Breaking two cardinal rules in my kitchen–versatility and real-world functionality–my favorite new toy is silly, beautiful, and fun. It can only do one thing: make cookies in the shape of an obscure cut of lamb. A while back, while checking out the display cases at the excellent little butcher shop, Avendano’s, my friends spotted a batch of hand-crafted, limited-edition, copper cookie cutters. For some reason, they thought of me.

The packaging was gorgeous. Each form is hand-stitched to a card painted with a watercolor depiction of the actual cut of meat. I am now blessed with a “Middle Cut Rib” of lamb, which, to be honest, does not resemble any overly trimmed product that I’ve seen at most meat counters. My favorite part is the tiny tag, hanging off the cookie cutter like some exclusive designer label and engraved–by hand, of course–with the maker’s phone number.

This past weekend, I finally had a chance to give it a try. Since royal icing is one of my least favorite foods, depicting meat with only cookie dough became the challenge. An old recipe (adapted from Vanilla Refrigerator Cookies in the 1976 edition of the Joy of Cooking) and a bit of red food coloring leftover from making velvet cake came to rescue. I debated incorporating demi-glace or bouillon for meaty flavor, but decided to stay simple for the test run. Next time.

Here are some photos and notes from my first stab at meat cookies:

The red-colored dough, with a bits of white dough aka fat marbling left from the mixing. The color will lighten with baking, so make it darker than the final shade you want.

While still warm and soft, shape the dough into a thick piece that roughly follows the contour of the cutter. Basically, you’re making a lamb loin, or the meat before the butcher saws it into steaks or chops. Make it slightly smaller than the outline of the cutter, though, to allow for the fat layer…

…with some reserved, uncolored dough, build up a thin (or thick—your preference) layer of “fat” around the lamb loin. I started off with an offset spatula, and then figured out it’s much easier just to flatten pieces of white dough between my palms and press then right into the red dough. Press down firmly on the dough to avoid air pockets, which will later become cracks and gaps. Any breaks later are easy to fix, though, with extra dough.

After chilling for a few hours, I sliced the loin thinly with a chef’s knife and transferred the cookies to a parchment lined sheet pan. Final shaping with the cutter happens right on the pan. (The two front cookies have been cut).

Sweet meat trimmings. I mushed them together into a log, chilled again, and then sliced into pretty, round, marbled cookies.

Be sure to cool the cookies completely on a wire rack before storing them in an airtight container.

Layered between parchment, the cookies traveled very well to a weekend picnic in the park. If there’s a meat-lover in your life who happens to like baking or who deserves a batch of meat cookies…well, I think there’s a gift out there waiting to be made.

Red Meat Refrigerator Cookies
Makes 12 large cookies, plus trimmings.

Ingredients

• 1 cup butter, room temperature
• 2 cups sugar
• 2 large eggs
• 2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
• 1 1/2 teaspoons lemon zest or 1/2 teaspoon lemon oil
• 1 teaspoon almond extract (optional)
• 3 cups all-purpose flour
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1 tablespoon baking powder
• 2 – 4 teaspoons red food coloring

Preparation
1. Beat butter until creamy. Add sugar gradually and beat until pale and fluffy.
2. In a separate small bowl, lightly beat together the eggs, vanilla, lemon, and almond. Drizzle into the butter-sugar mixture and beat until smooth.
3. Sift together the flour, salt, and baking powder. Stir into the butter mixture.
4. Remove 1/4 of the dough to a separate bowl. Adding gradually, blend the red food coloring into the remaining dough. Leave the coloring slightly streaking, to keep the cookies tender and to mimic marbled meat.
5. Shape into logs or lamb loins. Chill thoroughly, or at least four hours.
6. Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Working quickly, cut into 1/4-inch thick slices. Re-chill dough, if needed, to keep it firm. Arrange on parchment paper and bake just until lightly golden around edges, or 8-10 minutes. Transfer to a rack and let cool completely.

With SFIAAF 2008 in full swing, I’ve managed to munch popcorn with yeast for dinner more times than I care to admit during the past few days. And with another week of films ahead, it looks like I’m going to need to restock my supply of dental floss.

Fortunately, it’s been worth it. Over the weekend, two titles that food and film lovers should add to their list were screened to sold-out crowds.

THE KILLING OF A CHINESE COOKIE

Who among us can resist opening a fortune cookie? No matter how jaded or snobby, no matter how much you may hate that dry, tasteless joke of a dessert that sits on your bill after a meal at the Golden Imperial Jade Wok Garden, I dare you to leave behind, unopened and unread, that little strip of paper and its peek into your future.

