Maybe just a little slice - travelling and food (or food and travelling)

Outdoor dining: Clarke Quay, Singapore

Food and travelling go hand in sticky hand. It doesn’t have to be high end or even particularly exotic (though it does seem to be more acceptable to spend a disproportionately large amount of cash on dinner when you’re travelling than it does on any given Friday night at home – see ‘'Two girls'). It’s just lovely when it helps you connect with a place and with the people in it. In Hong Kong, my friend and I stopped to buy pepitas and marvelled at the fact that this was common in three different cultures (Chinese, Venezuelan and Italian) and that something as simple as a dried and salted pumpkin seed could make three disparate people smile and chat. Aw, see – so warm and fuzzy!

When travelling, however, there’s often a tug between wanting to try the local cuisine and opting for the safe and familiar. When it’s tripe and offal, sometimes we flinch a little. When the local cuisine is pizza and gelati, it’s not such a great tussle. Although when I was with a group of folks eating pizza in Venice, we munched on the thin crust scantily clad in tomato, cheese and basil in silence.  None of us wanted to say what was really in our hearts – the pizza was rubbish.  Yeah, yeah we were in Italy but the pizza was rubbish.

A little piece of Mickey at
Hong Kong Disneyland

It is, however, the thing you have to try. Each place has one of these ‘things’. Peanut butter and jam on thick sliced white bread in Canada was surprisingly heart melting. Sangria was festive in Spain, Hainese chicken was delicious in Singapore, and the chocolate cornetti and lemon granita were decadent in Rome. But the borsch in Russia made me frown, and the prospect of frog soup in Singapore made me twitch (I didn’t actually get to try that one). I did try snails in France and in my dad’s village in Italy (predictably garlicky but surprisingly hard and nuggetty), and how could I have left Scotland without trying a little pile of haggis.

But it’s the homemade meals that count the most. That’s when connection with place really kicks in. When staying with my aunt in Formia, Italy for a few weeks, food was always quite an item of discussion. First, there was the giant box of Cornflakes she showed me, smiling knowingly, when I arrived. She thought that this was compulsory Australian breakfast food and it was her way of saying welcome, and here’s a little piece of home. Then she decided that actually, it would be far more lovely for me to have a squidgy warm sugared donut from the local bakery for breakfast. She would walk down there before I woke up and then present it to me with a strong espresso. Heavenly. I mean heavenly. However, one cannot eat a donut the size of one’s face every day for weeks without feeling a little unwell. I had to go on a donut hunger strike before she would really take no for an answer.

At my aunts, we had feasts for lunch – exquisite local seafood, oversized bowls of pasta with fresh sauce, and buffalo mozzarella and prosciutto with crusty bread. But one of my favourite dishes was her tomato salad. It was just tomatoes with slithers of onion, basil, salt and oil. I questioned her time and again about her secret ingredient that made this tomato salad so mouth watering but she would just laugh. I snuck into the kitchen one day to discover her splashing some water into the salad. ‘Ha! You caught me!’ she said. ‘It’s just water. I add a little and it draws more juice from the tomatoes.’ She shrugged, almost apologetically.

So simple.

But, back home, every time I make that salad (and yes, I add a splash of water) I remember the warm summer sunshine of Formia and I connect.

What food reminds you of place?

A Coeliac* in Hong Kong

Challenging. It was definitely challenging. You couldn’t go to Hong Kong as a shy and conservative Coeliac. You have to go in there hard with your translation card and winning smile at the ready. I’ve already noted how rare a disease gluten-intolerance is in Asia (see A Coeliac in Singapore) so I had braced myself for some interesting encounters and conversations.

The translation card

The little scrap of paper with the crucial explanatory text in English and Mandarin was more important to me than my mangy old passport. This was the golden ticket to dinner. It explained what I could and couldn’t eat. I researched a few before I found one that was straightforward and tactful. Someone online had made their own which was quite alarmist. Something along the lines of: ‘Please don’t hurt me. Please have a detoxification shower before preparing my food. Please don’t hurt me. And by the way, I can’t eat wheat.’

