Eating Korean

Because the plating is lovely.

Reconsidering beef

Those already ambivalent about beef won't be surprised by the revelations in Denis Hayes and Gail Boyer Hayes' book "Cowed: The Hidden Impact of 93 Million Cows on America's Health, Economy, Politics, Culture and Environment."

Much of what the authors say regarding the cattle industry will sound familiar. They echo sentiments expressed by Frances Moore Lappe ("Diet for a Small Planet"), Eric Schlosser ("Fast Food Nation") and Michael Pollan ("The Omnivore's Dilemma").

In this substantial volume, the Hayeses, longtime sustainability advocates, rail against the treatment of livestock in feedlots across the country. They bemoan factory farming where animals are treated "with about the same level of respect that an automobile manufacturer feels for a piece of sheet metal." They find themselves championing alternatives such as "organic foods, locally grown foods and vegetarian diets." 

The Hayeses recognize from the outset the tremendous carbon footprints cows leave. Feedlot beef, for example, "produces five times more global warming per calorie" than pork or poultry. It takes 11 times more water and uses 28 times as much land. 

The conditions in which cows are often raised are frightening to consider. A place "that is hell for cows is paradise for germs." Pollutants in feedlots and lagoons, where farmers store animal sewage, can "rise into the air and travel long distances on the wind," and also sink into groundwater.

Discussions on processed beef filled with "nitrates and nitrites (and sometimes nitrosamines)" and bull castration make meat consumption less than appetizing as well. The authors present a strong case here against feedlot beef, giving readers significant and serious food for thought.

(A version of this review appeared originally at Publishers Weekly.)

Hashing it out

We like corned beef hash as much as the next fellow. And we always like a good poached egg. These inevitably get us going.

Meals on wheels

Heather Shouse does the legwork so we don't have to. In "Food Trucks: Dispatches and Recipes from the Best Kitchens on Wheels," the Chicago resident chases down a number of meals-on-wheels in cities across the United States.

She talks to the women and men behind Curry Up Now in the Bay Area, for example, and RoliRoti, whose chicken, potatoes and porchetta I have yet to taste. She tracks down Roy Choi in Southern California, whose "fleet of four Kogi trucks reportedly did $2 million in sales its first year on the streets."

She goes to Portland and Seattle, too, to New York and Philadelphia, New Orleans and Austin, and points in between, giving us plenty of food ideas to pursue the next time we find ourselves in those places. She makes us hungry.

Comfort cooking

In the months before my grandmother's death, my mother cooked.

She bought pork and lamb at the store, glad to take advantage of grocery specials. She marinated beef to roast in a hot oven. She trimmed Chinese greens. She chopped and braised, steamed and stir-fried. She spent time in her kitchen with the television on but often ignored.

My mother cooked not for my grandmother, who by then hardly ate, cancer stealing the best of her appetite. She cooked not for my father. He would be fine with simple soups and porridges. She cooked not for my sisters, brothers or me. Though we dropped by on weekends, we could only eat so much. Imagine the leftovers. She cooked, I believe, for herself.

At the counter or the sink, my mother stayed busy. She prepped chicken perhaps or removed scales from a fish. She gave herself these things to do. Meanwhile, her mind wandered.

She thought about the food she did not have growing up in China and the access she enjoyed when she arrived in California. She recalled years of scrimping to send money back to family across the Pacific and the relief she finally felt when her mother arrived in the United States as well. She cooked and cried.


We talk of comfort food: a scoop of ice cream, for example, or a slice of cake, a barbecued pork bun or an egg custard tart.

Jonathan Reynolds wonders whether the term is redundant. "All food is comforting," he says in the memoir "Wrestling with Gravy: A Life, With Food," "or we'd be eating nothing but hot dogs at Shea and warm tar (indistinguishable in a Times blind-testing), with possibly a few vitamins thrown in.

"Unless you're... undergoing a fraternity initiation or briefly lapse into Joan Crawford territory with one of your sons, there is no such thing as 'punitive food'."

I suspect there is the idea of comfort cooking as well, the notion that kitchen work can help to reassure us, that time in front of a stove can keep us centered. My mother cooked, it seems, for the same reason others might ride a bike or read a book. She needed the diversion.