Like many things we touch in daily life, the beginnings of the humble fortune cookie are murky, but in his documentary, The Killing of a Chinese Cookie, director Derek Shimoda doggedly follows the complex maze of historic claims and counterclaims. Best of all, he collects the amazing stories of thoroughly lovable individuals. Third-generation confectioners and visual artists, judges and lawyers, historians and entrepreneurs, master chefs and hack writers–everyone has an opinion about the fortune cookie. Among the highlights are recollections of the mock trial held in 1983 at the San Francisco Court of Historical Review. Instead of settling the dispute, though, the arguments seemed to have only stirred up the controversy even more.

More recently, The New York Times covered the long-standing debate in a feature about the origins of the ubiquitous cookie. Among the many representing Northern California’s interests are the descendants of Suyeichi Okamura, who in 1906 opened the Benkyodo Company, a confectionary in San Francisco Japantown where you can still buy handmade moochi, sembei and other traditional sweets.

One of the Suyeichi Okamura’s grandsons shows how hot cookies were once slipped into this wooden rack to cool slightly before a fortune was hidden within its crisp folds.

I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much during a documentary while learning about the secrets of the past. With great affection, Shimoda tracks the cookie’s influence from Japan’s sembei treats to Golden Gate Park’s Japanese Tea Garden, though World War II and the rise of Chinatown restaurants, to erotic art and lucky lottery numbers. I won’t reveal any more about the film or the cookie’s history, since I highly recommend this film. The fun of it will be in watching the story unfold for yourself.

A manager at a Los Angeles factory showing an old tin of fortune cookies that he’s resisted opening for posterity’s sake.

The Killing of a Chinese Cookie
Directed by Derek Shimoda
Sunday, March 23
12:00 Noon
Camera Cinemas 12 Downtown
201 South Second Street
San Jose, CA 95113
(408) 998-3300

You can still buy tickets for this weekend’s screening of the film at San Jose’s Camera Cinemas 12. Until then, you can read the memorable fortunes submitted by NTY readers.

I’M A CYBORG, BUT THAT’S OKAY

Many of us have been waiting to see Park Chan-Wook’s latest film on the big screen. If you’ve survived his infamous films, Oldboy and Sympathy for Lady Vengeance, then you’ll already know that Park’s work is not for everyone. But those who love his intense, over-the-top vision or who can’t get enough of Korea’s boundary-breaking films, his latest should not be missed.

I’m a Cyborg, But That’s Okay reveals a new tack in his filmmaking: romantic comedy. In Park’s world, though, this means telling the story of how two psychotics in an insane asylum find love across the distance of alternative realities, group therapy and padded rooms.

Im Su-jeong plays Young-goon, a pale and skittish young woman who refuses to swallow even a single grain of rice, since cyborgs like her cannot digest food. She licks batteries to help recharge her energy, talks to vending machines and flickering lights, and mourns the loss of her daikon-nibbling grandmother. Superstar singer Rain plays a scruffy kleptomaniac, Il-sun, who invents and (in one of my favorite scenes in the film) installs a tiny machine called the Rice Megatron–with lifetime service guaranteed–inside Young-goon to help her survive the rigors of reality.

Any further attempt to explain the plot or introduce the cast of characters will fail miserably.

Viewers who nearly died from cuteness overdose during Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s Le Fabuleux destin d’Amélie Poulain or Michel Gondry’s La Science des Rêves might think twice about seeing this film. You’ll find a bit of relief from romantic sweetness during a few crazed killer-bot scenes, but don’t expect the endless blood or deep anger of Park’s earlier films.

I’m a Cyborg is the ultimate film, however, for fans of surrealism on the screen, well-intentioned massacres, hope flickering in a chaotic world, and uncertain non-endings.

From Tricycle Press, that little imprint of our very own Berkeley-based Ten Speed Press, comes the World Snack Series, a cheerful set of children’s board books about sweet and savory treats enjoyed around the world.

Author and illustrator Amy Wilson Sanger provides both the books’ sing-song text and the artful, colorful sculptures that grace their pages. Adults and children alike will love the parade of scrumptious snacks: cha siu bao, bhel puri, tamales, hamentaschen, little polpetini, and even temaki with uni roe. One of my favorite lines, from Yum Yum Dim Sum, sent me straight to the closest teahouse: “Why, oh why, my little sui mai, why do I love you so?”

