Taiwan Day 9: Childhood Memories of Stewed Pork Rice / 懷念三元號圓環老店 (Taipei: Datong District / 台北市: 大同區)

When my aunt finally had some time to hang out, I asked her to bring me somewhere that she and my dad used to eat when they were younger.  She led me to a restaurant that used to occupy a space within the central ring of shops at the intersection of Chongqing North Road (重慶北路), Nanjing West Road (南京西路) and Tianshui Road (天水路).  It has relocated just off the roundabout (圓環) due to the municipal government's mandated renovations, which many of the older generation locals in the area gripe about.  How often have you heard the elders mention that things just aren't the way they used to be?

The location may not be the same, but the flavors of its stewed pork rice (滷肉飯) have remained constant.  The stewed pork rice is old school here.  It is easy to see.  The meat is minced, ground, or chopped into bits and pieces and stewed in a sauce of soy and sugar.  When it is spooned atop the rice, it seeps into any space that it finds.  It is fully incorporated.  The meat is nowhere close to the glossy chunks or gleaming cubes of pork belly that are found in restaurants elsewhere.  The pork used here is lean ground meat.  It is far from greasy, but still... this is a hot mess.  It is saucy; it is soupy.  It is home style.  It is the way my dad, my aunts and uncles ate when they were little.  It is delicious.

It is hard not to imagine the thoughts, goals, and ambitions that ran through my father and his siblings' minds when eating a bowl of this messy, saucy pork rice.  Back then there was silence during meal time for my parents.  Not only was the pork stewing away in the pot, but the burrowed desires of a better life were stewing away in their heads as well.  Even to this day it is not easy for the elder generation of Taiwanese to express or communicate their emotions explicitly.

The only time a hint of their childhood memories come to light is when my dad makes this saucy, sliced garlic pork (蒜泥白肉).  This is another dish that elicits family history whether it is happy or painful.  For me, I only know this dish when cooked in our home kitchen in America, but my dad his siblings know of this dish the way that I experienced it.  The thin cuts of blanched pork are laid out on a platter before being drenched in sweet soy sauce paste, minced garlic, and a mound of freshly shredded ginger.  The raw biting garlic will undoubtedly leave a lasting taste on your tongue for a while... much like the memories of eating at the roundabout shops have left for the Lin family.

If this strangely emo post has not already turned the glories of pork upside down for you, continue reading... there's more! Not everyone is fond of their childhood memories, and not everyone appreciates the lingering garlic flavor on their tongue.  Fortunately, there is a pork spare rib soup (排骨湯) available to cleanse your palate and wash away bad memories.  The deep fried pieces of spare rib sink down deep into the depths of the soup, adding flavor and substance to the mild broth brewed from daikon.  A hearty yet mild flavor, the broth is substantial enough to rinse away any flashbacks of which you are not fond but just subtle enough to remind you that there were no regrets.

Oh, wow, that was a cliff of a conclusion.  Until next time, let's dream of getting S.O.F.A.T.

Read the post on 三元號 by TaiwanWalker in Chinese here.

三元號 (San Yuán Haò)
台北市大同區重慶北路二段11號
No. 11, Chongqing North Rd., Section 2, Datong District, Taipei City 

ML - 20130708

Post 66: Taipei - Braised Pork Rice

Braised pork rice (Taiwanese: loh bbah bun, Mandarin: lu rou fan / 滷肉飯 or 魯肉飯), also known as stewed pork rice, is a truly marvelous Taiwanese dish.  There's nothing like it.  Chicken and rice may come close, but fatty pork over rice simply can't be beat.  Beef may have some beautiful marbling, but only pork has that half protein, half fat, yin and yang balance that is the perfect complement for a bed of fluffy white rice.  In this sense, pork is quite unique because its fat carries such heavy importance.  And it's this sultry fattiness on the outskirts of the pork belly that makes a wonderful bowl of braised pork rice.  Just think about a tender cut of pork that's stewed in its own rendered, juicy lipidity along with seasonings such as soy sauce, garlic and brown sugar.  One bite of this beautifully braised pork over a bed of steamed rice tastes absolutely sinful.

