Adventures in Sushi Making

​While I still technically have one week left to go (the dreaded night shift), for all intents and purposes my internship is pretty much over. Since Friday was the last time I would be working with the group of people that over the last couple months have pushed me to work harder than I ever have in my life, I thought it would be nice to bring something to share. But what do you feed to a bunch of chefs?

Originally I wanted to bring something American, seeing as everyone in the kitchen is either French or an expat of some other European country. ​However this led to a minor existential conundrum because, really, what is American cuisine? I ruled out desserts (apple pie, chocolate chip cookies) because they didn't seem worthy of my colleagues, which left a small group of savory dishes that were impractical because they either wouldn't keep well overnight or I had no experience preparing them (ribs, fried chicken).

My parents suggested sushi because it's easy to make, share and transport, not to mention that everyone likes it. (Sushi restaurants are everywhere in Paris - some chains even deliver to your apartment). I should note that there is some small irony in me, fourth generation Japanese American on my father's side, preparing a traditional dish like this. Back in the states I am what is often referred to as a "Twinkie" or "banana" (i.e. yellow on the outside; white on the inside). So, like any clueless person trying something new, I took to the internet for advice.​ (I had "made" sushi before at home, by which I mean my parents did most of the work while I nibbled on scraps).

​I found all the ingredients I needed at a Japanese grocery store near Opéra - including a cheater's solution of sushi rice seasoning and a bamboo mat for rolling - and, armed with some food bloggers' tips, proceeded to make California (crab, cucumber, avocado) and Seattle (cucumber, smoked salmon, cream cheese) rolls. I think my favorite piece of internet advice came from Yahoo Answers, where a reader suggested rolling sushi "like you would a large joint." (Don't worry; I didn't lick the seaweed at the end).

Come Friday, maybe it was just the hunger of lunch being many hours past, but the food pretty much all disappeared by the time I finished thanking everyone for the experience and the opportunity. No one had tried a Seattle roll before, so I suppose I did manage to bring a little taste of home.

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La Promenade Plantée

After almost a year of being in Paris, I tell myself that I know the city pretty well. So imagine my surprise when a Google search for "best picnic parks Paris" revealed a 3-mile elevated park spanning eastward from Bastille to the highway that encircles the city proper. Even before I biked there on a recent sunny afternoon (not as straightforward as I thought because a protest had shut down some major streets), I was all excited because The High Line​, another famous parkway, had been one of my favorite places to go the summer I lived in New York City.

For the most part the park runs parallel to Avenue Daumesnil in the 12th. Starting from Bastille, the repurposed railway, whose archways at street level have been taken over by shops, is now effectively a greenbelt popular with joggers and day drinkers. And, like The High Line, it occasionally cuts through buildings. ​

I didn't take the promenade all the way to the end, but stopped where it descended to the gorgeous Jardin de Reuilly. I think I found my new picnic spot.​

Easy Spring Recipes

On Sunday I invited my friend Steph, who just returned from getting her visa sorted out, over for dinner.​ She's one of the few who did the same cycle of the pâtisserie program at LCB with me, and thus I suppose my oldest friend here in Paris. But I think of her more as the big sister I never had growing up. She's taken care of me - quite literally on several occasions - over the past months so I thought I'd attempt to return the favor. The problem was I don't really know how to cook.

I often joke that in college, where we had access to dining halls and private chefs, the most cooking I ever did was making sandwiches when the ​kitchen was closed. There's actually a lot more truth in there than I let on. And before that? I was spoiled by my parents' home cooking.

​In retrospect Sunday was probably also the first time I've ever had anyone over for dinner. Even though I'm sure Steph would have been a gracious enough guest if the food were terrible, I decided that entertaining is not the time to be ambitious. And so, I present my simple, tasty, and reasonably healthy menu:

- Salad with red wine vinaigrette

- Penne with basil and mozzarella

- Sangria

- Strawberry shortcake (recipe below)​

My mom often makes these scones at home, using a recipe that I believe originated from my grandmother. Fun fact: this is also one of the first recipes I remember my mom teaching me from a tattered index card in her old-school recipe box. My job was usually the kneading at the end, although I can't remember whether that's because she put me up to it or I just liked licking the sweet dough off my fingers afterward.

