My husband Jay doesn’t like eggplant. He doesn’t care for its glossy, deep purple beauty. He doesn’t savor its versatility. He complains about its gooey texture. And above all, he refuses to share with me any eggplant dishes in restaurants or at home.
Alas, we say no to the late summer joy of ratatouille even if the best French chef from Nice would have cooked it from the juiciest tomatoes, bell peppers and zucchini. Even if he would have topped his creations with the freshest, most aromatic herbs and offered a free glass of citrusy rosé, thick chunks of eggplant would still discredit this joyful Provençal dish in my husband’s eyes.
We can’t order moussaka on a cold winter night. This eggplant-potato-meat layered hardy brick is relished by Turkish, Greek or Balkan folks. Sometimes moussaka reveals its tasty ground lamb and veggies under a cheese and béchamel. If only eggplant slices could have been subbed with something else.
A romantic night at a trattoria can be easily spoiled if on the table appears “eggplant parmigiana” with mozzarella and tomato-basil sauce. “No grazie!,” says my hubby. “We will take lasagna instead”. So what if it was breaded and fried. Golden-crisp eggplant is still eggplant.
Even sweet, sour and spicy sauce can’t hide well enough the main ingredient of the Chinese eggplant stir-fry. Oriental cooks use the same traditional flavorings for their Szechwan fish dishes as for this eggplant delight on which we would have to pass.
There is one dish, however, that somehow overrides Jay’s no-eggplant policy. Baba ghanoush comes usually to our table as a part of a fragrant and colorful mosaic of Arabic hors d’oeuvres. Maybe because it is between tabbouleh and lebneh or other meze parts, eggplant becomes unrecognizable to my husband’s palate. Even if baba ghanoush comes solo, just accentuated by a few “hot pink” stripes of pickled turnips (on picture above at Cedar Halal Food and Deli), its smoky taste changes the eggplantness of this delightful paste. First grilled before being puréed, eggplant inhales the charcoal fumes in a good way. With garlic, lemon juice and tahini added, it resembles hummus. Well, kind of. Sometimes, I even call it the other hummus, to make it more palatable for Jay.
My entire educational period was powered by second breakfast— homemade sandwiches wrapped in a wax paper. Between two slices of fresh bread generously covered with butter, my mother usually squeezed a leaf of lettuce, a slice of tomato, cheese and ham. Occasionally, whenever my father got a rabbit from his hunter friends, she baked the pâté. Such sandwiches were special not only because of a delicious home-made meat and liver spread but also because horseradish and cranberry jam accents enlivened the midmorning treat. Plus in lieu of two slices of rye, the pâté was hugged by a crisp baguette.
I didn’t think any sandwich could ever beat that taste until my very first bite of bánh mì - a Vietnamese take on the French classic. Unlike a simple yet delectable baguette au pâté which combines a freshly baked symbol of France with a thick slice of rustic pâté de campagne and little cornichons, a Vietnamese sandwich explodes with all sorts of delights.
The foundation is warm light bread with a delicate crust. It is like biting on a crunchy cloud carrying lots of intriguing ingredients. A thin layer of mayo-butter spread hits first before all the tasty fillers are revealed. A classic Vietnamese sandwich (đặc biệt meaning “special combo”) features pork, duck or chicken liver pâté as well as headcheese and ham or bologna. This may sound like familiar territory until the veggie additions kick in. A few slices of fresh cucumber put next to hot chili suddenly brighten the next bite. And what are these white and orange matchsticks? Sweet and sour julienned daikon and carrot drained from their vinegary concoction add another punch. The sandwich is topped with a dash of soy sauce and a spring of citrusy cilantro. Those last two notes bring the Asian eats to mind.
Bánh mì, a transnational marriage of Western with Oriental cuisine, started feeding my imagination. What if instead of pâté I fried up some blood sausage and balanced it with a beet relish? Could this sandwich handle a garlicky kiełbasa and wild mushrooms in vinegar? Or trips with pickled mustard greens and chives? Living in the vicinity of Yum-Mì Sandwiches—one of the best Vietnamese places in Orlando—I decided to explore the taste of the original bánh mì (on the picture above) before moving onto my own creations. Soon I realized how hard it would be to beat their yummy menu but I will try.
“What's your ethnicity?” asked a haughty American gentleman shortly after I had moved to the States. His question struck me during a brief conversation about our country club's chili cook-off contest of which I had a privilege to be a judge.
I have to admit, I wasn’t sure how to respond. Up until then I had never thought of myself as ethnic. I come from a country that, just like the U.S., shares Western cultural tradition. Perhaps my interlocutor was curious to know my religion, although our casual chit-chat didn’t seem to go past the mystery of cooking a hearty chili. My mind desperately tried to come up with a precise answer, speeding through all sorts of data.
I am a tall, blond, fair-skinned, green-eyed woman. He couldn’t possibly be asking my skin color because he could see me.
Did I look weird? I have high cheekbones and sparse eyebrows. These, according to my father, I inherited from our Tartar ancestors. But aren't we all a mix of different gene pools?
Aha, I got it. I speak English with a bit of an accent. Which intonation prevailed? Polish, French, Spanish? There is a little Russian in there too.
Finally, I found the answer was to focus on food. Cuisine distinguishes nations more easily than looks or the melody of someone’s voice. I, for instance, was born in a country where soups rule. There are gentle spring vegetable soups with fresh dill and cold summer soups made of strawberries. Meaty winter season broths will keep you safe from the frostiest frost. Milk soups greet you in the morning. Beet soups put you to bed at night. Yes, I am from a soupland! Am I not?
After the awkward moment of silence, I told the gentleman: “I am Polish”. And I asked him about his favorite foods. I found out he was a big fan of a chicken soup and pickles but never heard of sour pickle soup which is the recipe I've chosen to share here today.
