Category: Food

Summer of 2014. It is a sweltering evening in June and I am sitting with a group of friends at Sam Doo, a popular Chinese restaurant near Central Market. We have all gathered here to celebrate the return of one of my best buddies following a lengthy trip home. He is running a bit late, and I absentmindedly start skimming the room.

The decor strikes me as flamboyant and incongruent: the walls alternate between colours of salmon and pistachio while laminated posters advertising alcohol serve as art. A shiny Chinese shrine ornamented with Christmas lights looms conspicuously over the door, its lights flickering on and off.

My friend finally enters. Lucio looks a bit fatter and his rosy cheeks denote a lack of sunshine and an indulgent lifestyle. His face beams with an exultant smile, and I can sense that something big has happened. He cannot wait a second longer and spills the news: he just got engaged. To our surprise, his fiancé is in town and will be joining us later.

As we digest the overwhelming news, the table fills with all kinds of dumplings, wonton soups, bottles of Tsingtao beer and cups of tea. All around me, I can hear the unmistakable fast, choppy sound of Mandarin.

The dumpling egg noodle soup with BBQ pork ($3.50) is authentic. The fat wontons are the very definition of juiciness and tenderness. I bring the whole bowl to my lips and enjoy the salty, flavourful, dark broth. Irresistible youmian noodles (thin egg noodles) complete this great dish.

The steamed dumplings have that sticky, supple consistency and juicy innards that characterise good dim sum cuisine. The phoenix dumplings ($2.20) are bite-sized packages of dainty shrimp, while the BBQ meat dumplings ($2) come in the form of fat parcels of succulent pork and tasty vegetables. In comparison, the deep-fried wontons ($6.5) seem a little bland. Not only are they lacking flavour, they are also a bit pricey.

We wrap up with fried meat cakes ($2): sesame-covered deep-fried dough enveloping lumps of minced pork; the sweet-savoury dichotomy is very satisfying.

All in all, Sam Doo serves good, honest Cantonese food that will not disappoint connoisseurs of Chinese cuisine. Its extensive menu covers a wide array of dim sum dishes and other Chinese delights. The service is not great, but it does the trick. Taking the quality of the food into consideration, the price is not bad: for a full meal, expect to pay $6 to $8 per person, including beer. Toilets are clean and well stocked. Finding a parking spot for your car might prove impossible, so best to come here by other means.

I come back from the bathroom only to encounter Lucio standing near the table, leaning over the figure of a woman. Her arched back is supported by Lucio’s right arm and their lips are conjoined in a passionate kiss.

She straightens up and I have a clear view of her face. It takes me a second to assimilate what I find, but when I do a shiver runs down my spine. We both try our best to suppress our reactions, but from the petrified look in her eyes I can see that she recognizes me.

“This is Soklang, my future wife,” Lucio announces with a triumphant grin.

To be continued…

Sam Doo, #56 Kampuchea Krom

It’s funny how something that seemed to lay dormant in the past can suddenly resurface and start haunting you. It was a fleeting moment of passion on a torrid June afternoon that forced me to succumb to my most primal instincts. In the process, I wrecked somebody’s heart; someone that religiously adheres to the “eye for an eye” philosophy.

This evening I dined with the provocative woman who started it all, and ironically, the only person who can put a stop to Lucio’s thirst for vengeance.

Che Culo looks like an elegant warehouse with teak floors, tall, vaulted ceilings and a simple, minimalist décor. Embedded into the walls are stylish dining booths that run along the entire West side with seats strategically placed under tall arches. There is a warm and refined light that fills the spacious building, imbuing it with charm; I know she will feel at home right away.

Outside on the exotic lush terrace a woman of merciless, sophisticated beauty sits on a low wooden bench; her exposed, sensuous shoulders bathe in the timid light of an early moon. It has been a year and a half since I saw her last. She drinks a classy espresso martini ($4.5). I sit next to her and, defying the most basic notions of Spanish virility, order a senoritas delight ($4.5). Both cocktails are perfectly concocted. Mine is fruity, delicious, and as its name suggests, stereotypically girly.