English Scones:

• 1 1/2 C all purpose flour
• 1 1/2 t baking powder
• 2 T sugar
• 1/2 C unsalted butter
• 1/2 C milk

Preheat oven to 400F.

Combine dry ingredients in a large bowl. Cut in butter using two knives or a pastry cutter until it achieves the texture of coarse sand. Gradually add milk, mixing gently until soft, sticky dough forms.

Flour hands and lightly knead dough so that it holds together. Gently pat into a circle, and cut into wedges.

Place scones on ungreased cookie sheet. Bake for 10-12 minutes.

Best enjoyed with strawberries and sugar (mixed ahead of time to bring out the fruit juices), and topped with whipped cream.​

Photo Diary: Springtime in the 5ème

Taking a break from attempting to describe the chasm of mixed feelings regarding my internship, here are some reminders of why I love this city and will miss it when I leave in a few short months. After a long winter (it snowed again in March, if I recall correctly), the weather has finally decided to cooperate with the seasons. And now that it's not pitch-dark and freezing cold when I leave in the mornings for work, I'm finding it much easier to roll out of bed at 5am.  

Below, some scenes from the neighborhood. 

1. The Pantheon. 

2. Brasserie near the Luxembourg Garden. 

3. Joggers in the park. 

4. Visiting the food truck on my night off after spending a glorious afternoon catching up with a highschool friend at Parc de Buttes Chaumont on the first true spring day (70+F!). 

5. One of my personal favorites of spring/summer: strawberries! 

On Post-Racial Cinema

“Chinese, Japanese, Chinese, Japanese,” they said in a singsong voice, index fingers stretching the corners of their eyes back in an upward, then downward motion to accentuate each word. Or was it downward, then upward? The specifics of these playground encounters elude me now, but years later I still remember how indignant and self-conscious it made me feel.

As it happens, I’m half Chinese and half Japanese, so perhaps the opposing gravitational pulls cancel each other out and that’s why my eyes look normal, albeit slightly asymmetrical. (But, hey, who’s perfect anyways?)

It’s a memory that I try not to rehash too often because it upsets me, but it’s resurfaced many times ever since I saw Cloud Atlas - Tom Tykwer, Lana and Andy Wachowski’s epic, mind-bending adaptation of the David Mitchell novel that comprises six tenuously linked stories that range from a mid-nineteenth century voyage across the Pacific Ocean to 1970s San Francisco; a dystopian Seoul in the near future, and an even grimmer, post-apocalyptic society centuries later. It was a beast of a project to take on, not only in practical terms (no studio would back it), but also in the creative sense (how to fully tell six different narratives yet in a short enough timeframe that audiences will be willing to sit through it). What holds the film together is the sprawling ensemble cast that sees actors taking on roles in anywhere from three to all six of the stories. And because they are so diverse in scope and setting, this means that in many instances these actors are playing against race.

​Courtesy of MGM

In sixth grade my mother was dismayed when I brought home my copy of the latest reading assignment: The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck. I think part of her issue was that it was a white author taking on a specific ethnic and cultural setting that was not her own (although Buck actually grew up in China so I guess that gives her some cred), but the bigger problem lay in the 1937 Academy Award-winning film adaptation. The particular edition that I owned had an insert with film stills featuring actors Paul Muni and Luise Rainer with horrendously exaggerated “slanty” eyes, which my mom claimed were achieved by using tape. By that age I was well aware of racial stereotypes, but it shocked me to see them so institutionalized, accepted and even, in Rainer’s case, celebrated.

​Courtesy of Paramount Pictures

For a long time in the entertainment industry, all it took to be Asian were small, squinty eyes, black hair, and maybe a ridiculous accent for good measure. (Case in point: Mickey Rooney in Breakfast at Tiffany’s). But before yellowface there was blackface, which even predates cinema thanks to cringe-worthy minstrel shows that white audiences somehow found entertaining. So yeah, I suppose I had every right to go into Cloud Atlas ready to be outraged, and yet…it worked. And what’s more: I liked it.

Of course the route that the directors chose to go in was not everyone’s cup of tea; I have a cousin who refuses to see the film, for instance, and the internet at large came down particularly hard on English actor Jim Sturgess. The combination of him having previously starred in the film ­21 (the based-on-a-true-story of a group of Asian MIT students who made a fortune by counting cards in Vegas) and being in yellowface for a portion of Cloud Atlas had many erroneously claiming that he hates Asians.

