal and healthy diet of fresh fruit and vegetables, rice, pork and fish. From these raw ingredients came such dishes as:

Kinilaw: seafood fresh from the sea and bathed in a sour dressing of vinegar or citrus juice, then seasoned with onions, garlic, chilies or coconut milk

Sinigang: a light broth soured with anything from tamarind and tomatoes to green mango and kalamansi, and containing almost any seasonal vegetables, and almost any meat except chicken

Adobo: a stew made from any meat – from pork to goat to duck – and laced with vinegar that flavours and tenderizes the meat.

With no aristocracy to refine it, would remain for centuries an unsophisticated peasant cuisine.

C16 Spanish Galleon

These islands, however, lay at a navigational crossroads in the Pacific, and provided a link between East and West trade routes. This was an advantage that would attract migrants, trading vessels and colonial powers. They came from Indonesia and East India, China, Malaysia and Arabia, and each new arrival brought new ingredients, new cooking methods, and new utensils that would, over the centuries, impact on this simple island cuisine. Arab traders established independent Muslim strongholds in the south where they introduced not only Islam, but ground spices and red hot chilies.

In the north, the Chinese had the most profound influence on Filipino food. Similar tastes and the same basic staples meant many Chinese dishes were rapidly absorbed into all classes of Filipino society, and are today branded deep in its culinary history: sia pao, lumpia and noodles to name but a few.

In the sixteenth century the Europeans arrived in the Pacific. In 1543 the Spanish laid claim to this string of Pacific islands, naming them collectively Las Islas Filipinas after their Crown Prince, Felipe. Initially, the colonizers relied heavily on foods imported from Spain and their Viceroyalty of Mexico. These included olive oil and tomatoes, corn and avocados, lemons and pineapples, garlic & onions, chorizo, ham and chocolate.

Some products were transplanted and grew prolifically in the lush landscape. Others became exotic commodities available only to the upper classes, or were adapted into ‘fiesta fare’ – dishes made only for special celebrations and festivals.  On the whole, Spanish cuisine made little impact on the Filipinos day-to-day cooking, although some cooking methods such as frying, sautéing and stewing in wine became widely used.

The Spanish ruled over the Filipinos until 1898, when they lost the Spanish-American war and were forced to cede their colony to the United States.

Within 50 years the Americans introduced English, nationalism, democracy and convenience foods: sandwiches and salads, fried chicken and hamburgers, canned food, instant foods and fast foods.

With astonishing colonial presumption, the new overlords dictated that dairy products, canned food, sugary cakes and desserts were dietary improvements on an inadequate island diet. Today these are firmly established on supermarket shelves, along with products from many other international companies.

In recent years there has also been a huge influx of international restaurant chains that have broadened Filipino tastes, at least in the cities.

Another big influence on Filipino cuisine is the ever-growing number of overseas workers. Several million Filipinos living abroad grow nostalgic for home cooking, and adapt traditional recipes using ingredients available in their host countries.

So we can see how trade, colonialism and migration have spiced up a simple island cuisine. And yet, despite a plethora of ‘borrowings’, Filipino cuisine has maintained its own distinct flavours, much loved by over 80 million Filipinos.

In the last thirty years, Fernandez and others like her have attempted to document and develop national pride in Filipino culinary heritage, and champion the survival of its foodways. Their research has raised awareness, and brought it to the attention of professional chefs who are trying to upgrade its status by standardizing cooking methods, using quality ingredients and adopting western methods of presentation. And thus the evolution continues.

*Excerpt from paper presented for 2011 Australian Gastronomic Symposium & published in ANZA Magazine 2012

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Jacaranda

Posted on 14 August 2012 by sheg4184

My husband has been in Australia this week, visiting family. Daily texts and emails about walks in the parklands and along the beach were making me nostalgic and ever so slightly homesick.

So when I had to do a writing exercise about a familiar object, my mind jumped instantly to all things Australian. Initially I ran through a number of clichéd images of Australia: an assortment of unique and unusual native marsupials; a clutch of brightly coloured parrots; white sandy beaches or large red rocks; gnarled and knotty eucalyptus; hot dusty-dry wet earth pocked with raindrops after a thunderstorm; iconic bridges and azure waters. And then less visual ideas: Kylie Minogue, Aussie Crawl or Redgum songs; the scent of lemon myrtle; the sound of magpies at daybreak; broad streets, lazy drawls, meat pies,Vegemite and white bread sandwiches…

…And then I thought of jacarandas.

The jacaranda is not a native Australian species, but it is cheerfully resistant to drought  – a good quality in an Australian immigrant.  It was introduced from South America and can grow to forty feet tall.

So, a tall, elegant tree, the Jacaranda changes its foliage through the seasons like a woman changes fashions. In summer, its lacy green leaves, reminiscent of fern fronds, barely move in the still smoky-hot air, its canopy overarching like a parasol or beach umbrella and providing a dappled shade. Its seed pods are green and disguised among the leaves in summer. In autumn you are suddenly aware of the palm-sized seed pods, now dried and hardened to a walnut brown, flat but slightly cupped, like a papadum. Thin and hard, these seed pods make a loud and satisfying crack under heavy feet, and they are the perfect kindling for a wood fire. In late winter, early spring, the jacaranda stands bare, its limbs exposed, skeletal. Its bark is unexpectedly rough, its branches elegantly thin.