The menu is simple and small, which scores a point in my book. The “share plates” (all the dishes mentioned below) are $5.50, while the “specials” (e.g. lamb kofta spoons with yoghurt) are $7. The sides, like patatas bravas, are $3.

We give the cheerful and obliging Australian waitress carte blanche to impress us. She starts with a wooden slate board lined with three different dips and supple pita chips: the beetroot dip has an earthy, subtle taste; the pumpkin with feta cheese is creamy and downright irresistible; the eggplant, with garlic and Kampot pepper, is zesty and aromatic.

Next, the waitress brings zucchini and feta fritters. The tomato and onion sauce (“bravas sauce”, according to the menu) is spicy and flavorful, a perfect complement to the tender and juicy pieces of fried zucchini.
Lastly, we are presented with a clay pot of pork and beef meatballs with a thick tomato sauce. We both agree, this is our least favourite dish. It is good, but unlike the other plates, it lacks creativity and it is perhaps a bit bland.

That being said, Che Culo runs pretty smoothly for its first day; the food and service we enjoyed was, for the most part, of unmistakable quality. I predict that after the initial chaos subsides, this little tapas spot will become a favourite of many expats, including myself.

“Last summer you ruined his life,” my dining companion abruptly states matter-of-factly. She slowly raises her gaze from her cocktail and pierces my soul with a burning glance.

“You also ruined mine.”

To be continued…

Che Culo, Street 302, #6B.

I enter Choi Go Jip, a Korean restaurant on Street 360 effusively recommended by savvy friends. It’s still early, not even 10:30 in the morning, and the restaurant is predominantly empty. The place makes me feel a little uneasy: the bare walls, wide corridors, frail light seeping through large windows. It’s all too diaphanous for my taste. Too cold. Quite fitting for such a meeting, perhaps?

I sit at a table encased in waist-high wooden planks – a grill pit occupies the centre, akin to typical Korean gogi gui – and anxiously await my companion’s arrival. After a couple of minutes, a tall, bald man, brandishing a despicable goatee, enters the restaurant. He takes a seat in front of me.

To ease the tension I order a bottle of makgeolli ($6), a rice alcoholic beverage. It’s delicious. In fact, it is so good that I gulp three bowls on the spot. Its sweet, refreshing flavour goes down with extreme ease. He chugs a bowl then slams it hard against the table.

We each order a large bowl of bibimbap ($7) and decide to share the LA ribs ($15). I ask God for that to be the only thing we share today. The waitress removes the cover and carefully places the meat onto the grill as another waitress places myriad pickled side dishes along the table, creating a kaleidoscopic effect. You have everything from fermented soybeans to kimchi pancakes. Armed with scientific curiosity, I dive in, sampling each one.

They are all savoury and spicy.

As the meat sizzles on the grill, a mouthwatering aroma caresses our nostrils. I dig in first. I pick up a piece with chopsticks and bring it to my mouth. It’s tender and delicious. My companion follows suit and stuffs some meat and kimchi into a lettuce wrap, bringing the entire thing to his mouth. He bites into it and an expression of pure bliss takes over his roguish visage. As I watch him, I have a frightful epiphany: only self-centred, hedonistic bastards are capable of experiencing such profound elation.

Bibimbap is my favorite Korean dish, served in the traditional, piping hot earthenware pot, and the one placed in front of me does not disappoint. Maybe I have had more flavourful MSG-enhanced versions, but this one is great; light, fresh and with no unnecessary oil. The burnt rice stuck to the bottom is irresistible.

Not a word is spoken as we devour the amazing Korean spread. The silence only heightens the tension, now a thick ether filling the empty space between us. I finish chewing, swallow, and look him in the eye. It’s time to talk business. ‘Why are you back, Lucio?’ His face contorts into a smirk. “Unfinished business, my friend.”

I keep my poker face, reach for some more meat and stuff it into the lettuce. ‘Lucio, I just hope you aren’t still thinking about last summer.’
To be continued…

Choi Go Jip, #31 Street 360; 023 964 112

I don’t mean to brag, but I got the wild-haired, dreamy-eyed girl’s number. It wasn’t such a stupid pick-up line after all.

