Some Like it Hot

Being a pastry chef had always been a dream of mine. Lord knows I loved sweet treats, but my experience with Neil had left me craving something more. When it finally came time for me to start culinary school, I decided that simply focusing on baking and pastry was not enough for me anymore. I needed to push myself in new directions, take a chance by trying something new. I’ve always been game for trying new things, so the chance to study a broad spectrum of cuisines, cultures, and cooking techniques seemed just my cup of tea. That’s not to say that I was good at everything I tried.  The classes on nutrition were boring; the garde manger class was a drag; and don’t even get me started on the budget management class.

 At the time, I probably would have said culinary school was torturous. But, in retrospect, I can now appreciate all the lessons that I learned both in the classroom and in my personal life. The packed schedule, the homework, and life in a dorm, not to mention the fact that in some of the classes, I was the only girl, sometimes made it difficult to see the bright side of the situation. That being said, being in a masculine environment did have its perks. The best perk was that there were always a lot of boys to flirt with. For the first time in my life I was hot stuff! Sure, most of the guys were obnoxious jerks. But, I had my choice of the jerks. I was like a kid in a candy store, except instead of candy . . . I had men!

One of the best parts of being one of the only girls at school was that those of us girls who stuck it out became really close friends.  It was during an advanced course in pastry arts (I couldn’t give it up entirely!) that I met one of my closest friends, Nikki Wong. Nikki and I were like two peas in a pod. She’s the only girl I’d ever met (besides me), who had attempted to make puff pastry from scratch. Her baking was phenomenal. Let me tell you, that girl knows her way around a pastry bag. Her dream was to one day open up her own cupcake shop, which she eventually did. It’s called “Bite Me,” a suitable name considering that she’s a total spitfire. It’s hard to believe that a girl so brash and ballsy as Nikki makes such delicate and beautiful desserts, but she’s definitely no angel food cake. Once when we were in class, she threatened to castrate a guy with a butcher’s knife if he didn’t stop referring to her as “sugar tits.”  Another time, she chased this other guy with a rolling pin when he asked if she wanted to “touch his meat.” We had to put up with a lot of lewd comments and harassment, but in the long run, we were determined not to let it get the best of us. Nikki and I spent most of our time preparing food together, in and outside of class. When we weren’t cooking, we were usually talking about food, and boys of course. I can’t even count how many nights Nikki and I would stay up, gorging ourselves on gourmet snacks, sharing recipes, and juicy tidbits of gossip.

It was Nikki who introduced me to the pleasures of chili sauce. I remember going through her pantry one day and seeing bottle after bottle of hot sauce; some had fermented beans in them; some had dried fish; some with garlic or lime, or pickled vegetables. And those were just the Asian brands. Nikki also had at least a couple of different Tabasco sauces, some Jamaican sauces, and a handful of Mexican ones too.   My favourite was sambal Oelek, which has become my go-to chili sauce ever since. In fact, I make a delicious East-meets-West appetizer using sambal-spiked cream cheese and smoked salmon. It’s killer! One funny thing about Nikki was that she didn’t really like traditional Chinese food and refused to cook it. I think it was because her mother was such an extraordinary chef herself that Nikki felt she could never reach her mother’s high standard. Her mother would always send her elaborate containers filled with homemade Asian delicacies, which she had prepared, then had delivered to our dorm. I still don’t know how Nikki could turn her nose up at the generous assortment of her mother’s delicious treats: the steam buns stuffed with sweet pork, the fried dumplings full of crab and shrimp, the spicy, fragrant rice balls wrapped in lotus leaves. I was in heaven. Nikki said that she had eaten the same things all her life and was sick of her mother’s food, which was lucky for me, because what she didn’t eat, I would! Especially, when all my mother sent me were packages of tofu, wheat gluten, and ground flax seed.

