The Comfort Food I Cannot Deny
By: Freddi Woomba
Tags: India, Travel, Culture, Asian Food, Food

The Comfort Food I Cannot Deny

Despite a Divine World of Flavor

I started cooking professionally fifteen years ago. The learning was constant. The kitchen brigades, the comradery, and the sweat. I was fascinated most, being from a melting pot, by Asian food. Growing up, I mostly hated it. Once I was an adult working in kitchens, I noticed more than the stir-fried beef and celery. The continent held more than sweet and sour balls and wonton soup. I moved to Vancouver in 2000 and ate my first samosa. It instantaneously won over my heart. Indian food began trending.

When I finally left my world for a nomad’s, my path led to Hindustan.

I discovered the Silke Route. Flavors, colors, and sensations exploded. An onslaught of chaos in the streets. It was frustrating, yet curbed by divine, cheap food. And nearly killed me.

There were rough nights in dingy, little rooms. Laminated on the floor of a dark cell, moaning like a spoiled child, the door sounded. I cracked it open. A little girl ran off. The knock came again, only louder. This time, three generations of women poked their heads in like a totem pole. There I lay, groveling. Their normally curious faces painted with terror. I had my arms around my stomach.

Grandma called out, ‘hospital! hospital!’

‘No,’ I insisted while gripping my waistline, ‘no insurance, it's ok.’ This was the third time I faced a dose of dysentery. The process evolved from being worrisome to annoying and painful. The mustard colored toilet water and crackling sounds inside my belly. I didn’t care except that I could not leave the room for two days. The rippling effect of medicating the bacteria. I learned later to fight it off without pills. The following week was rough though, as I could hardly handle the smells related to Indian food, let alone eat. The country was not known for its salads.

Breakfast was forever changed with my first masala dosa. Like a huge, crusty crepe stuffed with spicy, mashed potatoes. Served with fresh, coconut puree and lentil sambar. Life had a new flare. My world that much more enlightened. If it happened that I got sick, so be it. Dishes like this were worth the sacrifice. My second time in India, food could not poison my armored stomach. While the street food of Myanmar was a different story.

I loved the ritual of finding a great, outdoor food stall. Created for the poor to eat. They were made cheap and easy. The food was no different and eaten at risk even for middle-class locals. They hadn’t air conditioning nor protection from mosquitoes. But in most parts of the developing world, this portion of the day was my favorite. There stood a man, the same man day and night, making his chapatis for the millionth time. The taste could not be matched at home because it was enriched by the dirt under his nails and sweat from his brow.

Through mainland S.E.A, my love for the noodle intensified. Fried noodles were everywhere and while far from remarkable, they were cheap. They were easy to order from unreadable menu cards. Noodle soups were no different.

And debateably the best, and plenty did, for me was Hu Tieu.

In Vietnam, noodle soup was a religion. Every morning I revived excitedly for the corner stall’s fresh broth, varying condiments, and free tea. Many times, the soup came with a basket of greens, sprouts, and lime. I got up and reached for a second bowl. The clerk always peered at me, awkwardly. Almost to say, ‘come on, bro, don’t dirty more shit.’ I smiled at him nevertheless and nodded, confidently. I then ripped up the herbs and lettuce, mixed them with the sprouts, squeezed in the lime and added some soup broth and fish sauce. Suddenly, I had soup, salad, and tea for less than two bucks. Things changed in the north. The tea around Hanoi was served hot, strong and in very small cups. The extra greens were rarely found. And Hu Tieu became untraceable.

In China, many soups were oily. And they overused M.S.G for umami. Similarly to India though, countless ethnicities brought many traditions. Every province had its staples and styles. Like hot pot, though sold everywhere, Sichuan was known for it. The way their peppercorns numbed the insides of my lips and palette. The prickly bush, they called it.

It tickled my tongue and eventually, burned my throat.

But, throughout China, if I was hungry, I went no further than a dumpling. This was the easiest, sure-fire thing to eat. Menus were in Chinese. I could not order most things. If I asked for gyozas, I knew they would be good. And unlike the days of agony in Hindustan from budget food, China’s street eats brought on brief contractions each morning for a week or two.

Eggplant curry, green papaya salad, bakso soup, sweet and sour pork, bimimbap, kimchi, dal bhat, cold noodle bowls, baked eel, battered squid, snails with fried garlic. Without a shortage of things to try, for food enthusiasts, Asia was our Mecca. And while I loved it all, and ate everything from cockroaches to bull’s ball soup, sometimes I needed a small comfort from the West. Sometimes, what I really needed beyond the fried rice or puri-puri was a good, old-fashioned bowl of fries.