Today, for our first date, I bring her to La Plaza, a Spanish restaurant in BKK1 that I’ve heard a lot about. I can tell right away that the girl has class: she orders a glass of Manzanilla wine. I haven’t have this sherry wine, autochthonous of my province, for quite some time, so I follow in her footsteps and get myself a glass. It’s salty, tangy and very refreshing.

The restaurant is decorated like a Sevilian patio, with flowerpots hanging from the wall and fanciful ceramic illustrations. Except for a lone man in the corner reading a newspaper, we are alone. Romantic…

The tapas start flowing in. First to come is salmorejo, a thick tomato soup topped with sprinkles of Spanish cured ham and boiled egg ($4). I bring a spoonful to my mouth and go directly into Spanish heaven: it’s refreshingly pungent and delicious.

The ‘broken’ eggs with chorizo (huevos rotos con chorizo) ($4.50) don’t reach the level of culinary achievement of the salmorejo, but they’re still pretty darn good.

The dish comes in the traditional ceramic pot. It consists of a layer of very tender potatoes at the bottom covered by perfectly done fried eggs with fat pieces of chorizo scrambled everywhere. The chorizo is great; piquant and with a pleasant, penetrating aftertaste.

And then, the fish croquettes (croquetas de pescado, $3.50). They are creamy and chunky in the inside, just how they should be. Now, I’m usually intransigent with my croquetas. My mother makes the best croquetas in the word, so, no matter where I go, I’m always disappointed when I order this typical Spanish dish. But these ones are good; not as good as Mum’s, but definitely better than what you get in most restaurants out there. They would be good even if I were in Spain. I tip my hat to the chef.

Finally, the waiter brings the pan tumaca ($2.50). There’s not much to this dish: it’s just bread with tomato spread on it, a bit of garlic and olive oil. Couldn’t be simpler. In this case, as the old adage goes, less is definitely more. As we’re enjoying the last loaves of pan tumaca, I catch a glimpse of the man in the back. He lowers the newspaper to nose level and his eyes peek over the top of the pages. It can’t be. He’s back: my archenemy! I would recognise those little mean eyes, that shiny bald head and that stupid attempt at a goatee anywhere.

The man stands up and goes to the counter behind me. As he passes, I try to ignore him and focus on the conversation with my date. But it’s not going to be that easy: she’s starting to throw quick glances in the direction of the bar, adopting coquettish poses. I hear footsteps. The man approaches our table and looks at me with an evil squint and mischievous grin. Without taking his eyes off mine, he takes her hand, bends down and lands a kiss on it.

To be continued.

La Plaza, #22b Street 278; 012 415734

So, it seems last week’s review wasn’t actually my last. I leave Freebird and wander aimlessly around the city for several hours. The scorching sun slowly dips behind the horizon and a feverish blue moon takes its place in the firmament.

Suddenly, I realise I have walked all the way to Aeon Mall. Still a bit under the weather, I figure some Japanese food might cheer me up; a nice, peaceful dinner. But destiny, that capricious son of a gun, has far more interesting plans for me.

It’s late at night and the mall is a much quieter place. I climb to the second floor and head towards one of the few conveyor-belt restaurants in town, Kaihomaru Sushi. Ten bucks grant me the right to eat as much as I want for an hour and a half. I brace myself.

It looks legit. One detail stands out: a lone woman sits near the wall by the conveyor belt; a wild mane of fluffy curls and big eyes that are dreamy yet audacious. She’s sitting upright on her stool, shooting determined glances at the rotating sushi. Gracefully and with restraint, she reaches for a plate.

I want to sit on the vacant stool to her left, but I chicken out, instead half-heartedly occupying a seat next to a chubby Chinese kid with a voracious appetite. Bad idea: all the good stuff disappears into thin air as soon as it’s within his reach.