Let us not forget, however, that also in Cloud Atlas we see Korean actress Doona Bae* in whiteface, as well as briefly play a hysterical Hispanic woman. Halle Berry goes Jewish, Indian and Korean too. And meanwhile Tom Hanks is everywhere under almost every conceivable guise.

​Courtesy of DreamWorks Pictures

Despite its discriminatory origins, playing against race can be used to wildly different effects – caricature, as in the aforementioned Rooney, satire, like RDJ in Tropic Thunder, and comedy, e.g. White Chicks. What was pleasantly surprising about Cloud Atlas was that, unlike these previous examples, it didn’t call attention to the fact that – hey – these actors aren’t at all what they’re playing. I mean, sure, it wasn’t perfectly seamless because even with all the prosthetics and makeup each actor has his own irrevocable characteristics, but it wasn’t playing against type for the mere novelty of playing against type. Instead the emphasis was on the richness of the characters.

There’s a lot to parse out of a film this complex, but an overarching theme is the interconnectedness of humanity across time and space to the point of teasing at reincarnation. At the risk of sounding too spiritual, it’s as though each actor embodies a distinct soul that manifests in diverse yet similar ways in each story. Hugh Grant, for example, is a consistent villainous presence. Sturgess emerges as a heroic figure in two segments, and each time his character’s fate is linked with that of Bae’s character. So, simply put, none of this could have been accomplished if there had been a different cast for each segment.

But what is race, anyways? Scientists continue to search for concrete genetic and biological markers but thus far have turned up little evidence. In many ways race is illusory – defined by ourselves as part of our identity, but also projected onto us by others. People who are of mixed heritage would know this best, since there is so very often a vast discrepancy between how they think of themselves and how they are perceived to the outside world.

​Courtesy of Warner Bros

I understand why people were sensitive about the creative decisions that went into Cloud Atlas given historical precedent, but I think what they did was actually a good thing. Now, I have to fess up that I’ve gone and used a word that I don’t fully understand. What do we mean by “post-race”? To me it means transcending the point where we categorize others based on what is mostly just a load of bullshit superficial qualities anyways, and start acting based on the notion that we are all relatively homogeneous; that we are all just people who share a lot of the same values.

So, could actual Asian actors have been used and then played against race in the other stories? Certainly. But I’m guessing why that didn’t happen was a matter of financing. In this economic climate studios and production companies prefer to back projects that are deemed to have high box office value internationally. Consider who is in the cast already. Tom Hanks. Halle Berry. Hugh Grant. Susan Sarandon. Name one Asian actor who could feasibly draw in audiences at that scale. I can’t. And that’s another industry problem I would love to see ameliorated someday.

*Doona Bae’s parts were originally earmarked for Natalie Portman before the latter got pregnant. Would she have taken the same heat as Sturgess for being in yellowface? The world will never know…

Fontainebleau

Back in January I had the pleasure of meeting my uncle's friend Pascal, who kindly extended an open invitation to visit him and his family in Fontainebleau. If I've learned one thing about France over the last 9 months, it's that the more I travel outside of Paris the less I like the city and its denizens. So last week I called him up and we arranged a day for me to come round for lunch and visit the city's main attraction - the château.

When I arrived yesterday morning Pascal was already waiting for me at the station, and even though it hadn't been that long since we'd last seen each other, it still made me smile to see how enthusiastic he was about everything. 

"There's a nice village I want to show you!" he said as soon as I had buckled my seatbelt.

​Me with owner Steve.

And off we went to nearby Samois, a small town right on the Seine. As we wound through the narrow streets he occasionally slowed to point out particular buildings and passageways. It was charming and rustic. But we didn't actually stop and get out of the car until we approached the riverbank and Pascal spotted a friend - a New Zealander named Steve who owns a B&B on a boat. Steve seemed pleased to have company so he invited us in for a little tour. The main level of consists of a large deck with jacuzzi, richly furnished lounge and bar, and an enviable kitchen. Below were the 4 guest rooms, also pretty lavishly decked out (pun intended?), and pictures of celebrities who had stayed there.