Sanger’s sculptures are exquisitely detailed yet retain magic and imagination. Flour on the handle of the pasta roller? Check. Translucent beads of flying fish roe? Check. Little snips of tree mushrooms in the dumpling filling? Check. Hand-stitched tofu? Of course. Occasional beans and sesame seeds cross the pages to add real-life dimension, but for the most part, Sanger depends on the transformation of paper and cloth to create amazingly mouth-watering renditions of favorite foods.

I have four of the six titles published so far, and though I keep promising myself that I’ll hand them off soon to worthy tots, I must confess they’re still in my possession. They were supposed to go into the emergency gift box–yes, my friends’ kids’ birthdays have been accruing at a startling rate–but I have a feeling that these books are heading soon to one of my own shelves. I’m especially looking forward to the seventh in the series, Chaat and Sweets, that will be released later this spring (May 2008).

What appeals to me, as the “California aunt” in my family, is the matter-of-fact approach to such a widely diverse table. There’s an emphasis on foods that one might find in take-out and at restaurants, particularly noticeable in First Book of Sushi and Hola Jalapeno. Still, this series as a whole stands head and shoulders above other multi-culti children’s books about the world of food. There’s no preachy agenda between the lines, and dishes aren’t presented as the newly discovered, unfamiliar foods of other families. (Read Everyone Cooks Rice for a well-intentioned, first-generation example of both of these shortcomings.)

The back covers of most of the books in the World Snack Series provide helpful pronunciation glossaries for parents who may not have grown up tying tamales or rolling maki themselves. While some may roll their eyes at the thought of cultivating pint-sized gourmands–with miso in their sippy cups and salsa on their bibs–I for one consider this another wonderful step forward in the long, pot-holed road to incorporating international flavors with neither condescension nor wide-eyed wonder.

For those who love both poetry and pork, the recitation and the recipe, Dongpo Rou’s silken layers hold a potent blend of both. This famous dish of Hangzhou, a city tucked near where the Qiantang River spills into the Yangtze Delta of eastern China, is named for its creator, the celebrated Chinese poet, Su Shi. Also known as Su Dongpo, he gave his name to the much-loved dish.

Stories are still told of how he forgot his simmering pork while playing chess or of the misunderstanding among his servants when he called for pork with wine. He was thinking a nice cup of spirits; they were thinking boozy stew. I like to think that while the pork belly simmered gently in wine and soy sauce and spices, the poet composed and ink-brushed and recited an afternoon’s worth of verse.

Nicole Mones has written a lovely essay about the lingering ties between the poetry and the pork. Since this is Bay Area Bites and not Bay Area Chapbook, I will let other sites cover Chinese poetry. The recipe, however, is most definitely within our domain.

While teaching a writing class several years ago, I had the pleasure of having two students who were in the middle of their own dongpo rou studies. Class discussions about literary metaphors and run-on sentences quickly gave way to debates about judging slabs of pork belly and the precise ratio of wine to soy sauce and which spices should absolutely not be omitted. A friend’s father generously walked me through his own recipe a year later. And then this year, after listening to Martin Yan, Olivia Wu, Albert Cheng, Nicole Mones, and Alex Ong rhapsodize about the dish during a panel discussion at the Chinese Culture Center, I realized it was time to embark on my own journey.

Many a Chinese food lover will name dongpo rou among the finest, most difficult, most sublime and most purely enjoyable of classic dishes. I know cooks who have dedicated years to perfecting it in their own kitchens and still bemoan the challenge of coaxing that alchemical melting of the pork’s layers of fat and lean, meat and skin. My own explorations have just begun, but like any still-fresh convert, I can’t stop talking about my newfound joy. It’s like eating pork custard that melts on your tongue. It’s like swallowing savory silk. It’s what pork will taste like in heaven. (And now you know why I’m not a poet.)

I can’t claim native expertise, nor can I say I have settled on my own final, best recipe. But, damn, this stuff is good!

DONGPO ROU

Ingredients
• 2 to 3 pounds of finest quality pork belly
• Half a stick of Chinese golden sugar, or 2 tablespoons brown sugar
• 4 scallions, white part only
• 3 thick slices ginger
• 6 whole star anise
• 1 cinnamon stick
• 1 teaspoon fennel seeds
• 2 to 3 cups chinese wine (I use Shaoxing rice wine aged 8 years)
• 1/2 to 1 cup stock or water
• 3 to 4 tablespoons light soy sauce, plus more if needed

Preparation
1. Check the skin of the pork belly to be sure all hairs are removed. Tweezers are good for this. Cut cubes that are 2-1/2 by 2-1/2 inches and tie with fresh straw or kitchen string. Blanch in boiling water for 2 minutes; drain.