The pieces of sushi, on tiny elegant plates, aren’t as big as they could be. For $10, I expect my sushi full-size. The salmon (sake nigiri) and the scallop (hotate nigiri) have that smooth, fleshy texture and fresh taste that make sushi-junkies out of perfectly good people. But the tuna (maguro nigiri) is a weirdly bright colour, almost radioactive, and tastes dull. A bigger disappointment is that some of my favourites – freshwater eel (unagi nigiri) and corn sushi ship (tomorokoshi gunkan maki) – are completely absent from the conveyer belt.

Perhaps the kid has eaten them all. Finally, he leaves and I now have a full view of the girl, who graces me with a smile. I stand up and head towards the buffet area. It looks a lot better than the sushi belt.

You have miso soup, karaage chicken, potato korokke (croquette), soba, tamagoyaki (Japanese omelette) and okonomiyaki. The karaage chicken is perfectly crunchy and juicy. The tamagoyaki is good, but not as sweet as I remember it from my days in Japan. The miso is definitely a double thumbs-up. Almost everything here is delicious, and I can tell the food has been expertly prepared by Japanese hands; the chef, who I later meet, is a good-humoured fellow from near Tokyo.

I turn towards the girl, Magnum pose adopted, and hit her with my best line: “Excuse me, I couldn’t help but notice that you look a lot like my next girlfriend…”

Kaihomaru Sushi, Aeon Mall (3rd Floor), Sothearos Blvd.

I wanted to do something special this week and I was willing, as Rocky would put it, to ‘go the distance’. Why? This is probably my last Dish column. I wanted to find the ideal place: a restaurant with a good reputation, yet not hugely popular; one that hasn’t been reviewed a million times already. A place with character; somewhere that stands out. I wanted to transcend the boundaries of mere food critic and give you a heart-felt recommendation.

I sat down in front of my computer and thought. I thought for a long time. Nothing. A change of setting might help; I visited a dozen cafes. Then I walked along Riverside, mentally skimming. Still nothing. The thought I might be leaving Phnom Penh, coupled with the fact I felt totally stuck on what to review, brought my spirits down. I headed to one of my favorite spots, hoping it would help me think straight.

Like always, I felt immediately at home. The typically soulful southern US atmosphere – walls bristling with a zillion gadgets and black-and-white pictures of famous musicians and athletes – gave me that warm, cosy feeling I’d been craving. The warm, placid light from the ceiling lamps (the heavy curtains are almost always closed) made me feel like I was in a cave, safe and secluded from the outside world. I sat by the corner and made myself comfortable, feeling better already.

The perky, ever-smiling waitress approached. I browsed the huge menu, full of American classics, interesting specials and ample cocktails, and settled on meatloaf with mash potatoes ($5.75) and a draft anchor ($1.75). Waiting for my food, I sank into the sofa, sporadically reaching for the sweet peanuts and huge basket of popcorn on my table. Suddenly my good friend Soklang appeared, sat by my side and ordered chicken cordon bleu ($7.50). Serendipity.

The meatloaf was impeccable: tender and piquant, it outshone those I used to devour as a high-school student in New England. As I dug into it, the block of meat slowly, effortlessly, crumbled. It was covered with a delicious sweet sauce. The mash potatoes were creamy and salty. Soklang was also happy. Her cordon bleu came in the form of two breaded balls of chicken, with a cheesy heart enveloped in chunks of ham. I had a taste myself and the contrast presented by the cheese, by its creaminess and penetrating flavour, was surprising and satisfying. Steering another piece of meatloaf into my mouth, I had a revelation: Freebird would make a great review.

Freebird Bar & Grill, #69 Street 240; 023 224 712

Around this time last year, I was flipping chapattis on a tava under the gentle sun and chilled breeze that runs through the arid landscape of Rajasthan on November afternoons. Oddly enough, it was part of my new job: assistant to the chef at a popular restaurant in the tny and colorful village of Bundi. You might wonder what on Earth motivated me to take on such a bizarre position; the answer is simple: I love Indian cuisine, and I thought this was the best way to learn its intricacies.

My cooking mentor was the owner of the restaurant: an old, obese, hardheaded yet intriguingly wise and charming lady who everybody in town lovingly addressed as ‘Mamma’. It was her who taught me all I know when it comes to Indian cuisine. Whenever I met her expectations at cooking a particular dish, she would grin widely and say ‘this is Bundi-good’.

