TOTO'S LECHON MANOK: KUMAIN NA PO BA SILA?

Some of you may recall that my visit to The Philippines, a little over two years ago, was one of the true highlights of the whole EAT MY GLOBE tour. It was not just that the food was sensational, which it most certainly was, but also that the people were the same, astonishingly friendly and generous.

It helped that I already had a long if slightly tenuous association with the country. My Aunt Evelyn, who lives in New York, is from the Philippines and consequently, it turned out that I had a stack of hitherto unknown relatives in Manila, all of whom pulled out every stop to make sure that my time in the city was a memorable one. They proved well up to the task and I left, after an all too short week of stuffing myself on staggeringly good food, marking the country down as the first place I wanted to return.

I may not have kept my promise to go back yet, but I have somehow managed to find myself in the position of acquiring an even larger extended Filipino family. At least I will have once Sybil and I marry in a few weeks time. It will be a very quiet affair. Just me and a handful of my close friends and family along with Sybil and a hundred or so of her assorted Filipino relatives.

I am not sure if it is enshrined in law, but I am pretty certain that it is frowned upon for that many Filipinos to gather without a dead pig also being in attendance. So, along with the other food and drink at our nuptials, we will of course, be serving Lechon Baboy, the roast suckling pig which has become synonymous with the country’s cuisine.

Los Angeles has a huge Filipino population and, on Friday, Sybil and I set out to test the theory that a well reviewed restaurant, Toto’s Lechon Manok, made a suckling pig possibly worthy of feeding all our hungry friends and relatives. Although we knew that they were unlikely to have roasted a whole pig just because they knew we were coming, we assumed that the quality of their other pork dishes would tell us all we needed to know.

The tiny restaurant is located in a small strip mall in Cypress Hill and Sybil broke into Tagalog the moment we entered questioning the woman behind the glass counter about the dishes on show. There was, of course, Lecon Manok (roast chicken) and Pritong Isda (fried fish) along with bowls of lentil stew and that other Filipino staple, adobo. But they got scant notice once our attention was drawn towards two of the dishes I had loved so much on my visit to The Philippines, Lechon Kawali and Sisig.

Lechon Kawali is made by taking pork, usually belly and braising it with salt, pepper, garlic and sometimes bay leaves until tender. It is then cooled and deep-fried in chunks until the skin is crisp before being served with soy sauce and a vinegar dip. The end result is moist meat with amazing crackling skin. It is the perfect combination of crunchy, hot, sour and juicy.

Sisig was a dish I first encountered in the city where it was created, Angeles. I ate at Ailing Lucing’s small restaurant. She is “The Sisig Queen” and is credited with creating the dish which is now the must have with cold beer throughout the country. Originally, it was a way to use up left over bits of pig like the snout and ears. These were braised and shredded and then fried with onions, chilli and lots and lots of Calamansi lime juice to create a dish, which is ridiculously addictive. It came served on a sizzling platter and my dining companions and I fought over the crisp bits, which had stuck to the cast iron plate. Great fun and a great dish as well as being one of the best things I have ever encountered to serve with a nice cold one.

Sybil ordered and our meal was dispensed into white Styrofoam containers for us to take through into the empty dining room next to the take-out counter. Along with the Lechon Kawali and the Sisig, Sybil had spotted a large mound of chicken chicharón, so to make sure we had all possible food groups covered, she also balanced a large bag of crisp chicken skin on her tray as we made our way to our table.

I was concerned, when I saw our meal being spooned out from behind glass that the pork would be dry. But, the first bite of the Lechon Kawali reassured me that I was wrong. The meat was juicy and the skin had blistered up into the perfect crackling. The Iberian influence on Filipino cooking is noticeable with the use of vinegar as a companion to pork (just as the Portugese influence in Goa, was instrumental in the creation of Vindaloo) and the sharpness of the hot, sour dip cut through the fatty meat perfectly.

The Sisig too was excellent, if lacking the authenticity and theatre of its hometown equivalent. There was just enough of the pre-requisite chilli hit to confirm that while Filipino cuisine may be the least well known of South East Asia (some very respected food writers call it the most underrated ) it can still pack a whole heap of flavour.

We alternated eating large chunks of pork with shards of crunchy chicken skin until we both began to develop meat sweats and pushed the containers away with enough food remaining for at least one more meal. Not bad for $25. While I cleared away the debris from our table, Sybil returned to the counter and began to haggle with the owners for the delivery of one Lechon Baboy sometime in the near future. I don’t think they, the poor pig or I know quite what we are letting ourselves in for, but, at least now, when I finally do keep my promise to return to the Philippines, I shall have even more people to show me the best places to eat.

Oh, the picture at the end is a bowl of ice cream from Scoops Ice Cream, which we stopped for on the way home. Well you are forced to aren't you?

Maraming salamat. Sige po! Paalam

MOLE LA TIA: I WAS FED IN EAST L.A.

