by Robert McGarvey

"You cannot hide in your wok," Chef Jonathan Heath intoned at me and, with a wince, he lifted my wok off the burner and dumped out most of the oil I’d moments before poured in. "Use just a little oil." Heath handed the wok handle back to me, then pointed to my heaps of uncut garlic, hot peppers, ginger, and shallots. "Small. Chop them finely," said Heath, chef at the Serai Hotel in Bali and instructor at the Serai’s five-day cooking program. "If you don’t do the preparation right, what comes out of the wok will reveal all your mistakes."

I sighed as I looked at the veggies. My hands by now had been blistered, from days of slicing assorted vegetables and spices, at cooking schools in Hong Kong, Bangkok, and now in Bali. But of course Heath was right. I had added too much oil and I was cheating by cutting the veggies too big. Even if my days of classes hadn’t transformed me into a clone of PBS’s Martin Yan (author of The Joy of Wokking), I had learned a lot since I had started on this project some months earlier when AVENUES had hit upon the notion of sending its least cooking savvy writer – me – to school. Why me, I’d asked. "If you can learn to do it, anybody can," said the magazine’s editor, and that is how I found myself on a two-week tour of Asian cookery programs.

Chopsticks

"Put on the apron," said Mrs. Au, the director of Chopsticks Cooking Center in Hong Kong. "You won’t remember a thing if you only watch me cook. You must do it yourself," said Mrs. Au, as she pointed at the table top and its neat containers of vegetables, sauces, and knives. "For years I have taught cooking and when people go home, if they haven’t done it themselves, they come to a place in a recipe – and they don’t remember what the direction means. Or they cook it and it tastes all wrong. Then they call me. When you do it yourself in class, you’ll do it right at home."

Mrs. Au proceeded to watch as a I mangled "spring onions" – scallions – with a Chinese-style cleaver, one of those large, ax-like things. "You don’t cook that much at home," said Mrs. Au and this wasn’t a question but an observation. Still she smiled. Mrs. Au is an authority on Cantonese cooking and usually she teaches hardcore foodies, but she lately has branched out into offering classes to Hong Kong children (her English-language children’s book, First Steps in Chinese Cooking, is a classic) and she is a patient woman.

"Gently slice the pork. Don’t press so hard," instructed Mrs. Au as she watched me virtually pulping the pork loin with the knife. "Let the knife cut. Don’t hack."

"If you understand marination, you understand Cantonese cooking," she said and she taught me how to make a simple marinade that will work for most meat: a bit of ginger, some Chinese white wine, soy sauce, black pepper, cornstarch. I added the pork to the bowl and Mrs. Au said, "marinade it for 30 minutes."

"The preparation is what takes time in Chinese cooking. The cooking itself will take just minutes."

Of course there is logic to all of this. Tiny. Bite-sized pieces are perfect for eating with chopsticks. And when the cooking evolved, fuel was scarce so people wanted techniques for cooking fast at a high heat. "And now we do it this way because it tastes good," added Mrs. Au.

Personally I was skeptical. I watched her hands fly as she diced vegetables…and I watched mine stumble. But Mrs. Au kept prodding, encouraging, instructing, smiling – and she would not do my share for me. Her piles of uncut vegetables vanished…but she would not start cutting mine.

I surrendered to the task before me and shredded the cabbage into thin strips. I sliced the spring onion. And I mashed the ginger, shallot, and garlic. As I did this, Mrs. Au cooked spaghetti ("ordinarily in Hong we would use broader, thicker noodles but at home you won’t be able to find them and spaghetti works as well – with Chinese cooking you can always substitute. It’s a flexible cuisine").

She heated the wok until it was very hot, handed me a wooden spoon, then added the mashed up ginger, scallion, garlic. The sizzling mesmerized me – the little bubbles were so animated. "Stir, stir." Mrs. Au’s command got me moving the ingredients around the wok, seconds before she added the pork. Cut into tiny pieces it turned from red to white in a couple minutes. She added the cabbage; I kept the growing mixture moving in the wok. She added a cooked half-pound of spaghetti and, as I stirred, she streamed in a seasoning of soy, water, sesame oil, Chinese white wine, sugar, pepper, and cornflour. The dish was topped with the bits of spring onion…and it was pronounced done.

Then Mrs. Au pointed towards a small table that was set for one. "If you cook it, you eat it," she said with a twinkle. I sat down with genuine trepidation. It had been some years since I’d cooked anything more elaborate than a Lean Cuisine dinner.

I smelled the steaming bowl of pasta – the ginger, garlic, and shallots stood out. It smelled, well, good. I grappled with chopsticks and shoveled some of the food into my mouth…and I was instantly hooked. "Amazing. It tastes just like my favorite dish at a Chinese restaurant in my neighborhood. But mine tastes better."

