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Dear Friends,
I can no longer keep this to myself. I am an addict, hooked on mithai. What’s that? You don’t know about mithai? Mithai are Indian sweets and since Diwali, the Hindu Festival of Lights, is upon us, I can think of no better time than now to tell you my tale. So gather round your diyas and check out my post “Indian Sweets 101: Meeting Mithai” right here on ethnojunkie.com!
दिवाली मुबारक
Happy Diwali!
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You’ve heard it before: “Oh, Día de los Muertos is Mexican Halloween, right?”
Wrong. Día de los Muertos is decidedly not Mexican Halloween any more than Chanukah is Jewish Christmas – and if any unenlightened soul tries to tell you that, please disabuse them of that fallacious notion inmediatamente!
The Mexican holiday, Day of the Dead, is celebrated from October 31 through November 2 – and “celebrated” is the proper word: families congregate to memorialize loved ones who have passed away, but it is seen as a time when the departed temporarily revivify and join in the revelry rather than as a sorrowful occasion. Additionally, these days Día de Muertos, as it is also known, serves as a paean to the indigenous people with whom it originated in pre-Hispanic times.
In the year 1 BC (Before Covid), I headed out to Sunset Park, Brooklyn, to get myself into the Día de los Muertos spirit. Sequin-eyed, neon icing-coiffed calaveras (sugar skulls) are relatively easy to find in the neighborhood; this one came from Panadería La Espiga Real, 5717 5th Avenue. Although spirits don’t eat, this one seemed particularly interested in the pan de muerto I picked up at La Flor de Izucar, 4021 5th Avenue.
This bread of the dead is customarily embossed with bone shapes, sometimes crossbones, sometimes in a circle, and other traditional embellishments such as skulls and a single teardrop. It’s a barely sweet, simple bun (like so many Mexican panes dulces), light and airy with a tight crumb, and topped with sesame seeds or sugar (like this one) with hints of cinnamon, anise, and orange flower water.
Above: A view of the inner sanctum.
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These days, Tiger Sugar and their wildly popular brown sugar boba milk drink along with ancillary products like ice cream pops, milk egg rolls, and even popcorn are a common sight in Chinatowns (and elsewhere!) along with a multitude of wannabe competitors. Two of their more intriguing creations include their innovative take on classic filled rice balls, in this case Black Sugar Salted Egg Custard and Black Sugar Sesame.
Filled rice balls have been around forever, long before there was a Tiger Sugar, and are readily available in the freezer case at Asian markets. Tiger Sugar’s interpretation capitalizes on their signature flavor: since the outer enclosing layer is made from glutinous rice, it’s a little chewy like boba and tastes like their famous drink, but less intense.
There are ten 1¼-inch spheres to a package; all you need to do is boil them for a few minutes (they expand a bit), drain them, and as the instructions direct, “put them into iced fresh milk or sweet soup”. When you see the phrase “fresh milk” in Chinatown, it simply refers to standard whole milk; “sweet soup” comprises any of the many varieties of Cantonese tong sui: sweet, warm dessert soups.
Black Sugar Salted Egg Custard Rice Ball. You might recognize the distinct flavor profile of salted egg yolk from visits to your favorite dim sum parlor or Chinese bakery – so many buns and balls filled with creamy salted egg! Unlike a moon cake, you won’t find a whole egg yolk in there; this filling is made from palm oil, powdered sugar, bean paste, milk powder, egg yolk powder and then, finally, salted egg yolk powder – but it’s rather tasty nonetheless.
Black Sugar Sesame Rice Ball. The filling is sweet and unquestionably black sesame, its texture is a little crunchy and gritty in a good way. Again, most enjoyable.
IMO, they’re both good with a bit of milk poured over, but not tossed into a whole glass of fresh milk. Also IMO, they don’t play well with ice cream – trust me, I tried. But I keep looking for more ideas because I really do like them; I’m convinced there’s an ultimate way to use these in addition to sweet soup. Any thoughts?
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My first encounter with kringler, the filled Danish pastry, occurred decades ago courtesy of an annual snail-mail catalog specializing in Christmas goodies that was headquartered in Wisconsin. (Racine is renown as the kringle capital of Wisconsin and kringler are the official state pastry.) In the year 2 B.C. (Before Covid), I wrote about Holtermann’s Bakery on Staten Island – they offered a rendition which, in my opinion, tasted as close to homemade as you can get from a store-bought baked good – and subsequently posted a face-off between theirs and a version from Trader Joe’s.
