London boleh!

I’m trying out a modern-day media technique of showing you a photo of a pretty face (in food terms) to get you to read this post. It’s a dessert I had in Salamanca – a chocolate brownie with Incan gold (the head chef was from Peru)!

So back to my post. As you know, my most recent travels on the Continent were in Spain, where we were attending a family wedding. Now, I love many things about Spanish food (see here for evidence), but I also can’t deny that part of me that needs more than just meat for sustenance. And the Spanish don’t seem to have a very close relationship with vegetables.

This was part of the reason for my frustration during that week of travelling – everywhere we went, I had to make special requests for veggies. Often, our requests were greeted with looks that combined “Why would you want that…?” with “That’s not the way we do things here” and “I can see you two are going to be trouble…”. But I had to stick to my guns and not be afraid of looking like a weirdo as I persisted against the bureaucracy. It’s quite surprising, really, because I’ve always felt that Spain was the best country in Europe for customer service. (My husband explains the reason for this: “Spanish people, darling. They just start shouting.”)

And so, after a week of having to fight to get my greens, we flew back to London and ended up at our favourite restaurant on our first evening back. As we were seated at our usual table, I got a real craving for some fresh vegetables. You see, I’ve been reading this book on healthy eating (more on that later) that suggests asking for fresh cut vegetables instead of the bread they give you before the meal. The principle behind the eating plan is that your body will get to its ideal playing weight if you don’t get in its way with fake, processed and unhealthy stuff that upsets your body’s chemical/hormonal balance. A part of the programme is to eat lots of fresh veggies, which trains your body to want more (in the way eating lots of sugar sets it up to want more sugar) – hence my craving.

It is surprising how difficult it is to get the simplest thing on Earth that is in any restaurant kitchen. The restaurant’s duty manager looked more and more panicked as I explained that I would like some plain, cut vegetables please. Gamely, he went to the kitchen (in case Gordon Ramsay hasn’t done enough PR for his profession, I should just mention that head chefs and cuddly bunny rabbits have very little in common…). He came back and offered me a carrot soup that was on the menu. I jumped on the offer of carrots and asked if I could have just the carrots cut up. This time when he went back to the kitchen, I suspect he got thrown out.

I thought it just wasn’t going to happen, when he came back with a large oval bowl full of fresh lettuce, carrot batons, cucumber and radish. I was delighted, but he was still looking a bit sober. I realised why when he explained that the vegetables weren’t from his restaurant, but from the Lebanese place nearby.

I was impressed. People living in London often complain that things are slow here, you can’t get what you want, that service isn’t as good as in other parts of the world. However, I thought, where I had heard ‘no, no, no’ all week, I was finally back in a place where you could sometimes hear a ‘yes’. I appreciated how intelligently he had solved the problem, and I thought to myself that London could indeed do it (in Malay, London boleh!).

And just before anyone inclined to that reflex pulls out the Anglo-Saxon card from their Uno pack, I should point out that the duty manager in question was French. When I later explained to him my veggie-deprivation of the past week, he said he understood where I was coming from. In France, he said, in Michelin-starred restaurants of a bygone era, they would serve fresh, cut vegetables before the meal. The vegetables were of such good quality that they could be served on their own. And they would taste excellent. Just imagine the sweetness of those carrots and the fresh perfume of those cucumbers and lettuce leaves.

Incidentally, Cinnamon, there’s another reason you should keep going with the organic delivery!

Love

Truffle

Waste Not, Want Not

I’ve always thought that was such an odd expression. While the meaning is (to most people who are not me) clearly “if you don’t waste it, you won’t be left wanting in the future”, my imagination has always thought it sounded more like one of two things. The first is “don’t waste it, and don’t want it”. I’m convinced it’s all the fault of that comma…

Anyway, semantic wrinkle in the Universe duly denounced, I move on to today’s topic, which is another wrinkle in the Universe it would be nice to have ironed out. During my recent trip to Spain, it was necessary for us to stay in a few hotels. By the end of the week, I was thoroughly tired of the experience. More on that in the future, but one of the things that started overwhelming me by Day 6 was the amount of food that gets wasted in hotels.

The photo above shows that part of the standard delivered-to-the-room breakfast which we didn’t touch. In addition to all of those rolls and pastries came an abundance of eggs, ham, sausages, sautéed veggies, toast, juice and coffee/tea which we just managed to finish. Is someone seriously expecting anyone (triathlon-types excepted) to eat all of that as well?

I didn’t sneak any photos, but buffet breakfasts on this trip told a similar story. Piles of scrambled eggs, fried eggs, chocolate cakes, fruit tarts, mini-sandwiches, sausages and bacon soaking in grease, enormous quiches, fruit salads and what not assembled and waiting, and most of it getting packed up at close of breakfast and taken away behind the screens to be quietly done away with. I wonder if hotels think you need to see mountains of food at your disposal so that you don’t feel so bad paying them high rent for small spaces.