I love the jacaranda best in November, decked out in its clusters of small, purple-blue, five-lobed flowers like tiny trumpets. Reminiscent of English bluebells, the flowers succumb easily to the bossy wind, fluttering to the ground, or fixing themselves firmly, with a grip like a rock oyster, to the windscreens of cars or the soles of unwary shoes that crush them thoughtlessly into a bruised pulp. Briefly, they carpet the lawn in a delicate shade of lavender blue.

Here it stands, shoulders shrugged, non-committal against the backdrop of a rusty corrugated iron fence, or outlined against a thundery, leaden grey sky, smudging the clouds with a hazy halo of purple like a water colour painting.

Scenes of purple haunt the landscape of my memories, that splash of purple as familiar as my mother’s perfume.

I see a blasé, expressionless kookaburra with an anti-social attitude perched on a jacaranda branch overhanging our lawn in Sydney  – ‘if I don’t see you, you can’t see me’ – short and dumpy in its mottled brown feathers and its potato wedge beak, and sulkily silent till it throws back its head with a war cry set to unman a Maori rugby player.

Shading the street I grew up in, one jacaranda in particular stood guard outside my parents house. Muffling our voices,  it leaned in to share secrets as my boyfriend and I sat for hours outside the front fence, talking and kissing before mum crept out in her nightie to rattle milk bottles and remind me it was well past curfew.

Welcoming me home to Australia, after years abroad, it was the one tree I recognized amongst a host of unfamiliar, unknown semi-tropical shrubbery on the east coast. As we slowly learned our way around the confusion that is Sydney, its roads winding and twining round the harbour, its preference for one-way streets sheer hell for the newcomer, the jacarandas brightened up unfamiliar streets like the smile of an old friend.

I remember clouds of purple floating over Adelaide in November (our antipodean Spring), the year my uncle died. It seemed a fit and stately tribute to his memory, and now I will always think of him when I see a jacaranda in bloom.

*with thanks to Google images for these beautiful photos.

 

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An End to the Affair

Posted on 11 August 2012 by sheg4184

I first went to Florence on a decidedly pedestrian bus tour in the mid-1980s. We struck it lucky with the most magical tour guide, however, an English expatriate who was besotted with Florentine art. Sadly, I don’t even remember her name, but she inspired an interest in the Renaissance I have carried with me to this day. She had a way of waxing lyrical about the paintings and statuary that was positively poetic. (Twenty five years on, and my heathen son noticed only the constant theme of male nakedness!) The Medici family patronized a gobsmacking number of illustrious local artists such as Michelangelo, Donatello, Bruneschelli and Ghiberti, their artwork filling the museums and galleries and their memorials and tombs inundating the churches.

I loved the churches. Several (the Duomo, Santa Croce) are gloriously, excessively decorated in the local grey/green, white and faded salmon marble –  is it a coincidence that these are the colours of the tricolore flag of Italy?  Yet it was often the smaller, less patronized (less expensive) churches that captured my heart. I loved the narrow cobbled streets – high heels are a safety hazard here and you become expert at dodging bicycles and mopeds – and my heart flips over at the way every building is pasted onto the next one, bumper to bumper, merging the centuries like pages in a history book: Roman, Mediaeval, Renaissance, Gothic. Heavy wooden doors and wrought iron balconies and picturesque courtyards: Shakespeare’s Italy in the flesh.

Florence is not just a city of art and architecture, it is also a city of cafés and restaurants and snack bars and gelaterias. And in the summer, it is a city of tourists. Tourists gather in bunches on the steps of Santa Croce or sunbathe on the slope in front of the Pitti Palace. They mill together aimlessly on street corners and fill the cafés. They are prepared to queue for hours in the heat to stand in front of a painting they just read about in their guide book.

Sadly, this plague of humanity that descends upon Florence from May until September has had a bad effect on the local population. Cafés and restaurants sprawl out into the street, tables and chairs balanced precariously on the pavement or in the road, welcoming every passer-by. (Our own favourite, Santo Spiriti, scatters its tables blithely among the market stalls.) Yet that is about the most enthusiastic sign of welcome you can expect. Disappointingly, Florence is a rip off of monumentally insulting proportions. Used to tourists by the busload, and knowing few will be returning, many restaurants in this idolized, once idyllic city have got into the unattractive habit of serving up mediocre meals at exorbitant prices, and furthermore, having the gall to charge extra euros for the privilege of sitting down to eat it.

I did try to hold on to my older, fonder memories of this ‘jewel of Renaissance Italy’ (thanks Lonely Planet Guide). I remember backpacking into Florence with a gang of teenage girlfriends to live for days on luscious slices of pizza dripping with mushrooms. There was a circuitous route march to find accommodation, as one of our team was convinced that senso unico meant Youth Hostel. A few years later, I giggled uncontrollably in the Piazza della Signoria when a passing pigeon pooped on my boyfriend and his gelato. He sulked for hours. Fair enough, I thought, but  it’s supposed to be good luck, and it was funny. For some reason he didn’t think so. We meandered through Sunday flea markets bubbling away in the piazzas, bells calling repetitively, from the campanile, nagging, urging everyone to mass.