The reactions

My favourite reaction was a wonderful waitress in a tiny side street diner who read through my translation card, smiled broadly and nodded and then said to me in English, ‘A-ha! You’re one of those! I’ve heard about you’. My niece and I had the best rice noodles with pork, scrambled eggs (with toast for my niece) and a cup of lemon tea for the grand sum of AUS$4. I wanted tea with milk but after re-reading my translation card the waitress decided that no, she would not risk it – tea with lemon or plain hot water. Who was I to argue!

(As an aside, my niece would continue to proclaim joyfully and randomly throughout our trip: ‘$4!!!’ I even received a text recently, weeks after our holiday, reminding me that it was sooooo great to have breakfast, with coffee/tea, for just $4. Particularly as she had just paid AUS$12 for two coffees in Melbourne!)

The production number – bring out the dancing girls!

Every time I whipped out my translation card I carefully watched the face of the reader. There was inevitably a frown, a twitching of the mouth, a polite retreat, a conversation with someone more authoritative, some discreet finger pointing and more frowning and shaking heads. These beautiful folks seemed anxious about feeding me something that would consequently make me sick and so were super cautious. Rarely would I get turned away – more often than not the chef would be dragged out to have a chat and three people would be gathered round discussing what on earth I could eat. Hence the need to be confident and expressive – otherwise, I wouldn’t have eaten anything in Hong Kong. And it was so very worth the production number. There was always one little dish I could eat that brought satisfaction to all involved, particularly me.

Helpful folks

I really wanted my niece to try dumplings. (She really wanted to try them too!) There was no conceivable way I was going to find anything to eat in this heavenly floury place but I noticed some rice noodles on the menu and thought I might be able to wrangle a soup. Well, this was the only place that really couldn’t seem to accommodate me, but not for lack of trying. Again, a plethora of people were dragged in to nut out some options. No, nothing. I was completely happy with that, no problem, please don’t bother, it’s all ok – my niece is happy. Not content with that, the waitress wandered over to a regular who was with a Western looking fellow and pointed at me, slightly distraught. He smiled and said hello to me across the crowded café and shouted gently ‘what seems to be the problem?’. No problem at all I said. I’m gluten intolerant, I thought I might get some rice noodle soup but no luck. He laughed good naturedly, ‘Lady, you are in the wrong place to eat!’. All good. The waitress continued to eye me sadly and shake her head now and then so I made a super effort to smile and laugh and not salivate impolitely and desperately over my niece’s heaped steaming plate of dumplings. I always carry a nut bar for such occasions.

 

Worth another visit? Hell, yes!

Hong Kong was a tricky but delicious place to eat. I scoffed lobster at Jumbo, had the most exquisite meal of my life at Amber (see Two girls and a two star Michelin restaurant), and still sigh fondly about that memorable $4 pork and noodle dish. I shunned all Western outlets (except for a brief fling with a Hard Rock Cafe in Macau) and tried as many local options as possible. It’s a little like Russian roulette with potential cross-contamination issues, but hell yes, I’d play again!

_______________________________ 

If you're after some suggestions (ie. restaurant names/ addresses) please feel free to email me at tmorganella@hotmail.com. 

*What is Coeliac disease?

In people with coeliac disease the immune system reacts abnormally to gluten (a protein found in wheat, rye, barley and oats), causing small bowel damage. The tiny, finger-like projections which line the bowel (villi) become inflamed and flattened. This is referred to as villous atrophy. The surface area of the bowel available for nutrient absorption is markedly reduced which can lead to various gastrointestinal and malabsorptive symptoms.

This extract has been sourced directly from the Coeliac Australia website (http://www.coeliac.org.au)

 

 

Two girls and a two-star Michelin restaurant

Lunch at Amber, Landmark Hotel, Hong Kong

Travelling and trying new food go hand in hand. In Hong Kong you could head out for some fantastic street food or experience some of the exceptional regional cuisine. Or you could head to a two-star Michelin French restaurant in an exclusive hotel one Sunday afternoon and settle in for a long session of eating and drinking.