Nikki was fiercely competitive with the boys at the school. She was determined to prove that she could not only prepare her dishes faster than the boys, but also that her dishes would taste better. Every day was a little bit like an Iron Chef competition, except instead of battling chefs, it was girls against the boys. The girls usually won, but the boys had better smack talk. There was one guy, Kurtis, who really seared Nikki’s patience. Every day he would try to get her ire up by saying sexist things like “Girls should be at home cooking for their husbands, not in restaurants” or  “There are no great female chefs.” Worse than even his trash talk, this guy would try to sabotage Nikki in class by turning off her burners when she was trying to reduce a sauce, or open her oven when she’d be in the middle of cooking a soufflé.

Then one day, Nikki finally had a chance to get her revenge. We were all assigned a national dish to prepare from a country that was selected at random. The teachers were looking for authenticity of flavour above all else. As luck would have it, Kurtis selected China, specifically the region of Sichuan. Seeing this as an opportunity, Nikki suggested that her mother could come in to help judge the authenticity of the Szechuan dish, being herself from the Sichuan region. Well, the teacher thought this was fabulous idea. Poor Kurtis didn’t know what hit him. Not only was his grade being determined by a woman skilled in Szechuan cooking, but this woman was his rival’s mother! He was doomed to fail.

 In a week’s time, our class gathered to prepare and present each of our dishes. At first Kurtis thought he was off the hook when Nikki’s mom hadn’t yet appeared, and half of our class period had already passed. But then, in a most dramatic fashion, Nikki’s mother arrived, dressed in her most spectacular, traditional Chinese dress, looking as impressive and intimidating as Chairman Kaga! I had never seen Kurtis work up such a sweat as he raced around the kitchen like a chicken with its head cut off. When it was finally judgment time, Kurtis set his dish of Mapo Doufu in front of Mrs. Wong. Mapo Doufu is a spicy pork and tofu dish that is considered one of those “lost in translation” flavour combinations that is sometimes unappreciated by a Western palette. Most often, Westerners complain that the heat is often too intense.

Mrs. Wong scowled at the bowl of Mapo Doufu placed in front of her, smelled it and shook her head, making a gesture of disapproval. Then, she picked up her spoon, dipped it in the bowl and took a taste. We all waited in silent anticipation for her reaction. She set the spoon down, turned to the Kurtis. Then she began to laugh.

“This is not Mapo Doufu! Taste like sweet and sour pork.”

Embarrassed, Kurtis tried to explain how the only recipe he could find was from a website called “Wok and Roll.” The website claimed that it was an authentic version of the dish. Mrs. Wong asked to see his recipe. He handed it to her and waited, humiliated from her reaction. Mrs. Wong laughed some more.

“Your recipe does not even have Szechuan peppercorns, or chili flakes! No heat, no flavour. Bland. No flavour. Tastes like baby food.”

We all laughed as Mrs. Wong ridiculed his dish.  Even though the teacher gave Kurtis some slack, and didn’t fail him for his attempt at Mapo Doufu, Nikki had her revenge and given Kurtis a taste of his own medicine.

Nikki wasn’t the only one who had trouble with boys. I also had my fair share. Except, where Nikki faced off with boys in the classroom, I met my challenges in the bedroom. Devin Whitmore was the name of the boy who lit up my burner. We met while taking a food and wine course, where every week we had to sample one or two bottles of wine from a different region, and learn to describe them using a wide range of pretentious descriptions; Devin’s comments were always the most ridiculous and over the top. I remember he described a Merlot as having a bouquet of freshly picked cherries crushed under a mule’s hoof while in a cedar barn.  He always made me laugh, which broke through the stuffiness of the classroom full of up-and-coming wine snobs. He was a tall drink of water, with beautiful green eyes, the color of fresh asparagus and a soft beard that felt like peach fuzz. He wasn’t what you would call handsome, but not homely either, more of an acquired taste. I had flirted with him for most of the semester and then, I don’t know if it was the fact that we both left class a little tipsy from the wine, but the next thing I knew, Devin and I were making out in the hallway, practically ripping each others clothes off. We couldn’t even wait until we were at his dorm room, so we snuck into the cafeteria pantry, which was tucked off to the side of the lunch-room. Inside the pantry, I perched on the edge of the countertop, between bottles of olive oil and the spice rack. We were making out with fiery gusto, when in the excitement of the moment, Devin knocked over a bottle of oil. Anyway, the oil started leaking all over the floor. And before he could pop my cork, so to speak, Devin slipped on the oil and toppled over, taking me down with him. If that wasn’t awkward enough, when he pulled me down with him I toppled out of the pantry in a flurry of flailing naked limbs. And wouldn’t you know it, just outside the door, a whole group of students were there on their way to the lunch- room. They stood staring, aghast and then burst out in hysterical laughter. Completely embarrassed, and no doubt, beet red, I tried to put my clothes back on as fast as I could. One of students offered his help, and very politely said, “Excuse me, . . . but I think you left your panties in the pantry.”      