 "Recognize this guy?" Steve asked me, pointing to an autographed photo. The face looked vaguely familiar, but was obscured by a bushy beard.

It was Robert De Niro. 

Steve quizzed me on another, which this time I recognized - Debbie Reynolds, because Singin' in the Rain is my favorite movie.

After the tour we hopped back in the car and drove into the forest that surrounds the city of Fontainebleau (for a 10-mile radius all around, according to Pascal). Standing on that rocky outcropping I immediately felt a pang because it reminded me of home; of the trees that give Washington its nickname, and of camping with my family during summer vacation. With the wind you could hear the distant sounds of cars speeding down the highway, but engulfed in that pristine panorama of nature it seemed but a whisper.

I wish we could have stayed longer but by then it was almost noon, and Pascal's wife Sophie had prepared lunch - a delicious beef stew - for all of us at their home. And because Sophie is half Vietnamese we had it with rice. Yum. More things I miss about home...

Pascal dropped me off at the château in the early afternoon, explaining how to catch the bus back to the train station and apologizing profusely for not being able to stay and show me around (he had previously agreed to help a friend out with his new property). But, really, he and Sophie had already done more for me than they knew. Whatever you may have heard about French hospitality probably only applies to Parisians; as much as I adore the couple we really are just acquaintances, and yet they welcomed me with open arms. I hope I'll have time to pay them another visit before I leave France for good, but if not at least I have this lovely day to remember them by.

Sophie had warned me that Fontainebleau would seem "small" in comparison to Versailles, but in some ways it made for a more positive visiting experience. Yes, the rooms aren't as big as there are less of them than in its more famous counterpart, but Fontainebleau is every bit as opulent. It's history is more intricate as well, dating back to the Middle Ages, and since many monarchs who resided there did their own renovations the result is a hodgepodge of architectural and artistic styles. And I'm not just talking about interior design; even from the outside the palace is very asymmetrical. Because of my timing I got caught between a couple of tour groups, but in general Fontainebleau has a lot less visitors. It was still easy to take photos without getting randos in the frame, whereas at Versailles I didn't even bother to try.

If you go: The train schedules on the SNCF website are misleading. At the time of writing, trains heading to Montargis (Fontainebleau will be the third stop) depart from Gare de Lyon 19 minutes past the hour. Trains from Fontainebleau-Avon depart every 30 minutes on the hour back to Paris.  The journey is approximately 40 minutes each way.

On Being a Graduate

​Yesterday, on a rare sunny afternoon in Paris, a group of students from all over the world gathered at the Shangri-La Hotel and, receiving diplomas, tall white hats and medals hung from an iconic blue ribbon, became chefs. With speeches from the school's director and guest Pascal Niau, executive pastry chef of the esteemed Dalloyau, it was a ceremony to mark the transition into a new phase. Some will go on to be interns, starting at the bottom rung of the restaurant industry ladder, others back home to join family businesses, a few to graduate programs in management, and still a handful undecided.

Less than a year ago, I also ​crossed in front of a group of peers and loved ones to receive a fancy piece of paper with my name on it, shake hands, and have my picture taken while wearing a funny hat (though that time it was flat, black and square). That, too, was a symbolic and momentous occasion, but even after I returned to my seat and was thereby officially "done," I wasn't sure that I felt any different. 

It's strange to think that after almost 18 years of being a full-time student (I started kindergarten when I was 4 and have never taken a gap year), I am no longer one. I'll miss the formalized setting of the classroom, but for a while now I've been anxious to work - to actually do things that previously I only learned about and discussed with teachers. Looking back I've begun to appreciate all those experiences that, while being an integral part of school, are beyond the confines of formal education; in other words how I've changed. If you asked me 2 years ago whether I was prepared to move miles and oceans away from friends and family to a place where I didn't know anyone, I would have said no. And although it hasn't always been easy, I've made it work and the experience has definitely made me grow in ways that I probably wouldn't have if I had been at home. 

I won't necessarily rule out more schooling in the future, but for now this is a good time to stop. My internship starts on Tuesday and I'm both dreading (mostly the part where I have to wake up around 5am) and anticipating the 40-hour work week. After spending a lot of my childhood wishing I were a "grown-up," now I wish I could put it off a little longer.