One of the great tastes of the EAT MY GLOBE tour came towards the end of my time in Mexico City. My good friend and Mexican food expert, Cristina Potter (check out her superb blog MEXICO COOKS) had suggested I visit a restaurant, called Azul Y Oro housed on the campus of Mexico City’s university. The chef there was one Ricardo Muniz, also the author of a breeze-block of a book called “The Dictionary of Mexican Gastronomy”.

It was an unassuming place, more canteen than restaurant like in appearance, but the food was astonishing. Particularly splendid was a small portion of chicken covered in a deliciously rich, dark Mole Poblano, that classic sauce from Puebla. So good in fact was it that I literally licked the plate clean and could still feel the lingering remnants of the incredible smokey tastes on my tongue hours later. I have been craving a repeat experience ever since.

When my L.A. based chum Aaron Tell invited me to join him for lunch last week, I was delighted when he suggested I join him at Mole La Tia a restaurant in East Los Angeles who specialise in dishes from the Oaxaca region and particularly in a wide range of different mole.

I knew little about East L.A, other than as the subject of a fun little song parody by uber-1970’s pot heads Cheech & Chong, but the restaurant was easy enough to find and after pulling up into the small parking lot, I entered to find a small, comfortable dining room with terracotta painted walls decorated with Mexican art.

The cooking of owner/chef, Rocio Camacho has become well known enough in the city to attract considerable praise. However, it was obviously a quiet afternoon and only a handful of tables were occupied. I took a seat with and began to work my way through the extensive menu, until Aaron arrived a few minutes later. A large basket of warm tortilla chips were placed in front of us along with a red-hot salsa, zingy with fresh lime juice. We attacked them in rapid fashion as we decided what dishes we wanted to share for lunch.

While we decided, we were presented with a small bowl of Chayote and Potato soup to whet our appetites. It was creamy, smooth and had a depth of taste from the use of a great stock. It augured well for the rest of the meal.

Some pre-lunch research had told me that their Botana Mestiza was a good way to begin. This consisted of three Oaxacan style quesadillas stuffed with calabacitas (a Mexican squash) and quesillo, a Oaxacan cheese. They came served with guacamole and drizzled with crema. For anyone who has been unfortunate enough to experience London apologetic and polite attempts at Mexican food, these quesadillas would be a revelation. They outer casings were light, crunchy and perfectly examples of grease free frying. The insides oozed their light, tangy cheese and squash filling onto the plates and the crema added a delicious extra touch.

Aaron is no fan of guacamole, which left it all for me. No bad thing as the small ice cream scoop sized portion was as creamy and delicious a version as you are every likely to experience and I scooped it from plate to mouth with the last of the tortilla chips.

The menu offered a wide variety of moles made with everything from coffee to passion fruit. It also offered the chance to create a tasting plate allowing you to choose four different main ingredients along with four different moles and our selection was brought to the table soon after our starter plates were cleared.

I was slightly disappointed by the cooking of the protein element of our meal. A duck breast was tough and on the dry side, like wise a chicken leg & thigh portion was over cooked and greasy. Amends were made by a juicy portion of quail and by two moist and delicate frogs legs. We portioned them out and began to create various combinations with the four bowls of mole sauces that accompanied them.

My own favourites were a deliciously hot, sour, sweet tamarind mole and the traditional Oaxacan mole, black, smoky and redolent of the one I had loved so much at Azul Y Oro. Aaron particularly liked a brick red mole thickened with pistachio nuts, while the least favourite was a “Mole De Finas Hierbas” which came over as little more than an insipid pesto. As utensils, we used a basket or two of soft and warm handmade corn tortilla, as good as any I tasted and thankfully in plentiful supply as we began to clean out the bowls of our favourite sauces.

Added to a mound of rice, so many carbs left us too full to consider desserts. I sipped on a mint tea while we waited for our bill, which came to $60 including a decent tip for helpful and incredibly friendly service.

Mole La Tia is certainly a few notches above a joint, but still offers up this cuisine in a way that is accessible both in approach and pricing. In that, it reminded me of its Peruvian equivalent in South L.A, Mo-Chica. As a newcomer to the L.A. dining scene, it is this aspect of the ethnic dining which strikes me as the most exciting. I am sure I shall be returning to Mole La Tia soon to check out more of the menu.

DOS HERMANOS GO NAPOLI: JUST ONE (MORE) CORNETTO

I’m used to bad driving - I’ve been to Spain - but Naples takes the art to a whole new and impressive level. Faded zebra crossings are an inconvenience to be ignored, traffic lights seem to be advisory and one way streets can be two-way at some indeterminate point in time, usually when you’re crossing. And once you’ve managed to avoid the cars then you have to deal with one of the many scooters which buzz noisily whilst weaving along the pavements.