There is broader issue here. Almost everyone throws away a lot of food at the end of a day – restaurants, bakeries, patisseries, sandwich shops and supermarkets. True, some do give surpluses away to charities, but they are a slim minority. And my question is: why are we producing so much if we can only eat so much?

I’m going to keep an eye out on this issue and find out more, but for the moment, I wonder if small steps wouldn’t help. For example, after taking that photograph, I thought that maybe next time, if I know I’m not going to have the pastries, I should just let room service know and ask them not to bring any. Maybe, just maybe, this could filter through to the kitchen’s purchasing decisions. This strategy will not be without its challenges (try explaining to a chef or waiter in Europe that you want something that’s not on the menu – more on this in a future post), but I’ll give it a shot. Which brings me to my imagination’s second interpretation of the “waste not, want not” mantra: waste not what you don't want.

I’d be glad to hear from our readers if you’ve felt similarly about food wastage in hospitality and catering establishments, or if you have any experiences and tips to share.

Love

Truffle

Birthday Pastries vs. Birthday Blues

I get the birthday blues every year. I think it started when I turned 24 while I was living in London. I was in the M&A department of a blue-blooded British investment bank, lived in a smart part of London, and had a tall, blond, public-schooled investment analyst for a boyfriend. That was the year I realized that I added little value to the world even though I worked 14 hour days. I could play no musical instrument, no sport (except for badminton, but is that really a sport?), and I did not know how to paint nor produce anything of artistic value. I realized that if I were suddenly hit by a bus, no one would miss me for anything I did. So, I embarked upon a mission of self-improvement, which was half Singaporean and half Virgo in nature. I decided to take up various courses - piano lessons in Hampstead, art lessons on the Strand and tennis lessons in Regents Park.

Many years have passed since that point in time, 13 to be exact. I can now paint huge canvasses of acrylic and oil and can play decent tennis. No, I didn't get very far with my piano, but my two lovely children are learning to play piano, violin, tennis and golf. I have a handsome doting husband (neither blond nor English), a good, steady career, a beautiful house with a koi pond, and a burgundy BMW. However, I still get the birthday blues.

Today is my birthday. Three days ago on Sunday, as my birthday blues started settling in, my fabulous girlfriends from Davidson turned up at my house for a surprise tea party. The five of us get together regularly for glasses of wine, dinners and movies and have been compared with famous posses like the one in Sex in the City - some of the fashion and very little of the sex. The fab four, Artichoke Dip, Brown Sugar Cookie, Fruit Salad and Texan Chili, turned up at my door with huge smiles and tea from Gevalia, cucumber sandwiches, scones, clotted cream, raspberry jam, and brown sugar cookies. The warmth and affection was just what I needed and I smiled through it all, not revealing the blues I concealed in my heart.

At work today, I had a similar special treat as Swiss Chocolate took me to a new French Bakery in Uptown Charlotte, Amelie, and treated me to pastries and coffee. The greedy guts that I am, I wanted to try two pastries instead of one, and she smilingly obliged. I chose the chocolate eclair and my all-time favorite, the almond croissant and washed it all down with some French roast coffee. I also got to sample some of Swiss Chocolate's plum tart. They were all very good and the almond croissant was exceptional.

My mother once said to me, "Cinnamon, wherever you go, you manage to make really good girl friends. You are very lucky." She's right. All through my life, in all the cities I have lived in, I have managed to surround myself with a tight group of girl friends. Maybe, I am always looking to replace my original tight group of four sisters. Whatever the impetus, I am indeed fortunate. I may not be able to move people with music, nor art, will probably not win a trophy for tennis, but if I were hit by a bus, I think my sisters and friends will miss me.

The pastries won the battle this year.

Cinnamon

Real Tapas

Just before my trip to Spain (for a family wedding), I’d promised to tell you about the famous Segovian suckling pig. Well, unfortunately Hubbie fell ill as soon as we reached Madrid, so a trip to Segovia was out of the question. The pigs escaped us once again! Thankfully, Spain isn’t by any means short of other wonders to please the palate.

My favourite has to be the Jamon Iberico de Bellota. This is an entire leg of pork that is cured and then carved by an artisan into thin (but power-packed) slices. Apologies to my wonderful Italian friends, but eat your heart out, Parma! The flavour and texture of the jamon is incredible. The pigs (of the black Iberian variety) are reared free range, and they spend their cushy lives wandering oak forests and feasting on acorns (bellota). According to popular belief, the bellota is what imparts that extraordinary nutty punch to the jamon’s flavour (and the pigs’ easy-going lifestyle is what results in the firm yet yielding texture of the meat). We had plenty of it at the wedding reception, having stationed ourselves on the trade route between the carving table and the marquee full of guests.