My niece and I were looking forward to this. We even traded in our sneakers and hoodies for high heels and make-up. Amber was suitably yellow. The long narrow room was sparse and quiet. It was very quiet. And sparse. It was formal. Very formal.

Even the cutlery is charming. 

But then our hostess wandered over and made a reasonably loud fuss over us, went through my tedious dietary requirements and generally spoke in a normal tone and not one reserved for art galleries. I was at ease after that.

amuse bouches

A duck pate lollipop, a cherry tomato with caviar and a clear mushroom soup. Keep in mind this lovely opening number consisted of exactly three bites of food but was accompanied by a reasonably full glass of champagne. Thank you! All I had eaten for breakfast was crackers with peanut butter. All my niece had eaten was nothing. It took about five minutes for the room to become pleasantly warm.

starter - another variation of duck pate for me and langoustine for my niece

There’s something exquisite about the tiny leaves and petals and half fork-fulls of food arranged on my plate. I’m trying not to eat everything in one bite. But it’s hard!

Ah that wine is lovely. French you say? Thank you! Mmmm.... (Apologies to wine lovers - I took not one single note of what I was drinking. It had bubbles, it was white and then it was red. I’m sorry. Sacrilege, I know. We did turn down a Coonawarra red (for us a ‘local’ wine) and opted for a French number.   

entree - tasmanian salmon confit

It seemed wrong for two Australians to order Tasmanian salmon but I was restricted in my choices and frankly, it just very much appealed to both of us! It was worth it because our dishes were brought out by two separate waiters who, without fanfare but with so much panache, placed them in front of us, took off the glass, smoke-filled domes covering our salmon and then quietly wandered away. ‘Thank you!’ I told their retreating backs. Smoked salmon.

‘Oh my!’ I said when the sommelier came around with the next wine. ‘It’s not a race,’ he said kindly. But the service is too quick for me to keep up! And I already had a line of half full wine glasses.... Thank you!

main - iberian pork ‘pluma’

Feel free to educate me about 'pluma'

No, I still don’t know what ‘pluma’ is. I think I even asked. It was truly delicious.

If I was giggling by the first course, I was completely loose by the second. I’ll just slip to the Ladies for a moment of composure – the door is right next to our table. But the waiter is there in a flash, ‘Oh sorry madam, someone is using that bathroom, I’ll show you to another one’. I blink at the charming young waiter and take a deep breath. Ok, steady now. He leads the way and at the restaurant entrance hands me over to another waitress who then hands me over to the maitre d` who then shows me down a long corridor and around a corner and finally to the Ladies. Oh dear. Three people to show me the way there but no one to show me the way back.  Did I mention I was drunk?

French farm cheese

I opted for the cheese platter. I’m vaguely lactose intolerant as well as gluten intolerant, it’s a platter for two and my niece doesn’t like cheese. I eat my gooey and sublime French cheese with a blueberry compote and sigh with deep happiness. Who needs crackers? I an starting to feel a little sick.

dessert one, two and three

This is a restaurant that has its priorities right. Three savoury dishes, three sweet dishes. Just as it should be. Thank you!

It’s time to sober up and I work my way through cassis sorbet, chestnut spaghetti and ice-cream, chocolate tart and salted caramel popcorn with the help of three short black coffees.

My niece decides that she simply cannot say thank you again. It was getting ridiculous, trying to acknowledge the quiet army of waiters, hostesses, sommeliers and general helpers each time they whisked away a plate or de-crumbed the table.

One more wafer-thin mint...

petits fours

Finally lunch comes to a close with petit fours, presented in a long cylindrical dish which opens up in tiers to reveal exquisite little sweets. As I contemplate and fiddle with my last little cellophane wrapped toffee, feeling very much like the character from Monty Python’s The meaning of life, encouraged to eat one last wafer-thin mint, the waiter steps up discreetly and tells me the cellophane is edible. I should just pop it all into my mouth.