So I tolerated the appalling rudeness of the local service industry for a few days, not wanting to end the affair, grabbing at straws. Sadly, by the time we had been there a week, it was over. The nicest person we had met was the English girl (a nun?) who worked in the Reception office of the old convent we were staying in. O, and a beaming and enthusiastic young green grocer who danced over to sell me a paper bag full of deeply red ripe cherries. (They gave me a chronic stomach ache, but that was my own fault for total gluttony!)

The rest of the people we came across were curt at best, and mostly just plain, old-fashioned rude. And what I really can’t bear is the way they are happy to snaffle up millions of tourist dollars and give nothing in return. It’s like blatant pick-pocketing. ‘Who cares?’ is the prevailing attitude. ‘They come anyway.’ And so I paid ten euros to visit the unkempt, overgrown, uninspiring gardens of the Pitti Palace, and spent a dismal couple of hours bemoaning the contrast between the gravel-strewn paths and unloved acreage of one of the most potentially beautiful spots in Florence with the awe-inspiring, poetically beautiful National Trust gardens in England. It became downright depressing. Heaven knows how they were spending those tourist dollars – certainly not on maintenance. Scaffolding seems to be more a measure of spite than renovation, set up to block the visionary designs of the architects from the eager eyes of the tourists.

Bill Bryson could have warned me. I just wish he’d told me sooner, and didn’t wait until after we got home. Apparently he, too, spent four days ‘wandering around Florence, trying to love it but generally failing.’ He described Florence as dusty, shabby and in need of a wash, an obstacle course covered in litter and street vendors cluttering every pavement with their wares. He concludes, and I concur, that ‘much of Florence was tawdrier than any city so beautiful and historic and lavishly subsidized by visitors had any right to be.’

So I have seen enough of Florence. Next time I will follow the senso unico signs to somewhere else!

By the way, did anyone who wasn’t a Medici ever live in Florence?

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Walking in the Rain

Posted on 8 August 2012 by sheg4184

When a new friend in Manila asked me to go walking with her at 5.30 a.m., I was aghast. Good heavens, I thought, if I am even conscious that early, I am still hunched over my English Breakfast tea,  trying to peel my eyes open with the steam from the boiling water! Why on earth would anyone walk that early anyway?

A year later, when I was bored to death with the gym and the cross-trainer, she asked again. This time I accepted the challenge with alacrity.

When we started, it was still dark for the first two laps, and I suddenly saw the point of getting up at the crack of dawn. It is always humid in Manila, but at least at six, the sun is low in the sky and not pounding the top of your head. And it’s a great way to start the day. We walked and talked, two mornings a week, for about 6 months. Recently my walking buddy moved to America, so I now go walking on my own. I have to say, while I am missing her company, I am actually enjoying it. I have the gall to walk clockwise round the block, in defiance of an unwritten rule that everyone should walk anti-clockwise. But it means I get to smile and greet everyone I pass, and in the Philippines, that’s a lot of smiling!

The last week, however, I have had to concede defeat. In Manila, we have had almost two weeks of tropical storms, typhoons and mesocyclones . (I had never even heard of a mesocyclone till today. Apparently it is a rapidly rotating air mass or vortex of air, within a thunderstorm, up to 80 kilometers in diameter that often gives rise to a tornado.) Anyway, the result of this continuous onslaught of high winds has been endless driving rain and severe flooding throughout the northern Philippines, and it has most definitely put an end to walking anywhere, except laps of the apartment.

Up here, we can afford to be blasé. We have joked about arks and air matresses. On the 32nd floor we need not fear flooding, and we have a great view of the seemingly endless thunderstorm that has been lighting up the sky all evening, like fireworks at New Year. Our building has a generator so an electricity supply shouldn’t be a problem. I can still reach the supermarket to fill a shopping trolley with food and water when necessary. Our car is big enough to take on any of the minor flooding Makati has to offer. The children are safely at home, as all the local schools have closed. I must admit, it was a tad annoying that the boys returned to school for barely two days after weeks and weeks of summer holiday, and this morning I could only manage one lap of Rockwell before the slight drizzle gave way to more torrential rain, and I was forced to retreat to the gym.

So it seems almost surreal to imagine that across the city, thousands and thousands of people are struggling to survive through what, for me, has simply been an unusually wet week in the middle of the wet season.

Typhoon Saola struck the Philippines just over a week ago, since when, according to international news reports, more than 50 people have been killed.

Below us, we have been watching the Pasig River swirl higher and higher. Fortunately the levee was heightened the last time the river broke its banks, so with any luck the water will be contained this time. And I can’t see houses and cars floating downstream as I am told happened during Ondoy in 2009. Nonetheless, across Manila, residents are being stranded on rooftops and in high rise apartments as water levels continue to rise, neck-deep in places, while those in low-lying areas are being warned to evacuate immediately.  Strong currents are washing cars and trucks along roads converted into rivers by the heavy rains. Reports say 60% of roads in Manila have been flooded, and many of these are impassable.  A state of calamity has been declared in seven of Manila’s cities.

