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An uber-foodie named Andrew used to work at my agency. I interviewed him near the time of Chinese Moon Festival, and I remembered him as the white guy that we made fly all the way in from Boston, and who bought moon cakes from the bakeries nearby after the interview…and he was sharp. And was more literate in Chinese than I am. I wanted him hired. Sure enough, he accepted an impossibly complex job from us.
Dang, that man could COOK.
He made anise seed pressed holiday cookies for all 100 staff before the holiday party, and created a knockout multi-course vegetarian "Fall harvest" theme menu dinner that Heddy and I savored after a long day trolling around Green Festival. His stuff was far too fancy for those who had become acclimated to ‘PMS’ (Poor Man’s Sandwhich- the $2 Vietnamese sandwhich) and $3.00 2 item combos. Our colleagues didn’t know what to make of his rose (yes, the flower) flavored cookies. I don’t think he could understand why the mostly Asian immigrant staff didn’t like his idea for a high-class dessert tasting social as a fund-raiser.
"They’re more from the giant aluminum foil tray heaped with chow mein and fried chicken" approach I explained.
We’d talk excitedly about Taiwan food, and about my stubborn conviction that if there were too many steps in a recipe-I would refuse to participate, either skipping the step or skipping the entire effort altogether. He’d get as stupidly excited as I would about the Kaffir lime tree in my backyard because its dark & shiny leaves imparted subtle yet incomparable flavor to Thai cooking. We’d lament the challenges of raising food plants and herbs in fickle SF weather on his balcony up in the elements.
He’d explain patiently how transfering from a pot to the food processor back to the pot and the other half dozen or so steps were SO worth it, and his system for photocopying recipes out of entire library wall sections and organizing the keepers in binders.
Only Andrew truly related to my whining about how Chinatown style chinese food was too crude, crass, oily, unrefined. And I knew what he meant when he said he couldn’t bear going back to visit Taiwan again until he lost some weight. (Mind You, at about a size 2, I am considered a hefty gal in Taiwan. And this is culture where people see nothing remotely rude about declaring "you got so FAT!" in your face). And he was good natured enough to dress up in a Santa suit and pass candy canes to our clients.
After a particularly frustrating day in an Oakland middle school, as we doled out mental health services with an eyedropper into a place that had mental health needs like the Mojave desert,
I took him to a Tango Gelato in Oakland (Sadly, I think that site has now perished, too chichi for that particular district in Oakland). Around the corner from the scary-ass McDonald’s (Ok, in fairness the McD’s itself was not scary but the drug dealing loiterers sure were) and boarded up Albertson’s, behind the smoky Jamaican bar, one could find Argentine owned Italianish gelato: chantilly cream, mango, pistachio, espresso, pear, chocolate hazelnut…
This was before I’d been to Argentina.
Andrew went bonkers when he saw a pyramid of little jars/cans behind the counter and immediately asked if they were for sale.
The proprieter sold him 2 cans, and Andrew looked at me in disbelief when I revealed my ignorance about Argentine Dulce de leche.
"You HAVE to taste this",
Straightaway he sat me down in the shop, asked for plastic spoons, pried the lid up, and extended a spoonful of drippy, beige, caramelly, stuff. It came out of a non-descript jar. Didn’t look too great, really.
“You want me to just eat it straight!? Shouldn’t it go on ice cream or top something?”
“NO”.
…and he was right. This was no Americanized, over-processed, white sugar, wanna-be caramel. This was creamy, flat-out, XXX, lusty Dulce de Leche in all its buttery tongue swirling glory. Whew. Those Kraft caramel cubes, Cadbury Caramello bars and See’s chocolates of my youth were now blown outta the water forever. And I was converted. I think being a foodie is somewhat akin to having an odd, more or less socially acceptable fetish. Only certain folks can relate, and y’all find yourselves congregating to share secrets and methods and pleasures. Years later P and I finally traveled to Buenos Aires. They served hundreds of variations of dulce de leche, and they offered it at every meal in pots or drizzles and at every shop or newstand in alfajores cookies. Andrew had long ago fled the particularly ass-backwards chaos of his job with us (save yourself!). But I think of him fondly as I peruse my Chef’s catalog and the Haute Chocolate website of Vosge’s…
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