Just one more – thank you. A surfeit of thank yous. And good night!

High tea



The Coeliac version of high tea


‘High tea’ is commonly known around the world as a dignified outing where refined people partake of their tea and sandwiches with perky pinkies outstretched. But, in the late 18th century ‘high tea’ was instead a hearty evening hoe down for farmers and working folk who downed meat, cheese and eggs with gusto, and scoffed bread and cake with their pinkies firmly tucked in. ‘Afternoon tea’ was another meal altogether and it’s what we have in mind when we order our English Breakfast with milk. Allegedly, the Duchess of Bedford had a hard time getting through the evening’s entertainment program without having a little something beforehand (it seems lunch didn’t really exist – only breakfast early and dinner rather late). The Duchess started inviting people round for tea and scones before heading off to the theatre and thus afternoon tea was born.

And grateful we are for it! I adore afternoon tea but for such a genteel activity, high tea in my experience has often been hilarious, interesting, fascinating but rarely genteel.

Here are three of my favourites:

The Lobby, Peninsula Hotel, Hong Kong

The Lobby

They actually call it afternoon tea here!

There is an airport bustle feel about such a dignified place. Amongst the lofty pillars and gold leaf, there is laughter, clatter, chairs scraping and cutlery clunking. Everything is run with remarkable efficiency – clockwork precision. Things arrive, flutter and land on the table: tea and then the compulsory three-tier cake stand.

I watch enthralled as a middle-aged fellow sits down at a table alone. He has a big smile on his face which lights up further when his cake stand arrives. Then, he takes out his video camera, holds it in his left hand, and turns it on himself while he scoffs a scone with his right hand. He practically smacks his lips with joy and closes his eyes with pleasure. He then gives a running commentary in a foreign language and I have enormous fun imagining what he has to say.



Tiffin Room



Tiffin Room, Raffles Hotel, Singapore

Tiffin Room

The Raffles Hotel is all those clichés – majestic, regal, palatial. The white columns are solemn and beautiful, and the colonnades are a cool and subtle oasis in the constant humidity. So there’s something particularly galling about having to line up outside the door of the Tiffin Room like riffraff lining up  for a hip nightclub on a Saturday night. Ok, the clientele are decidedly older and more conservatively dressed but otherwise, there’s that same buzz of excitement and boredom, anticipation and annoyance.

This was my first high tea as a Coeliac (no gluten usually = no cake). There was no cake. But there were sweet little jellies, chocolate dipped strawberries and blueberries and cream which were – no other word quite fits – delightful. The sandwiches were sound but the extensive, steaming, delicious looking buffet that called to me like a siren was off limits. Reasoning with myself that I had missed out on scones, I greedily dared to ask the waiter, ‘please sir, can I have some more?’ and was duly rewarded with more sandwiches made with the chef’s ‘secret recipe’ bread – so delicious that at first I thought they weren’t, in fact, gluten free.

The Tea Rooms, Gunner's Barracks, Sydney

The Tea Room

Surely this is one of the only places in the world where you have to guard your plate against swooping kookaburras stealing your smoked salmon sandwich. One swept onto the balcony, quietly but clumsily snagged a morsel, sending crumbs scattering and hands waving, and then took it back to a tree only meters away and smugly ate it.

This was a decidedly hilarious afternoon tea. My friend and I decided that the one (very camp) waiter, who made a (suitably camp) fuss over us, did everything in this restaurant. We decided that he was not only serving the tea and coffee but making it as well, and quickly donning a lace-edged white apron to make the sandwiches. He was out of the room when some smooth crooning suddenly came through the stereo system. We fell about laughing thinking that he’d taken on that role too and was singing into a microphone in between tea top-ups. We cried with laughter. I was actually in danger of throwing up all over my Royal Doulton and it was only the thought of that that subdued me a little.

Information souces include (but not limited to): http://www.thecarrington.com.au/menus.asp?pid=56

http://www.victorialodging.com/attraction/victoria-high-tea

Hong Kong Karaoke or be damned!