2. In a heavy pot big enough to hold the pork in a single layer, skin-side up, combine the pork packets, sugar, fresh aromatics and dried spices. Pour in enough rice wine to come up two-thirds on the sides of the pork, then add enough stock or water to just cover the skin. Drizzle in soy sauce.

3. Bring to a gentle simmer, reduce heat until the liquid ripples with a bare shiver, cover tightly and then leave the kitchen for a few hours. Stay close, though, to check that the liquid never boils. Taste one or twice to adjust sweet and salty flavors, but otherwise, it’s a matter of trusting the magical effects of time and moisture on the pork and its flavorings. I like to float a round of parchment paper on the surface of the liquid to help cover the meat and fat evenly. If you’re in a hurry, you can stop the cooking at 1 1/2 hours, but it won’t be as good as when you have waited for 4 hours.

4. Remove the pan from the heat and let the pork cool in its liquid. For the best results, I like to refrigerate overnight to remove excess fat that floats to the top. If done well, though, you’ll be surprised by how little fat comes off into the sauce.

5. Set up a steamer over your wok, or place a shallow dish in a large pot. Arrange the pork in a bowl or deep platter with its liquid, which after refrigerating has become a deeply colored, sparkling pork aspic. Steam for one hour. If desired, reduce the sauce by boiling it separately.

6. Serve the pork cubes in small, individual bowls with the sauce spooned over and accompanied with lots of white rice.

Once a month or so, my mother sends me a box from home filled with food. The last one, timed perfectly for lunar new year, included a batch of rice cakes. Before I even saw them, though, I knew there was treasure buried somewhere deep beneath her homemade peanut brittle, gingery mustard pickles from the last greens in her garden and bags of candied coconut used as packing material. The distinctive green-tea aroma of banana leaves had emerged as soon as the packing tape was cut.

Throughout the tropical sun belt, banana leaves appear as easy, inexpensive, natural, sanitary–and most importantly–delicious packaging. From Mexican tamales to Indian wedding feasts, Malaysian lunches to Vietnamese fast food, the leaves provide pliable wrapping, compostable tableware and a lovely flavoring for steamed or simmered specialties. Throughout Southeast Asia, you’ll see banana-wrapped foods for sale as street food. Food sealed within their layers and then cooked slowly will keep for days without being refrigerated. Traditional foods for the lunar new year period are often cooked in banana leaves, especially for serving during the first three days when families are supposed to be enjoying each other’s company rather than cooking.

For my mom and all my generous, food-loving aunts, banana leaves are perfect for the three-day priority mail period between the Midwest and California.

BUYING BANANA LEAVES

Virtually all Asian and Latino markets with a freezer section will stock banana leaves that have been folded and frozen into large squares. Though more delicate than fresh leaves, they’re easy and convenient to use. If you’re lucky enough to have a pesticide-free tree somewhere in your neighborhood, you might offer a trade in sweet or savory treats for an armful of fresh leaves. Berkeley Bowl often stocks fresh leaves, and there are also numerous mail-order sources for fresh leaves, such as Florida-based Greenearth.

USING BANANA LEAVES IN YOUR KITCHEN

Here are just a few simple suggestions for experimenting with banana leaves:

Golden Rice
Cook long-grain rice, substituting 1/4 to 1/2 cup of the water or stock with coconut milk. Add a few slices of ginger, a cinnamon stick and a pinch of turmeric. After the rice is cooked, stir gently and then prepare small packets of the rice. Steam for 20 minutes and then serve with curries or grilled fish.

Tamales
Rick Bayless offers a recipe for banana-leaf wrapped Red Chile Pork Tamales at his Frontera website. We’re lucky enough to live in an area where tamale dough is available pre-made in Latino markets. Leftover or take-out chicken mole is a most excellent substitute for slow-cooking your own filling. For variety, sprinkle green olives, bell peppers or corn kernels over the filling before enclosing and cooking.

Fish with Red Curry
Small packets are a fun alternative at summer grill parties, while a hot oven is a perfectly decent rainy-weather option for a dramatic yet simple dinner-party dish. Rub sea bass or salmon with a generous amount of prepared Thai red curry paste thinned with a small amount of oil. I prefer using a whole fish and filling its cavity with scallions and lime wedges, but you can easily use steaks or fillets. Wrap a whole fish completely in three layers of banana leaves, alternating the grain of the banana leaf to crisscross from layer to layer for added stability. Individual portions can be wrapped in one large rectangle on a bed of scallions and lime slices. Tie tightly with wet string and then grill over medium high coals or roast at 400 degrees, allowing 10 minutes base time plus 10 minutes for every inch thickness of the banana leaf packets.

