THE BRIDGE OF FAITH

Take  One

Once upon a time there were two teen-age girls, both foreigners in the land of Jinnah.  They played, they teased, they both grew up together in a special playground of diplomat’s elite.

They parted ways with adventures ahead, amassed experiences, and eventually settled in different lands continually labeled as expatriates.  Their families grown, it seemed and deemed that the childhood playmate in a distant time was lost forever.

Until the advent of social media, the group admin for unknown reasons, invited me to re-connect with long-lost  ex-catholic convent school girls who hop-scotched in the playground at the  heart of an Islamic enclave. 

Yes, we were challenged then.

As I scrolled down the myriad of hundreds of daily text messages; some read - some passed me by until the city of Melbourne stood out. This is where my friend lives.

                      

and

I was going there.

A scurry of text messages exchanged and miraculously before long, I was sitting across the sofa sipping a cuppucino with my school mate; desperately trying to encapsulate 50 years into two hours.   You would think it would have been an impossible task; between bites of sushi and slurps of coffee; the heartbreaks, the success, the incredible role of motherhood; and the façade of our characters stripped bare. In that moment  we stood still at fourteen, understanding in the receiving and giving of our friendship so long ago and still very intact, strong and immovable.

I have learned something valuable today.

Take-two

Once upon a time two little girls of Asian disposition in the land of durian and chopsticks could not be in more contrast when questioned, answered in polite British Queen’s English to a confused native of anyone’s land.  They were the products of elite diplomats; determined that the children must immerse  in culture, language and history of the old established British Empire they admired.

Well, they did not realize in parenting these two girls in the pink cloud of the hoity-toity world of Britain, we slowly but surely lost our heritage, deeming it ineffectual in our chosen daily life.

Our meeting in Melbourne over wine, beer and excitement united what we thought, felt and left unsaid.  However difficult the road our parents paved the way,  however scrambled, misfired or plain afterthought; we emerged strong, with a solid core, a love of realism and a struggle worth fighting for.  I saw in her, reflections of myself and now no longer feel alone.

I have learned another valuable lesson today.

LUNCH IN RHEIMS

 

One of the simplest meals but exquisite was had, this past long weekend, in Rheims.  My host, an elegant attractive European celeb, circa Mitterrand years, welcomed me to his villa in the Rheims Champagne area of France.

Apple orchard surround the graveled road leading to the villa, a small fountain is the main center; the scenery could have taken me back a century ago, delivered to the door from a horse carriage instead of this rented Audi SUV. My favorite Lilly of the Valley sprouted in large potted vessels either side of the wooden door, the apple blossoms triggered a few sneezes announcing the arrival of spring.

Dining alfresco, we walked through the villa to the back of the garden to a  setting that was devoid  of today’s  frenzied city life.  Outside temperature only slightly cool, the best cuvee of Perrier-Jouët poured, bubbles rising to the top, whizzing closely at the rim of the tulip glass. 

The first sip made all my world’s heavy baggage seem to have suddenly lessened in load; the mortgage-worry far into the distance; the health or mortality issues no longer exists; I was soaking in the ambience that settled my spirit, balancing the importance of life, sweet sorrows mingling with victorious conquests; sharing a friendship whose world I wish to belong.  ………. Only briefly.

Freshly baked baguettes wrapped in checkered linen served with steaming home made chicken soup.  Un-French?  Not, at all.  Shredded chicken swimming in real stock with leeks, potatoes, carrots and celery sprinkled with chopped parsley, warmed and sustained me immediately. Not moderately hungry but ravenous, I waited patiently as most French people partake lunch stylishly late.   The fresh Baguette buttered on its own was delicious enough but eaten together with this nourishing soup, I began to peel layers of facade I might have brought along with me, and we started on subjects of the dilemma of either Macron or Le Penn winning, changing the backdrop of France.

