Ratios and Realitivity

Cooking is akin to doing lab chemistry. It involves amounts, temperatures, chemicals (ingredients) and a sequence of events. Maybe that's one of the things I love so much about it., Back in the early 1990's I worked as the manager  in a mobile lab running high performance liquid chromatography and infrared spectraphotometry on environmental samples during the hayday of the Texas Superfund. Monitoring samples from contaminated wells on old gas stations in the Rio Grande Valley...but that's another story, and one far more boring.

So I approach cooking as an art in that manner. Like a chemistry process, start to finish. Oftentimes people will ask me "how do I make" such and such....and as I was instructed by my mentors, I always oblige, because recipes are really public property and after all.....that's how fusion occurs, when recipes pass hand to hand. But, my answers are always sort of nebulous, to the point of (I'm sure) maddening abstraction...

You see, I view any recipe as ratios of ingredients, rather than a set amount (i.e. 6 tablespoons of this, 2 teaspoons of that) a ratio of ingredients. It is far easier to scale any recipe that way. In other words I would try and see a recipe as the sum of the ingredients. For example 1 part ingredient X, 1/2 ingredient Y, 1/3 ingredient Z and so on. Doing this allows me to prepare any amount of any dish. Very useful for the home cook too. So I encourage you, see your recipes as ratios rather than amounts.

I've introduced y'all to atsarang dampalit, a Filipino pickled dish. The primary ingredient is Sesuvium portulacastrum (sea purslane). It's the tangy in our slaw that we dress out our Fusion Fish tacos with. Sersuvium grows all around you here on the shoreline margins of the coastal bend, and is easy to identify. You should make this dish and serve it with your other favorites. Here's how we make it:

Atsarang Dampalit

Ingredients

• i
• 3 cup dampalit (sesuvium) leaves
• 1 onion  thinly sliced
• 3 cloves garlic, chopped
• 1 thumb-sized ginger thinly sliced
• 1 pc carrot, cut into flowerettes
• 1 pc red bell pepper sliced
• 1/2 cup sukang paombong (filipino palm vinegar. hard to find. Cane vinegar works well)
• 1/4 cup sugar
• 1/2 tsp. salt

Instructions

1. How to make Atsarang Dampalit:
2. Wash dampalit leaves very well. Mash leaves thoroughly and squeeze juice.
3. Add onions, garlic, ginger, carrot and bell pepper. Mix very well.
4. Boil together vinegar, sugar and salt without stirring. Cool. Pour over the mixed vegetables.
5. Store in clean bottles. Serve after three days to allow pickling solution to be absorbed by the vegetables.

I Will Draw for Gumbo

I had gotten into a bit of trouble in Kodiak my last sub-year in the military. Nothing serious, just typical adolescent shit that would have been best left in high school. But then I've always been a little slow.

So I got to New Orleans in the Spring of 1977 all 350 pounds of my belongings, tail between the legs.

I worked at the 8th district office on Poydras street, high above the city in the Hale Boggs Federal building, processing flight orders. I really didn't have much interest in that, so I did what I did best at that time. I sat around and doodled. In Kodiak I hung out with a lot of wonderful counterculture people who lived far off grid. Nights would be filled with doing artwork and music. It was a magic time, and whatever smidgen of art that resided inside got honed to a pretty sharp edge. I loved doing pen and ink and pencil drawing.

Most of the employees in the 8th district Coast Guard office were civil service employees. There were only a few of us Coasties up there. It was a hushed and muted environment, with only the sounds of muzak and the ceaseless clicking of the electric typewriter keeping a lonely cadence. I lost myself in the surreal world of my own daydreams and the wandering of the pencil.

It wasn't long before my talent (read: 'sloth') was noticed by my boss, a kindly coonass cajun named Mr. Rodriguez. Rather than chastise me for neglecting the tedium of never ending paperwork, he immediately commissioned me to draw an eagle sitting on a limb for his office.

I attacked the job with abandon.

I assumed he liked the work because the day after I presented it to him it was proudly displayed on his office wall, there with the other photos of his life he enjoyed gazing on.  I was immediately elevated to a different status. That day he took me into the nearby French quarter for the first of many eye opening cajun meals, a roast beef Ferdies from Mothers. There were beignets from Tujages and Muffaletta's from the Central Grocery. There were mud bugs and oysters and Dixie Beer.

I learned the taste of food

And then other civil service folks starting asking if I would draw this or that for them. Shyly at first, then when they realized it was now my job to draw for the district office, my inbox became full of requests including one form the Admiral in charge of the entire district. The main man. So I drew happily, and they took care of me.

Mondays I would have red beans and rice,other days, jambalaya, etouffee and gumbo. I was invited to homes to eat with families and there were no cultural or racial divides. I hung out with matronly Quadroon ladies who taught me the secret of roux and fishermen who taught me the delicious mysteries of the marshes far out the bayous that define the birdfoot delta. There was magic in the boudin and the mud, magic in the humid air.