Mushrooms with Tomatoes and Ginger
Thinly slice full-flavored mushrooms and toss them with diced tomatoes (drain well if using canned), chopped scallions, grated ginger, cilantro, salt and black pepper. Wrap in individual packets and bake or grill until completely charred on the outside. Serve as a side dish with steamed rice and grilled chicken or pork.

Sweet Rice with Coconut and Peanuts
Cover about 2 cups of sticky rice with 3 inches of water and let soak for at least 4 hours, preferably overnight. Drain well. In a small bowl, mix together 1 cup each of grated coconut and chopped, roasted peanuts. Stir in a few spoonfuls of brown sugar to taste (omit if using pre-sweetened coconut) and then a healthy sprinkling of salt. At the center of a large square of banana leaf, mound 1/4 cup of sticky rice, layer 1/4 cup of the filling, then finish with 1/4 cup more of sticky rice. Fold the leaf in thirds like a letter, then fold in the two side-flaps to overlap at the center; tie securely with string. Steam for one hour, then let cool completely before serving as mid-morning or afternoon snacks with strong tea.

WORKING WITH BANANA LEAVES

If you’re used to Saran wrap or foil, there’s a bit of an adjustment to using natural material that’s irregularly shaped and varied in texture from package to package, leaf to leaf. But banana leaves are immensely fun to work with, and their flavor is far, far superior to plastic or metal. Like crepes, practice with one or two or three first to get into the groove. Each thin package of banana leaves doesn’t look like much, but there’s a lot folded up in there. The leaves are inexpensive enough that you can get an extra one for back-up if it’s your first time working with them.

• A couple of hours in the fridge or a few minutes submerged in very hot water will thaw out frozen leaves. I usually place the leaves in my empty sink, and then pour boiling water over them to clean and soften them. I keep them in the hot water until just before I need them, wiping a few at a time with a cloth to absorb excess moisture. Always wipe in the direction of the grain to prevent splitting the leaves.

• Soak some toothpicks or kitchen string at the same time. I prefer string for larger parcels of food, since the toothpicks can cause more damage then their convenience is worth. If you forget to soak the string or toothpicks, expect to see them char completely if grilled or roasted. If you’re making very small packets, you can use thin strips of the banana leaf itself as ties.

• With a pair of scissors, trim away the hard, center vein of the leaf. Sometimes, I use the hard edges as extra support for larger packages, such as whole fish, but it can cause the leaf to split, so it’s best to remove them until you’re comfortable working with larger leaves. For appearance sake, you might also want to trim away any yellow streaks.

• To repair and reinforce a split leaf, just place it on top of another leaf with its grain running perpendicular.

• When grilling large items, such as a whole fish, use a cookie sheet and two wide spatulas to transfer the package to the rack, to turn it halfway through the cooking period and to remove it when done cooking.

• For easier and more attractive serving, especially on a buffet table, use shears to snip open the packets.

• Banana leaf packets are perfect for preparing ahead of time and cooking later. They hold up to moist fillings and they’re easy to carry to potlucks and parties. Cover with a damp cloth to keep them moist in the fridge. Don’t wait more than three days to cook them, though. They’re organic material, after all, and will start fermenting if left raw too long. Once cooked, though, they and the food they hold last a surprisingly long time even at room temperature. While we have become spoiled by the apparent safety of refrigerators, much of the world still enjoys prepared snacks wrapped securely and deliciously in banana leaves.

Lucky me, the flu came visiting last week. Even after three days of sleeping in bed and swallowing nothing more than bananas and Advil, I could tell my uninvited guest had no intention of leaving. Time to get serious.

Cooking was out of the question — I could barely stand up straight with the long, invisible spikes piercing both sides of my brain — so I smiled as sweetly as possible at my husband and said three words: Pho ga. Please.

He’d never made the soup before nor did he have a mother who cooked it once a week, so I scribbled down some notes on a scrap of paper. I fell back asleep before he left for the grocery store, and by the time I woke up again, blessed me, I could smell the lovely scent of star anise and cinnamon and ginger all the way into the bedroom.

Now, lest you think that I’m married to a kitchen wizard, let me just say that during the five years he lived alone, the only meat he ever bought was bacon and he never, ever, not once, turned on his oven. Fortunately, the best foods for the soul are always the simplest.

