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?

We’re not in Kansas anymore: Orchard Towers, Singapore

Boat Quay

It was around 2.00am on a Monday, Post-Formula 1 Grand Prix Sunday, and Boat Quay was peppered with drunk Western tourists. Yes, that’s right, I was one of them. Race fans were still milling about, promenading up and down the Quay. A tall bunch of Europeans wore red curly wigs and heaved around an enormous Ferrari flag that they used to wrap around and capture passers-by. We merrily took photos of each other and promised to email them. (No, I never received any.)

‘We’ included a friend of mine from the UK and her friend, and a fellow Aussie we met at the track – let’s call him Shane. I don’t think we were too obnoxious – we didn’t skip and dance in the street and we didn’t shout out obscenities. We just sat in the charming English pub, the Penny Black, giggling like school kids and trying to make new friends (I managed to chat to a special effects guy working on the movie Rush).

But then the Penny Black had to close and we were turfed out. We walked past the singing Europeans again, took more photos but then extracted ourselves and continues down the street. Singapore is always balmy and summery and even though the streets were almost empty by then, we were keen on continuing the revelry and celebration. But where?

The street back from Boat Quay was also full of bars and nightclubs – all closing or closed. Out options were down to a couple of strip clubs but we three girls roll our eyes and said no. Yuk. I don’t think so, thank you.

Fancy then, our naivety when a local suggested (coyly, I might add) that we were sure to find something open at Orchard Towers and we gaily thanked him (him) jumped into a taxi and headed straight there.

I didn’t know. I didn’t know that Orchard Towers was a shopping centre by day and a multi-story whore house by night. I didn’t know that it was bar after club after bar after disco of prostitutes – both the regular and lady-boy kind. I didn’t know.

We spilled out of the taxi and were confronted with Orchard Towers. It took us two minutes to scan the scene before we had that ‘I don’t think we’re in Kansas any more Toto’ moment. I think Shane had a moment of ‘How do I behave in polite company?’. We didn’t even make it inside the actual building, but opted for a bar on the ground floor. I wish I could tell you its name (only so you can avoid it) but I didn’t take note. In fact, we didn’t even make it inside that bar either, but sat on the balcony. I only know we were determined to have one more drink, enjoy the unique ‘atmosphere’ and then call it a night.

We continued to grin and snort with laughter while we clambered on to our tall bar stools and gave drink orders to scantily clad hostesses. Shortly after our first vodka and lemonade, I hit the dance floor because I didn’t know what else to do. Inside the bar it was almost pitch black. It was pretty much empty and so was the dance floor. But soon enough three or four girls came to join me and we jumped crazily about for three and a half minutes. That was enough dancing for me.

I found my way through the gloom to the toilet which was, in contrast, starkly lit. A shame. Because I was confronted with everybody’s handbags, shoes, make-up bags, sparkly tops, stockings and hair brushes. The bin was overflowing with filth, and the walls were spattered brown and red.

Back at our table, my friend was chatting with one of our hostesses. She was sweet and young-looking. Exactly as you would imagine this girl to look – innocent, petite and fragile. She was from the Philippines (let’s call her Jessie) and kept asking us if we were having fun, needed any more drinks, wanted to dance any more. Her ‘boss-lady’ kept circling us and smiling but with narrowed eyes and a stern look. She seemed to make Jessie nervous and twitchy so we tried to look as if we were indeed interested in ‘business’ and bought her a drink. Shane was no help at all. Wide-eyed and surely confused about what he should do and how he should behave in the company of women, he did nothing but grin uncontrollably. Disturbing.

We were joking around and still tittering but then, suddenly serious, my friend said to Jessie, ‘There’s got to be something else you can do? What about cleaning?’. Jessie was a little defensive – ‘It doesn’t pay as much, and it’s so dirty’. We raised our eyebrows. I honestly don’t think she realised the irony in that statement.  She told us she only had a few weeks left on her contract anyway and that she would be heading home after that. Jessie sent her money home to her family. ‘Sure’, my friend said, ‘but....’. She was struggling to understand, as were we all. How do we connect? I looked at Jessie and said, ‘We will do a lot for our family, won’t we?’. And she looked back at me, cocked her head and said, with an indignant but grateful tone, ‘Thank you. Yes.’. She seemed on the verge of tears. Which wouldn’t be good for business.