There has hardly been a break in the deluge in three days, and there is more to come. All over the city rescue services, charity workers and, well, everyone, is rushing to the aid of flood victims. Money and food is being distributed around the country to feed and clothe over 80,000 refugees who have been washed out of their homes, and forced to shelter in churches, schools, and community halls. Electricity has been turned off to parts of the city as floodwater continues to rise, which makes it hard on those wanting to stay in their homes, despite the risk. Eventually, when the water recedes, it will be a monster-sized job to clear up the mess.

I’m not posting photos or videos  here – there are plenty of both to be found on the internet already – but if you are sitting safely at home in front of your computer, comfortable, dry and well-fed, spare a thought at least for thousands of Filipinos whose lives have been totally overturned by an unusually wet week in the wet season.

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Sunday Market in Legazpi Village

Posted on 6 August 2012 by sheg4184

When my husband and I wake up early on a Sunday, with nothing much on the day’s agenda beyond a strong urge to get out of the house, we find a taxi and potter down to the Legazpi Market.  Like the old Bisto ad, the tempting scents of barbecuing meat waft through the air to greet us as we clamber from the taxi.

Open from 7.30 a.m. until 2p.m., you will find Legazpi Market on the corner of Rufino and Legazpi streets in the middle of Legazpi Village. There is a good-sized car park available, as well as plenty of convenient street parking.  Or do as we do, save the hassle and grab a taxi.

While some of the stallholders are familiar from the neighbouring Salcedo Market on a Saturday morning, Legazpi has a subtly different feel. This small community market is like a village fair: friendly and social, it is wonderfully different to shopping in a large, impersonal city supermarket or mall. Stalls can vary a little from week to week, so it’s fun to visit regularly and see who shows up. And don’t worry if it looks like rain, because the whole area is draped in canvas. While it can get a bit steamy, at least you stay dry!

 When we first arrive, we wind our way through the stalls for an initial overview. There are usually three or four well-stocked fruit and vegetable stalls. The quality here is generally excellent, and compares favourably to Rustans’ somewhat tired offerings and exhorbitant prices. Customers pile up, but the service is quick and efficient. Our bags are loaded up and we move off to explore the food stalls.

There is plenty of ready-made food here, and it is obviously a popular spot for an al fresco Sunday brunch, with family and friends. We check out the traditional Filipino dishes and buy a large serve of banana bolognaise to try at home. OK, it isn’t officially bolognaise sauce, but it looks very like the sauces my husband makes with ground (minced) beef and peas – although the raisins and fried bananas were an interesting and unexpected addition! I dream of filling the freezer with portions of lasagna, moussaka, sinigang and mini quiches, and not having to cook for weeks.

We always try to taste something local, but when we found the stand selling Aussie pies, sausage rolls and crumpets, we couldn’t resist. They were pretty good too, and can be ordered online for home delivery. And the boys have been eating crumpets with every meal since: under scrambled egg or pepperonata; spread with lashings of honey, or my favourite jams from The Fruit Garden that are available here too. Nor can we resist a bag of the pain au chocolat and a small box of pistachio baklava, surprisingly light and moreish and far less sugary than usual. Next week, I am going back to buy some local, fresh coffee beans from TonG.

And there are Korean pickled vegetables and Japanese curries, Chinese noodles and an innovative range of Filipino specialities in pretty jars: milkfish pâté, bagoong in olive oil and malunggay pesto.

For those with small kids in tow, there are ice cones and cotton candy to keep them happy and hyperactive. Also, scattered amongst the food stalls, there are plenty of tables and plastic chairs to collapse into when bags get too heavy and energy levels are diminished. We have snacked on dried fish, sio pao and suman, or collect a couple of fresh, cool coconuts to sip on as we walk. I love watching the guy with his machete slicing away the husk and expertly taking the top off like a boiled egg, leaving just a thin membrane of coconut jelly to stick the straw through.

(I recently heard a rumour that buko juice is really good for dehydration, and in an emergency, thanks to its naturally hygienic casing, it can be injected straight into a vein. But don’t quote me on that last part!)

There is also a broad selection of craft and handmade jewelry. I went mad for a stall of pretty little shells, glammed up with gold paint and hanging on a leather string that I thought would make perfect stocking fillers at Christmas, or easy gifts to squeeze into corners of suitcase or hand luggage.  If you are in need of a solid wooden chopping board or salad bowl, look no further. Handbags and baskets, bed spreads and linens, organic lotions and potions, handmade jewelry and pot plants, pretty white cotton night dresses, and a toy stall. One vertically challenged friend decided he required $350 from his father to buy toys, but most come much cheaper than that! And my mother found some amusing  aprons from Amuse Bouche to take home for friends and family.

It’s a pleasant hour or so on a Sunday morning, with the added bonus of bumping into friends. I suddenly find myself feeling part of the neighbourhood, and it’s a lovely feeling.

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Living it Up with a Personal Shopper

Posted on 29 July 2012 by sheg4184

One of our local expatriate magazines had picked Beauty as a theme for our May edition, and I was asked to interview a personal shopper at one of Manila’s most popular department stores.

At first I was appalled, for I am a rare breed of female who abhors shopping. However, I soon discovered that for such a girl, a personal shopper can be a gift from heaven. No more trawling malls in helpless anticipation of fashion disaster, just the simple joy of handing over the reins to an expert.