Another favourite Spanish classic of mine is paella. There are varieties featuring chicken and rabbit, but I prefer the seafood kind. My father-in-law makes a mean paella, and the first time he treated us to it, he was surprised to learn that South Asian cooking (e.g., Cinnamon’s beloved biriyani) uses saffron as well. Indeed, paella and biriyani seem pretty similar to me – rich rice dishes with meat and the magical saffron. I figure this must be due to the Arab influence in Spain through the Moors and the Arab/Persian influence in South Asia (through, for example, the Mughals). I’m hoping to get a copy of the family paella recipe to share with you, but I didn’t want to hold up the post for it, so you’ll just have to be patient!

What I can share with you though is a recipe for my final favourite; that simple classic, which serves as breakfast, lunch on the go, or a light dinner with salad: the Spanish Tortilla. Having grown up thinking of a tortilla as a round flat bread, the Spanish egg tortilla took me by surprise. Modern versions at boutique hotels feature some sort of deconstructed omelette, but imho you can’t beat the true tortilla – one that looks almost baked like a cake. I asked my husband (whose tortilla recipe this is) what the secret to a good tortilla is – his response: “you have to make sure the potatoes are really happy”. Translated from Spanish into English, I think that means lots of time, attention and good quality olive oil. Que Aproveche!

1. Ingredients: eggs, large onions, potatoes, plenty of olive oil, salt, pepper (and chorizo if you like it)

2. Chop the onions finely. Peel the potatoes and chop roughly into small cubes (not more than about an inch a side).

3. Heat olive oil in a large frying pan, and once hot add onions and potatoes. Cook until the potatoes are reasonably soft and on the verge of browning (but not completely there yet).

4. Whisk eggs and add some salt and pepper. When the onions and potatoes are ready, add the eggs (ensure an even distribution) and turn the gas to a low setting.

5. If you like, add a few slices of chorizo, but make sure it goes into the liquid egg mixture and doesn’t sit on the surface (because chorizo doesn’t taste so good if it cooks on the frying pan surface).

6. Once this side is cooked to your satisfaction, turn it over by sliding it from the frying pan onto a plate and turning the plate over onto the frying pan.

7. When it’s ready, serve it with a nice lemony-dressed salad and good quality baguette. If you have leftovers, you can make Spanish sandwiches with butter and baguettes.

Love

Truffle

Back to the Fearrington

Prince Charming and I have now been married for 10 years. We had two weddings in the year 2000 to accommodate a timely green card application. The first was in April - a small affair in San Francisco. Immediate family and a few friends gathered at City Hall in the morning to witness our legal union and we had 50 guests join us in the evening to enjoy the food, wine and the view at the Carnelian Room at the top of the Bank of America Tower. A few months and a green card application later, we had a grander get together of 1,400 guests in Chennai, India for our Hindu wedding with two receptions and that encompassed meals prepared by a famous chef of that time, Arusuvai Natarajan, and a gala dinner at the Fisherman's Cove Resort that ended with fireworks. Yes, fireworks.

You might remember that we went to the Fearrington Inn back in April to celebrate our SF wedding (see Picture! Picture! Picture!). Well, as creatures of habit and nostalgia, we decided to go back to the same place for our August anniversary too. Once again, it was perfect. The weather was a cool 73⋅F, the gardens gorgeous, and the food simply impeccable.

Everything went like clockwork, and we chose the wine pairing to go with our three-course meal again. The sommelier, Max, did a remarkable job once again and paired each dish with a nice wine. What I liked was that he chose wines that I had not heard about, but what surprised me was that they were mostly sweet! Gerwurztraminers and Rieslings! And an Austrian wine I had not heard of but whose name just rolls off the tongue - the Grunerveltliner. As we analyzed why the sweet wines went so well with our beef carpaccio with pesto creme, Charming's foie gras with English ginger cake, my lobster tortellini with lime and vanilla dressing, we realized it was because every dish had a good dose of .... sugar. Don't worry, I am not complaining (see post on sugar). Just observing. Anyway, with each glass of wine, I found it harder and harder to remember the names and vintages, and Max was kind enough to write them down for us and I have attached it here for you ... and me. I am not very good at filing paper away.

Look at the list. Who in today's fast paced lap-top tapping world writes like that? That writing is more from times past... In any case, it's going to keep us going back to the Fearrington for future anniversaries.

Cinnamon

Will YOU Pay for Quality?