(A slightly fictionalised composite account of a true story....all memory is fiction anyway.)

The taxi driver screwed up his face as he looked at us through his rear view mirror. ‘No idea’, he said. Impossible. Hong Kong has thousands of karaoke bars. My friend Michelle employed the dreadful act of speaking louder to make herself understood, ‘We’d like to go to a KARAOKE bar. Can you take us to one?’, she shouted, ‘you know, singing’. As she cleared her throat, ready to launch into ‘Girls just wanna have fun’, the driver’s face suddenly lit up, ‘Ah yes!’. He nodded enthusiastically as he negotiated traffic like a kart driver. We didn’t realise that he literally meant a bar called Yes. Yes 11th to be exact. An improbable name for a bar in an improbable location – a fifteen story office building. We were in the middle of the Kowloon district, karaoke central, and I was about to confront my greatest fear – singing in public.

In Yes 11th, no one was singing anything yet. The concrete flooring and black décor made it a little foreboding. There were café style tables and wrought iron chairs in the centre, but we chose one of the comfy lounges along the side wall. There were private rooms, like most mainstream karaoke bars, but since we didn’t really know how it worked, we thought we’d make some observations first. Plus, you had to pay for private rooms by the hour, per person. We ordered the first round of drinks and waited to see what would happen. A great pile of steaming meat landed on our table, compliments of the manager. We eyed them warily and decided to call the dish ‘BBQ chicken wings’ even though there was no mention of it on the menu. Indeed, it tasted like chicken. The manager came over, shouting incomprehensibly at us in a menacing way but then broke into jolly laughter and wandered away. We couldn’t tell if he was pleased or cross that there were Westerners in his bar – we discovered later that Westerners normally headed to Neway or Red Box; Hong Kong karaoke institutions.

Neither the manager nor the “chicken” helped calm my nerves. I didn’t yet understand why people would put themselves through this.

A large group of young men and women came in and started fiddling around with the microphone, chatting to the owner and scrolling through song lists. Finally, they started to sing. They were having a great time, singing harmonies and duets. Romantic looking young men crooned love ballads – a performance complete with wringing hands, tortured expressions and dramatic arm waving. A girl with bright blue eye shadow at the next table told me Hong Kong people work so hard and are so reserved in behaviour, but at karaoke, it was their chance to shine, to stand out from the crowd and become famous for a moment. Those who really wanted to live the dream could even enter competitions, hire fantastic themed rooms, and generally pretend they were a rock star.

Eventually, one of the girls in the big group walked over to us smiling and, rather shyly, handed over the mike. This was it. Sing or leave. Michelle took the mike. We scrolled nervously through the list of songs available and settled on a Shakira number. ‘I don’t think I can do this’, I told her. Already my voice was wobbly, my throat dry. There was a little encouraging applause and then the music started. With tiny tiny voices, Michelle and I started to sing together. I saw smiling, encouraging faces. People were nodding quietly, not covering their ears in distress. We got a little louder, started smiling and relaxing instead of focusing intently on the written lyrics, and even finished with a vocal flourish.

The mojitos had done their job. Our last notes sung, we beamed happily when the whole bar, by now half full, erupted into loud cheers and clapping. I could breathe again. And perhaps I discovered that elusive element that made karaoke strangely intoxicating. The smiles were infectious, there was a sense of joyful camaraderie, and shared (sometimes traumatic!) experience. It was the perfect opportunity to step out of ordinary life and be someone else, even if only for three and a half minutes. Certainly there was no other place where strangers would listen patiently while I wrung the life out of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.

Five songs later the pretty girl who brought over the mike came back to prise it gently from our hands, smiling and nodding, but firm. 

For copyright purposes, I think I need to let you know that an edited version of this blog first appeared in The Weekend Australian, October 2010 (http://www.theaustralian.com.au/travel/theres-no-stopping-the-karaoke-queens/story-e6frg8rf-1225941028931).