And miracle of miracles, I have found one. Leif-Erik works from a sumptuously sophisticated office on the fifth floor. I would like to have lounged lazily on the luxurious leather sofa, but I was supposed to be writing an article, so I perched instead, new iPad on knee. Such a waste.

Leif-Erik’s pedigree is arguably perfect for a Personal Shopper, and impressively cosmopolitan: Italian mother, Finnish father, British education, designer suit. And not only is he able to introduce you to just about every product in the store, he is knowledgeable on brands and styling and setting up photo shoots. So if you are off to a weekend wedding in Borocay, for example, that requires several glamorous outfits, Leif-Erik will have the answers.

For those of you who are fond of shopping and quite at home in a department store, there is still the sheer luxury of putting yourself into expert hands.  No longer is there any need to consider ambling the length and breadth of the store: assistants will bring outfits to the dressing room, along with champagne, if required, and should you get a little hot and bothered from all that modelling, there is even a bathroom with a shower to cool off and freshen up.

Leif-Erik will quickly get to know your favourite designers, and can inform you as new collections arrive. He will let you know about make-up presentations and fashion parades, and all those secret Added Extras.

On a guided tour of the store, I discovered plenty of Added Extras. There is the opportunity to engrave that special gift for your significant other, or embroider initials on those wedding towels. They have gift wrapping on every floor, a kiddies corner where you can leave the children playing happily while you shop in peace; a nursing station, and a spa. The toy department even has its own specialized personal shopper called Pepper. Why did I not know about all this when my kids were tiny? I may then have been able to discard my unvaried tracksuits and happy pants!

We explored the immense array of scents, perfumes and aftershaves in artistic bottles; an impressive assortment of gifts for the man who has everything, and the colourful displays of gowns and dresses for the social butterfly. There was also a stunning pair of studded red stilettos of which P.L. James would be proud.

In the Philippines clothing sizes above an American size 10 can be problematic, and I do resent all the XXXs that the petite Filipinas add to clothes for me, but of course my new friend knows the best designers for more generous sizes and some can even be ordered in. Being the ignoramus I am when it comes to shopping trivia, I was delighted to be introduced to European, American and local designers I had never met before.

All in all, I spent a fascinating, indulgent afternoon, and finally decided I would never shop alone again. At least, not until the next time I am seduced by an inappropriate pair of high heels that will end up being discarded after their first outing, having pinched my toes, tripped me up and twisted my ankles!

* Adapted from an article written for Inklings, June 2012

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The Chef Diairies: Butchery, the Crowning Glory

Posted on 24 July 2012 by sheg4184

Fast forward through dissecting and trussing poultry, filleting a fish, and preparing squid and shrimp to our final cooking lesson.

As we assembled at our stations, our instructor this week, Chef Kyla Rosales, introduced each of  us to a large slab of lamb tenderloin and suggested that air drying the meat for 24 hours would make it easier to handle. Then she showed us how the loin is trimmed and trussed up in string like a parcel, with a simple blanket stitch. Neatly wrapped, it could then be seasoned and seared.

The trimmings were not wasted, but cubed or sliced against the grain for later use in a stew or stir fry. I was quite good at this part, if I do say so myself, and even helped my neighbor – largely thanks to having spent at least one student summer wrapping books in brown paper and string at John Martins.

Our second chore was to carve a rack of lamb into a crown roast, cutting ‘neatly’ around the bone and scraping away tendons and fat to produce clean white bones. ‘Some people just don’t have that eye for detail,’ she observed politely, regarding my less-than-perfect exhibit – somewhat critically I felt! It had taken me an hour’s hard labour – I would have appreciated a tad more enthusiasm for my efforts. However, after she had kindly, and with swift dexterity, tidied it up for me, I began to appreciate the added value on any work the butcher is prepared to do for me.

The staff then whisked our offerings off to the kitchens. We would get to taste them later, for this final class culminated in a four course lunch cooked by Chef Kyla.

Before the class wrapped up, a whole Australian lamb was placed, stiff and frozen, on the counter, so that Chef Kyla could run through the various cuts of meat.

Exhausted by our morning in the kitchen, we clambered up the stairs to the students cafeteria, where we dined on a tasty Seafood Vera Cruz: a glorified seafood cocktail of prawns, scallops and squid in a rich, sweet sauce. This was followed by a warm, thick onion soup topped with bread and melted cheese. The air-conditioning was causing frost-bite, so this decidedly wintry soup was more than welcome by the time it arrived!

Of course the pièce de resistance was the lamb we had prepared earlier: a lamb chop presumably cut from our crown roasts and a slice of tenderloin fillet, cooked medium rare and served on a bed of creamy smooth mashed potato and  grilled pepper. The final flourish was an amuse bouche of cheese cake.

As we indulged our taste buds, I chatted with the other students about their reasons for attending the course. Ranging in age from late teens to forty-something, some explained that they were looking for a new challenge beyond the confines of the office. Others were interested in a career in cooking, some as a welcome sea change from past professions, but were testing the waters before they committed to a full diploma course. Several had tried other courses, or were contemplating further exploration. For me, it was simply the chance to upgrade my skills, and – hopefully – feel less of a klutz in the kitchen! After lunch, Chef Kyla presented every participant with an official certificate, and we all  came away feeling they had achieved something significant  over the past five weeks.