The French housekeeper, wearing a flowered apron securely wrapped around her waist brought in the second course.  Ouefs Jeanette came in the largish hot caste-iron skillet placed in the middle of the table.  More baguette, more Perrier-Jouët poured, slightly heady, I realized how easy it was to let go.  Ouefs Jeanette, (a dozen or so it seemed) on a much higher level than the American version of deviled eggs, are delicately fried in sizzling butter, lavishly sprinkled with finely chopped spring onions and fresh oregano. To eat the French way; after finishing the eggs, break a chunk of bread and wipe the skillet clean, the herb butter soaking onto the baguette made me greedier.  Drizzled with dressing over spinach and bacon salad, I was fast losing  my guard.  

More Perrier-Jouët, interspersed with Evian, I consumed with great appetite on my food and couldn't get enough of this man's philosophy and  French politics;  Macron’s much older wife; on whether this kind of union applied in my Oriental society.  My oh-so tall European host, oblivious to Napoleon’s Complex of my Oriental male species, whose smallness fights for full control over his several subservient young partners, should ask such a question.    In his full sexy French accent, arguing what constitutes masculinity “small, big is not the problem, it is how you apply.”   

With that last remark, he pops open another bottle, this time its Piper-Heidsieck Rare pairing with the villa’s own garden fruit compote of blackberries, raspberries, gooseberries, topped with crushed almond meringues and fresh cream.   Two hours into lunch, two bottles of Champagne between two people, we are now ready to devour Trump and his 100 days of office and of course his controversial immigrant laws having had two immigrant wives.

By 4:00pm (my usual pseudo-Anglophile tea time with crumpets) I had only just tucked into a soft aged Brie, a slice of Comte and grapes and downing my eighth glass of bubbles, it is time to take a sip of Expresso so that I can jump in my Audi, turn on the Nav-Guide and slowly but cautiously drive back to my Hôtel.  My demeanor has turn European, my accent becoming Franco/Anglaise and my Oriental disposition tucked back somewhere in the corner not seen.

À bientôt..............until dinner.

MY FIRST TIME

Against the mist of spring hinting cherry blossoms in the atmosphere; the scent of spices and sound of prayers from nearby mosques; the snow capped Alborz mountain majestically overlooking the metropolis of Tehran, you could hear a pin drop in the room. 

A Persian boy, called Parviz, tall Indo-Aryan, with fiercely penetrating eyes, pouring mint tea persuading me to bite into a Rose Rahat Lokum.   The Arabic version of Lokum comes from  “Halkum or Al-Halkum” meaning “Throat comfort”.  From Persia it is a ‘mouthful’ or ‘morsel’ An Iranian would say it is a  Persian Delight; a Turk would say it is a Turkish Delight;   so diplomacy rules, today with Parviz, it is definitely Persian Delight.

Centuries old, this sweet, served with mounds of powdered sugar is made with cornstarch, sugar & lemon but most delectable flavor of all is the Rose Water. 

Now my Thai mother of ancient traditions told me never to be fed by a man; it is unbecoming; but reverse this, to feed a man in the sanction of love, is to be cherished.

Parviz, love?  Absolutely not.   Penetrable eyes; hits right in the gut, by which time mother’s teaching flew into the Alborz range never to haunt my balancing act of classiness versus wantonness.

My adopted Iranian aunty warned me that any Persian concoction with a hint of Rose Water must be taken with caution for you lose all sense of control.  Aunty was right.

Rose Water – heady - most emphatically yes. But she never told me about Lokum, the soft chewy, sticky sweet, gooey to the tongue, requiring saliva to melt the cubes, opening up taste buds you never knew you had.

I am now in the land of hot chillies and spices, of curries and papaya salad; Mongolian extract not of the Arabic persuasion populate the land. So Lokum is from a distant past until a friend of half century old, on his way to yet another Mongolian populace, brought Fortnum & Mason’s  Rose Water flavored Lokum as a present.  

My eyes lit up, if only he knew, the Persian episode allowed me to choose the most sensible life path. Yet as I sit against the backdrop of memories,  my friend has been a part of my life and has watched me grow from a young girl, barely out of her teens bewitching his friend to a life long partnership. 

An ode to friendship via Rose scented Lokum -  your first time will never be the same.

