Byline: Britt Farbo

American French toast, a version of pain perdu, is not my favourite dish in the world; it’s something I have to be in single-minded search of. If presented with this dish unguarded, most of the time I’ll decline. Just some mornings one wakes up with a vision of the meal they have in mind and this is especially true when one craves something not in their usual gastronomical repertoire.

This particular morning, a desperate quest for the ineffable plate of diner-style French toast with a giant pile of bacon, extra crispy, one large pat of butter, and real maple syrup was summoned forth from a place deep inside. These visions came into play from the internal life nostalgic, where cartoon word-searches were conquered on paper placemats; battle plans imagined by L’Enfant in primary colour-crayoned brilliance were lacquered in maple syrup and ratified against spilled orange juice on vinyl tablecloths for eternity, or at least until it was time to load up and leave. This was a time in life when the word ‘French’ was equal to ‘fancy’ and ‘classy’; in my American mind, it still is.

As the United States marched into war with goddamned Saddam in 2003, our dear French friends suggested they call us a cab, because the leaders of my country might in fact be drunk. Our Congress retaliated, although not too formally, by shunning all things quasi-French – or understood to be French – from their hallowed canteen. This was one of the more lighthearted moments of inefficacy since 9/11 and I long for the days of genteel absurdity from Congress, not plutocratic spew. Freedom Toast, Freedom Fries, Freedom Dressing, Freedom Bread and Freedom Kissing: this was just a lame bunch of sad sabre-rattling that distracted from the seriousness at hand.

The French and the Americans have a strange and passionate love/hate relationship unique unto itself and this will always be the case, Freedom Toast or not. We agree on bread, we agree on eggs, we agree on putting them together and we agree, affectionately, on the mutual insufferableness of either side. Hope is not lost when there is bread to be found, even when you can’t stand that your most fiery friend made the loaf to prevent you from starving.

Wandering through the streets of Phnom Penh, I was presented with menus heralding thick slabs of bread, with ice cream and berry compote, served on white tablecloths. Further down towards Wat Phnom, in neatly situated stainless-steel pans, thin slices were lying like comatose neonates under heating lamps, presented for your pleasure in the various mid-priced hotels, hardening on the top and mushing on the bottom. Pathetic. I walked along the riverside and saw French toast on a few menus, but watching for a few moments the bacon from these kitchens came out limp and pale, like a melted Pink Pearl eraser; not deep red, crisp, snapping to attention when bit into like dry leaves under heavy boots.

These were honest copies, but not true to the vision. I moved on. Three-and-a-half miles of walking later, Freebird shone bright as the beacon of respectable love-it-or-leave-it, squared-away Americana in Phnom Penh. The natural resolution to the morning’s wandering: hot coffee, salty bacon and two slices of what I pretended was Wonder Bread grilled up. No ice-cream, no compote, no weak-looking bacon, no half-melted butter. REAL maple syrup. This was familiarity in the face of contempt.

Three ol’ boys in their early thirties, from somewhere lower than Memphis and more west than Biloxi, were sitting in the middle of the bar. One of the handsomest of the three gulped down tequila sunrises at eight minutes till noon, a wicked lady to bring out before sunset, but who’s judging? All three had been in the service, all three were slapped with the grunt stick, and all three were there to soak up their hangovers, read the paper, crack a couple of jokes and move onto their next watering hole. Stepping off with their left foot, thumb to forefinger, General La Fayette would have smiled at their retained precision while in town. The calf of one told a familiar story of the progeny of the Continental Army: inked boots, M-9, dog tags, a sad but familiar silhouette in motion.

I hummed along to a few of the songs in the background, enjoyed the sounds of my mother tongue in various stages of movement. A North Dakota accent here, a Japanese-American blend there, straight up East-Coast Standard, some sprinklings from Louisiana, and a light I-10 west pushing-out-of-Texas-through-into-California lilt, where LA is pronounced ‘Elay’ and Phoenix is elongated into ‘Phoeeenix’. In the company of these sweet/salty words of nourishment, I ate my toast in silence, letting the language and the meal soak into the dry pit of my stale stomach. Hope wasn’t totally lost and neither was the bread. The rest can be damned.

Freebird, #69 Street 240; 023 224712.