It did too – taste like the Chinese restaurant dish and taste better at Mrs. Au’s, if only because I had a pride of authorship.

"That’s Shanghai Fried Noodles," said Mrs. Au. "I’ve give you the recipe."

She then tried to get me to make fried won tons but even the ever-patient Mrs. Au gave up as she watched me fumble and fumble more in my attempts to fold and tuck won ton skins so that they’d hold the minced pork mixture within. She made almost all of the won tons, and I’d clearly failed the portion of the class that required high levels of dexterity – tucking a won ton isn’t unlike threading a needle and I can’t do that either.

But still I left Mrs. Au’s Chopstick’s Cooking Center on a high. I had mastered one dish, one I liked. And I’d begun to think that maybe this cooking school stint might get easy.

The Oriental

That took me to the four-day Thai cooking program at Bangkok’s Oriental Hotel. Often cited as "the world’s best hotel," the Oriental’s guest list is a Who’s Who of international travelers and it’s been that way since the hotel opened in 1876. So it was with an earnest demeanor that I took my seat in the cooking classroom with 10 other students. The instructor, Sarserni Gajaseni ("call me San"), began by jumping to the essence of Thai cooking: "Naam Pla," he said. "Naam Pla is used in just about everything." Guess that Naam Pla is hot peppers and that’s wrong. Ditto for coconut milk, lemon grass, or garlic. All of them are important in Thai cooking, but it is Naam Pla that is a necessity. "For Thai cooking, you have to have Naam Pla."

"Nobody makes Naam Pla at home anymore," said San, "although you could. It’s simple. But the smell is unbelievable." That’s because Naam Pla – fish sauce – is made by putting pounds of anchovies and salt out in the sun for a year. "Just let it sit. After a year, add water and sugar. You’ve made Naam Pla. But you wouldn’t want to. You can buy a bottle on the street for 25 baht [75 cents]."

A broad smile crossed San’s face: "In this class you will learn as much about Thai culture as cooking. Because the cooking is part of the culture."

Would I be able to find Naam Pla at home? San asked where I lived and, when I told him, he smiled still larger: "There are so many Thais in L.A., it’s like the 76^th province of Thailand. You can find any Thai ingredients there."

To hear San tell it, Thai cooking is easy if you have the right ingredients – "this food is not just lemon grass and Naam Pla. The many ingredients are what gives Thai food its complexities. First you have one taste…then another…then many. Thai food is weird – the combinations are strange -- but it works."

But what San said next let me breathe easier: "This isn’t a hands-on class. It’s a demonstration program." Whew. That meant I could keep my awkwardness in the kitchen hidden.

But hands-on doesn’t mean uninformative, at least not with San. Each day’s class consists of about four hours of lecture, demonstration, and, finally, eating the dishes prepared during the class. There was Gaeng Pa Nuea Yaang (curry with grilled beef, country style), Pla Nuea Yaang Gub A-Ngoon (spiced salad of grilled beef and grapes), even Thai desserts – Fug Thong Gaeng Buad (stewed pumpkin with coconut milk). Good as the eating was, what was better were the many morsels of information dispensed by San. For instance: "Coconut milk – who knows how to make it," he asked the class.

"Nope. That’s coconut water," said San to the student who suggested drilling holes in the coconut and draining the liquid.

As for coconut milk – the only milk used in Thai cooking – it’s made by mixing grated coconut flesh with very hot water. Take a handful, squeeze hard, and the resulting white liquid is coconut milk. "Or just buy canned coconut milk," volunteered San. "Don’t buy the powdered; it’s not nearly so good."

Is Thai food as fiery hot as legend cracks it up to be? Usually, it is, said San, who produced recipes calling for as many as 21 searing birds-eye peppers to flavor a pound of grilled beef – "with some of this food, you can feel the pain chewing out through your ears," said San. But not all Thai food is hot and the "only proper way to eat," according to San, is not in courses but with everything – salad, soup, rice, main dish – served at once. Take a bite of hot spice salad, then some nibbles of soothing rice, maybe a spoonful of soup. "That is the right way to eat Thai food. And with beer, of course," smiled San. "Beer goes best with our cuisine."

As he talked, San’s fingers worked – he chopped and sliced and, seemingly without ever looking at what he was doing, he made gorgeous heaps of neatly sliced vegetables, beef, fish, and spices. Would I ever rise to that level? I would not find out in the Oriental’s demonstration program – for that I had to move to the next level.