VICTORY DRINK

 The elixir of life; the celebratory tonic; the Greek’s love potion; the seduction of bubbles leads to no other than Champagne.  Mention of the word offers many emotions, from conquering love to applauding victory.

From the first sip of Moët, victorious over the loss of my virginity; Charles Heidsieck Brut Réserve drunk atop Tehran Hilton’s bar, celebrating Pahlavi’s now forgotten dynasty; Pierrer Jouët sipped at my wedding; Veuve Clicquot over dinner under the Paris night sky after a romantic meandering through Pont Neuf crossing Jardin des Tuileries back to an inviting four poster bed at the George V;  GH Mumm at the Christening of our first born in an English countryside;  Tattenger imbibed at the no-longer Windows of World, now Ground-Zero as we glided down Trump Tower from a helicopter ride touring Manhattan; Nicolas Feuillatte Brut Rosé bubbled our lips when daughter was born in Micronesia; and back to Moët for our baby boy’s Christening in quaint and quirky Cheshire.

Seduction, sexual adventures leading up to procreation unashamedly points to my life’s journey with Champagne but do try to focus not on my sexual overtures but the brilliant Champagne propaganda evoking these emotions so that the victory over love, the toppling of empires and the enslaving of great minds do so by having these bubbles dance on your tongue, tantalizing your taste buds, promising and fantasizing those unreachable goals magically landing at your feet.

Bubble in coupe glasses or flute glasses.  Which one shows your lack of style or your chic elegance?  Champagne glasses of old known as the ‘coupe’ has a wide and shallow bowl.  Legend has it that the ‘coupe’ glass was molded from Marie Antoinette’s left breast, as she wanted her court to toast her health by drinking from glasses shaped like her bosom.   Sex and champagne seems always to go hand in hand even from ‘let them it cake’ days.

The Champagne Flute is tall, thin bowl with a long sophisticated stem encapsulating those fizzy bubbles with elegance.  It allows the bubbles to congregate and quickly rise to the top of the glass.  The first sip explodes and as it washes down, magical fantasies slowly conjure the mind and so many desires readily unfold.

With your next drop of Champagne celebrating whatever victory, remember it gulp by gulp as the sophistication and luxurious moment takes you wantonly into another realm.

                                                                  Saluté

BEAVER'S BUTT

Brucie the Blondie challenging Bernois with Braces and Bernie the Bagel.  

Anything refereeing to the ANUS emits a disgusting  “eeww” or a crinkling of the nostril affecting a malodorous pong.  But I can assure you that in the the course of a your daily food intake, you  have probably ingested the anus glands of a beaver on a daily basis; be it breakfast lunch or dinner.

The glands are milked to extract this fluid, and squirts out an annual collection of roughly 292 lbs per year.   This googey dark liquid is  FDA approved but it is not required to be listed as an ingredient on food items and instead is listed as “natural flavorings” instead.

What could this be, you may ask nervously, unsure whether to google this new factoid – it really isn’t new, humanoids have used this for as long as 80 years.   …… Let me not keep you in the dark, this anal gland of beavers is Castoreum.  It is either in Liquid form or  Extract used

“mainly in foods and beverages as part of a substitute vanilla flavoring”  quoted from Wikipedia.  

Vanilla is our stairway to the taste of paradise.  In a roundabout way, the scented vanilla swirling up your nostrils  as you bend down to have a morsel of pastry; the taste and aroma can transport you to many unremembered corners of your life.

Heavenly or not the only way to judge is to taste several brands of “default flavor” ice cream.   The “default flavor” is naturally Vanilla, hence we return to the “back-end” of the Beaver which doubtless for some will  produce wanton thoughts or  an immediate reaction of revulsion.    By way of gluttony, I have selected the world’s three top brands.

Dutch-sounding by name, but American by nature is Häagen-Dazs; the American know-how in diary products surpassing many other brands in the high-end stakes.  Jewish founder, Reuben Mattus from the Bronx, NY made a tribute to Denmark’s exemplary treatment of its Jews during the Second World War –  and  invented the "Danish-sounding" "Häagen-Dazs".  Sixty years in the making, they have begun phasing out  GMO  (Genetically modified Organism) and Castoreum is NOT one of them.