Not a single one of us living in the city of Phnom Penh has come here sans motive. Some of us have come in search of grand adventures; others simply for a job; others come for sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. All of us come marching to the same battle cry: seeking a change in the trajectory of life, but as we build our lives here, the ‘same same’ of life still catches up with us with the same dogged determination that we tried to leave it behind. The mundane, even in the midst of all the newness, comes at some point to bear its full weight on the grand ideas that brought us to this place. The thing is, in a clichéd manner, dreams take a hell of a lot of hard work and letting go of thoughts of grandness. As one lets go of the best-case scenarios, the heart of what motivated us in the first place to undertake any sort of task comes to play. This is where grandness becomes heartfelt elegance.

On Street 294, in a small, white house adorned with robin’s-egg-blue-lit bird cages is a small café run by a gentleman from Toronto, via Malaysia, who warmly welcomes all into his world. The garden in the evening is adorned with twinkling lights; beer comes chilled in ice-filled aluminum pails. The soundtrack is late ‘80s Madonna, and the newly added atrium adds a sense of homely panache. The fare is elegant Asian. Beef in betel nut; ginger grilled chicken; very good quality rice and, on special nights, Malaysian-style curry. Another highlight is the refreshing juice combinations: sugar cane and water chestnut is both cooling and challenging. The grilled fish is a delicate treat and, due to proper cooking. easily eaten and a pleasant introduction to fish for the unaccustomed.

The owner, Peter, is an effervescent man who lights up the place and brings a feeling like he is throwing one of the best dinner parties in Phnom Penh, even if you drop in for just a beer and some salt-and-sesame edamame. Outgoing and truly an asset to a BKK1 that is ever evolving into an upper-class mini-America Whitman’s Sampler, Mok Mony is the sort of spot many envision when they come to Phnom Penh to open a ‘small place’. Watching Peter meet the needs of his clientele while adapting his restaurant space into something comfortable has been a pleasure. What started as a vision for a garden café has evolved into a cosy dining solarium where each table is adorned with a fresh flower and a shiny silver universal plug, inviting the diner – be it a small group of lunchers or evening mealers – to watch the rain or get out of the heat or eat outside in the cool of the night. Mok Mony is Southeast Asian cuisine at its most honest: it is earnest and a most welcome voice in a neighbourhood drowning in its own coffee.

Mok Mony, #63 Street 294; 093 696799.

Time gets frittered in the sizzle of a hot afternoon; the heat of the angry pavement moves through your feet. This incurs the need to extract oneself from one friction-filled traffic stop to the next. We are in the days when being in Phnom Penh feels like living in a jacket potato: the air is starchy, it is hot but not a scalding hot, just hot enough though to hover between uncomfortable and utterly miserable. Humans in this kind of heat can’t help but fail to be productive. Unless you’re the guy with the chop-saw, it’s your moral imperative to never stop making noise, heat or no. Even though your stomach feels like haggis ten minutes from being served, one must eat – and if one must eat, then one should do so for comfort and coolness.

This weather calls for capacious salads, crisp breads, beautifully prepared vegetables and thinly sliced meats. Copious amounts of time spent under fans, contemplating the lackadaisical ice-cubes that waltz drunkenly around and around in their bitter alcohol bath. Or cooling the prickly heart and one’s heels with a chilled white wine. This, it seems, is the only natural way to take the edge off.

The French open-faced sandwich called ‘the tartine’ and served at Bar Felix is by nature light enough to knock the grit out of your mouth. Attractively grilled and buttered bread topped with exquisite velvety sautéed vegetables, touched with herbes de provences and finished with a nice anchovy fillet and a salty shave of parmesan, ‘tis a cooling and significant nibble. A generous bramble of a salad made with firm and peppery arugula, thin tomatoes and simple vinaigrette was a comfortable and rich fellow traveller and added good texture. The meal was finished with half a fresh, firm and tart mango and the impeccable golf-ball-size portion of vanilla ice-cream. I had asked for the bill but was brought a beer instead. The plat du jour also comes with a choice of beer or soft drink. Though I’d opted earlier for a Campari on the rocks, when you have a beer coming to you it is wise to simply take and enjoy. Sitting under the fan, in good lighting, watching the street and nibbling on peanuts for another 20 minutes seemed only fair.