Hong Kong shopping reality check

So you're looking forward to an incredible Hong Kong shopping frenzy. The mythical experience that Getaway and The Great Outdoors are always talking about. Well, definitely bring a spare suitcase but be wary of shopping utopia. There are a few catches.

The shopping novice will actually lick their lips as they stand at the beginning of the deliciously long Nathan Road with its showy boutiques and sale signs in shop windows. It's not a bad place to start but resist spending your entire budget on this strip. The road is full of mainstream global chains at reasonable prices. You can do better. Plus, you have to play heartless tourist by shooing away equally heartless counterfeiters who approach you on the street and would like to take you, madam, to a more private place, yes, down this dark alley madam, where they can show you the 'real' stuff at super cheap prices. You're a grown up, just walk away.

The first time I went to Hong Kong I was lucky enough to be with a seasoned shopper friend. She steered me well away from Nathan Road and introduced me to the side streets and the all important office block. Office blocks in Hong Kong are quite different to office blocks in Adelaide. In Adelaide you step out of the lift and you'll find a good old fashioned office. Step out of the lifts in Hong Kong and you could find cavernous restaurants, bars, massage places, karaoke clubs and a little Portuguese cafe called The Little Flying Elephant. Or 'Dumbo' in your Lonely Planet. 

Most importantly, you could step out and find yourself in a department store. If you find one of these, your shopping itch can be well and truly scratched. The trick is not to draw blood. Here is a shopping girl's dream – brand name shoes, handbags, clothes, perfume, make-up and jewelry ridiculously cheap, especially when bought with a strong Australian dollar. A word of caution, however – take a moment to breathe into a paper bag and really think about what you're shoving into your shopping basket and flinging over your shoulder.  That fluffy green number with the silver feathers? Put it back. Those strappy Prada platform sandals on sale? That's your whole budget, even on sale. Put it back. That enormous, heavy full length bright purple woolen coat? Are you going to carry it on the plane? Put it back. On second thoughts.... it's not that heavy, right?

If, like me, you have a slightly unnatural obsession with pharmacies, you have found your Mecca. It's called Sasa and it's a chain you'll find on almost every street corner. The stores vary in size and product variety but this is the mother lode of cosmetics, hair products, nail products, cheap vitamins, non-prescription drugs, and even prescription drugs.  Here is where you can buy intriguing tonics, lotions and potions. Does it matter if the packaging is not in English? It's only $2. Figure it out later. (Perhaps just don't ingest anything.)

And then, of course, you have to visit one (or all) of Hong Kong's markets. Many are uncannily themed and impractical for tourists – think birds (live), fish (live) and meat (definitely dead). But others, like electronics and jade, are just made for the tourist with an expandable suitcase. The multi-product markets like the Night Markets are incredibly cheap, but this is for a good and practical reason – many things are essentially rubbish. But here's where you can buy that yellow evening handbag you'll only ever carry once, or a dozen pashminas in every colour imaginable, or those tracksuit pants perfectly suited to cold Sunday nights. They have their place. But like every Hong Kong shopping experience, market shopping does have its drawbacks. I played tug of war, not over a shopping item, but over a friend who was being physically pulled into a stall because he showed undue interest in a Mahjong set. We literally had to drag him out and scurry away through the complex labyrinth of shoppers to escape the stall holder's clutches.

Shopping in Hong Kong is a cultural experience in itself and not to be missed. But, a final friendly word of warning to my fellow adults who are not a waif-like 45kg. There are times when you will be disappointed with the clothing – you will be confronted with an extra large that wouldn't fit a small Western child, or a dearth of shoes over size 7. Be patient. Buy a scarf in the mean time. I asked a store attendant if she had a pair of jeans one size bigger than the pair I had squeezed into (a size 12 and for the record I'm only just 5ft tall). She sniggered very politely, smiled and shook her head. 'We don't stock those sizes', she told me. Very well.

As I left that store with my ill fitting purchases under my arm and a subdued expression on my face, I passed a women who was just entering. She was at least 6ft tall, thin but curvaceous and toned. I opened my mouth to warn her and then I closed it again. She would figure it out.