For those eager to move up the ladder, there are also more advanced short courses available. Courses begin every two months and class sizes are maximum 10 per instructor. Check out Enderun Colleges on Facebook, and the Enderun Extension website: www.enderunextension.com

As published in Inklings, Summer 2012.

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The Chef Diaries: Knife Skills 101

Posted on 20 July 2012 by sheg4184

Before we begin, I have to admit that I am not the most accurate or precise of cooks. If the recipe calls for an ingredient that doesn’t come immediately to hand, I find an alternative in the bottom of the fridge. And I am infamous in our kitchen for my lack of aptitude with knives, to the detriment of my fingers, but to the benefit of Band-Aid shares. In the words of Bill Bryson ‘I ache to be suave,’ but I rarely am. So I was delighted to be invited to attend the Foundation course in culinary skills at Enderun Colleges, and have the opportunity to learn some finesse in the kitchen.

ADF+Enderun Fundamentals, Beginner Level, is a five part course that introduces knife skills and butchery. One Saturday morning in March I joined eleven other wannabe Master Chefs in a training kitchen at Enderun Colleges. We were each presented with a smart apron, a toque and a very fashionable hair net. Then we were escorted to our work stations by Chef Martin Punzalan and Chef Chen Chao Li.

The mise-en-place for each station, in the manner of all good cooking shows, had been prepared earlier, and we began the morning by examining our tools: a paring knife, a chef’s knife and a peeler. Also, three stainless steel bowls, a couple of trays and a cutting board, not to mention, from the expressions on the faces of many of my companions, a large pinch of nerves.

We were given a notebook describing our tasks, and the French terminology. Sadly any prior knowledge of French culinary terms had long since deserted my feeble brain. I stared blankly at brunoise, chiffonade and paysanne. I am quite sure I knew what they meant once…

I am proud to tell you that I got off to a flying start with the onions. This was a definite ego boost, but perhaps a little premature, as it went rapidly downhill from there. Awkwardly wielding the huge Chef’s knife, I attempted to mash garlic. Perhaps, I thought, hopelessly attempting to imitate Chef Martin, it would be easier to buy it ready crushed in a jar.  Luckily dicing eggplant and zucchini didn’t prove too taxing, but my efforts were far from perfect. I will definitely need more practice.

The carrots proved to be my Waterloo. Young people half my age deftly sliced their carrots into portions that were finely diced, perfectly cubed, paysanne-d and julienne-d with consummate skill, and then beautifully arranged in neat piles on their presentation trays. Random pieces of carrot lay scattered across my tray like the house of sticks blown down by the Big Bad Wolf. I was mortified. And truly, I am only exaggerating a tiny bit.

While I now suspect that gaining any expertise with a kitchen knife is going to take more practice – and more patience – than I probably possess, I thoroughly enjoyed the morning. My own home cooking may not require such effortless aptitude as Chef Martin, and I don’t honestly expect to start a career in a Michelin starred restaurant now, but it was nonetheless fascinating to be shown how to do it properly. At least I now know what I should expect to see on my plate at an upmarket restaurant. I also learned the difference between bouquet garni and mirepoix and sachet d’epics. Again. I just pray I will prove more capable in the butchery class.

P.S. Tthe part where we got to burn the skin off a capsicum with a butane flame was really cool.

Published in Inklings, Summer 2012.

 

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A Culinary Mosaic

Posted on 18 July 2012 by sheg4184

‘Italy, the country with a hundred cities and a thousand bell towers, is also the country with a hundred cuisines and a thousand recipes. Its great variety of culinary practices reflects a history long dominated by regionalism and political division, and has led to the common conception of Italian food as a mosaic of regional customs.’ – Capatti & Montarni

In the case of Sicily, add a pinch of trade and colonization to this edible mosaic. In more than two thousand years, this strategic island, a soccer ball on the toe of Italy’s boot, has been kicked about by the  Greeks, the Romans, the Arabs and the Normans, to name but a few.  Centuries of cultural input from a wide variety of overlords have created a colourful gastronomic history.

The Romans introduced dough made from flour and water which they flattened into sheets for lagana (lasagna). As a result, farmers began to develop the hinterland for growing wheat to make pasta and bread, and Sicily became ‘the granary of Rome’.  Dried pasta was later introduced by Arab Muslims, who needed the longevity provided by drying to transport it across deserts.

The Muslims captured Sicily after the fall of the Roman Empire, and the food culture they brought with them from Persia and North Africa had a huge impact on Sicilian cuisine, and eventually on European cuisine in general.

Sugar cane and citrus fruit, for example, rapidly replaced the honey and locally made vinegars used in Sicilian recipes for sweet and sour flavourings. Exotic new spices, such as saffron and cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves and pepper were just as quickly absorbed into Sicilian cooking. As the lucrative Spice Trade developed between East and West, spices became highly regarded as status symbols.