Pho ga is an excellent way to prepare meals ahead of time. My mom used to simmer the chicken on Sunday, boil a big batch of noodles, wash all the herbs, and then refrigerate the components separately. It only takes about 10 minutes to reheat the stock and noodles for a comforting bowl of soup anytime during the week.

Eating my way through my husband’s very first pot of pho ga brought me back to the land of the living. Here, verbatim, is the recipe:

Half-Conscious Notes on Making Pho Ga

Preparation
1. Cut chicken in half & pull off fatty chunks @ tail

2. Cover with cold water. Add onion (halved), some carrot logs, lots of star anise (8-10) a few cloves, teaspoon of peppercorns, and cinnamon stick. And Bay Leaf for the French. Add giblets, etc. & fennel seeds.

3. Bring just [double underlined] to a boil, then lower heat, cover partially & simmer gently 1 1/2 hour.

4. Remove chicken. remove big chunks of meat & return carcass. continue simmer 2-3 hrs.

Shopping List and Additional Notes

Ingredients
One 4-5 pound chicken
1 package wide rice noodles
A small hand of ginger
1 large onion
1 small carrot
Spices: star anise, cinnamon stick (preferably Vietnamese cassia), peppercorns, cloves, fennel seed
Fish sauce
Fried shallots

Fresh herbs: scallions, cilantro, Thai basil, saw-leaf herb, Bay leaf (optional)
Mung bean sprouts
Lime wedges
Fresh Thai chiles

This is the dream list for a homemade bowl of pho ga. Decent shortcuts include using good-quality, prepared stock and the meat of a rotisserie chicken. If you keep a box of premixed spice packets in your pantry (they look like big teabags), you can infuse plain chicken stock with Vietnamese flavors in 20 minutes. I’ve been known to enjoy a bowl of pho with only scallions for garnish, but each additional herb really does make a huge difference.

When buying rice noodles for this soup, look for the words banh pho ga on the label. If you’re lucky enough to find fresh ones, you’ll just need to immerse them for 10 or 15 seconds in very hot water. Dried noodles require 2 to 3 minutes of boiling.

I have a wide, extremely sharp cleaver that eases right through chicken bones. Halving chickens is also super simple if you have good kitchen shears. If you don’t have a pair…get some. One of the must useful tools ever. Look for the heavy-duty ones with a round indentation at the base of the blades; that’s what allows you to snip through the ribs and along the backbone. For those who think this all too much, just go ahead and buy chicken parts (bone-in!), but be sure to simmer the meat for only 30 or 40 minutes before stripping it off the bones. Having exposed bone marrow extracts more flavor. Besides, anyone who’s tried to remove a whole chicken from a pot of simmering water can vouch for the wisdom of chicken halves or parts.

If you can, throw in a few extra chicken wings or, best of all, a couple of feet.

My family never bothered to strain the soup. All the aromatics and bones sink to the bottom of the pot, and we’d just ladle the soup from the top. If you prefer, though, you can strain the stock and reheat.

Vinegared onions are a favorite topping that’s rarely available in restaurants. To make your own:
1. Slice an onion very thinly.
2. Drizzle generously with white vinegar.
3. Stir in lots of coarsely ground black pepper.
4. Let stand for 10 minutes and then serve alongside the herb platter.

Arrange sprigs of the fresh herbs, lime wedges, bean sprouts and chiles on large platters for finishing the soup at the table. Set a big bottle of fish sauce right on the table, too, because this is a Vietnamese meal, after all.

I like to pour boiling water (from cooking the noodles) over the bean sprouts to blanch them so they aren’t hard and cold in the soup. (Shhhh, don’t tell my Saigon-born mom. That’s a Northern trick that I adopted after leaving home.)

For each diner, place a small nest of noodles in a large, preheated bowl. Cover with very hot stock and add a handful of shredded chicken. Sprinkle with chopped scallions, chopped cilantro and fried shallots. Let guests fine-tune their bowls with herbs and other flavorings as desired.

With a decidedly new take on the happy meal, the folks over at GOOD have filled their upcoming March/April issue with stories and photos about food along with their usual provocative round-up of art, politics and culture from around the world. Excellent visual design and a refreshingly straight-forward take on sustainability distinguish their pages. My friend Stewf introduced me to GOOD last year, on a camping trip no less, and since then I’ve been a loyal reader.

Be forewarned: this is not meant for the patchouli posse nor the bake-your-own-bread-after-grinding-your-own-wheat camp. Expect to see glints of flashy ads here and there. That said, my favorite sections include Statement, where the editors give an artist free rein with several pages at the beginning to set the theme and tone of the magazine. As a bit of an information wonk, I love Transparency for its always creative graphical exploration of intriguing, important data.

