48 Hours in Bali

Eat. Swim. Sun. Repeat. 

Add a little shopping, snoozing and boozing, and last weekend's jaunt to our friend's villa in Bali can be summed up by the above.  

I had previously stayed with said friend on my last (and first) visit during the great 'round the world trip of 2013, and she didn't disappoint by taking us around to all new places to eat. (This is to say new to me; not necessarily recently opened). Being the only part of Indonesia that is predominantly Hindu rather than Muslim, a significant amount of pork was consumed by all. After spending time in Jakarta you do start to miss it.

Highlights include decadent ribs at Naughty Nuri's in Ubud followed by cocktails and an inspirational tasting menu at Room 4 Dessert, as well as brunching on traditional food at Nasi Ayam Kedewatan (everything tastes better when consumed in a neat little hut) and a lovely farewell dinner of freshly grilled seafood at the beachside Menega Cafe, where our prime table rested not even fifty feet from the waves lapping up on the shore and a five-piece Indo mariachi group played English-language hits by the likes of John "Lemon."

I tried to photo-document the weekend, but only ended up with the paltry five pictures below. Guess I was too busy stuffing my face and basking under the blue sky that's never visible in Jakarta.

Church visible from the villa balcony. 

Dog watches his owner's kids surfing. 

The ribs. 

The pool at the villa. 

Brunch at Nasi Ayam Kedewatan. 

Sichuan Style

On my third night in Chengdu, my hosts decided that it was time for my inaugural hot pot experience. I call it an "experience" because it is not just a meal that one simply eats; no, in Sichuan, home of the aptly named numbing peppers, one suffers through it. If you're vaguely thinking that you've had hot pot before, think again - it's definitely something that would stick in your memory like a physical injury.

The spread.

We sat around a square table, one person per side, with a recessed gas burner in the center. After a quick exchange with the server, it was decided that we would have a combination of plain and spicy broth with an assortment of raw veggies, meats and dumplings to cook in it. And beer. Throughout the entire meal the three of us of legal drinking age would collectively consume five or so large bottles. 

The broth arrives in a large cauldron, which is set on the burner to boil. Once bubbles are visible, it's time to dump in the raw ingredients. I should note that this is not a relaxed cook-your-own meal like Japanese shabu shabu; it is a workout. The spicy broth is essentially the seventh circle of hell in liquid form. At first bite it burns the mouth, numbing it over time, while clearing the sinuses and, hours later, the bowels. In the colder northern reaches of China, where this dish is more common and my hosts had lived and worked previously,  hot pot is the reason why "diarrhea" is one of the first Chinese words they teach foreigners. Whether this is due to the bacteria from using the same chopsticks for raw and cooked foods or the sheer spice is unclear. 

The cooking. And, no, the toddler did not eat from the red broth.

The beer was intended to counteract the burning spiciness, but I found that the slight carbonation of the drink exacerbated it - that is until the numbness set in. My strategy throughout dinner was to nibble something spicy (a mushroom, a piece of lamb), guzzle down some beer, and then let my palette recover with veggies cooked in the plain broth. I'd say the consumption ratio was something like 1:4:8. 

Perhaps by now I've made the ritual seem torturous, but in reality it's one of those situations where you want to keep eating because it's so delicious despite the pain it inflicts. Or maybe I'm just a masochist. We bought some ice cream bars on the way home to relieve our sore mouths.

Several days later I took a cooking class that included a trip to the local market with the instructor. After an awkward exchange that's become all too common in the last two months ("Where are you from?" "America." "You don't look American." "My family is Japanese."* - 10 minutes later in the market - "...you can probably find these in Japan!" "...cool.") Mounds of spices, more kinds of tofu than I ever knew existed, and succulent produce better than anything you'd see at Whole Foods at a quarter of the price - I was snapping pictures left and right. The locals probably thought I was crazy.

Spices n things at the market.

The meat section was a little questionable, due to the lack of refrigeration and blatant disregard for hygiene. Butchers and customers alike turned the hunks of meat dangling from metal hooks this way and that, and I cringed when I saw the employees casually chop the meat, bag it, accept money and give change without any hand-washing or wearing of gloves. The actual products weren't that shocking - I'd seen hooves, innards and skinned rabbits before, but the black chickens and pig faces were new to me.

I found these a little disturbing.