Spinach and artichokes, pine nuts, pistachios and raisins also arrived with the Arabs. Pine nuts and raisins are still popular in Sicilian pasta sauces, and we actually found a pistachio pesto topping on a pizza in Palermo. Spinach and artichokes quickly found favour with the Sicilians, and chefs eagerly experimented with these new vegetables and found a multitude of different ways to cook them. On the other hand, eggplant, or melanzane, (from mela insana, or mad apple), was treated with suspicion for centuries, and disparaged as ‘peasant food’ or ‘Jewish food’. Yet today it is popular throughout Italy – think of northern Italy’s melanzane alla parmigiana, or the Sicilian caponata, a delicious eggplant stew you will find reproduced by Jamie Oliver in his book ‘Jamie’s Italy.’

In the fifteenth century the Spanish took control of Sicily and added many of the products they had discovered in the New World to this exciting culinary mix, although some of them took their time to join the ranks of acceptable foods.  The tomato, for example, now totally absorbed and indigenized into Italian cuisine, was once regarded as an ornamental and exotic curiosity, and capsicums initially suffered a similar fate. The inoffensive potato were first used as pig feed, and took more than two hundred years to make their way into the kitchen.

To all these introduced ingredients, throw in a spoonful of Sicily’s volcanic soil and a cup of its hot, dry climate and you have the  perfect conditions for a cornucopia of beautiful, often oversized fruit and vegetables of international origins that weigh down the greengrocers stalls in the local markets today.

Almost every Sicilian town has a mercato or mercatino. These street markets are also a nod to Sicily’s Arabic invaders, reminiscent of the 9th century Arab souqs from whence they came. Palermo’s Ballarò is even Arabic in name. Hidden away from the main roads, on the same narrow, mediaeval lanes it has occupied for centuries, Ballarò Mercato extends from Piazza Ballarò in the Albergheria, along Via Ballarò  and up toward Corso Tukory and the Palermo Centrale railway station. Today the North Africans, Sicily’s latest immigrants, are again a presence in the Palermitan market places.

It is late Friday morning, and we wander happily through the stalls, admiring the local produce, keeping an eye out for lunch. It is June, and the stalls are overflowing with stone fruit: peaches, apricots, plums and loquats I haven’t seen since my childhood, when we would raid my grandmother’s huge, o-so-climbable overhanging the sleepout roof. Some unusually shaped, luscious peaches find their way into a paper cone for immediate consumption. (We are a wee bit greedy about the stone fruit available after two years in the tropics: an overabundance of cherries, apricots and plums later cause lengthy conversations with the lavatory!) We find some overgrown zucchini (singular: zucchina) as long as baseball bats. Garlic, onions and ginger are prolific and the capsicums are the size of butternut pumpkins.

There are handbags and sandals, cheap jewellry and hair accessories, frying pans and Dalmatian spotted espresso coffee pots, scattered amongst the cheese, olives and salamis, red meat, white meat, and offal that looks like old grey socks. And of course, on this island state, there is a plethora of fish that flavour the vast majority of the local pasta sauces. As we walk by, a huge swordfish head points to the sky, its tail diving into the table, while an equally impressive tuna is being chopped into chunks by an enthusiastic fishmonger with a machete.

We wander past heavy-weight parmesans and hams. By now we are really hungry, and wish someone was prepared to throw together a ham and cheese roll for us. Street food is popular here, and we have been advised to try the local speciality, arancine from Ragusa, Sicily. These are rice balls, fried or baked, the size of large oranges – hence the name, perhaps from the Italian word for orange, aranciata? Coated in breadcrumbs and filled with ragù (meat sauce), tomato sauce, mozzarella, and peas, they are heavy, but tasty, and very filling! Locals will eat them as a take-away meal or snack at almost any time of day or night. And on every corner, the ubiquitous gelato stands beckon.

We end up on a park bench surrounded by bags of fruit, bottles of water and submarine-sized bread rolls stuffed with ham and cheese. The pigeons are eager, but we are not. I am off pigeons.  Despite our lack of enthusiasm, they cheerfully gobble up the left-over crumbs.

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Toledo: UNESCO World Heritage Site

Posted on 15 July 2012 by sheg4184
In my antiquated guide book, the city of Toledo, in central Spain, is designated a UNESCO World Heritage site, five stars and a ‘must-see’. We obey willingly.

We reached Toledo in a mere half an hour on an extremely comfortable high speed train from Madrid’s Atocha Station. (Quick aside: find the leafy interior atrium and check out the pond full of turtles.)

The Toledo railway station is unexpectedly beautiful. It provided our first sight of the Moorish arches, mosaics and multi-coloured, inlaid ’tile rugs’ on the floor. Unusually for us, we choose to jump on board a double decker tourist bus, rather than leg it up the hill on foot. It is a good decision, despite a somewhat second-grade commentary, as the heat is already energy quenching, and the views we get from the top of the bus as we skirt the city walls are superb. I have no idea how the driver manages to steer that large bus around  roads that twist and twin around the outer edge of  the city like wisteria, or how he squeezes the bus between the buildings within the walls of Toledo.  We remember JK Rowling’s triple-decker, purple, Knight Bus and smile – it is the only possible explanation for such successful navigation.

Originally established as a fortified city by the Romans, the Visigoths made Toledo their capital in the 6th century. It remained the capital of the Spanish Empire until the 15th century, when the Royal Court moved north-east to Madrid, designated as the central point of the country.