This food issue has a somewhat predictable feature on organic, free-range meat that will not be news to most who read this blog. Other pieces, though, offer interesting takes on what people are eating now in the U.S. Adam Leith Gollner’s predictions for “the next sushi” includes bibimbap and dosa. Photographer Vanessa Stump’s in-your-face layouts of everyday meals highlight the healthiest school lunch the magazine could find (Pasadena High School), military rations with squeezable apple jelly and a $250 pizza (wine not included).

With a bent toward revealing the power structure behind our consumer world, GOOD often highlights writers, photographers and graphic designers who can find new patterns in old realties. In this issue, Phil Howard shows which multinationals actually own your favorite organic snack. The magazine is based in New York, but the editors do manage to look west for stories on public housing in Chicago and an urban deer hunter in Los Angeles. There’s definitely an emphasis on stories from big cities, though.

One section’s title says it all: Provocations. Should we harvest the organs of death-row inmates? Should anthropologists be more involved in current military psyops? Do kids really need to learn handwriting with graphite and ink anymore? Read opinion pieces that are not afraid to take highly unpopular stands.

Finally, Good Project, the page that closes the magazine, invites readers to contribute their own ideas and creativity. The food issue ends with a call to send in photos and recipes for the best possible lunch that you could carry to work or school. It has to fit into a brown paper bag. And extra credit if you make all the food yourself.

I’ve always wondered why street food was not as popular in the US. And then I started trying to understand health codes, land use policy, business permits, tax laws, risk management briefs, and sidewalk obstruction ordinances. I soon lost my appetite. The confusion was enough to make me give up on ever enjoying hot rice cakes while sitting on a plastic stool leaned up against a park wall or discovering the best roasted yams ever at the entrance to a post office.

Farmers’ markets also face similar difficulties in getting started. While some neighbors relish the thought of fresh mesclun within walking distance, others fear backed-up traffic, loss of what little parking they already have, trash littering their yards, and rodents gathering for weekly food fests. Public parks, natural places for impromptu booths, end up having conflicts in mission and charter with profitable enterprise. Market management, like any other business or nonprofit, has its own risks and rewards and crazy ways of doing things. And finally, farmers have enough to keep them busy in their fields without having to face a long drive into the city. Not many can make a living for their families by standing around selling a few carrots here or some organic apples there, while their thin profit margins preclude hiring retail staff.

In many other countries, people figure out how to make use of every bit of space, material and time. While I understand the need for protecting the public, I’d love to see us loosen up just a little bit and support more micro-businesses, more diversity in the food market, and more openness and curiosity in place of fear and nimbyness.

A couple of months ago, my next-door neighbor decided that he didn’t like the shape of my waist-high rosemary bush, the one I tended in that tiny patch of soil cut into the sidewalk in front of my building. So, without asking me, he cut it down to a stub of three inches and then poured so-called river stones over the space. A few weeks later, “someone” planted a begonia where my rosemary bush used to be. Not even a scented begonia, thank you very much. When pressed, my neighbor mentioned words like “property value” and “attractive landscaping.” He’s a new home-owner; I’m one of the last renters still toughing it out on my block. A sprawling, eight-year-old rosemary bush apparently does not have a place in my changing neighborhood.

Fortunately, another old neighbor realized how sad I was and planted a small, three-sprigged sprout of a baby rosemary plant next to the useless begonia. I look forward to watching it grow, and I hope that we both–my rugged herb and I–will still have a place to flourish on this shined-up street.

And about that video above: be sure to watch to the very end to see the magic happen.

On display through the wonderful internets are hundreds upon thousands of photographs of everyday lunches. No soggy PB&J’s here, though. One forum, the Mr. Bento Porn Flickr group, posts their collective creative efforts to make mid-day meals visually appealing, healthful, delicious and, yes, a little easier on the wallet. Their cousin site, Diet Bento, includes impressively low calorie counts for those whose 2008 resolutions (for now at least) include trimming down a little of their own belly fat.

Portable meals have been with us for as long as farmers have trudged off to their fields and soldiers have marched on in war. The Japanese took it a little further, of course. Where other countries preferred banana leaves or woven baskets, Japanese al fresco diners preferred compartmentalized boxes. By the 17th century, bento meals became elaborately arranged celebrations of the full moon and cherry blossoms, a leisurely way to enjoy intermission with friends at the theatre or, like the older form of sushi, essential food for travelers in an age before planes and bullet trains.