I felt a little bad for the fresh fish, flopping around in plastic kiddie pools with barely enough water to breathe, but all thoughts of the market were banished from my mind by the time we sat down to eat several hours later, and I was more preoccupied with the sheer amount of oil I was about to consume. The way Chinese chefs use oil in cooking is all too similar to the liberal use of alcohol employed by the French in cooking and baking. Those peanuts in kung pao chicken? Fried in the wok before being added to the rest of the mix. As a pastry cook, though, I'm all too aware that there is rarely much overlap between the things that taste good and the things that are good for you, but life is too short not to indulge once in a while.

Kung pao chicken, beer duck, cucumber salad and spicy eggplant.

*Since arriving in China I've taken to telling people that I'm Japanese because otherwise I get a lot of grief for not being able to speak Chinese. Asian-Americans are like unicorns to Asians - they've possibly heard of us, but they don't understand us. Whereas Japanese people were too polite to question me, Chinese people have no qualms about openly displaying scorn and derision.

Dining After Dark

In addition to boba, the famous milk tea drink served with famous tapioca pearls, Taiwan's gastronomic reputation rests heavily on the traditional open-air night markets. What is a night market, you may wonder. And the simplest answer that comes to mind is: complete, utter sensory overload.

Food stalls at Ningxia Night Market.

Metal carts outfitted with varying cooking tools (grills, steamers, deep fryers) line a narrow path where locals and visitors jostle past each other, pausing at eye-catching displays like whole squid (for the equivalent of $1 each), or tens of different types of meat and fish skewers, some recognizable and some not. The air is thick with steam, grease and the smell of hot street food waiting to be devoured. It's mostly delicious, except for near the stinky tofu vendors. And if you don't speak or read Mandarin, ordering is always an adventure.

Once you've made your pick(s); some dumplings here; a spring roll there; an assortment of grilled meat and fried chicken (bones-in, Chinese style); it's time to find somewhere to hunker down and reward your taste buds. Little metal stools and folding tables are nestled in and around some of the vendors specializing in for-here options (rice dishes, noodle soup or garlic shrimp), and if you're lucky you can score one. 

Food trucks at home attempt to recreate this atmosphere, but they are too sterile; lacking the vibrancy and grittiness of authentic street food while failing to deliver on good value for the money. For after being able to spend the equivalent of $1.50 for an entire meal in Taipei, how could you ever go back to tiny $10 lobster rolls?

The Culinary Backstreets of Bali

By the time I made it through immigration at Denpasar airport (separate lines for purchasing a visitor's visa and getting your passport stamped; you can only pay cash and naturally the nearest ATM was out of order), it was fairly late at night. I was feeling a bit peckish but many places had already closed for the night so the friend whom I was staying with and who dutifully waited for me outside Starbucks - the wonderfully talented Talita of Talita's Kitchen - had her driver stop on the way home to pick up some freshly roasted corn smeared with chili sauce from a roadside stand. 

As we sat at the kitchen table devouring our hot corn, she warned me that bugs and other critters often found their way into the bathroom after dark - "the Bali experience," as she called it. Sure enough, that first night a beetle about the size of my palm descended through the gap between the slanted thatched roof and the wall, buzzing madly and ricocheting off every surface. I retreated to my bedroom, only returning when I heard the noise stop - I guess it had injured itself because it was trying unsuccessfully to crawl up the base of the toilet. It was too big to squish without making a huge mess so instead I trapped it under the laundry hamper. The following night a bug crawled out of the drain when I was taking a shower. It's funny; I'm okay with visiting countries with documented cases of violence against women on my own, but put me in proximity with anything that creeps or crawls and all hell breaks loose. 

Anyways, being a keen chef and foodie, Talita knew all the best places to eat and drink on the island. We had our first real dinner at the newly opened Cuca - a tapas restaurant whose head chef previously worked at the legendary elBulli. With its bold flavors, chic design, fresh ingredients, surprisingly modest prices and immaculate presentation, it was easily the best meal I've had on the trip thus far. Chef David has countless molecular gastronomy tricks up his sleeve (the hallmark of elBulli), like one of my favorite dishes - the Bali Breakfast - a bowl of whipped coconut confection with a mango "yolk" that broke and oozed just like the real thing when pricked with a fork. Joining us for dinner was Rafi, a new acquaintance of Talita's and the French expat mastermind behind Monsieur Spoon, which serves up the best millefeuille and viennoiseries I've had since leaving Paris.  