Any trip to Taiwan requires multiple outings for braised pork rice.  Whether it's from a street vendor, a chain store like Formosa Chang, or a traditional Taiwanese restaurant like Sit Fun, the outings must be made.  And since I went on a trip to Taiwan, it meant that I went out for braised pork rice... multiple times.  I embarked on a trifecta of trips to obtain different versions of this precious braised pork rice... and I found a tantalizing bowl with shreds of bamboo shoots interlaced with pork from a sidewalk stall in Jioufen (九份), another bowl served with pickled ginger from Formosa Chang (鬍鬚張), and a final heart-stopping bowl with extra pork gravy from Sit Fun (喫飯食堂).  Mmm....

Although it's called braised pork rice, the pork is really stewed.  The braising portion of searing the meat and simmering in merely its own juices occurs never really happens.  There are actually three main ingredients which get tossed into the simmering stew... swine, soy, and sugar.  If you ever uncap the pot of swine, soy, and sugar while the pork is cooking, you'd see that the fat still hugs the pork and has barely melted away.  You might even wonder if the fat is soluble at all.  In actuality, little bits of fat from the rims of the pork have dissipated into the sweet soy sauce, and they get reunited with the meat when it gets soaked up within the sinews of protein.  Circle of life, much?

It is rare to find a bowl of braised pork rice in the States with the same essence as one from the motherland.  I recently had a bowl that seemed to come close, but perhaps it was because hunger took over me, or perhaps it was because the waitstaff suggested the loh bbah bun to me in the native Taiwanese tongue.  Whatever the reason, the braised pork rice that I held in my hands was tops at the time.  No bowl of chicken or beef donburi could knock the pig from its place at the top of the throne.  Until I find one that beats it, let's all get S.O.F.A.T.

ML - 20110904+07+12/20111106

Post 39.2: Americanized Taiwanese - Three Cup Chicken Lettuce Wraps

For the international potluck our goal was to bring a dish that represented our culture.  I brainstormed for days... debating whether to bring something substantial like dumplings, a simple snack like Taiwanese sausages, or maybe even some sweets like boba or mochi.  I even ventured into the stereotypical fried rice or chow mein, but I decided that I must show my co-workers something truly Taiwanese.

I made a long list of Taiwanese foods that included: Taiwanese-style tamales (肉粽), braised pork rice (魯肉飯), and even oyster pancakes (蚵仔煎).  I crossed items off the list one by one, eliminating them due to pork or seafood content, level of spiciness, and of course, ease of preparation.  And when I put the final strike through the second to last item, three cup chicken was the dish that was left.  Three cup chicken is about as authentic Taiwanese as it gets... and what could be easier than dumping wet and dry ingredients together into one pot, and letting it simmer until fully cooked?

What are the essential ingredients?

Thai basil, whole cloves of garlic and large chips of fresh ginger.

So three cup chicken is three cups of what?

One cup each of soy sauce, rice wine and sesame oil... simmered down to the end.

But as authentic as three cup chicken is... I still ran into a few ease-of-eating problems.

The chicken that's typically used still has a lot of bones running throughout the chicken... and that's not easy to eat at a potluck.  So I substituted bone-in, skin-on chicken with boneless, skinless chicken breast (it's healthier too), and diced them into cubes.

And I thought that lugging a big pot of white rice to work was not a good idea... so I subbed the rice for lettuce! Lettuce wrapped three cup chicken, I thought, would be a creative way to eat something very traditional... and it might get my foot in the door with my co-workers who are not as familiar with traditional Taiwanese cuisine.  (Lettuce wraps are one thing I can thank P.F. Chang's for... but the gratitude stops there.)

I subbed water for the rice wine just in case the alcohol didn't fully cook off, but it made the chicken a bit tougher than how it's supposed to be.  And using diced cubes of chicken breast rather than chunks of bone-in, skin-on chicken probably dried out the chicken a bit more than I would have liked.  The chicken wasn't tender, but it wasn't cardboard... and it wasn't anything a bit of minced water chestnuts (for crunch and moisture), green onion (for freshness), or Sriracha (for kick) couldn't take care of.