Did you read the article on Toledo Museum of Art's Glass Pavilion in the Wall Street Journal today? It's on the front page. I took great interest in reading it as I was just there this past summer (see post on Modigliani and roast pork). It is a well written article of the eye-opening kind. It explains that though the museum is the legacy of a local glass maker in honor of the city's glass-making past, the curved pavilion glass was imported from...China. The Shenzhen based manufacturer was willing to invest in the $500,000 equipment for making the intricate glass for the exterior of the building and is quoted as saying "US companies are too cautious, preferring standardized processes and easy money." What? Have the tables turned? When did the Chinese mount the high horse of quality?

My first thought was that American food production has indeed become all about standardized processes and easy money. Taste and quality have been forgotten along the path of production expansion and cost cutting. Small, local farmers are going bust as large scale farms use pesticides and chemical fertilizers with the single goal of widening profit margins.

It also made me think of the organic vegetable delivery I had just cancelled. My friend, Brown Sugar Cookie, had passed on details of an organic vegetable service to me and I had tried them out for a couple of weeks. Yes, the fruit was perfectly ripe and delicious and the vegetables was exceptionally tasty. Though they were smaller in size, even the colors were more vibrant. For those two weeks, I felt good that I was exposing my children to fewer chemicals and also felt empowered that I was supporting local farmers in NC. The delivery service even goes the extra mile of emailing you recipes for the delivered produce. How perfect for a foodie. Unfortunately, I felt that the quantity delivered was small for $30 and I kept thinking I could buy more at the farmers' market for the same cost. Not much difference between me and the American glass manufacturer who is not willing to pay for quality.

So, what should I do? More importantly, what would you do?

Best,
Cinnamon

Give a Granola Bar for Breakfast

School started early in Singapore - 7:30 AM and I always found it difficult to eat breakfast at 6:30 before leaving for school. My five-year old has the same problem, and I find myself struggling to get her to drink her half-cup of milk and granola bar before her school bus rumbles up at 7:05. As a Singaporean, as a foodie, and as a mother, I constantly worry about my children's nutrition. I want to give them the best possible start in life and nourishment is one of the building blocks I focus on.

A year ago, I approached a friend of mine in my neighborhood - a full time lawyer with a little family just like mine. She played the same juggling game of rearing children and keeping a balanced household with her husband while building a full-time career. She, however, managed to find the time to give back to society by volunteering at charities. She asked me what I was interested in and I said simply that I wanted to help empower women and children. This friend led me to Pat's Place, a child advocacy center for sexually abused children (www.patsplacecac.org). It's a one-stop center where a child and his/her family can go for forensic interviews, medical exams, lawyer meetings and support from social workers - a little more intense than what I was looking for, but if this what the Higher Powers wanted me to dedicate my time to, so be it.

I was there last week talking to the director for development and she was informing me about the issues of fund raising and that an important part of development included getting non-financial donations of granola bars and juice boxes. I held my breath. She carried on to explain that in many cases, families ended up at the center very upset, rushed, and panicked and would have invariably forgotten to give their child breakfast. "A granola bar and a juice box helps fill the little tummy and makes the interview process a lot easier." Yes, I have shed a tear or two at this place.

So, friends in North Carolina, if you are reading this and want to do something for these young victims and help Pat's Place empower these little souls, here are some ideas:

1. Drop off a box of granola bars and juice boxes at Pat's Place. Or drop them off at my place and I will take them there.
2. Join me at their "Blue Jeans and Barbeque" fund raiser on the 11th of September - $50 a ticket.
3. Tell your corporate charitable committee about Pat's Place and put them in touch with the Director of Development. Let me know if you want a name and number.
4. Tell people about Pat's Place and spread the word. Schools, clubs, churches, friends whom you think might want to help. Networks are powerful.

We have 70 readers. If each and everyone of the 70 decides to do one thing for Pat's Place, what will the total impact be? At the very least, it will be 70 breakfasts for abused children in North Carolina.

Best,

Cinnamon

London tapas, anyone?

The last couple of weeks have been completely food- and fun-filled. First, there was Sparkly Date Palm’s wedding in Ireland a couple of weekends ago. Then, there was a friend’s surprise birthday party at one of Covent Garden’s iconic American imports. Later in the week, I was at a wine and food pairing evening in Canary Wharf (where plans were made to go to a pop-up restaurant in the Isle of Wight later this year). This past weekend alone saw a barbecue on a tiny central London balcony, a book launch at an Indian street food joint in Soho, and dinner at the oldest Indian restaurant in the city. The trend is set to continue – we have another wedding this week, but this time in Spain. On the way to the wedding, we’ll be stopping at a famous suckling pig restaurant in Segovia. I managed to squeeze in a few gym sessions over the past few days, but I don’t think it’s going to help – I’m on track for spontaneous explosion!