        After that mortifying experience, I spent the rest of the semester trying to avoid Devin. I figured I better stick to my studies and lay off the boys for a while. In the end, Nikki and I decided to move into an apartment off of campus, which was for the best. I could never live down my reputation as the campus tart.

Smoked Salmon and Sambal-spiked Cream Cheese on Cucumber Slices

Ingredients: 

1 cucumber, sliced lengthwise and deseeded.

1/2 cup cream cheese, at room temperature

1 Tbsp. Sambal Oelek

1 clove of garlic, minced finely 

1 package smoked salmon, thinly sliced

Cilantro, to garnish

Preparation: 

Slice the cucumber lengthwise. Using a spoon, scoop out the seeds creating a narrow trough. To ensure the cucumber boats sit flat on the plate, you may also shave a thin slice off the bottom of the cucumber to create a flat surface. 

Cream-cheese mixture:

In a small bowl, add the room temperature cream cheese, the minced garlic clove, and the sambal oelek. Stir together. Season with a little salt if you like. 

To assemble: 

Spoon the cream cheese into the cucumber. You can also use a piping bag to do this. Then, slice the cucumber into bit size pieces. Top each cucumber piece with a slice of smoked salmon, and garnish with a leaf of cilantro. 

Enjoy!

Bittersweet Beginnings

          The first time was luscious, delicate, dreamy, and one of the defining moments of my life. If you think I’m talking about sex, then you’d be wrong. The exquisite experience that changed my life was the first time I tasted a chocolate éclair. You can laugh, but I remember it vividly, the soft, lush custard encased in a thin pastry shell, generously smothered with rich, dark chocolate. I was in ecstasy. I was twelve years old at the time. My parents had just gotten divorced. I was failing gym. I wore braces. The kids at school made fun of my freckles and red hair. But all of these problems faded away in the distance the moment I tasted this heavenly dessert.

            After that, I was a lost cause. I would go to the local bakery everyday after school. I would watch with wide-eyed enthusiasm when the bake shop girl put out the new pastries. I loved everything about it – the fragrant scent of cinnamon and nutmeg, the scattering of icing sugar on the marble counter, the desserts that glistened like jewels in the glass case. I couldn’t get enough. I had to try everything: the honey dipped crullers, the decadent chocolate croissants, the glazed fruit tartlets, anything and everything. If it was covered with chocolate, rolled in toasted coconut, or oozing with caramel, then I had to have it inside of me. I was insatiable. Inevitably, I packed on the pounds, but I didn’t care. I had found my first love: sweets.

Needless to say, to my mother, a certifiable health nut and manager of the most popular women-only gyms in the city, a woman who considers store-bought granola bars as junk food, my expanding waistline was a cause of concern. I distinctly remember her saying, “Candy, no man is going to date you if you keep getting so F-A-T.” She spelled out the dreaded f-word, as if saying it aloud were a crime against nature. Even now that I’m older, and have lost most of my extra weight (I still sport a muffin top when I squeeze myself into skinny jeans), my mother still expresses her concerns, except now it’s “Candy, no man is going to marry you if all you think about is food.” She’s not the only person who has said this to me either. It seems as soon as I turned thirty my friends and family immediately became obsessed with finding me a man.