 

Swiss precision in watches can translate into ice cream believe it or not.  Known for Switzerland’s reputation as the birthplace of hospitality for over a hundred years, where the first palace-style hotels were built.  These grand hotels catered to an exclusive clientele of royalty, aristocrats and wealthy individuals lured by the Alps and alpine tourism.   Restaurants at these grand hotels dinning room offered delectable cuisine and  Mövenpick were suppliers of  ice cream  and other delectable delicacies. Making the ordinary into something extraordinary was and is their policy.  So Movenpicks incredible Vanilla is on the table to be judged.

 Coming from farm land, pastures green and pollution free, New Zealand’s Natural   is known for dairy superiority bringing the freshest and best ingredients.   It all began with a chance meeting in 1984…     While on a flight crossing the Tasman Sea, Rael Polivnick, founder of the company, met a New Zealander whose wife loved ice cream but was allergic to any artificial colourings or flavourings. As he sought for ways that could allow his wife to indulge in her favourite frozen treat, the distraught New Zealander eventually came up with his own recipe using only the finest and freshest ingredients to make the ice cream.  

The challenge is on.  Australasia contending with the Alpine vs the Bronx;  getting you in the mood for fun it is like the equivalent of:

Brucie the Blondie challenging Bernois with Braces and Bernie the Bagel.  

Blind folded by my trusted friend, each spoonful was placed in my mouth savouring the texture, sensation, sweetness, vanilla  flavor,  and the aroma wafting through the icy cold vapour.

The first sensation not unlike shaving cream – although never eaten shaving cream, but I did once kissed a man while he was shaving - the morning after the ecstatic night before.  The  cream and sugar beaten with all the universal-oxygen - left a very foamy emptiness sweetened unnaturally sending a clacky feeling at the back of the throat.  A ring of disappointment.   Vanilla yes, aromatic not so much.  Although it did send memories of that special morning; shaving cream and all…… 

My second spoonful was a definite improvement,   Very creamy and rich, it did fall heavily on the thick diary side imparting much sugary sweetness,  A reminder this time of my first Paris experience of eating a phallic shaped ice-cream without a spoon.  Dexterity, experience and hunger allowed me to devour every drop without  dribbling as evidence of  a satiated diner.     Although chocolate; inside was vanilla - I swear.


The third sinful spoonful managed to take me to the seventh layer of heaven.  The combination of cream sugar and eggs and the beaver butt made me realize all along that this was the taste I was haunted by since that very sinful day in Blackpool, Lancashire in the United Kingdom many summers ago.   Although I don't have to fly to UK, when urgings rumble, I can honestly say Haagen Dazs imitates Nostriani's extremely well and cravings abated.
 
 
We shared and devoured the third  ice-cream, both knowing which one came up tops.  As I have always thought, expensive never guarantees the best; cheap is always cheap for a reason but dollar for dollar, my Jewish –Danish concoction Bernie from the Bronx, alias Haagen Dazs took the prize.  

The meter in which to judge comes from Nostriani’s Ice Cream In Blackpool.  They only make Vanilla Ice-cream; no other flavors and now into their third and fourth  generation,  the granddaughter is  running this superb ice cream parlour.   If you venture to the North West of the United Kingdom; take a detour to Blackpool seaside and visit Notriani.   Since 1937, through WWII, with its sugar ration, losing their men to Hitler’s dominance, Luigi Notriani, an Italian immigrant has managed to keep his recipe intact and produce the most devastating Vanilla Ice Cream, beaver or no beaver.

Bubble Chucks, a satisfied customers says it all:  There is ice-cream and then there is Notarianni's ice-cream. We visited earlier this week during a trip to the north of England. We chose to have it unencumbered by sprinkles and sauces. It is creamy, flavoursome and oh so unctuous and moreish.

-

.