The moment my mother spied my grandmother in hospice care, the day after my uncle had admitted the woman, she ran to hold her. It was something I had seldom seen my mother do: openly embrace anybody. It felt like a clip from a Chinese-language soap opera.

Outward displays of affection had been rare in our house. Hugs and kisses were things other people traded. My mother demonstrated her love through food instead.

She treated scrapes my siblings and I got playing in the back yard with a little Bactine and a lot of candy. She marked our achievements with dumplings and broth. She greeted our returns from college with dishes we favored: braised eggplant, tofu and beef, vermicelli with egg and barbecued pork. She wasn't about big gestures but small everyday concerns. I realize this now.

"When am I going to get better?" my grandmother asked, her voice a soft but steady whisper. "I don't know when I am going to get better. Maybe this time I won't."

A friend told me once her heart grew three sizes the day her daughter was born; my heart broke into a hundred pieces that afternoon at the foot of my grandmother's bed.

My mother insisted that if my grandmother simply ate more, her health could improve. "If you don't have the nutrients," she reasoned, "how would you ever get well?"

I knew enough Cantonese to understand this exchange. From talks earlier with doctors and relatives, I also knew the truth: That no matter what or how much my grandmother did or did not eat, she wouldn't get better. The disease had taken a toll, wreaking havoc on her pancreas, stripping her body of the energy it required.

My mother punctuated her visits to the hospice with trips to Safeway or Trader Joe's nearby or to Chinatown, recognizing the severity of the situation, I'm sure, but needing still to collect ingredients for her own meals. In this way, she continued to live as my grandmother was about to die.

After all, my mother needed to pay attention to herself, too, did she not? She needed to look to the future and occasions she would inevitably get to spend with the rest of her family. Food - thinking about it, shopping for it, preparing it - provided a way for her to exert control over something when so much around her had been beyond her control. It was the happiness she allowed herself. In this backyard scrape, it was her candy.

The short market trips were also a way, I suppose, for her to fool death personally, to not let it follow her straight home from the hospice. She wanted to open and close car doors, enter and exit other buildings, walk up and down wide aisles, to ditch death randomly. She was superstitious like that.


In the months since my grandmother's death, my mother continues to cook. She shops for exceptional deals and brainstorms menu ideas. Her tears, however, no longer flavor the food.

She tells me about a visit with a friend to their neighborhood Lucky for 99-cent eggs. She wanted to limit herself to a couple of cartons. Her friend, however, dismissed the restraint.

"The people in the store know us," the woman said in Cantonese. "They see us all the time anyway. They know we're greedy. It doesn't matter how much we buy or don't buy." They shrugged, gathered four or five cartons each and headed to the register.

With joy I have not seen in a while, my mother tells me of the day she spent with a nephew from New Jersey. During a last-minute business trip to California, he made it a point to invite her out to eat.

In San Francisco, they came across a Chinese buffet. Though inexpensive, the food they spotted on people's plates seemed unappealing.

He placed his hand on my mother's back and guided her away from the entrance of the restaurant. "The two of us," her nephew said, gently and genuinely, "let's go eat something better. You and I, we deserve something better." She agreed.

My mother tells me these stories, peppered with humor, irony and insight, one night over dinner. I listen and laugh.

(A version of this essay appears on the website for The Atlantic.)

Brick Lane beigels

Brick Lane in the East End is filled with curry houses, none of which, I am told, is any good. 'Tis a shame really.

What we do like on the street, however, are cheap and chewy beigels from Brick Lane Beigel Bake, a testament to the historically Jewish influences in the dynamic neighborhood.

Food matters

On the table: Cheeseburgers and chicken sandwiches from the Dollar Menu at McDonald's. It is a last-minute but convenient lunch, coupled with baked apple pies and strong cravings - left unsatisfied - for high-sodium french fries.

On the reading list, ironically: Mark Bittman's book "Food Matters: A Guide to Conscious Eating." In it, he advocates "sane eating." He suggests, for example, we consume less meat, certainly less fast food, more vegetables, legumes, fruits and whole grains.

Next time, we do better.

Road food

I have a pricey burger at the Big Sur Bakery & Restaurant. Its staff and recipes are showcased in "The Big Sur Bakery Cookbook: A Year in the Life of a Restaurant," written by owners Michelle Wojtowicz, Philip Wojtowicz and Michael Gilson.