Over plates of barbecued octopus and marinated pulled pork, Rafi and Talita talked business ideas and industry anecdotes. As incredible as it's been seeing new things, meeting new people and finding inspiration in the exotic flavors of the local cuisine, I'm eager to embark on my own endeavor, especially after seeing some of the side projects and businesses my former classmates have started (Ornella-Bianca, Cupcake & Co, and Whisked, to name a few). Cooking classes have been a help, I suppose, but I really just want to get back in the kitchen and start working.

In addition to more established joints like Mozaic, Gusto Gelato, Potato Head and Rock Bar, Talita also took me to some low-key places mostly frequented by locals, where I got to try traditional dishes like suckling pig and mixed rice. Not only could she explain what everything was, but she also placed our orders in Indonesian and probably got better service than I would have on my own. That's been the most unexpected benefit of attending LCB - having friends from all over the world. 

*** 

Eating and Drinking in Bali

For sweets: Monsieur Spoon (multiple locations) for pastries and Gusto Gelato 

For eats: Cuca, Mozaic and Bodag Maliah Cafe (an atmospheric organic restaurant situated in the middle of a rice paddy in Ubud; they grow their own ingredients) 

For drinks: Potato Head (inventive cocktails and upscale beach club vibe) and Rock Bar (it sits on a cliff right above the water and has amazing sunset views) 

Good Food, Green City

Many people  I met in Thailand made Singapore out to be a culturally sterile place, but I found that wasn't the case at all. (I guess for the hardcore backpacker set, it just wasn't exotic enough). It's definitely extremely modern and "Westernized" compared to the surrounding region, but there's quite a diverse mix of Chinese, Malays, Indians and expats. But nowhere is this mish mash more evident than the food scene.

Singapore is renowned for its street food delicacies prepared by hawkers that are held to rigorous hygiene standards and have been organized by the government into food centers scattered around the city. For dinner my friend took me to one of her favorites, Newton Circus. As she explained (and I later witnessed when venturing out on my own near the CBD), the street food here is very democratic - everyone indulges in it, even the financial heavyweights. And why wouldn't they? It's delicious.

I took the boat cruise around Singapore River one afternoon, which juxtaposed the country's two faces: beautifully preserved colonial buildings and bridges as well as sleek, ultramodern skyscrapers. I wish I could have photographed the architecture more, but it was drizzling constantly and I've already ruined one camera by exposure to water. 

Singapore also prides itself on being the greenest city in Asia - both literally and figuratively. The expansive Gardens by the Bay, a vast climate-controlled greenhouse complex that recycles water and runs off of sustainable energy, epitomizes this mentality. Scattered throughout the garden are little videos and informational checkpoints because, as my friend joked, "Everything in Singapore has to be educational."

Despite the dreary weather I went to the zoo on my last day. I suppose what makes this one so unique is that there are no cages. All the animals are in open enclosures, sometimes alarmingly so (i.e. what's stopping this lion from leaping over and attacking me sort of a feel). An hour after the zoo closes, the nearby Night Safari opens. As a kid going to the local Woodland Park Zoo, the small section for nocturnal animals was always my favorite. So an entire park dedicated to night creatures? I felt like I was reliving my childhood.

1. Gardens by the Bay with Marina Bay Sands in the background.

2. Retro building in Tiong Bahru.

3. Dinner at Newton Circus: chicken rice, sugar cane juice, vegetable roll and barbecue chicken.

4. Orchid garden on the roof of Buddha Tooth Relic Temple.

5. Chinatown.

Fresh Air, Fresh Fish

I stepped off the bus from Marrakech bracing myself for the locals to start badgering me.

"Excuse me, miss, you need hotel?"

"Can I help with your bag?"

"Taxi?"

But the barrage of hustlers never came. Whereas in Marrakech I had to thrice fend off local men trying to give me directions* during the short walk across the main square and over to my hostel, in Essaouira no one accosted me. As the wind from the Atlantic ruffled my shirt (which in Marrakech had been perpetually stuck to me with sweat), I breathed a sigh of relief.

While exploring the medina that afternoon, I noticed that, save for an occasional "Hello, bonjour," the shop owners seemed like they really didn't give a shit whether you entered or not. It's so much more enjoyable that way; being able to take in the surroundings rather than staring at the ground trying to avoid that fatal first eye contact which, in all other cities, will have the business owners yelling and gesticulating wildly for you to come in and hear all about the "special price" that awaits.