Bar Felix is on Street 172, just off Norodom, and sits on a neutral and pleasant section of the road. Quiet during the day, it’s arranged for comfort, with a cosy back for the evening crowd and a cheery front welcoming the quiet lunch crowd. The cool blue and natural lighting complements the egg shell walls nicely: clean, simple, but with a funky streak. The owners are charming and the chef has one of the best caps in the entire city. The bar has comfortable and bold animal-print stools and if you’re not in the mood for light fare, it’s a happy perch from which to enjoy vodka and bitters while reading a book and watching the streets. Bar Felix also has one of the best Friday deals in town: a bottle of wine and all-you-can-enjoy Tartines for $25, making it a great spot to start your night.

Bar Felix, #8 Street 172; 095 589612

In 1903, childhood friends William S Harley and Arthur Davidson decided to strap a 116cc motor to a bicycle and see how quickly they could throw it down the Wisconsin back roads. The first bike could go straight, even take a gentle bend, but couldn’t make the pull out of a short grade. Not a complete failure, but a chance to go back to the drawing board. Classics – whether literary, culinary or a piece of machinery – take time to ripen. For evolutions and innovations to occur, relationships must first be formed. Naturally, since the Harley-Davidson is a native of Wisconsin, there had to be a few Germans involved in kickstarting greatness (think the Flying Merkel).

As the first of these bikes were being rolled out in the Wisconsin cold, their builders – many of whom were German – were eating plates of Bratwurst, thick pork chops, potatoes and solid, fresh-bread bowls of goulash soup. Such plates fuelled the graft, helping stave off the winter cold, and were delivered by women who had left Germany for the farmlands and factories of the American Midwest. Women whose daughters married the boys next door, before those boys were sent off to war.

Returning from the battlefields, these boys – now hardened men – struggled to survive in Eisenhower’s bland tranquility. So instead they sought out freedom and adventure on the ever-expanding interstate highways, riding cheap surplus motorcycles and rekindling the camaraderie of the front lines. The rebellion began as a quiet one, but it would ultimately bring about a new universal order.

If you see cops or bikers eating at a place, you can count on the food. This particular rule is paramount at Lone Bros, a cosy roadhouse with a live-and-let-live streak of stubbornness. Claus, the German owner, is a quiet man, quick with a pour and meticulous with placing your drink on a folded towel. His tattooed arms are efficient, his motorcycle enormous and his moustache second to none. Outside the bar stand two huge and beautifully shellacked picnic tables, with long benches that offer a good-humoured rowdy space and uninterrupted views of the picnic of lost souls that is Street 51.

The food, as with the chrome-clad 1500cc motorcycle poised outside, is quality: built for comfort and power, not speed. Bone-sucking pork chops; chunky potato salad with apple; intense sauerkraut with grilled brats that pop when cut; hearty chunks of fresh bread (expect change from a $5 note). Friday night is specials night, when the tables groan beneath vast servings of schnitzel or Flemish stew: hale-and-hearty recipes passed down by crazy aunts dragging unruly kids across post-World War II Europe. Good for the stomach and good for the soul, for as Dan Aykroyd once put it: “You don’t need a therapist if you own a motorcycle.”

Lone Bros, Street 51 & 174 (from 6pm)

The Feast of Saint Valentine this year was probably one of the best in my recollection. It was a day of celebration and the love of a larger community as my dear friends, a beautiful and smart young family, were finally able to make their way from Kabul to Delhi to Kuala Lumpur to start a new adventure here in Phnom Penh. To welcome them to expat life, a huge family style dinner was in order. Petra, a Jordanian restaurant in the heart of BKK1, fit the bill for fine halal dining.

The more continental and thus recognisable fare on the menu is appropriate for industrious eating, to fuel work and push progress: its purpose is to serve as a break in one’s day, to keep the body balanced and fuel the machine. Individuals are meant to stay on their side of the table, with their fork, their plate and their food. But eating like this goes against the vigorous family dining habits that are the hallmark of many Middle Eastern and Central Asian cultures.

Unlike the standard lavash, wrapped and tahini dripping, what deliciously sneak up on you at Petra are dishes you must – for the sake of their richness – share with a group of at least three fellow diners. Look closely and you’ll notice only a handful of tables for two, tucked away in a nice back corner where we saw one couple happily chowing down on a plate of delicious-looking cous cous.

The rest of the seating is intended for groups, because Middle Eastern dining is by nature a group exercise in which food and conversation are passed around with great fervour and joy. Plates are emptied and refilled by the nearest hand. Dishes are moved from one end of the table to another with speed. Deep brown and cilantro-rich lamb curries; tender chicken kebabs; rice with raisins and toasted cashews; pita bread, baked fish and filling one’s belly to sleepiness are undertaken in the public domain. After all, there is no shame in being well fed.