I learned to cook like they did, I found their juju.

I had no plans to re-enlist. I was a stupid kid. Another 16 years to retirement seemed like an eon. Damn. I would be 38. My life would be essentially over. Just another old man.

Just before my tenure expired, the Admiral called me into his office and invited me to sit down on the thick leather couch in his reception area. He sat across from me in his dress uniform, all decked out in gold and ribbons. He launched right into what he wanted to say to me. "I'm not going to bother giving you the re-enlistment talk because I already know your mind is made up" he began. "I don't know what in the hell those folks in Kodiak didn't like about you, we absolutely loved having you aboard". He continued; "as a very small token of my appreciation for all of the art you've done for all of us I wanted to personally give you these". And with that, he handed me 3 slate roof tiles dating from the 1600's taken from the French Quarter with scenes of the quarter decoupaged on them.

I was speechless. I mumbled my thanks and went back down to my floor to finish out my final time in New Orleans.

My life has been a journey and I always traveled light. I haven't ever really valued things. So there hasn't really been anything that's followed me around all these oceans other than those tiles. For some odd reason they seem to be attached to me with some sort of cosmic glue. That same glue connects me to the flavors that were seared into my heart there by the kindness of the folks in the Hale Biggs Federal Building in New Orleans.

And that's even more valuable.

Seafood in the Desert

The 1980's found me back in Texas after fishing the cold Alaskan waters and a very truncated college career in Oregon.

Bicycles had always held a fascination for me. It was my transportation in Eugene Oregon where I had flunked out of college due to a bad fly fishing addiction. There's no excuses. I was a young, lost veteran straight out of the Vietnam era. We were all lost.

And then I discovered bicycle racing. I discovered I was pretty good at it too. So after a few years I decided it would be pretty groovy to have a bicycle shop. Being a mechanic helped, and soon I was up to my neck in high end bicycles and racers. The mountain bike, ATB was just coming on the scene and of course we had to stock them, ride them. It was a blast.

I had a wide range of clients. Riders from all walks of life. I build a set wheels for the US National team and hobnobbed with the greats of bicycling at the time. I rode with world class riders, neighborhood groups and kids. It was my job. During the winter time, deep south Texas, the Rio Grande Valley, the place we call La Frontera is heavily populated by out of state snowbirds, Winter Texans.

There was an older gentleman named Paul who would frequent my shop. He and his buddies all rode new mountain bikes.  As I remember, Paul was over 80 years old. Paul still rode everywhere, everyday. He would ride over to Mission, my little shop and wile away some time several times a week, drinking coffee and shooting the shit. He really didn't need much from me, he was fond of doing his own work and as a frugal northerner ordered most of his accessories mail order from Bike Nashbar and Performance. We became friends.

As always I'm sure the talk drifted to food. Good food. Paul told me about a place that he and his cronies liked to go eat. It was about 15 miles west in Mexico, across the river from Los Ebanos. Paul talked endlessly about the place. Mexican Seafood. It grabbed my curiosity. Mexican Seafood in Diaz Ordaz? That little dusty farm community? Just seemed incongruous and wonderfully wrong at the same time.

I instantly agreed to check it out.

The day was a windy winter day. A cold front had just ripped through the flat delta that is "the valley" and we were all dressed in winter bicycle stuff. Long jerseys, tights, the works. We peddled hard into the west-northwest wind as the terrain slowly changed to Chihuahuan desert and river terrace hills. Down into Los Ebanos we rolled, pulled into the ferry landing. The hand pulled ferry, the last one left in the world between two countries was our link with the other side, el otro lado. We rode that historic chalan across the Rio Grande river, mounted our bikes on the dusty road leading up into town and arrived at the restaurant near the town square a little while before it opened.

Diaz Ordaz hasn't changed much in the last century, although now it is sadly under control of the cartel and no longer the idyllic Mexican town it once was. We stood there on the dusty street watching as wheelbarrow loads of fresh fish in ice were unloaded into the kitchen. We watched the meson lovingly wipe the tables, counters and surfaces with a bleached white towel again and again until things literally glittered.

Finally with a smile, the proprietor swung the doors open and we filed inside, sat down.  I immediately ordered beer, a Negra Modelo, accompanied by a mug with frost on it.

And then the menu came.

And there they were. Dishes from both coasts of Mexico. Huanchinango Veracruzano to Baja style fish tacos, it was all there. I ordered filetes al mojo de ajo, red snapper filets coated in sweet crispy fried garlic bits and a bowl of Caldo marisco. Seafood soup.

I love seafood of all kinds. In New Orleans I learned to make gumbo, I can do a solid bouillabaisse and bisque's are high on my comfort food list. But there is something about Caldo marisco.  It is the richness of gumbo, the delicacy of bouillabaisse, and the comfort of bisque all rolled in to one. And this place had the definitive Caldo Marisco.

It seems like we lingered and dined far into the cold and windy afternoon. Other dishes were consumed like piernas rana and of course more cold, dark Modelos. The ride back was downwind, mildly drunk. The perfect conclusion to a perfect meal.

