Wanderful World

Bizu

I had my hair cut at Toni & Guy this weekend, something I've been planning to do for some time. When done, I went to Max Brenner Chocolate Bar for a bite. I had already ordered the orange lacquered spareribs when I realized that these exact series of events happened before. Last year, when my friend Badette came home from the States, we met at the exact same restaurant right after I had a haircut at the exact same salon. I found Badette waiting for me at the same table and guess what I ordered? Same dish. But of course this time, no Badette.

The ribs weren't the same however. I don't know if it was the company but I remember it tasting better. I found the fat to be too much even for my taste.

After my main course, I decided to indulge in a hug mug of Italian hot chocolate. I don't know if my taste buds were off that day but I found the sweetness cloying. I finished it off anyway, and washed it down with a glass of cold water.

I paid the bill, went to the carpark, and got into my car. But I guess fate couldn’t resist pulling a final stroke of déjà vu on me because, as soon as I started the engine, my phone rang and I found Badette waiting for me on the other line.

Pardon my French but I hated foie gras at first bite. That first forkful was akin to eating a thick slab of lard. And if that weren’t bad enough, it had an aftertaste that, though subtle, was undeniably foul. It was a potent first impression, and one that pierced the ego as it dawned on me that, for a foodie, I had a decidedly Proletarian taste.

I managed to keep this a secret, even among friends. There were always enough good things to eat that I have never had to try foie gras a second time.

Like all second comings, it came unexpected. And as I expect all second comings to be, it came with a vengeance. I was invited by Sommelier Selection to lunch at Prince Albert Rotisserie to try out their offerings of French wine. I had already quite comfortably settled into the conversation about wines when was I informed that the main ingredient of our meal would be foie gras, and nothing else but.

For a moment I considered spitting (discreetly) every mouthful onto a napkin, or pretending I was fruitarian, but it didn’t take long before I devised a reasonably ingenious plan. Since there was enough wine in the room to bathe in, I decided I would simply down every bite with a gulp of French. Surely, superb wine can erase all unsavory taste and thought, right?

The duck liver “marbre” with breast and sweet balsamic walnut toast topped with mango chutney was served. I sliced the much-feared delicacy with a knife, picked up a piece with my fork, and slid it into my mouth. As fate would have it, an accidental flick of the tongue soaked my palate with a curious taste. It was rich, velvety, not at all unpleasant, and rather tempting. As I let the piece rest on my tongue to melt, all the savory juices flowed freely, and when I finally succumbed to a bite, I discovered the buttery texture, the earthy flavor, the hint of spices. My eyes began to glaze as I followed one bite with another until my plate was clean. Three more foie gras dishes in increasing complexity of flavors were served. By the time we got to the chocolate volcano dessert, I was so subdued by the meal that I wanted to slide out of my chair and disappear under the table for a nap.

I have not tried foie gras again since (I don’t expect it to be part of my regular diet anytime soon) but I find myself craving for it once in a while. It’s like a tempting thought that comes unbidden. The worldwide debate whether to foie gras or not to foie gras (animal rights activists are lobbying for its ban because of the “cruel” process of forcefeeding the goose or duck via a tube) only adds to its allure. Before the jury reaches a verdict and we’re all driven to partake of it as contraband, I will perhaps indulge myself with one more delirious mouthful and raise my glass for a toast to all things rich and as yet unforbidden.

*Note: The foie gras dishes served were part of a food festival and are not found on the regular menu.

Also published in GMANews.tv

Time was when I thought that all bacon were created equal. I arrived at the conclusion when I realized that I’ve never tasted bacon I didn’t like. To be sure, there were differences in flavor, both obvious and nuanced, but all invariably gave me the rush of endorphins that I needed to feel filled and fulfilled.

That night opened my mind to the hierarchy of bacon. My fellow managers and I gathered for dinner to bid one of our colleagues goodbye and to celebrate the nearing end of another year. So we found ourselves in a private function room in Katre, each of us having a hard time choosing from the ample selection, and seemingly trying to outdo the other by ordering the most sinful, calorie-drenched dish on the menu. I couldn’t decide between the paella and the barbecue ribs, both of which I had enjoyed on previous occasions, so I ordered both.

The ribs was as I had remembered it – the flavorful meat, glazed with barbecue sauce and with the right trimming of fat to send me into a frenzy, was clinging precariously to the bone, and gave absolutely no resistance when I poked it with a knife.

The paella, however, was a disappointment. The rice I had fallen in love with – not the traditional Arborio, but a long-grained, chewy variety whose name now escapes me but whose texture and flavor left an indelible impression – had been replaced with couscous, which, in my view, did not provide enough surface for the proper coating of spices in the paella.

I nursed my paella failure by licking every sliver of meat off the rib bones. I thought myself satisfied, until Bambi, wife of one of our officers, graciously offered me a slice of Angus bacon from her husband’s plate. One slice and one big bite later, I must have blown a synapse because suddenly all I could manage was a long, emphatic Mmmmmmmm. Dingdong, who was also offered a taste, at least proved to have more resilient neuron junctions and managed to say, “Panalo!” In a conspiracy to have at least one more taste, Dingdong and I ordered Angus bacon for Perl who called to say he was arriving late. So taste it one more time we did, and again my vocabulary was reduced to that of a one-year-old’s.

I vowed that night that I will be back. I will have a serving of Angus bacon all to myself, chew the meat and fat with equal passion, and pay the chef the best compliment of all – a clean plate.

Now you know where to find me next.