My dinner date for the evening was probably the happiest and most gregarious jetlagged five-month-old in all of Asia; a child with a quick grin, a chatty disposition and a natural pomodoro (‘tomato’) hair-do. She ate her pita soaked in various roux, yoghurt, rice; her baked white fish with a tomato puree, and hummus like a champion, making noises of deep appreciation with each gummy toothless bite as she went visiting from lap to lap. At the end of the meal I fed her the limes from my drinks. She would eat them, making an intrigued grimace, then once she consumed each slice let out this squeal of triumph, grabbing for more. By the end she fell asleep on her mother’s lap, hair hanging back, her little hands and feet dangling.

The adults at the table raved about the lamb, devoured the hummus and were slightly confused by the coffee. For some members of our party the lack of alcohol threw them, though the fresh juices were presented in large quantities and beautiful fashion. The patio outside offers a quiet view of the street and the wait staff are attentive but not obtrusive. The food comes well-paced and in time with the rest of the group. At Petra, it’s OK to bring a friend or five and eat like a family. In fact, it’s good for the heart.

Petra, #8a Street 288; 023 6663222. 

It doesn’t take much life experience to understand the unforgiving pendulum on which the sublime nature of a sandwich and its various noms de plume swing. Leave it in a schvitz and you end up with a soggy mess; leave it out at a get-together and the top of the bread gets crusty; have it roll around in a musty purse from 7am till noon playing bash brothers with a can of Dr Pepper and you get the picture.

Anybody can slap two pieces of bread together and call it a sandwich without much argument (although there was one case in Massachusetts where a judge had to rule on what legally constitutes a sandwich). Basically it boils down to two pieces of bread with something between. It doesn’t have to be fancy, nor does it have to be that great. It just has to be wonderful for the time it takes to eat it.

A person with a basic command of pre-school-level motor skills can work this dish out, though a sandwich – for all its egalitarian appeal – can indeed be something most brilliant. This brilliance is why we love them, argue about them and seek them out as our ultimate comfort food. A sandwich is seen as a solution to many of our basic problems. At a loss in life? Make a sandwich and have a nap.

Sonoma Hoagies, off Streets 63 and 278, kicks both the simple nature of the sandwich and its elegant potential up a notch without making you feel like you’ve been robbed by an overzealous concoction. The menu is short, with four or five different Asian fusion hoagies to choose from: Khmer pate, meatball, grilled pork, chicken, and pork roll. The sign outside had me at the word ‘meatloaf’, but sadly they were out of meatloaf the day I came. Instead of crying out to the gods, beating my breast and gnashing my teeth while running in circles yelling “SERENITY NOW!”, which would have been interesting but out of line, I took the more refined but risky meatball option.

Meatballs are hit or miss: they can be too large, gloopy and deceptively spring loaded, shooting out all over your pants on first bite. They also run the risk of tasting like a rolled-up ball of dense lint from the drier. The meatball hoagie at Sonoma was neither spring loaded, nor gloopy, nor dry. The meatballs were moist, appropriately portioned and looked like little bald men with sunburnt heads sitting in a crispy, chewy bread boat toasted in such a way as not to shred the roof of your mouth. The meatballs have this light and salty sauce, drippy but politely so, like a weepy best friend. Underneath was fresh cucumber, carrot, some good dark greens and a few thin slices of radish and a brooch of red pepper. Oh, that radish! That’s what did it for me, a lovely touch. I’m looking forward to eating hoagies through the hot season.

Sonoma Hoagies is simple and chilled out with a loft area and nice background music: think a comfortable, quick bite. Staff are cheerful, modest and cool. What really gets you is the price: at $2.50, it was money well spent for a little afternoon delight between two pieces of bread. As far as take-out goes, the sandwich travels well and can hold its own in a rowdy rucksack.

Sonoma Hoagies, #159 Street 278; 023 223617.

Simple food takes many forms in this world. Presentation can be fairly humble and even, to some, lacklustre, but one thing remains: regardless of the cuisine, there’s something remarkable and medicinal about simplicity and solitude in hearty dining. On an oft-dusty Street 155, just a few blocks down from the heat of the Russian Market and tucked back through a neatly groomed rock garden, is one of a handful of small Korean eateries, this one called Broom Tree.