Her boss came round again and said something to her. Jessie moved on to another table where a couple of completely wasted and ripe Westerners teetered on their stools.

We decided to call it a night and called out for a taxi. We had stopped laughing.

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)

 

 

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

A Coeliac in Singapore





High tea at Raffles



And now the delicate moment: '...and, please, no soy sauce'.



 

The cashier / manager frowned at me. ‘No soy?’.

‘No soy. It makes me sick.’ I put on an anguished face and clutched my stomach but this only made her frown even more. ‘I’m really sorry’. (Why should I be sorry??)

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Oyster sauce?’

‘Mmmm... I’d better not risk it. No.’

‘No oyster sauce?’.

‘No.’ Firmly. Politely but firmly.

She shook her head a little and punched numbers into her till. Then she turned and shouted the order to the chef in a language I couldn’t understand. I’m pretty sure that conversation followed the same lines as our exchange but I suspect it was also laced with a little sarcasm and things like ‘she says it will make her sick’ and probably finished with something like ‘These bloody strange tourists’. I’m pretty sure she rolled her eyes.

I didn’t mind the drama at all – it was worth the delicious plate of fried rice topped with a fried egg, and laced with the mysteriously named chicken ham but sans soy sauce. It was the first decent meal I’d had in Singapore in three days. I was there for the Formula 1 Grand Prix and I wasn’t going to risk being sick and missing it after waiting so long and spending so much money.

For the first three days, while the race was on, I would scurry back to a corner of my tiny hotel room in downtown Little India munching nut bars, cracking open tins, and boiling water for my gluten free noodle cups. It was a little pathetic – tuna flecks on the sheets, rice cracker crumbs on the vanity, washing plastic cutlery in the tiny bathroom sink and hiding it in the back of my suitcase. I felt like a girl with a nasty fetish to hide.

At the Grand Prix I had to ask inane questions at food outlets that generally baffled the person being asked: ‘Do you fry your chips in the same oil as your battered fish?’ (at the recreated English pub), and ‘When you say cheese sauce, is it just melted cheese or is it cheese made into a sauce?’ (getting nachos at the Mexican outlet). I looked enviously over at the noodle bar, sniffed deeply and sighed. I watched kids shovelling hot, spicy, saucy battered morsels into their mouths and licked my lips.

Instead, I ordered another gin and tonic.

Day four,  Grand Prix over and I was ready to be unleashed! To hell with the risk of vomiting in public spaces, I was ready to give it a whirl. For the next few days it was a feeding frenzy. First stop was the cafe I mentioned above where I ordered the fried rice for breakfast (it was 11am!). The cranky fried rice lady was the only one to give me attitude. Everyone else in Singapore was so understanding, accommodating and willing to play. So, next I conquered Chinatown with the most delicious plate of pork chop with honey sauce I’ve ever had the good fortune to consume. I regretfully relapsed into colonialism for a rib eye steak smothered in pepper sauce and a very proper English high tea at Raffles.  But the next night I consumed a seven course Chinese banquet with the desperation and abandon of a rescued survivor. Salt and pepper crab! Taro battered scallops! Sago pudding! I waddled back to the hotel, sated, smug and happy.

Towards the end of my stay, I was taken to dinner by some new friends – Indochine on Clarke Quay. Hip understated waterfront restaurant, moody lighting, humid of course, but a cool breeze off the water. And then imagine my surprise and joy when I was presented with a gluten free menu.

Coeliac nirvana. I’d made it.

 

 

* A Coeliac cannot tolerate anything that contains gluten (including wheat amongst other things). Soy sauce is usually processed with wheat and other sauces sometimes contain wheat flour thickeners.