With all of these food experiences to rival the schedule of an APEC summit, it’s hard to choose which one (or ones) to talk about. Since Cinnamon and Truffle have promised to tell you about a variety of things, including our food findings, I thought I’d share with you a few highlights and discoveries from the past weeks. This is food-blogging, tapas-style!

Wedding in Dublin * This was wonderful for a whole lot of reasons, including the beautiful couple, and their lovely, welcoming family (the Irish are my favourite people on the planet). The food highlight was the wedding cake, with all three layers of sponge, chocolate and fruit having been home-made. I’d never had a home-made cake at a wedding before, and it was simply delicious – nothing like the usual plastic fruit cake which most wedding venues offer. Nice one, Sparkly Date Palm!

Asia de Cuba, Covent Garden * I’m not a huge fan of this place, it being a pretty expensive version of cheap and cheerful. But we had a memorable dish of seared tender scallops, which came with a creamy sweetcorn sauce and caramelized onions. Something I’m definitely going to try to replicate at home. If it works, I’ll share the recipe!

Battery, Canary Wharf * In ten years or so, when the East End becomes the in place to be in London, Battery is going to become the penthouse restaurant everyone wants to go to. It’s located at a bend in the river on the West-side of the Wharf, and so it offers a great view over the heaving Thames and towards the Gherkin end of the City (behind which the sun very aptly sets). A real find here was the Cremant de Bourgogne, Moingeon, Blanc de Blanc, an excellent French sparkling wine from Burgundy (and therefore made from Chardonnay). It would be perfect as a daytime sparkly aperitif, when you’re having friends over and you’re not feeling like an overly uptight, dry, evening-gown-type champagne.

Mooli’s, Soho * Started up by two ex-corporates (one of them an ex-lawyer who also found the road to freedom), Mooli’s is one of the early movers on the Indian street food scene in London. It totally makes sense to me – after an evening out, why go for a kebab and chips when you can have a fresh roti with healthful ingredients? Their goat mini-mooli, with tender cubes of goat meat and potato, with refreshing red onion wrapped in a warm roti was pretty good. I’m going to try wrapping some spiced lamb and potato (avec garnish) in a chapatti at home and - although it won’t be the same as Mooli’s - see if it works as a quick lunch. Watch this space for a recipe.

That’s this week’s round-up! Next week I’ll report back from España (and hopefully tell you about real tapas...)

Love

Truffle

Chill, baby, chill

I don’t know how it is Stateside, but here in England, the days of bright and baking sunshine are dwindling. Some days we see chilly winds take the upper hand, and Londoners scramble for their cardis and jackets. Given this changing unpredictable weather, it’s always the case that a few weeks of heat and humidity followed by a cold snap (relatively speaking) bring on the bugs - cold and cough bugs to be precise.

I once heard that this was because people weren’t drinking enough water during the warm, humid days and the dehydration made them susceptible to colds. Okay, so drinking more water on hot days might be a solution. But there might be a couple of other ways to nuke those germs.

A Russian lady taught me this one. She recommended taking this at night before bed, when you have that feeling like you’re about the come down with something. Find some red peppercorns (like in the picture) and whole black pepper. With a pestle and mortar, crush about three-quarters of a teaspoon of each. Mix the crushed pepper into a bit of vodka (something between half a measure and one measure should do, but it’s up to you). Drink it in one go, and use some vodka (without the pepper!) as rubbing alcohol on your neck and limbs if you like.

The other method is a traditional English or Scottish remedy, Hot Toddy. This involves taking a large mug of hot water, juice of a lemon quarter and some teaspoons of honey and then adding half a measure of whiskey (use the Single Malt only if you must, Cinnamon). Even just the hot water, lemon and honey make a comforting drink that I often use to help stave off a cold or to soothe a sore throat.

I know we have an international readership on this blog, so we’d love to hear from you about traditional cold remedies from all your different parts of the world!

Disclaimer: You don’t need to tell an ex-lawyer that anything featuring alcohol or remedies needs a disclaimer! The above post is not meant for anyone under the legal minimum age in their relevant jurisdiction. Enjoy Single Malts responsibly. Don’t crush the peppercorns with your bare hands and then rub your eyes. Please don’t use any of the above as a substitute for medical attention. Do what your doctor tells you, and don’t rely on what you read on the internet, Einstein.

Love

Truffle

Cappuccino with Nutmeg

I love coffee. I love French roast, Italian espresso, Portuguese cafe pingado, and most of all a simple cappuccino with a few shakes of nutmeg. The only coffees I don't like are Arabica and Sumatran - too acidic. I initially thought I was going to write about the fact that coffee originated in Brazil and that thanks to Vasco da Gama, many around the world now enjoy that smell of the freshly roasted bean. I was wrong. It actually originated from the hills of Ethiopia and Arabian kings and noblemen were the ones who established it as a social drink. Arab traders then brought it to Italy, and the rest is history.