All great fun of course and combined with the piles of rubbish, hawkers selling old tat and decaying buildings with washing hanging from every window put me in mind of a European version of Kolkata. Of course it’s not really the same, this is Europe after all, but that’s the first, vivid impression I got walking (and getting lost) in the streets between Stazione Centrale and my billet in the Centro Storico.

It does lend the city a certain frisson however and though I was only there for a few days I thoroughly enjoyed my stay, in no small part due to the friendly locals, lack of tourists and the good food. Speaking of which once I’d checked in I was desperately in need of some nosebag - a ham sandwich on EasyJet not being enough to keep this fine specimen of a man in good working order.

Not long after dumping my bags the Time Out guide led me to a little place a few minutes away from where I was staying and surprisingly it proved to be a bit of a winner. Piccolo Ristoro was indeed a piccolo gaff. Located near the port and consisting of not much more than four walls and a roof it accommodated just a few papercloth-covered tables occupied by local workers. There was no menu so it was basically yours truly speaking a mix of very bad Italian (with a few Spanish words thrown in when completely stumped) and lots of pointing. Somehow I managed to get fed.

A small primi of Spaghetti Vongole had good pasta cooked al dente and mixed with a little chilli and some of the smallest sweetest clams I’d ever had. Simple and very delicious.

I didn’t know what the catch of the day was although it looked like Sea Bass. In truth it wasn’t grilled as expertly as you would find in Spain but was still good and the fish of course was very fresh. With a big basket of country-style bread and a mezzo of the House White the bill struggled to break the 15 Euro mark for good, honest food served with little fuss, but made with a lot of heart. I turned down the offer of dolci and instead dipped into the nearest bar for my first taste of real Italian coffee.

Enter a bar in Madrid towards the end of a Friday lunch and people will be finishing their wine, lighting a cigar and pouring the Orujos and Pacharans. In Naples they’ll be lining up the espressos. I’m not sure what it’s like in the rest of the country but here un caffè is the drug of choice and predictably it’s great: delivered out of hand-pumped machines it’s intense and strong and always served with a little glass of water. It’s addictive stuff and I soon got into the habit of popping into one of the many hole-in-the-wall bars for a quick fix.

The other habit I got into was always starting my day/afternoon/whenever with one of the city’s signature cakes. Like Sfogliatelle Riccia for instance, which are crisp pastry shells filled with Ricotta. Best served warm and sprinkled with icing sugar they’re the perfect accompaniment to a strong coffee. Coming from the “Have two of these and you really will see Naples and die” category are the Zeppoli: a fritter-like construction topped with custard cream. Or Babas, which were imported by the French but which are frequently eaten on the hoof: an alcohol-soaked sponge of loveliness.

More street food from the savoury end of the spectrum is available from friggatoria which specialise in deep-frying, well, just about anything including pizza (and you thought this was a Scottish invention). My favourite of these places was a newish joint in Mergellina which in addition to the usual Arancini and Crocche did baby Squid, cooked to order, which you could
munch out of a paper cone whilst sucking on a cold one.

Da Dora, a seafood restaurant, seems to be a bit of an institution among the Neapolitans if my visit on a Saturday lunchtime was anything to go by. The nice staff found me a table in a packed dining room where an older, well-dressed crowd were tucking into pasta and grilled fish. A big bowl of their Vongole were good but these specimens were larger and not as sweet as the ones I’d eaten the day before.

The restaurant’s special Linguini was a plate of that pasta covered with various shellfish in a tomato-based sauce. Enjoyable, but hardly life-changing. Ad Dora is pricey as well and I’m sure you’d get meals which were just as satisfying in cheaper trattorias.

Of course there are two other food groups which are essential to maintain body and soul in Italy. The first, Pizza, is a Naples staple and places were you can get a slice are almost as ubiquitous as coffee bars. Made quickly, with decent ingredients and priced realistically they’re the real fast food of the people. Everyone here eats pizza and although there are one or two places that attract the queues at lunchtime I suspect that they’re not going to be significantly better than the others.

I tried the two signature varieties, Margherita and Marinara, and while I wouldn’t put eating them up there with the most memorable foodie experiences of my life they’re a cheap and fun way to grab a bite, no more so than when eating them at tables packed with Neapolitan families on a Sunday lunchtime.

The second essential of any Italian meal is Ice Cream and after a Pizza most people will toddle off to their favourite Gelateria for a tub. Although I visited quite a few (of course I did) my favourite was Gay-Odin’s. Name aside which made me think of camp Viking gods, the gelato was terrific and seemed much softer than the stuff we get over here. Cheaper too, and I got a mini cone wafer.

Unfortunately, it could only be a brief visit to Naples so I felt that I only scratched the surface of what is a fascinating city. Similarly, I didn’t try as much food as I would have liked but what I did eat seemed to exhibit a simple elegance which spoke of confidence in the raw materials used. In other words there’s no need for obfuscation.

The bottom line for any place I visit is whether I would contemplate returning and in the case of Naples it would definitely be a Ciao e a presto.