Topped with white Vermont cheddar, grilled onions and slices of heirloom tomato, the sandwich looks good on the plate and tastes fine. The beef is a little overcooked, though, unfortunately.

I have a much less expensive burger at Burger Me, a casual place opened by Mark Estee on Donner Pass Road in the small town of Truckee, near Lake Tahoe. Nobody at the restaurant has published any kind of a cookbook, as far as I know.

They use meat, I learn, from Five Dot Ranch, a family-owned business in the Napa Valley. The beef is 100-percent natural, raised without antibiotics or hormones. And, it is cooked exactly the way I like it, medium-well.

(The photo is of Burger Me!)

Red, hot and blue

Everywhere I turn, there is red, white and blue. In the stores. On paper goods. On cakes and cupcakes. On balloons, banners and cotton tees... Though I have yet to determine a Fourth of July menu, it could include presidential chili from the Obamas, some sort of fruit cobbler and IT'S-ITS.

The Obama Family Chili Recipe

1 large onion, chopped
1 green pepper, chopped
several cloves of garlic, chopped
1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 lb. ground turkey or beef
1/4 tsp. ground cumin
1/4 tsp. ground oregano
1/4 tsp. ground turmeric
1/4 tsp. ground basil
1 Tbsp. chili powder
3 Tbsp. red wine vinegar
several tomatoes, depending on size, chopped
1 15-ounce can red kidney beans

Sauté onions, green pepper and garlic in olive oil until soft. Add ground meat and brown. Combine spices together into a mixture, then add to ground meat. Add red wine vinegar. Add tomatoes and let simmer, until tomatoes cook down. Add kidney beans and cook for a few more minutes.

Scoop over white or brown rice. Garnish with grated cheddar cheese, onions and sour cream. Makes 4 to 6 servings.

Pho (a.k.a. Noodle Love)

For comfort and simplicity, few foods beat pho, beef noodle soup. Served in deep, oversized bowls, it consists of thin slices of meat cooked quickly in hot broth, long strands of rice noodles and a smattering of fresh herbs.

According to chef Mai Pham, author of "Pleasures of the Vietnamese Table," pho originated in Hanoi after the French occupation of Vietnam in the late-1800s.

Historians note its similarities to pot-au-feu, a French classic with meat and vegetables cooked in water or consommé. They believe the word "pho" (pronounced "fuh") comes from the word "feu," French for fire.

Others point to the influence of the Chinese, neighbors to the north who favored ingredients such as rice noodles, ginger and star anise.

In time, of course, the Vietnamese embraced pho as their own, Pham says. They added splashes of fish sauce, for example, to the simmering broth. Cooks in cities such as Saigon incorporated mung bean sprouts and aromatic Asian basil. These provide an irresistible crunch and a distinct fragrance. They also offered garnishes and condiments.

This is the pho Vietnamese immigrants introduced to American palates in the 1980s and '90s. This is the pho we know.

A rich, meaty broth is essential to the dish, Pham explains. Briefly blanching the beef bones and beef chuck in a separate pot helps to minimize impurities in the stock. Occasionally skimming the fat and foam off the top helps as well.

While the soup bubbles gently on the stove, work on other elements. Soak dried rice noodles in cold water to make them pliable. Prep mung bean sprouts and slices of yellow onions. Plate them alongside sprigs of Asian basil, for example, and wedges of lime.

Hours later, top servings of cooked noodles with slices of beef, and ladle into big bowls generous amounts of steamy broth. They should keep things hot through the end of the meal. With chopsticks in one hand and soup spoons in the other, slurp away.

(A version of this article appears in Relish. The photo is from Relish as well.)



I adapt the following recipe from Mai Pham's "Pleasures of the Vietnamese Table." For each bowl, Pham recommends 1 part noodles to 3 parts broth.