Coffee formed an integral part of our daily structure in Singapore. At 4pm everyday, our cook, Solai, would come round checking for coffee orders. Coffee was fresh milk, boiled, frothed using the old teh-tarek method of pouring from one cup into another a few times, with a good dose of Bru coffee powder. My readers will be shocked to find that our family in Singapore drank (and still drink...) instant coffee. BUT, Bru coffee was no ordinary instant coffee! It had chicory in it. According to Google, chicory was historically a cheap substitute for coffee in the olden times... Great, not only did we drink instant coffee, we drank cheap instant coffee! Anyway, my school friends didn't seem to notice, and many an evening would find a group of us gathered around our dining table drinking Bru coffee, known as Solai's coffee those days.

I left Singapore for the UK when I was 18. I came back home most holidays and one of my favorite past times was hanging out at Suzuki Coffee House in Centre Point with my best friend, Beans. This was back in the day before Starbucks, before it was cool to drink coffee, and when Takashimaya was only a green plot of land next to the Mandarin. We would lounge around Suzuki Coffee for hours on end, each drinking three cups at least, and analyzing the intricacies of our love lives....or, in my case, the severe lack of it! Beans was always more adventurous but I would order the same thing every time - Cafe Mexicana, which was essentially a cuppuccino with nutmeg.

Beans and I were classmates together at RJC. We were so similar, yet so different. We were both Indian girls who had always been the minority at school, both tall, and both had an affinity for maths. She had mad curly hair, mine was straight, and she was light skinned and I was dark. We were like yin and yang and were always together. Our friendship was filled with fun - secret giggles about the guys we liked and catty eye rolls toward the girls we didn't. Our relationship was never competitive but always supportive. It was through my friendship with Beans that I learned how friendships can be true, loyal and actually enlightening. I have made many wonderful friendships with women since then, and all have been based on the Beans model of true friendship.

Beans, miss you! Looking forward to our next cup of coffee together, whenever or wherever that may be.

Love,
Cinnamon

Just Peachy

My work experience has predominantly been in asset management and I have been fortunate enough to work in London, Tokyo and Hong Kong. What I have learned about asset management folks all over the world is that timing is everything. You have to time it right to buy the share or bond low and sell it high. You don't want to lose out on any opportunity and hence, by nature, most asset managers are kia su.

Kia su, kia said with a nasal tone, is a Singaporean expression with Chinese roots that means "afraid to lose." Every Singaporean is born with it or at the very least instilled with with it by osmosis whilst growing up in Singapore. I have had to sheepishly explain this to my friends in the US when we get to restaurants, bars or cinemas with free seating, and all of a sudden they see me run to the best table or seats, like a woman possessed, leaving them trailing behind. My American husband has grown to understand this and simply rolls his eyes and says, "aiyoh, soooo kia suuuu!"

I see the element of kia su-ness in action at my workplace once or twice a year when the law firm that we work with sends in a box of peaches from Georgia. The peaches are always left in the kitchen followed by a mass email from the receptionist: "The box of peaches from Blah, Blah and Blah Law Firm is in the kitchen. Please help yourselves." At which point, you see a significant number of people simultaneously rise very deliberately from their seats, trying very hard not to seem desperate for these peaches. Everyone makes a beeline for the kitchen and the box is emptied out in a matter of minutes.

But you have to understand that these peaches are to die for. They arrive in the best condition, individually held in place by an egg-carton-like green foam, beautiful and perfect. The skin is smooth and fuzzy as a baby's cheek, in tones of mauve and coral, and the scent indicates the ideal state of ripeness. I like to slice them at work, to save myself from slurping the juices over the trash can next to my desk and I savour each and every slice.

Don't worry, I have once again not forgotten the mandate of a food blog, so here is a recipe I would like to share with you. Cut the peaches in half, pit them and grill them. As soon as they come off the grill, smother in a mixture of butter, brown sugar, and cinnamon and enjoy while hot! Personally, I prefer the original - fresh peaches.

Cinnamon

Emerging from the Straits

So, my sister Cinnamon complained on Facebook the other day that she’s been waiting to hear about my recent trip to Singapore and all the food experiences I had there. Rewind a few weeks, and a telephone conversation between us had me telling her about my latest idea for the blog and her saying she wanted to hear all about Singaporean food instead. I mulled over this, but nothing came, and I didn’t write.