Fast forward to the 20th century for aluminum tins, insulated containers, microwaveable cups and, last but not least, those brightly colored, plastic Hello Kitty boxes that accompany kids to school. Adult versions abound, too, although Ichiban Kan’s bento aisle seems pretty well populated by over-twenty-somethings. For those who want to pack with style, <a href=”http://www.plasticashop.com/mm5/merchant.mvc?Screen=PROD&Store_Code=P&Product_Code=BNTOBX&Category_Code
Designer boxes”>Plastica offers a sleek, stackable set in elegant colors.

Japan is not the only country with distinctive lunch boxes. Vietnam has its aluminum ca men that families carry every morning to the market to pick up breakfast, a different soup in each of the layers prepared exactly as each person prefers. The beautifully painted enamel tins of Malaysia are collectors’ items, while in India, no-nonsense tiffin boxes show wonder less in their appearance than in their amazing daily travels from home to office and back again.

In Japan, there are nearly 500 magazines dedicated to showing parents (read: mothers) how to pack lunches that will entice and impress. The proper order to place in the elements, the proper balance of color and flavors, the proper container for the right food, the secret to making flowers and hamsters and their favorite manga characters out of edible delights: childrens’ meals are no less subject to codification and over-the-top creativity than anything else the Japanese do.

A few English-language books attempt to translate the techniques as well as the art of bento. Some designs would only appeal to an obsessive artist with lots of free time, but many are simple and worth trying. It’s a good way to get the kids involved the night before. Lay out some ingredients, flip to a fun photo and suddenly packing lunch becomes a game. Two titles to check out are Bento Boxes: Japanese Meals on the Go for a how-to guide and Face Food: The Visual Creativity of Japanese Bento Boxes for an aesthetic treatment of the topic.

Another good resource is Biggie’s Lunch in A Box site, where parents will find excellent suggestions for getting their kids off to school with good food. She has hints that acknowledge the need for speed in addition to the desire to make lunch and snacks both healthy and fun.

Like with most good habits, packing meals for lunch requires practice and foresight at first, then as the regimen settles into a comfortable part of your day and week, merely some momentary foresight during weekend shopping and prep. Simple tips include washing and cutting your vegetables ahead of time, freezing food in smaller batches and learning to pack more flavor than bulk.

And if you just want to have a cute lunchbox without the work, well, they do make excellent take-out containers. Buy one with straps or handles to carry to your favorite deli counter and do your part to cut back on disposable ware.

(photo by Kevin Rosseel)

The San Francisco Professional Food Society, the Asia Society and the Chinese Culture Center have all joined forces to tackle a question that lingers, like a greasy smog, over Chinese restaurants:

Why is Chinese food so bad in the US?

Four experts will discuss the topic this coming week in an event geared toward saavy travelers, frustrated diners and nostalgic expats alike. Nicole Mones, author of the novels Lost in Translation as well as the more recent and relevant The Last Chinese Chef, will join Martin Yan, that infamous TV chef, who is now atoning for his can-cook approach by establishing an eponymous Culinary Arts Center in the Middle Kingdom itself. He hopes to teach American chefs how to cook real Chinese food. Rounding out the panel are Albert Cheng, former president of the Chinese Culture Center, and Alexander Ong, chef at Betelnut Restaurant. Olivia Wu will moderate what promises to be a lively discussion.

New York diners have already considered the question more deeply than we easy-going West Coasters. Nina and Tim Zagat’s opinion piece in the New York Times listed access to ingredients and immigration policies as key factors. Mones herself compared Eastern and Western culinary preferences, recipes included, in her attempt to soften the question of why Chinese food in America is still in such a sorry state. Continuing the debate, the New York Daily News suggested that a thriving economy and well-heeled diners in China means chefs can enjoy a better living by staying in their homeland rather than sweating it out. How many creative chefs want to leave their families to sling kung pao and mu shu and yet another order of potstickers when their compatriots appreciate innovative flavors and, more importantly, are willing to pay for them?

If you can’t make the event but would like to taste a bit of the controversy for yourself, visit the SFPFS event announcement: they list several restaurants in San Francisco Chinatown recommended by the speakers.

The Future of Chinese Cuisine in the U.S.
Wednesday, January 23
6:00-8:30 pm
Chinese Culture Center of San Francisco
750 Kearny Street, between Clay and Washington
Third floor, San Francisco Financial District Hilton Hotel
$25 Members (SFPFS or Asia Society)
$35 Guests

Visit the SFPFS website for details and registration.