Also published in GMANews.tv

Behrouz

Max Brenner

I had my hair cut at Toni & Guy this weekend, something I've been planning to do for some time. When done, I went to Max Brenner Chocolate Bar for a bite. I had already ordered the orange lacquered spareribs when I realized that these exact series of events happened before. Last year, when my friend Badette came home from the States, we met at the exact same restaurant right after I had a haircut at the exact same salon. I found Badette waiting for me at the same table and guess what I ordered? Same dish. But of course this time, no Badette.

The ribs weren't the same however. I don't know if it was the company but I remember it tasting better. I found the fat to be too much even for my taste.

After my main course, I decided to indulge in a hug mug of Italian hot chocolate. I don't know if my taste buds were off that day but I found the sweetness cloying. I finished it off anyway, and washed it down with a glass of cold water.

I paid the bill, went to the carpark, and got into my car. But I guess fate couldn’t resist pulling a final stroke of déjà vu on me because, as soon as I started the engine, my phone rang and I found Badette waiting for me on the other line.

Coup de Foie Gras

Pardon my French but I hated foie gras at first bite. That first forkful was akin to eating a thick slab of lard. And if that weren’t bad enough, it had an aftertaste that, though subtle, was undeniably foul. It was a potent first impression, and one that pierced the ego as it dawned on me that, for a foodie, I had a decidedly Proletarian taste.

I managed to keep this a secret, even among friends. There were always enough good things to eat that I have never had to try foie gras a second time.

Like all second comings, it came unexpected. And as I expect all second comings to be, it came with a vengeance. I was invited by Sommelier Selection to lunch at Prince Albert Rotisserie to try out their offerings of French wine. I had already quite comfortably settled into the conversation about wines when was I informed that the main ingredient of our meal would be foie gras, and nothing else but.

For a moment I considered spitting (discreetly) every mouthful onto a napkin, or pretending I was fruitarian, but it didn’t take long before I devised a reasonably ingenious plan. Since there was enough wine in the room to bathe in, I decided I would simply down every bite with a gulp of French. Surely, superb wine can erase all unsavory taste and thought, right?

The duck liver “marbre” with breast and sweet balsamic walnut toast topped with mango chutney was served. I sliced the much-feared delicacy with a knife, picked up a piece with my fork, and slid it into my mouth. As fate would have it, an accidental flick of the tongue soaked my palate with a curious taste. It was rich, velvety, not at all unpleasant, and rather tempting. As I let the piece rest on my tongue to melt, all the savory juices flowed freely, and when I finally succumbed to a bite, I discovered the buttery texture, the earthy flavor, the hint of spices. My eyes began to glaze as I followed one bite with another until my plate was clean. Three more foie gras dishes in increasing complexity of flavors were served. By the time we got to the chocolate volcano dessert, I was so subdued by the meal that I wanted to slide out of my chair and disappear under the table for a nap.

I have not tried foie gras again since (I don’t expect it to be part of my regular diet anytime soon) but I find myself craving for it once in a while. It’s like a tempting thought that comes unbidden. The worldwide debate whether to foie gras or not to foie gras (animal rights activists are lobbying for its ban because of the “cruel” process of forcefeeding the goose or duck via a tube) only adds to its allure. Before the jury reaches a verdict and we’re all driven to partake of it as contraband, I will perhaps indulge myself with one more delirious mouthful and raise my glass for a toast to all things rich and as yet unforbidden.

*Note: The foie gras dishes served were part of a food festival and are not found on the regular menu.

Also published in GMANews.tv

Bacon-alia

Time was when I thought that all bacon were created equal. I arrived at the conclusion when I realized that I’ve never tasted bacon I didn’t like. To be sure, there were differences in flavor, both obvious and nuanced, but all invariably gave me the rush of endorphins that I needed to feel filled and fulfilled.

That night opened my mind to the hierarchy of bacon. My fellow managers and I gathered for dinner to bid one of our colleagues goodbye and to celebrate the nearing end of another year. So we found ourselves in a private function room in Katre, each of us having a hard time choosing from the ample selection, and seemingly trying to outdo the other by ordering the most sinful, calorie-drenched dish on the menu. I couldn’t decide between the paella and the barbecue ribs, both of which I had enjoyed on previous occasions, so I ordered both.

The ribs was as I had remembered it – the flavorful meat, glazed with barbecue sauce and with the right trimming of fat to send me into a frenzy, was clinging precariously to the bone, and gave absolutely no resistance when I poked it with a knife.

The paella, however, was a disappointment. The rice I had fallen in love with – not the traditional Arborio, but a long-grained, chewy variety whose name now escapes me but whose texture and flavor left an indelible impression – had been replaced with couscous, which, in my view, did not provide enough surface for the proper coating of spices in the paella.

I nursed my paella failure by licking every sliver of meat off the rib bones. I thought myself satisfied, until Bambi, wife of one of our officers, graciously offered me a slice of Angus bacon from her husband’s plate. One slice and one big bite later, I must have blown a synapse because suddenly all I could manage was a long, emphatic Mmmmmmmm. Dingdong, who was also offered a taste, at least proved to have more resilient neuron junctions and managed to say, “Panalo!” In a conspiracy to have at least one more taste, Dingdong and I ordered Angus bacon for Perl who called to say he was arriving late. So taste it one more time we did, and again my vocabulary was reduced to that of a one-year-old’s.

I vowed that night that I will be back. I will have a serving of Angus bacon all to myself, chew the meat and fat with equal passion, and pay the chef the best compliment of all – a clean plate.

Now you know where to find me next.

Also published in GMANews.tv