I was thinking the other morning (after seeing her Facebook post) about why it is that I don’t feel drawn to writing about my Singapore food experiences. It’s unusual for me to feel that way, because I usually see Singapore as a, to use my sister’s words, Food Mecca. Hey, I usually see it as a Mecca for almost everything. Every time I fly to Singapore on the world’s best airline, it’s as if I’m going on a pilgrimage - I go to pay respects to the origin of me, my home, my family, the food I love, the warmth... all the things that England doesn’t have and can’t give me. Rewind a little more (okay, a lot more), and we have me first coming to the UK to go to boarding school (not because my parents didn’t love me – it was my crazy idea!). I remember after one of my trips home for the Christmas break, I brought back in my schoolgirl suitcase a box of Singaporean Kleenex and I cried into it for two weeks. Yes, I really missed home.

Forward back to the present day. Things seem to have changed, and I noticed it more than ever this time around. I am one of these people who feel a permanent sense of displacement. I’ve lived my entire adult life in a country that I can’t fully call my own (much as I have wanted to, the tabloid-induced xenophobia makes it very difficult for me to feel accepted…). But when I’m in Singapore, I’m definitely not a ‘local’. My messed up accent betrays other influences and my approach to life isn’t safe enough. The country where our parents were born isn’t a candidate for a real ‘home’ either, as I’ve never lived there. Don’t get me wrong – I completely appreciate how flexible I am and how global an outlook I have thanks to my own and my family's varied experiences. But when it comes to the question of where I feel at home, I can’t put a pin on a map. Even if you gave me more than one pin, I couldn’t put two of them close enough to each other to feel good about it.

And so, in Singapore, which I used to look at as a beautiful paradise full of all things wonderful that cheered my heart, I didn’t feel the same this time. And that’s why I haven’t been able to write about the food – no longer did I feel that Singapore had the best food to offer me, or even the comfort food I wanted. Over the past year, I’ve built a system here in London that’s custom-tailored to my health needs, and I missed it. So much of the food I ate in Singapore (outside home) didn’t make me feel good anymore. It made me feel heavy, sluggish and over-stimulated. So often I had the feeling that it was oily, packed with white carbs, made from ingredients that weren’t of the best quality and thrown together really quickly. I knew then that it was over. The connection I’d clung onto since my school days had been severed. And I realized that, even if the broader British Isles don’t yet qualify for the title, this little flat here in London was maybe, just maybe, becoming home. Somewhere in the aftermath of the avalanche, a small blossom peeks out of the snow...

Remember Modigliani

A few months ago, I sat next to the CEO of an economic consulting group on a flight from Boston to D.C. I was in the middle of our Spring break and had to fly to Boston on some work just for a day. I really enjoyed talking to the CEO, a woman in her forties with a twinkle in her eye. We talked about many things including the restaurants my family and I had tried in D.C. and her favorite chocolate restaurant - Co Co Sala, where she frequented with her teenage daughters. We also talked about her work, which was economic consulting to governments around the world, specifically on policy implementation. The flight was short, and before we parted ways I asked her what her secret to her success was. "Don't sweat the small stuff. Things might change, colleagues might grab a responsibility from you or even send unwanted ones your way. Don't make a big deal out of such events. Just go with the flow and keep moving forward."

I was reminded of her advice at the Toledo Museum of Art last week. We were in a quaint town on Lake Erie visiting a close friend, Kohlrabi, and her family. The children had a great time, swimming and boating in the lake and my husband and I had a very restful vacation. Kohlrabi understood how starved I was for art and one day whisked me away to the museum which was an hour away and dropped me off while running errands. I went to the East Wing and gorged on all the modern art on offer - large canvases splashed across with paint. Before making it back to my pickup location at the appointed time, I felt the need to pay my respects to the Impressionists, who had originally drawn me to the world of art many years ago. As I stood and stared at the Modigliani painting of Paul Guillaume, I was surprised to see that this piece of perfection encompassed many lines and blotches of imperfection. I was stunned. I am so glad Modigliani did not sweat the small stuff and carried on to finish the portrait.

"Wait! I thought this is a food blog!" ask my new readers. Well, that evening, I roasted some pork using a recipe I had seen on the foodnetwork by Anne Burrell - roasted pork with chunky apple sauce, as a gesture of thanks for my hosts. I had bought a huge hunk of pork roast, larger than usual and covered it with a pesto of herbs, chilli flakes, garlic and olive oil. Since it was their holiday home, there was no meat thermometer at hand. Worrying about cooking the pork through, I unfortunately overcooked it. As we sat down to eat it and my fork cut though the meat, my face fell. It was a disaster!!! Kohlrabi turned to me and sweetly said, "remember Modigliani. The flavors are wonderful and the sauce delectable. Yes, the meat may be 10% overcooked, but it is far better than you think. Small imperfections, yet overall a masterpiece. That is what this meal is."