Over the years we went to Diaz Ordaz regularly, mostly in the truck, and ate at that restaurant. Later when Dee and I were guiding tours for Sandborn's we would routinely take bus loads of winter Texans there as we taught them about our culture. We were never served anything less than an amazing meal there.

That little place has always served as something of a model in my dream. I wanted to create food for people that would leave them smiling every time. That would leave them scratching their collective heads because of the very nature of what they did, the place they were coming from. The pride they showed in their attention to detail.

Like the flavors of the food that drift through us, the memory of that place haunts me. I see it almost every time I get ready to swing the window of Modern Alchemy open. It is the standard.

That restaurant is probably long gone now. I lost track of Paul and his cronies many years ago. I'm sure they are seeing this from a distant place and I hope they cheer me on for keeping them alive just a little bit longer. Diaz Ordaz is under the control of the cartel, and I'm not sure of the hand pulled ferry still even exists. Things change. But one thing that will never change is the passion that drives all who yearn to excel.

Once Upon a Time

When the music plays

I hear the sound

I had to follow

Once upon a time

Kodiak. Winter of 1979. The great long tanner crab strike. I was not-fishing aboard the wooden schooner the F/V Comet. No one had any money. Everybody was not-fishing. We were all so broke that there was really no food in the refrigerator aboard as we all waited for the strike to end and the fishing to begin, providing us all with money once again. But for now we all sat in limbo, hungry and broke.

Generally we'd pool whatever cash we had between us and one of the other deckhands, Lenny, the self appointed cook would go uptown to O. Craft & Sons grocery store, get the ingredients and make a thick marinara on the diesel fired stove. Then we'd sit down to a pot of boat spaghetti.

It was the best marinara sauce I had ever tasted.

There was usually enough money left over for a few beers too, and we'd waste away the cold winter nights playing music and cribbage.

That marinara sauce was magic. I have tried all of these years to capture that essence in my own Italian mother sauce. I have never been able to do that although I consider my marinara sauce as solid as it gets.

Perhaps there's something else missing. Something ineffable and fleeting. Something not quite captureable... The favor from a cold and distant harbor, or maybe the incense of a diesel oil fired cooktop....I don't know.

Whatever it is, it keeps me trying every time to recreate that exact moment. I keep building and reinforcing that place in my life. each effort is the same, and yet new with every little addition or subtraction of ingredient. It will never be perfect, nor will it ever be the same.

But it's close.

Pollo Habanero

There's a big pot of Caldo Pollo Habanero...Havana style chicken soup on the stove in Modern Alchemy. The weather is cold and getting wet again.  I am transported back to the streets of Isla Mujeres Mexico the last time that I was there... in 2008, waiting to sail back across the Gulf of Mexico to Port Isabel.

There was this little restaurant on one of the narrow old streets. It was more of a house really, with a small courtyard and several tables under a lamina (tin) roof. There was no menu. The menu consisted of whatever was being cooked that day served with thick, homemade corn tortillas. Mixed with the steamy Caribbean sea breezes, it was not food.

It was therapy for the soul.

My favorite dish was a big bowl of a strange and aromatic soup.  Chicken, green chiles and garlic. Raisins and plantain. In a broth rich with the flavors of the Islands. Tomatoes, onions and spices from the Spice Islands.

The soup and its flavor remained a definitive mystery for the next several years. I would revisit that place in my mind whenever I needed a Caribbean vacation. I did my best to recreate it, but there was always something missing. .

I finally found it in an ancient text that I found in an ancient book store. Then it all made sense.

It was a Cuban soup. Not a Mexican soup. Cuba lies less than 90 miles across the Yucatan channel, so many of the residents of the tiny island are of Cuban descent. Many are Cuban expats. So the food followed them from Cuba to Mexico, undoubtedly changing, fusing with ingredients and techniques endemic to Mexico....

And then I took it and twisted it ever so slightly here in Texas, customized it with an ingredient here and there that didn't quite change the profile, the chemistry of the thing but rather just enough to enhance some of the tropical flavors and bring them out. One of the traits of being a restless scientist in a former life...

Created a fusion.

That's how the whole thing begins. We find a food that creates a memory, we seek to recreate that memory (the food is ancillary), perhaps we don't have just the right ingredients, so we add our own. Make a guess. Sometimes it works....sometimes it doesn't. That's the beauty of it.

Foods travel through our societies like a gossamer spirit on the breeze, just begging us to be part of the whole thing. If we open ourselves up to it, it becomes part of who we are along our and it's restless journey. We share it, we enjoy it, we make it our own. In doing so it becomes everyone's food.

I think that's pretty groovy, don't you?

I'll have that pot of Pollo Habanero (no it doesn't contain Habanero peppers.....Habanero simply means "of Havana") for you to sample on this cold and perhaps a bit wet evening. It's on the house. I want you to taste the fusion of the tropics.