TJ’s product comes to us from the O&H Danish Bakery in Racine, Wisconsin, a family business that’s been making kringler and sharing hygge since 1949, so their Danish culinary bona fides are well established; their website touts over 20 tempting flavors.
When I posted the challenge, a friend tipped me off that TJ’s offered a seasonal pumpkin variety and I promised myself I’d track one down. And now, two years later, it’s “pumpkin spice szn” again and I finally made good on that promise. (In fairness, TJ’s is pumpkin caramel and not pumpkin spice.)
As Danish go, it was pretty good – sweet, dense, and doughy – but I’d be hard pressed to identify it as pumpkin caramel (or pumpkin anything) even after tasting the subtle filling by itself, devoid of pastry or icing. Maybe if it were a multiple choice option – but even then the choices might have to be sufficiently disparate like a) pumpkin, b) chocolate, or c) fish to guarantee landing on the right answer using the process of elimination.
But don’t get me wrong: I’m not carping. Alongside a cup of hot cocoa, it made a righteous breakfast that was a hygge harbinger of seasonal calories to come!
Complete and uncut, with a quarter for size comparison.
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A visit to any Chinatown bakery this time of year will reveal a spectacular assemblage of mooncakes (月餅, yue bing) in a seemingly infinite variety of shapes, sizes, ornamentation, and fillings, all begging to be enjoyed in observance of the Mid-Autumn Festival, celebrated this year on September 21. Here are two pandan mooncakes, one with preserved egg yolk and a mini version without, from Chinatown’s Fay Da Bakery.
Since 2021 is the Year of the Ox, known for his patience and resolution, I was determined to purchase (and eat my way through – no matter how long it might take me 😉) an assortment of these delicacies in order to compare them and ultimately share them, virtually, with you. For a deep dive into the holiday and these delicious treats, please check out my Chinese Mooncakes Demystified page detailing their similarities and differences in an attempt to shed some light (moonlight, of course) on their intricacies.
中秋节快乐!
Note: Because of the COVID-19 pandemic, some businesses may be closed – temporarily, we hope – and prices may vary. The Mid-Autumn Festival, however, will be with us forever – as long as there are autumns to celebrate!
More from the sweet snack aisle at the Chinese supermarket, specifically Snowflake Crisps (aka Snowflake Cakes) this time.
Yes, it’s a thing – if I am to believe what I’ve seen on the interwebs. They’re a popular dessert in parts of China and Taiwan (based on the number of recipes to be found) and a favorite commercially packaged treat as well (borne out by the number of varieties I see in Chinese markets).
On my last Flushing excursion, I chose two of the many selections vying for shelf space, Strawberry Snowflake Crisp (with Chinese and Japanese labeling)…
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…and Boba Milk Tea Snowflake Cake.
They’re pleasantly sweet but not overly so; they share a common texture, at once a little crispy and perhaps a bit melt-in-your-mouth, marshmallowy-chewy like junior varsity wannabe nougat; and they’re feathery, gossamer – so lighter-than-air that it compelled me to scrutinize the ingredients on the label, but helium was not among them.
The Strawberry Snowflake Crisp had a little crispy, snowy white “icing” on top but only the merest suggestion of a crunch, somewhere along the candy <-> cookie continuum.
The Boba Milk Tea Cake was less chewy – but that’s acceptable because the boba, appropriately, were very much so; the bobas do taste like those in ubiquitous bubble tea.
One factor to keep in mind is that because of their fragile nature, you’re also buying a lot of packaging. Each 1¼-inch square is individually wrapped ensuring a protective cushion of air, then verrry loosely packed in a bag or an eminently reusable container (peeking out at the bottom in the first photo).
More snacks from the Chinese market to come. Stay tuned….
Although Guyana is located in northeast South America, its culture is more Caribbean than South American; a former British colony, English rather than Spanish is the official language.
Bakewell, the aptly named Guyanese establishment at 127-08 Liberty Ave in South Richmond Hill, Queens, turned out to be a pleasant surprise; their baked goods were a cut above the competition.