Thank you, Modigliani. More importantly, thank you Kohlrabi, for your friendship and for the wonderful week in Ohio.

Love,
Cinnamon

Service with a smile

My mother taught her four girls to be kind to everyone. She taught us to be friendly and respectful to all, from window cleaner to tycoon. "Don't just say 'yes, 2 packets of peanuts,' say 'yes, Uncle, two packets of peanuts, please' and for goodness sake say it with a smile! You are never too good to give a nice smile to people." A typical sermon after a purchase from a kachang puteh stall. The heart is tender, with or without money.

So, I travel to Massachusetts once a month for work. I usually stay at the same Marriott for a night or two, and I order the same food. Teriyaki Salmon Salad for dinner and Egg White Spinach Frittata for breakfast. I always have the same servers for my room service. Khajida from Ethiopia, who is always so excited to see me, never hesitating to tell me how I have gotten too dark as it must be the tennis, or I look so tired, am I not getting enough rest. Once I ordered the apple crumble a couple of hours later, and as I sheepishly opened the door, she said it is okay as I hardly ever order it. It was then that I found out that my order of pizza two months ago had shocked the entire kitchen and they were all wondering what had happened. Then there is Steve who brings my breakfast. The poor man shaves his head every six months as his mother goes through bouts of chemo. He always sweetly says the same thing as I open the door, "I knew it was your order! The cappuccino with the foil!" The Marriott does a pretty decent cappuccino, but they cover it with cellophane, and it arrives half melted into the coffee. I worry about consuming plastic - you know, cancer and all, so I always make a request for it to be covered with foil instead.

I have the same happy relationship with the taxi service that we have that ferries our team between the airport and the hotel. It is a Pakistani father-son team: Asif and Ahmed, a gentlemanly pair who are always on time. It turns out that the son is a criminal lawyer back home and the father a middle-school teacher of history and Islamic studies. They have farmland, houses and goats waiting for their annual trip. The father talks to me about Pakistani politics and the son about his 7-year old and Hindi movie star gossip. The one topic I talk to both father and son separately is that of food. It seems that the father is the expert at making roti and the son biriyani. I learned from the father that you make the dough, knead it, and put it on the pan until it is half cooked and stick the tava in the oven for it to rise for it to get the naan-like look and consistency. Genius. The son is not as keen to share recipes, he just likes to tell me how good he is.

Last Thursday, as I got into the taxi, exhausted after three long days in Massachusetts, Ahmed said, "We have organized for you to have biriyani. Can we make a stop close to the airport to pick it up?" He then calls to confirm, adds an order of kebabs and naan and away we go. I nervously set the plastic bag through security check, but thankfully, the food gods were on my side. I managed to have one of the kebabs with my routine beer at the bar before boarding the plane. The lamb kebab was hot, spicy, fluffy, with flecks of fresh coriander - the best I had ever had. The waitress smiled and turned a blind eye to her regular customer as I waved to her with a kebab sticking out of my mouth. I managed to hold back from devouring the whole thing before getting back to Charlotte. My husband and I enjoyed a lovely dinner of a gesture of kindness and friendship.

Doesn't hurt to smile, indeed.

Cinnamon

Monster Mint

I have a bed spilling over with mint. I planted it between the koi pond and the wall and it is flanked on either side by the wisteria and the deck, so that it is well contained. To those who have not dealt with mint in their gardens before, be warned that it can be pretty invasive. Without boundaries, you will be mowing the mint with your lawn. I thank my lovely neighbor for sharing this broad-leaved monster mint that can even sprout roots if you set a cut bunch in a glass of water for a couple of weeks.

The mint bed adds to my peace when I feed the koi, sipping my morning latte. I take the extra five minutes after the kids have left for school, before my shower to get ready for work. I love seeing it grow in profusion. I don't think my husband understands this zen element of the mint when he curses and swears at them when he wades amidst them to clean out the external pond filter, which is hidden under the deck. To keep the peace at home, I regularly make as many things with mint over the weekends.

I must admit, I first planted the mint so that my mother can make biriyani, which requires lots of deep fried mint, and my mother-in-law can make mint chutney, that goes well with the vegetable cutlets she makes. Since neither visits us often enough, I have discovered Moroccan Mint Tea. It's an easy recipe that is very satisfying. The recipe is for hot tea, but I followed the advice of a sweet Malaysian friend of mine, who was visiting on a hot day - how about making it an iced tea?

Moroccan Iced Tea
8 sprigs fresh mint
3 tsp green tea (matcha)
3 Tbsp brown sugar (of course)
4 cups boiling water
Brew for 4-6 minutes and strain onto crushed ice and garnish with more mint.

Put your hat on, relax on your lounge chair in the backyard, and sip slowly.

Happy 4th of July!
Cinnamon