Pho Bo
(Vietnamese Rice Noodle Soup with Beef)

for the broth:
5 lbs. beef marrow or knuckle bones
2 lbs. beef chuck, cut into 2 pieces
2 (3-inch) pieces ginger, cut in half lengthwise, lightly bruised with the flat side of a knife, lightly charred
2 yellow onions, peeled and charred
1/4 cup fish sauce
3 oz. rock sugar or 3 Tbsp. sugar
10 whole star anise, lightly toasted in a dry pan
6 whole cloves, lightly toasted in a dry pan
1 Tbsp. sea salt

for the noodles:
1 lb. dried 1/16-inch wide rice sticks
1/3 lb. beef sirloin, slightly frozen, then sliced paper-thin across the grain

for the garnishes:
1/2 yellow onion, sliced paper-thin
3 scallions, cut into thin rings
1/3 cup chopped cilantro
1 lb. mung bean sprouts, tails trimmed
10 sprigs Asian basil (or Thai basil)
1 dozen saw-leaf herb leaves (optional)
6 Thai bird chilies or 1 serrano chili, cut into thin rings
1 lime, cut into 6 wedges
ground black pepper

Note: To char ginger, hold the piece with tongs directly over an open flame. Turn occasionally, charring it until the edges are slightly blackened and the ginger is fragrant, about 3 to 4 minutes. Char the onions similarly. Peel and discard the blackened skins, then rinse and add to the broth.

To prepare the broth:

In a large stockpot, bring 6 quarts of water to a boil.

Place the bones and beef chuck into a second pot and add water to cover. Bring to a boil and boil vigorously for 5 minutes. Using tongs, carefully transfer the bones and beef to the first pot of boiling water. Discard the water in which the meat cooked.

When the water returns to a boil, reduce the heat to a simmer. Skim the surface often to remove any foam and fat. Add the charred ginger and yellow onions, fish sauce and sugar. Simmer until the beef chuck is tender, about 40 minutes.

Remove one piece of meat and submerge in cool water for 10 minutes to prevent it from darkening and drying out. Drain, then cut into thin slices and set aside. Let the other piece continue to cook in the simmering broth.

When the broth has been simmering for about 1 1/2 hours total, wrap the star anise and cloves in a spice bag (or cheesecloth) and add to the broth. Let infuse until the broth is fragrant, about 30 minutes. Remove and discard both the spice bag and yellow onions.

Add the salt and continue to simmer, skimming as necessary, until you're ready to assemble the dish. The broth needs to cook for at least 2 hours total. (It will taste salty but should balance out once the noodles and garnishes are added.) Leave the remaining chuck and beef bones to simmer in the pot. Just before serving, bring the broth back to a rolling boil.

To prepare the noodles:

Soak the dried noodles in cold water for 30 minutes, then drain. Bring a big pot of water to a rolling boil. When you're ready to serve (not before), place the noodles one portion at a time into a sieve and lower it into the boiling water.

Using chopsticks or a long spoon, stir the noodles so they untangle and cook evenly. Blanch just until they are soft but still chewy, about 10 to 20 seconds. Drain completely, then transfer to a large preheated bowl. Cook remaining noodles similarly.

To assemble the dish:

Place a few slices of beef chuck and raw sirloin on top of the noodles. Ladle about 2 to 3 cups of hot broth into each large bowl. The heat will cook the raw beef instantly. Garnish with sliced yellow onions, scallions and chopped cilantro. Guests can garnish individual bowls with mung bean sprouts, herbs, chilies, lime juice and ground black pepper. Makes 6 servings.

Meeting for lunch

Google might have cut back on afternoon tea for its employees in Mountain View. But during its annual meeting at corporate headquarters, the company still offers an impressive lunch buffet for shareholders who attend.

In addition to items such as salad greens and hard-boiled eggs, we have an orange couscous salad, and a Greek pasta salad with olives and artichoke hearts.

We have bacon-wrapped pork tenderloin, rotisserie chicken, and mini pot roast sandwiches. We have crab cakes with little to no fillers. We have asparagus, macaroni and cheese, and corn and lima bean succotash. We have so-called raw lasagna layered with thin slices of zucchini and "cheese" made from macadamia nuts. We have strawberries and fresh-cut pineapple.

For dessert, we have eclairs, white chocolate chip and cranberry cookies, berry cobbler, and IT'S-ITs packaged with the Google logo.

I'm sorry. Is the CEO talking? Is there investor business to conduct?

In the Sunday paper

The San Francisco Chronicle writes of Bill Niman, co-founder of Niman Ranch, subsumed in January by its primary investor, Chicago-based Natural Food Holdings LLC.

Theirs is an engaging piece on the "idealist, whose mission was to change the way people eat and encourage them to think ethically about their food."