Passing by a small cashier’s counter, you’re welcomed into a quiet world of clean white walls and black chairs, with white sheers on the large front windows. The stereo above plays a nice range of quiet classical music and the odd hymn as the patrons drink glasses of tea and cold water.

On my many trips here the greeting has always been warm, welcoming, so quiet is this tiny retreat. This is a place to collect your thoughts, have a simple hot meal, hydrate (bottles of cold water are on each table) and take a break from the blare and glare of the street outside. What always strikes me most about Broom Tree, speaking as someone who gladly takes the majority of her meals in solitary for the sake of her own mental health and yours, is how the personality of this café makes it a wonderful place to bring a book, study long division, or have a long conversation with yourself.

There is a feeling of no pity in being one’s own favourite dinner guest; there is a consistency and sobriety in the mood. This is a place to talk to yourself about that move back home to Toledo; what to do about this or that, or just be left politely to be and be comfortable while doing it.

The menu is small and precise, with a range of soups and something called a ‘Korean General Lunch’ which consists of about five dishes including kimchee and sweet pickles, a nice fish, a lovely pork belly dish and the standard rice. For less than five dollars this meal is fit for any general, Korean or otherwise, and to be frank could probably feed an entire platoon.

My favourite dish has to be fried pork cutlet, or as it’s called in my neck of the woods ‘a chicken fried pork chop with brown onion gravy’. The portion is also quite ample and, at four bucks, well worth it. When I put my mind to it I can eat like a half-starved lumberjack, but this dish is daunting: the other half usually ends up being hauled home. Like all good home-cooking, the pork cutlet is a blessed occasion when it arrives fresh and hot with a side of rice, a variety of pickles and really tasty coleslaw, but reaches its full saintly promise the next day in the company of two pieces of bread. This quiet lunch spot, though a bit out of the way, is something to warmly welcome in a town that keeps getting bigger, smaller and faster as the months go by.

Broom Tree, #55c Street 155, Toul Tom Pong I.

For the past weeks I have been missing my beloved Arizona Borderlands, which my family has called home for six generations, as well as getting over a case of Chronic Valley Fever. All I wanted in the whole wide world was a plate of refried beans and tortillas. Hearing rumours that Mexican missionaries were in the process of opening a cafe in Phnom Penh, I put this notion out of my mind trying not to get my gringa hopes up. Walking down Street 123, I was thrown headlong into smells of home, thinking it was a mirage in the mind of a non-practicing cowgirl. Praise the lord and pass the ammunition, it was not; it was Cafe Alma, a home-style Mexican cafe in the heart of Russian Market.

On my first go, I had succulent pork carnintas with fresh cabbage, onion, cilantro and lime. The meat rested on fresh corn tortillas which were the perfect thickness to be cradled. The salsa had flavour, but could have had more uff. The meat was flanked by a rice pilaf and refried beans topped with queso fresco. I had to hold back after the beans: they were just so right, I nearly cried from joy. Beans have been, to quote John Steinbeck, “a warm cloak against economic cold” in my family and they are my soul food.

My second go was a childhood standard: an egg, ham and bean burrito with a bit of cheese and salsa on the side, with fruit salad and a pineapple iced tea. The burrito was easy to hold. The flour tortilla had the perfect body: flakey, warm, savoury and chewy. It was filled and rolled so everything didn’t squish out the bottom. The burrito held strong and rewarded me with a lovely chewy little end-piece full of ham and cheese drippings to clean up my salsa.

Both meals were simply plated; though forks and knifes are provided, for the most part they are moot: this is why tortillas and hands were created. There is also a rotation of cakes, ranging from Dulce de Leche to Chocolate Kahlua and hot coffee with cream taboot.

The staff exudes enthusiasm and reverence for “The Mexican Kitchen” as something sacred, and feeding others is a calling they work hard at. I always leave Cafe Alma feeling nourished and looked after, like I went home to my beloved border and somebody’s nana just fixed me a plate. This place has heart, simplicity, warmth and a special kind of soul. The crew “Love the Lord their God,” but are cool about it. Personally I thank the Lord they love the manteca (lard) as well. Café Alma offers a daily market fresh menu, opening every day from 7am to 2pm.

Café Alma, Street 123 (near Street 454), Russian Market; 092 424903.