THE KING OF CURRIES - That make men swoon for love

Despite the sensitive subject of Muslims and Islam in todays chaotic turmoil, that any fatal incident involving explosions, get smeared with abject hate for them.  Seemingly those using little or no intellectual analytical thought process; let us leave those with twisted turmoil behind, and talk about a wondrous Islamic dish that the Thais brought over and now call it their own.  

The  King of Curries, as CNN.Go calls Massaman  Curry,  made its mark of the best 50 dishes of the world and ranked it No. 1 – every Thai restaurant in Thailand has made it on their “special” menu.   Living here made it easy to sample these different versions of the King of Curries.

Massaman or matsaman is not a native Thai word. It is generally thought to refer to the Muslims, with earlier writers from the mid-19th century calling the dish "Mussulman curry"; Mussulman being an archaic form of the word Muslim.   This dish originated in the 17^th Century at the cosmopolitan court of Ayuthaya.   The Persian Merchant by name of  Sheik Ahmad Qomi, was thought to have brought this dish; from whose decedents were the Thai noble family of Bunnag.

Such was its mouthwatering, exquisite mixture of tastes, a poem was written at the end of the 18^th Century crediting its author, Prince Itsarasunthon of Siam, later became King Rama II. Dedicated to the beautiful Princess Bunrot, who later became Queen Sri Suriyendra,  his wife, the poems extolls its delectable dish for those who merely swallow a soup-son yearn for her love.

Massaman curry made by my beloved, is fragrant of cumin and pungent spices. 

 Any man who has savored the curry is compelled to yearn for her.

มัสมั่นแกงแก้วตา หอมยี่หร่ารสร้อนแรง    ชายใดได้กลืนแกง แรงอยากให้ใฝ่ฝันหา

So smack your lips, salivate the spicey, coconutty, sweet and savory that wake up the taste buds; the combination of flavors has a distinctive personality of its own and the quest to find the perfect Massamun curry became a mission.  The flavors of the massaman curry paste come from spices that are not frequently used in other Thai curries.  The family’s cook, an aged aunt,  famous restaurants, although being grateful for their tips and secret recipes, their wondrous dish was overtaken when the chance to join  an epic culinary master class of the Department of Thai Gastronomy at Dusit Thani School; famous for the expertise in this field, jumping at the chance, for I love curries; and the possibility of making my man swoon with love, like the poem suggests; there was no hesitation.

A prepared tray with 15 ingredients, peeled and ready to chop, julienned, and sliced, I attentively focused on the star Chef, whose priority was to teach me every nuance, every instruction carefully memorized in my brain.  Using all my olfactory and gustatory senses, I am starting the journey of learning how to emulsify and bind paste made from many herbal plants.

First ingredient in the tray, dried red chillies cut-up thrown in a boiling wok of oil. Fried to crisp, the capsaicin seeds floating out plunging into the pungent smoke, sending molecules flying into the air immediately irritating and sensitizing  the lungs leading to coughing fits. While succumbing to this involuntary reaction,  and waiting for me to regain myself, the Chef  introduced a new quirky knowledge “that animals can run away from harm but plants have no way to protect themselves so they have evolved with irritating chemicals to keep hungry herbivores away.”   New facto for my frontal lobe.


Chillies cooked and drained, the sliced shallots, diced coriander roots, chopped lemon grass, julienned galangal and garlic are next in the frying pan.  Once the aroma spins you into hallucination, of perhaps a Marrakesh-souk mirage, the whole concoction placed in a blender with a bowl of roasted spices of mace, cardamom, cloves, cinnamon, pepper corn coriander seeds and cumin.  The liquidifying component to emulsify in the processor to a puree  is a cup of coconut milk, resulting in a paste ready to be stir fried in more oil blending it into a cream of heaven.

This is only the paste part, the curry is yet to be lovingly prepared.   Now’s the part I can pretend to be the voluptuous Nigella, pouring out cheeky flirtatious double-entendres, after all I am doing this with a purpose.  The poem stirs me on.

The sticky gooey paste, still warm and glistening from the whirring blades sends particles of aroma wafting the spacious stainless steel kitchen, made NOT to absorb smells but nevertheless settles in the air as the blender lid is prized open. 