             My dad thinks I lack taste in my choice of men. To say it bluntly, he thinks I date losers. It might sound harsh, but he’s kind of right. I’ll be the first to admit it; I’ve dated my fair share of duds, meatheads, bozos, couch potatoes, peabrains, sops, and schmucks. But I thought it was just bad luck, not bad taste. You see, I can’t have bad taste . . . I’m a food critic! My whole career revolves around the idea that I have great taste. It’s taken a while for me to come to terms with this situation. But I’ve finally admitted to myself: when it comes to food, my taste is impeccable; but with men, I have no taste, zero, zilch. I am completely lacking in any discernible talent or skill in finding a suitable partner. Most of the time, I usually just end up with whatever guy ends up on my plate.

I think both my parents just want me to settle down and be happy. But of all people, they should realize that for a partnership to work you’ve got to find the right balance. It’s just like cooking, you can’t have a dish be too sweet or too sour, too bitter or too tart. For a true partnership to work, all the ingredients have to blend in perfect balance, so that one flavour doesn’t dominate the rest. And I’ve got to say, I’ve got a bold flavour, too much for some men. I’m like cilantro: you either like me or you don’t. I am outspoken, ambitious, headstrong and as sharp as a Henckel’s blade. But don’t get me wrong, I’ve got a sweet side too. It’s just subtle, understated like the floral notes of a fine wine. My problem with dating is that I haven’t yet found that man who can balance my flavour, the sweet to my sour, the salt to my pepper, the carrot to my peas . . . well, you get the idea.

When I was younger I went after men who are sweethearts, or at least, that’s the impression that they’d give. They were usually romantic types, the kind that hold the door open for you, buy you chocolates on Valentines day, call you when they’re going to be late, wear a tie on a first date and generally, are as dry and predictable as a piece of toast. This is not to say that they were bad people, not at all; sometimes toast can really hit the spot. But I guess over the years my palette has changed, I’ve moved on from toast . . . now, I’m looking for a more sophisticated and developed flavour. I’m more of a Crostini girl now. Crostini is never boring. The variations are endless and yet it’s a simple dish: grilled bread rubbed with fresh garlic and topped with the best olive oil. But that’s just for starters. Add tomatoes, add basil, add cured meats, add pretty much anything you can imagine. Right now, I make a delicious version topped with blue cheese, pear and maple-glazed walnuts. It’s delish!

 I should explain that for a long time my fixation was solely focused on sweets and nothing else, but like my taste in men, my interest in food changed when I was in my early twenties.  I can actually pinpoint the moment when I lost my sweet tooth, a sad day for bakeries across the entire city. I’ll never forget it because it was right around my other first time. Now I really am talking about sex. Unfortunately, it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as the chocolate éclair.  I had just turned twenty years old, about twenty-five pounds overweight, with a terrible hair cut, but I had a sweet, loving boyfriend, who didn’t seem to mind. His name was Neil Bloomgarten, a fellow member of the chubbie club. We bonded over our shared love of all things deep-fried and covered with sugar. Needless to say, doughnuts were our favourite. We must have tried every doughnut in the city, at least once, sometimes by dozen. We were in heaven during the summer when the mini doughnut carts appeared: those cinnamon sugar coated, piping hot, little bites of pure goodness.  Oh, and then there were the maple-dipped doughnuts from our local coffee shop that we’d gorge ourselves on. I still get goose bumps thinking about my sweet memories with Neil. We had been best friends all through high school, but had never crossed the line into romantic involvement. I don’t know if it was the maturing of our growling appetites, but all of a sudden, a romance bloomed. One day, out of the blue, Neil made known his romantic feelings for me by kissing the sugar off my lips after I had just bitten into a jam buster.  Then just like that, after years of being just friends, Neil and I began dating. We took it slowly at first. I didn’t want to rush things. Then about six months into dating, things took a sour turn. As a friend, he had always been as warm and comforting as homemade cinnamon buns, fresh from the oven, but as a boyfriend, I began to find his kindness and sensitivity almost sickeningly sweet. He’d write me love poetry, leave cutsy notes in my purse, text me throughout the day with sappy messages: Miss U; Luv U; Thinking of U. He was like a walking, talking candy heart! I didn’t think that I could ever get sick of sweet things, but it all became too much. His neediness and constant attention were overwhelming. I was torn. I loved him so much as a friend, but as a boyfriend, his sweetness became cloying and intolerable.