"Why would you go back to fucking Marrakech?" a hostel staff member demanded a fellow traveler trying to sort out his last few days in Morocco.

Essaouira has that effect.

For dinner that first night, a large group of us that had first met in Marrakech went to the blue-and-white shacks near the port and enjoyed a massive meal of fresh seafood grilled to order. After negotiating the price down to 65 dirhams per person (including salad, bread, drink, two large fish and four sardines), we sat in the semi-darkness of an old-fashioned gas lamp, picking our way through tuna and sole as they came straight off the grill to our table, while feral cats lurked in the shadows hoping we'd toss them some scraps. It was a delicious but thoroughly messy affair and at the end of the meal looking at the mounds of balled-up napkins and fish bones on each plate, we debated whether this would be a really awesome or really terrible first date.

I went back the following night with some other new acquaintances. We paid a bit more but got to try red snapper, tuna, calamari and shrimp as well. The host let us take turns being photographed holding live crabs and lobsters. Doesn't get more fresh than that!

*This is how the scam works. A local - generally a young guy in his teens - sees you with a large backpack or suitcase and asks if you need a hotel. You say you already have a reservation. Instead of going away, he asks where you're staying. It matters little whether you tell him or not, because he knows all of the hotels and hostels in the area, so will continue to walk a few steps ahead of you in the same direction. It sounds completely illogical that a person can lead and follow you at the same time, but that's exactly what happens all the way to the hostel where, at the door, he will stop short of following you inside but will demand money. The staff is used to this and doesn't intervene. So in the end you toss the kid a few dirhams just so he'll fuck off. 

Cooking In...Morocco

I was checking my email over breakfast Wednesday morning when I saw a response from Café Clock (English-owned restaurant in a beautiful riad with an American coffee shop vibe - basically if you're in Fez you need to go at least once) to my inquiry about cooking classes. Sorry for the late reply, it said, but we have a class today at 11am. I checked the time: 20 minutes to get there and find the place. Inhaling the rest of my food, I collected my things and hurried outside; or rather as much as one can hurry in 80+ heat along streets that are unmarked and connected in ways that make very little sense. (The Fez medina has over 9,000 streets; I doubt even a special ops team could successfully track a person once they entered). 

I arrived just in time to meet our chef, a friendly Berber woman, and my other classmate, an Aussie about my age, who had already decided on the menu: lentil soup, aubergine salad, lamb tagine and a dessert of phyllo pastry with fresh fruit and yogurt. Washing my hands and donning an apron, I joined them in the kitchen. For the next few hours we talked, joked around and learned some of the secrets to Moroccan cooking (lots of garlic! lots of spices!). 

What follows is what I can remember to the best of my ability. Nothing was measured nor timed, which pretty much sums up everything I dislike about cooking and, hence, why I am a pastry chef. 

Prepping the herbs with the "bellydancing" knife. (Using it properly feels like a full body workout).

Lentil Soup 

500 g lentils

1.5 L water

1 yellow onion, chopped finely

1 head of garlic, minced

Fresh parsley and coriander

Tomato paste 

Olive oil (~2 T)

Place all ingredients in a pot. Add spices (paprika, salt, pepper, cumin, tumeric) to taste. Mix well. Bring to a full boil and cook until lentils are soft.  

Grilling the eggplant.

 Zaalouk (smokey aubergine puree)

1 eggplant

2 bell peppers

1 head of garlic, minced

Olive oil

Paprika

Cumin

Chili Powder

Tumeric

Grill eggplant and bell peppers over gas flame until charred. Let cool, then peel. (You can wrap them - especially the peppers - in a plastic bag to get them to sweat, then after you can scrape off the charred bits with the back of a knife). Remove the stems from the grilled vegetables. Cut the eggplant into chunks. Remove the seeds from the peppers and do the same.

Sautee garlic in olive oil in a pan. Add eggplant, peppers, and spices. Mix well and continue to cook until thoroughly heated. Serve. 

Finished salad.

Finished tagine.

My new Aussie friend, as it turned out, is quite the globetrotting foodie herself. On this particular trip she was with her parents, but previously she'd been to some of the world's more dangerous cities (Nairobi, Johannesburg) alone, and felt perfectly at ease using the one form of lodging I was not brave enough to try on this trip: couchsurfing. I was impressed, and inspired. Did I mention that she also likes taking cooking classes wherever she goes? We made plans to stay in touch so that she can show me around her hometown, Sydney, once I get to Australia.