By now into my second hour of instruction, I am intrigued that only phase one of three phases has passed.   The slow anticipation mounts.

In another pan, some smoke already emanating from hot oil when the paste is added to allow the infusion to amalgamate itself.  The sous-chef stirs and stirs; watching him almost dislocating his shoulder joints, the paste slowly darkens, stickier than before.  One sees his right bicep bulging as he stirs counter-clockwise. This eliminates the pain from the left bicep that had been going strong as if it was an all-nighter.

Second phase starts with a rousing, mounting tension when coconut milk is poured into a pot. Waiting for the oil within the milk to rise, it now can infuse better with the paste.  As soon as heavenly creamy paste hits the coconut milk the colour of orangey yellow hues start to form and while it splatters and boils, the third phase starts.   Chicken legs and thighs are then lowered, together with onions, potatoes, a handful of peanuts, sliced pineapple, palm sugar and smidgen of tamarind juice completes the flavors – all six flavors of salty, sweet, sour, astringent, bitter and pungent assaulted my taste buds and smacking my lips, I knew this was the dish, to ply my lover’s want.

My fruits of labour ready; the Chef agreed that I should take this home and see how I can feed this delectable concoction in many different ways, to keep the man from straying.  Much like The Arabian Nights  a collection of tales from the Islamic Golden Age, My Muslim Massamun , the secret weapon similar to Scheherazade’s storytelling preventing  the Sultan Shahrayar from killing a woman everynight, I feed a mere cupful of beef massamun one night, changing it to chicken, then lamb will keep his staying power at max –  never wanting to leave, so says the poem.

Memories

The sense of smell can unlock a forgotten memory, but the sense of taste evokes a chain of events that can bring an emotional remembrance of people past, stories long ago brought back in a flash.  And that was how my friend unknowingly touched the corners of my soul.

Welsh Rarebit

A cold miserable night in London, creeping downstairs whilst everyone was asleep, in the basement kitchen, my father and I made Welsh Rarebit together and bonded as fathers and daughters do.  He taught me about Lancashire cheese, mixed with mustard and egg yolk, spread on toast and grilled.  I have been fatherless for more years than I can remember, but in a instant I was back in that miserably cold kitchen filled with love, fun and adventure. With a dash of Worcestershire sauce, and a huge amount of advice on how to conduct myself like a lady, Lynda brought those exquisite memories back with one bite.

 Long long ago, a friend whose sole purpose, it seemed, was to connect my partner and I together, never got to see our union, our babies or our undying love for each other for she ended her life tragically.  A burden she carried, the culture she upheld led her to her decision.  On difficult days, my mind wonders to what would have been.  On days like today, the taste of Benedict Mints tells me she hovers around, making sure I stay strong for she loved these Mints.  At 18 trying to be mature with a sip of expresso and a bite of Benedicts captured a certain elegance I was trying to portray; she taught me grace. Lynda’s magic brought a touch of my friend back momentarily.

flapjacks to die for

Living the country life in the Cheshire planes, raising my children on sausage and chips and homemade plum jam; my Georgian house overlooked the cows grazing in the distant.   The kitchen allowed me to perfect my cooking skills and throughout those child-rearing years, I had my bribery drawer for good behavior.  This drawer was filled with English biscuits, toffee, fudge and my prized Flapjacks.  For those not in the know, Flapjacks are a sweet tray-baked oat bar made from rolled oats, butter, brown sugar and Lyle’s golden syrup. A pot of tea with a flapjack was the pick-me-up after running around with three children under 8.  Lynda’s Thomas J. Fudge chocolate covered flap jack snaps a moment in time of how I longed for these kids to grow up; now that they are; the flapjacks are like a magic-wand taking me back to laughing, giggling kids in their PJ’s ready for bed.

How did she know about Lewis & Rose’s hand made Orange & Burnt Almond chocolates – they were my mother’s favorite.  In one sweep of her magical fingers, Lynda enveloped those people that shaped me from my parents to my children, to the angel that hovers over me. 

A chance meeting in a local hair dresser was all it took, my South African friend.

Cheers!