This week I took a friend to Coriander, a popular Indian-run vegetarian establishment on Street 71, not far from BKK1 market. Although the menu features plenty of Khmer and Western items, the bulk of its content is Indian.

We enter the glass door to encounter a simple, yet fitting décor: a couple of discreet mirrors and unassuming art on the walls, wooden tables and a sober timber bar. We sit down and soon the aroma of Indian spices drifting from the kitchen reaches my nostrils and switches on my appetite. Memories of kneading chapattis and preparing eggplant chutney with Mamma come rushing back.

The well-mannered waiter brings my order of lachha paratha ($1.50), onion paratha ($2), and vegetable korma ($4). The breads, I can tell right away, are good. I pinch the onion paratha and discover it has a supple, dead-on consistency. Its rich, piquant taste reveals a skillful handling of the spices. On the other hand, the lachha paratha, although it has a nice flavour to it, is too stiff, like it has been served an hour too late.

The vegetable korma is creamy and sweet, but not in a good way. Its overly milky texture is less than pleasant. It somehow manages to be too sweet, while at the same time having too much of a coriander kick.

I realise I still have space in my stomach to accommodate another dish. I ask the waiter for a recommendation; the best dish of the house. He brings me a bowl of baingan bartha ($4.50), accompanied with a round, beautiful-looking chapatti (50 cents). The baingan bartha is a real surprise. The eggplant is roasted to perfection and, together with the other vegetables and spot-on spices, forms a delicious mass of irresistible texture and racy flavour.

To put an end to this hit-and-miss Indian lunch, I order masala tea ($1). Now, here is the real test: good chai tea is an excellent barometer of the quality and genuineness of any Indian restaurant. I take a sip. It has the right flavour and aroma, but is missing some piquancy and that subtle ginger aftertaste. It’s good if we take into consideration that we are not in India; if I were in the subcontinent, I would be a bit disappointed. I guess that’s a statement that applies to the other dishes I have had today. I imagine what Mamma would do if she had shared this meal with me. She would look at me with squinting eyes and an exaggerated frown, and she would state: ‘It is good, but not Bundi-good.’

Coriander, #21 Street 71.

I simply cannot say ‘no’ to a dare. When someone tells me ‘I dare you’, my heartbeat picks up, my shoulders become all tense and something inside my brain switches off. I feel a rush of adrenaline overflowing my hypothalamus and clouding my judgment.

I squint, look the darer in the eye and, in true Marty McFly fashion, exclaim: ‘Nobody calls me chicken!’

It’s dinnertime on a Monday afternoon and I’m leisurely walking with a couple of friends down Street 228. We’re going to Black Bambu, a recently opened restaurant I’ve eyed for review. I can see my friends, a couple of Kiwi girls, giggling and whispering something in a secretive way. I get an ominous feeling: they are up to something. Finally, one of them steps forward. Her tone is frolicsome: “Adolfo, you know, we were thinking if you would dare to…” Allow me to summarise: they dare me to include a specific word (chosen by them, of course) in this review; a word to be revealed only after I accept the challenge. It goes without saying; I accept.

Entering Black Bambu’s perfectly kept garden, a spotless white statue of a meditating Buddha welcomes us with a nirvanic smile. We cross the big glass doors of the building and feel stupefied: the radiant white, diaphanous and elegant space opening in front of us reminds me of Hollywood’s depictions of Heaven. I almost expect Morgan Freeman to walk down the stairs at any moment (dressed in an immaculate white suit) and hand me a menu.

We sit at the terrace, where the breeze is surprisingly cool and pleasant, and stare at the beautifully put together menu of unambitious size (about 20 different tapas) and creative, mouth-watering items. Al, the manager and head chef, personally takes our order.

First come the cocktails. I know my sangria, and this is a good one: pieces of orange and apple float idly inside the generously sized cup; the sweet aftertaste of cinnamon is complemented by the timid tang of liquor. Smiling and attentive waiters start bringing the main courses. The ciabatta (made with grilled pear, goat cheese, bacon and caramelised onion) is spongy; biting into it, your mouth fills with the unmistakable warmness of just-out-of-the-oven French bread. The contrast between the savoury and sweet flavours is both perplexing and pleasing.