He was my first. On a sugar high from homemade Castilian hot chocolate and churros, we decided that we were going to have sex. It was the first time for both us.  Sex on a sugar high might sound like a good idea, but the reality was more like getting humped by the Trix rabbit. It gets worse. Afterwards, in bed, he nuzzled himself up to me and whimpered, “CandyCandyCandy . . . I love you so much, . . . From the first second that we met, I always knew we’d end up together. You’re my honey bunny, and I’m your sweetie pie. I’ll always love you. I want you to move in with me. I want to marry you.”

I didn’t know what to say. I was in complete sugar shock from his syrupy sentimentalism, and still reeling from the underwhelming sex. Plus, I had plans of my own to think about. I was going to start culinary school in the fall. I was so excited to get out on my own, to experience new things and meet new people that I knew I was going to have to say ‘No’ to Neil’s proposal. I ended up stammering out something about getting up early in the morning, and tried to slip out from his smothering grip. It was at that point that I knew what I had to do. I had to give up the sweet stuff, cold turkey. I had to break it off with Neil, even though I knew it would break his heart. 

Breaking up with Neil was like pulling teeth, but I guess that’s what you get for indulging your sweet tooth for so long. I tried to explain to him that we were better off as friends, but he didn’t take this news well. In other words, he broke like hard candy. Things went from sweet to sour in an instant. He wouldn’t return my phone calls or emails. He ignored all my attempts to contact him. He even refused to meet me for our old favorite, coffee and doughnuts.  We stopped talking altogether. From there, it was a slippery slope towards bitterness. The last thing I wanted was for our relationship to end with Neil resenting me. But, it was too late. I lost my sweet heart. It’s been ten years, and I haven’t heard from or seen him since.

Even though our relationship ended in sour grapes, I have never regretted my experience of dating Neil. He was my first love, and I’ll always have warm feelings for my one-time sweetie pie. But even I had reached my limit; I could take no more of his saccharine messages and his neediness, not to mention the fact that my weight had ballooned in time that we were together. Breaking up with Neil was my detox diet. I was twenty, enrolled in culinary school, and ready to get my love life back in shape. 

            That’s not to say that I never indulge my sweet tooth anymore. It’s just one’s taste changes over the years, not only with food, but with men too. I still love sweet things and sweet men, but there’s got to be an edge, a complexity, or else things grow stale. My memories of Neil are like my memories of that first chocolate éclair, some things are meant to be bittersweet.    

Crostini Recipe

Ingredients:

1 loaf of bread (I used a nice, crusty baguette)

1 clove of garlic

1/2 cup crumbled blue cheese

1/2 cup pecans

1 Tbsp. maple syrup

1 ripe pear, cored and sliced thinly

Preparation:

Slice the bread into even slice, on the diagonal. Toast the slices by placing them under the broiler, or in the toaster. Rub each slice of bread with garlic. Top each piece of toast with the pear, then sprinkle with blue cheese. Broil the crostini for 3-4 minutes or until the cheese melts and begins to brown. Garnish with maple-glazed walnuts.

For maple-glazed walnuts:

In a bowl, add maple syrup to the pecans and stir to coat evenly. Spread pecans on a lined cookie sheet and cook at 350 degrees, or until caramelized, around 8-10 minutes. Allow to cool slightly before eating

Castillian Hot Chocolate

Ingredients:

1/2 cup cocoa ( I use Bernard Callebaut brand)

1 cup sugar

3 Tbsp. cornstarch

1/2 cup water

4 cups milk

In a medium-size saucepan, stir together the cocoa and sugar. Dissolve the cornstarch in the water. Add the cornstarch-water mixture into the saucepan until all the ingredients blend into a smooth paste.

Heat mixture on medium-low heat and stir in the milk with a whisk. Continue whisking the mixture until it starts to bubble.

Allow the hot chocolate to simmer for 8-10 minutes, stirring often so that it does not burn. It’s ready when the hot chocolate is thick and smooth.

Serve hot in a mug of specialty coffee glass. Garnish with whipped cream and a cinnamon stick.

Serves 4-6