Toledo is perched high on the cliffs above the Tagus River, surrounded by buttery yellow walls. This beautiful, fairy tale hill town is a jumble of buildings pressed intimately together, narrow cobbled streets shouldering a miniscule gap between them. From the lookout across the river, only the fortress of Alcázar with its four square towers and the huge dome of the Cathedral stand out above tight cluster of roof tops.

The present Cathedral of Toledo took 250 years to build, from 1226–1493, but the site of the Toledo cathedral was originally a Visigoth church and later a Muslim mosque, before it was rebuilt as a Catholic Cathedral. The presence of synagogues, mosques and churches throughout the city is a symbolic nod to generations of peaceful cohabitation of Christian, Jew and Muslim.  This tolerance sadly came to a gruesome end during the Spanish Inquisition in the late 15th century, when the avid persecution of Jews and Muslims re-established Catholicism as the primary religion on the Iberian Peninsula.

Our guide, James, is easy to spot in his bright green trousers – coloured jeans are all the rage in southern Europe this summer. We accompany him off the bus and down past the Alcázar to the Plaza de Zocodover, once an Arabic souk, now a central meeting point for locals and tourists who gather in the various restaurants around the broad square. The narrow but popular shopping street Calle del comercio takes us through the centre of the town to the beautiful Gothic Cathedral.

At the rear of the cathedral, we squeeze into the San Ildefonso and El Sagrario chapel with a hundred other sight-seers, to gaze in awe at the vast,  intricately carved Processional Monstrance. Made of gold and silver, it is 2.5 metres high, weighs over 160 kilos, and is decorated with 260 images.

In the centre of the nave, opposite the main altar, are the most glorious choir stalls, carved with animals and mythological figures. Music is still an important part of local worship, but the choir stalls are no longer as tightly packed with priests singing to the glory of God as they once were.

Eventually we say farewell to the cool air in the Cathedral, and to James, and wander off on our own for a late lunch in a tiny family restaurant in a little plaza we find after getting a little mislaid…

Gastronomically, Toledo’s cuisine is like its architecture: a combination of Moorish, Jewish and Christian influences. A popular region for game hunting, menus in Toledo boast specialties that included partridge, quails, wild boar and venison, served roasted or  in bean stews.

Our host attempts, in halting English, to explain that he will present us with four vegetable dishes and we may choose three more from a selection of lamb, pork and venison, for which he doesn’t know the English word. So he describes it for us, hands portraying antlers, and eventually emerges with the name ‘Bambi’.

Service is quick, and we tuck in eagerly – well, it is almost 2.30pm. The local gazpacho is a rich, creamy, tomato based cold soup, heavily flavoured with onions that I find irresistible, and fail to share. The boys make short work of the stuffed peppers, the vegetable paella and a large dish of vegetable noodles. We have chosen a lamb stew, a platter of ‘Bambi’ fillets and carcamusa: a tasty local specialty of tomato and fried pork, all washed down with a huge jug of Sangria. As we drain the last drops of wine, it becomes apparent that our hosts would like us to leave so they can have a siesta before the evening session.

 We stagger across the plaza – it’s the heat that hits us between the eyes, not the Sangria! The narrow lanes kept us in the shadows, but the walls and the stones beneath our feet are as fiery as a dragon’s breath.

Between the 15th and 17th centuries, Toledo blacksmiths had a worldwide reputation for producing top class steel for swords, knives and daggers. Even Japanese Samuri had their katana and wakizashi swords made here. Although no longer the great industry it once was, souvenir shops are still full of steel armour, highly decorative swords and scimitars.

While the boys become temporarily distracted by the joys of war games, I become devoutly religious in the search for a place to cool my head. I am ushered into a small convent chapel by an extremely elderly nun… and find myself on the set of a horror movie. The tragic eyes of multiple bloodied martyrs gaze pleadingly down at me from life-sized, all-too-realistic paintings on the walls. I peer, aghast, into a glass cabinet of holy relics: bones of said martyrs, framed or inlaid into ornaments; a Child of Prague looking like Elvis Presley complete with pompadour quiff. A second darkened chapel behind the main chapel houses candle-lit shadows and shapes I don’t care to examine too closely. In the meantime, the boys had found a small shop full of marzipan – another rather less nerve-racking occupation of the local nuns.

We then plod to the top of town where we find a lemonade icy pole, a low wall, a light breeze and a view. A vain search for synagogues, following signposts that suddenly disappear, leads us to a quieter side of town. The locals have all headed home for siesta and most tourists have sensibly retreated to their hotels.

 The simple church we find instead is cool and quiet: far more restful to the senses than the Cathedral, that had overloaded the senses with art, gold, grandeur and sight-seers. We meander through shady cloisters whose pillars sprout mythological creatures and fairy tale characters, and on up a curving staircase to a second level overlooking a garden quilted with box hedges, yew, citrus and loquat trees, and an antiquated wrought-iron well.

At last, defeated by the heat – at 7.30pm it felt no cooler than at midday – we catch a blissfully air-conditioned bus out of the ancient city, and end up lazily sipping beers and nibbling tapas with the locals, in an unassuming little bar opposite the railway station, as we wait for the train back to the turtles, and home.
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