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This Guyanese sweet coconut roll known as salara gets its vibrant red hue from food coloring, not some obscure South American red coconut or from Photoshop. Viewing it in the case, I was expecting something a lot drier, but it was moist, doughy, and one of the best of its kind that I’ve experienced. (You know you wanna bite into that, don’t ya now?)
By the same token, their cassava pone was stickier (in a good way), spicier, and generally fresher tasting that those I’ve had in the past – and I’ve sampled many.
Beef and chicken patties were not bad, gently seasoned with pronounced salty overtones, but the sweets really took the cake that day.
The story began here:
Every August, as a routinely flushed, overheated child, I would join in chorus with my perspiring cohorts, boisterously importuning, “I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!” Little did I realize that rather than conjuring dessert, I was conjugating it and probably laying the groundwork for a lifetime of fascination with foreign languages and world food.
We lived in close proximity to one of the best dairies in town; it was known for its wide assortment of locally produced natural flavors, certainly sufficient in number and variety to satisfy any palate. Perhaps my obsession with offbeat ice cream flavors is rooted in my frustration with my father’s return home from work, invariably bearing the same kind of ice cream as the last time, Neapolitan. Neapolitan, again. My pleas to try a different flavor – just once? please? – consistently fell on deaf ears. “Neapolitan is chocolate, strawberry and vanilla. That’s three flavors right there. If you don’t want it, don’t eat it.” Some kids’ idea of rebellion involved smoking behind the garage; mine was to tuck into a bowl of Rum Raisin….
There’s lots more to the story, of course. Click here to get the full scoop! 🍨
You may remember my St. Joseph’s Day post about a visit to Brooklyn’s Court Pastry Shop, 298 Court St, to procure some sfinge for the holiday. My bathroom scale certainly does. Since everything in the display case had appeal, I had to restrain myself from my customary one-of-each-please order, but it did warrant adding add a few other items to the docket:
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Almond Biscotti and Cassata. When I was into baking Christmas cookies, I took great pride in my toasted almond biscotti with Amaretto infused dried cherries. But then I tried these. <sigh>
Sharing the spotlight is a single-serving cassata. The full-sized version is an iconic over-the-top sweet Sicilian sponge cake, saturated with rum or liqueur, stuffed with cannoli filling (often shot through with chocolate bits or candied fruit), clad in marzipan, and loaded with more calories than a Christmas dinner in Palermo.
The inner workings.
The Urban Dictionary says that “half in the bag” means “subject has consumed some alcohol” so this rum baba which is wholly in the bag means that it has consumed more than “some” alcohol; I’d suggest ubriaco.
The inner workings. Hmmm. Perhaps a straw….
The verdict: I can testify that there were no objections – and a preponderance of evidence for a continuance in the future.
I’ve written about this triumph of texture over gravity before; in that post I described Vietnamese Pandan Cake, Bánh Bò Nướng, easily identified by its emerald hue, but Honeycomb Cake, aka Beehive Cake, has its fans throughout Southeast Asia and in China as well. It’s easy enough to find a snow white version in Chinatown bakeries around these parts (sometimes even on dim sum carts) but less frequently a chocolate colored (notice, I said colored, not flavored) variety like this one from Dragon Bay Bakery at 5711 8th Avenue in Sunset Park, Brooklyn.
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Above, a slab cut from the loaf; this piece is about nine inches long. It’s sweet but not too sweet, which I know will be welcome news to many of you; its texture is the key to its charm.
How does it come to look like this? Recipes differ. I’ve read that the type of flour used can be rice (common), tapioca (often in the Vietnamese version), or even wheat; the leavening agent, yeast (common), baking soda, baking powder, or a combination thereof; even the method of preparation can vary from steamed (common), to baked, or stovetop pan “griddled”. But somehow, the results manage to be rather similar: springy, bouncy, airy, spongy, fluffy, chewy, and squishy.
(Which quite by coincidence, I think were the names of the Seven Dwarfs. But I could be wrong about that.)
A more modest slice revealing the light cakey-looking top layer and the virtually weightless honeycomb structure supporting it. Its color comes from the use of brown sugar instead of white.
Still don’t get the “honeycomb” part? Here’s a cross section of the above slice, cut against the grain.
And a reminder: New York City boasts at least six Chinatowns and perhaps a few more depending upon your definition of what constitutes a Chinatown; just pick one and go! Now, more than ever, please SUPPORT CHINATOWN!