Success? For the first time making something my ah ma is pro at... yes, it was a success.

The only failure was for not taking a picture of the lettuce wrap itself.  It was topped off with the water chestnuts, toasted sesame seeds, slivers of fresh green onions, and a swirl of Sriracha.  It was beautiful.  What a fail.

Always take pictures before you eat!

Until next time, let's all get S.O.F.A.T.

ML - 20101104/20101028

Post 19: Shabu-Shabu House (LA: Little Tokyo)

Shabu-Shabu House in Little Tokyo is somewhat of a spectacle.  There always seems to be a mass of hungry shabu-shabuers gathered by the storefront.  These hungry shabu-shabuers wait ever-so-patiently for the chance to swish-swish tender slices of beef in their personal Japanese savory fondue hot pot.  

The house that beef built.

One horseshoe-shaped counter serves all guests.

For those who are lucky enough (or tall enough) to peer over the heads of the waiting customers, the large, transparent window offers a glimpse of what's inside the shabu-shabu-ya... tender beef being sliced to order on a professional meat cutter.  Slice after slice, fresh beef folds ever-so-gently into the palms of a waiting hand.  Now that is the spectacle, and that is the reason why people wait outside en masse.

Sliced to order.  

In ten swift motions of the blade, fresh beef awaits impending doom.

If it's the beef that keeps people waiting outside, it's also the beef that keeps people sitting inside.  The marbling throughout the thinly sliced pink tenderness simply called beef ensures that the meat will taste soft and tender.  The right amount of swishing in the pot takes only a few seconds.  As soon as the pink diminishes, the meat is ready to be snatched up and eaten.

Marble on marble.   

The more marbling a slice of meat has the higher its fat content.

Japanese food experts claim that the best Japanese restaurants are ones that do not require patrons to flip or turn the page of the menu... the simpler the menu, the better the quality of food.  Well, that's good to know because the menu at Shabu-Shabu House is written on a chalkboard.  Choice A offers 10 slices of beef, and choice B offers 15 slices of beef.  It can't get any simpler than that.

The frou-frou platter.

Tofu, fresh vegetables and udon noodles are traditional accompaniments.

While admiring my pot of boiling denatured beef enzymes, I noticed the shabu-shabuer sitting to my left.  Before she had even begun to place vegetables in the water, she had doused the boiling base with shoyu (soy sauce) and unnecessarily drenched the uncooked beef with oil.  That, ladies and gentlemen, is lesson one in 'How Not to Shabu-Shabu.'

A quick swish.

The roaring boil of the water cooks the meat within seconds.

While the base of Chinese hot pot may be made from the simplest of chicken stocks to the spiciest of Szechwan peppercorns, the Japanese shabu base is just water and one enchanted piece of seaweed.  The base is pure because it is the all-important beef that is meant to be tasted.  The base that later encapsulates the enzymatic remnants of the beef is not meant for consumption.  Taste the beef, not the soy sauce.  Seeing the Kikkoman pollute the shabu pot was like seeing thick, black smoke engulf a burning house.  Eek.

The pool of ponzu.

Soy sauce may overpower the natural beef flavor.  Ponzu works better.

So how exactly does one shabu? It's simple! When the water comes to a boil, add vegetables, not soy sauce.  When the base comes back to a boiling degree, swish, swish, swish the meat around until the pink fades.  Do not add soy sauce.  Season the ponzu sauce and the peanut sauce with garlic, green onions, and fragrant oil to your liking.  Do not add soy sauce.  (Alright, maybe just a little bit if you really need a bit of that saltiness... but it's the Shabu-Shabu House not the Shoyu-Shoyu house.) Dip the slice of beef in your preferred sauce (ponzu or peanut)... and savor all beef in all its glory.  Repeat 9 or 14 more times to fulfill satisfaction.  Not too hard, right?

Paired with peanut.  

The sauce is like a tangy liquid peanut butter and goes great with the beef.

Lesson one... keep the beef tender.  Lesson two... don't ruin the soup base! Lesson three... class dismissed! Until next time, let's all get S.O.F.A.T.

ML - 20100517/20100428