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The Month of Love: Ethnic Food
Feb. 2nd, 2008 06:51 pmI know people who simply refuse to go to restaurants that feature "non-American" food because they fear they won't find anything they would want to eat. I find that confusing, because from my childhood on I have been a huge lover of "non-American" foods.
One of my earliest restaurant memories is of me and my sister being taken to a Chinese restaurant by our parents. Now, I will be the first to concede that Mr Chu's Chop Suey House (yes, that was really its name) was probably not a bastion of authentic Chinese cooking, but it was something clearly alien to my Mom's cooking. Bite-sized chunks of meat covered with sauces that weren't spaghetti sauce or gravy; brilliant-colored, crunchy vegetables that had never seen the inside of a can, and piles of snowy white rice which instantly became the best rice I had eaten in my life. (This, because my mom refused to make anything other than Minute Rice. If you have never eaten it, don't start.) Also, instead of everyone ordering one thing and eating it, there you ordered a bunch of things and everyone shared, so you got to try lots of different stuff. BEST. RESTAURANT. EVAR. Even better than Mr. C's, the Italian steak-and-spaghetti place that was lit entirely (and solely) by the hundreds of strands of white Christmas tree lights that had been affixed to the walls and ceiling. (I am not making this up. Ask any Omahan; they'll tell you.)
Then there was the annual ethnic fair down at the Civic Center. I have no idea what the event's real name was (I was in elementary school during the years we went), but the various ethnic clubs, societies and associations would put up booths displaying their cultures and selling foods. You could, and we did, wander around the Civic Auditorium for hours looking at displays of clothing and goods and eating foods you had never heard of before. It was Dinner As An Adventure, and I loved it. Especially the Korean Barbecue Chicken, which confused me with its lack of actual barbecue sauce but which made up for that by being served on a stick. And the baklava, which got all over my hands and clothes but was so totally worth the effort of licking my fingers clean afterwards.
Eventually I grew up and moved out and started cooking on my own. My mother was not an inspired cook, and she had never bothered to show me how to cook her dishes, so I was left with my copy of The Joy of Cooking and my memories of what I liked to eat in restaurants to guide me. As a result, my recipe collection is a little strange. Chicken Adobo, Painted Rooster, Curried Lentil and Spinach, Mujadara... It isn't quite fusion cooking: more like wanton Cultural Appropriation on the domestic level. But it's nourishing, and oh my is it tasty.
One of my earliest restaurant memories is of me and my sister being taken to a Chinese restaurant by our parents. Now, I will be the first to concede that Mr Chu's Chop Suey House (yes, that was really its name) was probably not a bastion of authentic Chinese cooking, but it was something clearly alien to my Mom's cooking. Bite-sized chunks of meat covered with sauces that weren't spaghetti sauce or gravy; brilliant-colored, crunchy vegetables that had never seen the inside of a can, and piles of snowy white rice which instantly became the best rice I had eaten in my life. (This, because my mom refused to make anything other than Minute Rice. If you have never eaten it, don't start.) Also, instead of everyone ordering one thing and eating it, there you ordered a bunch of things and everyone shared, so you got to try lots of different stuff. BEST. RESTAURANT. EVAR. Even better than Mr. C's, the Italian steak-and-spaghetti place that was lit entirely (and solely) by the hundreds of strands of white Christmas tree lights that had been affixed to the walls and ceiling. (I am not making this up. Ask any Omahan; they'll tell you.)
Then there was the annual ethnic fair down at the Civic Center. I have no idea what the event's real name was (I was in elementary school during the years we went), but the various ethnic clubs, societies and associations would put up booths displaying their cultures and selling foods. You could, and we did, wander around the Civic Auditorium for hours looking at displays of clothing and goods and eating foods you had never heard of before. It was Dinner As An Adventure, and I loved it. Especially the Korean Barbecue Chicken, which confused me with its lack of actual barbecue sauce but which made up for that by being served on a stick. And the baklava, which got all over my hands and clothes but was so totally worth the effort of licking my fingers clean afterwards.
Eventually I grew up and moved out and started cooking on my own. My mother was not an inspired cook, and she had never bothered to show me how to cook her dishes, so I was left with my copy of The Joy of Cooking and my memories of what I liked to eat in restaurants to guide me. As a result, my recipe collection is a little strange. Chicken Adobo, Painted Rooster, Curried Lentil and Spinach, Mujadara... It isn't quite fusion cooking: more like wanton Cultural Appropriation on the domestic level. But it's nourishing, and oh my is it tasty.