The mini Australian beef burgers – three cute little burgers served upon a stylish slate board – bring to mind the Latin phrase omne trium perfectum (‘everything that comes in threes is perfect’). With regard to tenderness, the patties fall nothing short of Kobe beef. The bits of pickle mixed with hand-made mayonnaise are the icing on the cake.

The desserts put a perfect ending to our hedonistic evening. The dulce de leche is an original and sophisticated take on the South American recipe, in which the chef ingeniously adds a top layer of whipped cream and a base of chocolate mixed with coconut oil. The result is a dessert so good that eating it fills you with shame, because, by the Universal Law of Opposites, you know something this good must inevitably be, in some way or another, terribly bad.

It’s during dessert that the mischievous Kiwi girls finally reveal their choice of word to be inserted into this review. I won’t take away the satisfaction of guessing which one it is. Let me simply end this piece by stating that Black Bambu is, without vacillation, one of the most outstanding upscale restaurants I’ve tried in Phnom Penh. Good luck guessing!

Black Bambu, #29 Street 228; 023 966 895

In Japan, they call it nikuman. In China, baozi. Here, you know them as num paw.

You know what I’m talking about: those delicious peach-shaped spongy buns filled with tender, savoury pork. You find them inside big steel steamers all around the city and I simply love them.

However, I must confess I love the Chinese and Japanese ones so much more. They are lighter, squishier and the much juicier filling falls apart in your mouth like a crumbling sand castle. I’ve had what you may call an obsession for this Asian delight since I first travelled to Japan 10 years ago.

It’s a fine day in Phnom Penh and I’m riding my bike down Mao Tse Tung. In my head, the thought of biting into a springy, oil-dripping nikuman (the Japanese version, in case you forgot) plays again and again like a broken record. I guess it has simply been too long since the last time I enjoyed one in all its fleshy, luscious glory and the Khmer type simply doesn’t cut it for me any more. Suddenly, in front of what seems like an ordinary restaurant, I spot a food expositor sitting on the sidewalk. Something about it catches my eye and I get closer: with incredulity, I realise it’s filled with nikuman. Hallelujah! This is the first time I’ve ever seen them in the city; it must be the law of attraction at work.

The place’s name is Nagomi; a modest, low-key Japanese restaurant close to the intersection of Mao Tse Tung Boulevard and Street 63. Entering, I have my second surprise of the day: this is the most Japanese-looking place I’ve seen in Phnom Penh. Cloth curtains bearing the cartoonish image of Mount Fuji cover the windows, through which a placid, warm light enters, bathing the wooden tables and benches. On the back wall, a timber shelf supports a variety of Japanese liquors and beers. In a vintage poster on the opposite wall, a composed Geisha preaches the merits of a certain brand of sake in kanji and hiragana characters.

The menu is promising: oyakodon, karaage chicken, curry rice… All of my favourite Japanese dishes have come to the party, but my excitement soon wavers. The waiter brings my much sought-after nikuman. While the dough’s consistency holds up to the Japanese standard, the filling does not. There’s too little pork inside the bun and it’s not nearly oily enough. Next comes another of my absolute favourites, katsudon, but again mild disappointment awaits: the rice is just a bit too mushy, the strips of chicken a bit too thin and hard, and the whole dish comes overflowed with too much eggy goo. Don’t get me wrong: the damned thing is delicious, but it just isn’t the same stuff you get in tiny, back-alley izakayas around Osaka.

On a more positive note, the miso soup (which, together with a cabbage salad, accompanies the katsudon) is definitely one of the best I’ve had in Phnom Penh. Its salty seaweed flavour is spot-on.

At night, lying in bed, I reflect on the law of attraction and come to one realisation: it works! From now on, I must consider my thoughts more seriously. With the power to materialise pork-filled buns into my life, what’s stopping me from bringing into existence, say, a girlfriend?!

Nagomi Japanese Restaurant,
#25 Mao Tse Tung Boulevard; 023 222 608.