Sua Bali

Spreading the traditional Balinese way of life is Sua Bali’s mission – the place itself is a small resort compound that offers a busy schedule of classes in Balinese dance, Indonesian language, and of course cooking. "Pupsa" – a woman with a multi-syllabic name but usually just called "Pupsa" – would teach me, one-on-one. Her English was shaky --most Sua Bali guests come from Germany and Switzerland, and Pupsa is fluent in German, but on less firm linguistic turf with English. But that wouldn’t matter.

She handed me an apron and pointed to the table. On it were a large stone bowl, a smaller granite pestle, and lots of spices – garlic, shallots, turmeric, a few bits of shrimp paste. Her gestures made plain that my job was to mash up the ingredients in the stone bowl. I timidly pressed the pestle on the garlic and – "No, no," said Pupsa. She grabbed my pestle, vigorously leaned into the mashing job, then handed the pestle back to me.

I leaned all my weight into the job, Pupsa beamed with encouragement, and gradually the ingredients began to liquefy. It took five minutes – maybe more – of continual pressing, mashing, pushing, but that job itself soon became relaxing.

 

Four Seasons: Bali

A happy pride washed over Kenji Salz’s face as he showed off what he had bought at a Bali harbor: "Do you know what this fish is? I don’t." he said. I had no more knowledge of the strange fish’s pedigree and neither, for that matter, did the fishing people who had caught it, then sold it (for well under $1) to Salz, the executive chef at the Four Seasons, Jimbaran Bay, Bali. "They said they don’t get this fish very often."

Salz is a chef who knows fish. He got his training in Boston, then returned to his native Hawaii for a series of chef positions, and finally he had landed on Bali. When he doesn’t know what a fish is, it is a very odd fish. "Somebody said it’s an ocean catfish. But I don’t think so," said Salz. Whatever it was, the fish was exceptionally ugly – about two pounds, it had a pushed-in face, with cat-like whiskers.

"Let’s get back to the kitchen," said Salz. "I have to cook this fish now."

Back at the Four Seasons, Salz’s fish cook boned and scaled the beast and now we were looking at the naked carcass. Salz carved it into large strips, then passed one to me to cut into small enough bits so that the fish could be skewered with a thin wooden stick and cooked satay-style on a barbecue.

I have a belated confession to make: I do not eat fish and there’s nothing religious, medical, or mystical about that ban. I just don’t like the smell.

But I had come thousands of miles to learn to cook and, if Salz’s choice for today was fish, so be it.

I picked up the knife and gingerly sliced the fish into satay-sized bits, then began arranging them on a stick. Salz arranged the skewers in a simple marinade – some soy, lemon juice, Bali lime juice, garlic, ginger, turmeric, chili. The fire heated up, and we put the skewers to cook for a few minutes.

The fish skewers were transferred to plates. Salz took a bite: "Wow! Good! It’s no cat, though. I still don’t know what it is." He gestured at my skewers, encouraging me to try the unknown fish.

I pulled off a small piece, lifted it to my mouth, and tossed it in. I chewed.

"What do you think?"

"Geez," I said, "it’s pretty good. Not fishy at all. Mainly I taste the marinade."

"That’s fresh fish. When it’s really fresh, it always tastes great," said Salz. "Use fresh ingredients throughout – that’s the real secret to good cooking."

I picked up another shewer, took a bite, and realized that while I might not have become a polished chef on my trip through Asia, at least I head learned to eat fish.

Get Wokkin’

Seven of us had come for the cooking class at the Serai and each of us had a private, gas-fired hot plate with a wok. The class, said Chef Heath, would be very hands-on. First, he’d demonstrate a dish, then we would be sent to our own woks to get it right. "You will learn Indonesian cooking this week," said Heath, an energetic, optimistic Australian. "It’s about cooking fresh ingredients at a high heat, very fast."

Heath quickly ran through a recipe for Cap Cay, a stir-fry where the veggies – bok choy, cabbage, carrots, peppers, spices – are cooked al dente. "They should come out of the wok crunchy," said Heath. In under five minutes he’d sliced up bunches of vegetables, tossed them into a wok – "so hot the oil is almost smoking" – stirred, added soy and spices and stirred more until he pronounced the batch done.

He sent us off to our stations. I fiddled with the burner – "how high should the heat be?" somebody asked.

Jonathan shrugged. He did the same when asked exactly how much garlic or pepper or salt to add to a dish. Indonesian cooking, as taught by him, revolves more around using your taste buds than following a detailed recipe. "You add some spice, then taste. Add more if you need more," said Heath, who continually stuck in spoons, sometimes fingers to test as he cooked.

I busied myself making the Cap Cay and, with a few tips from Heath’s Balinese cooking crew who circulated around the room offering help as needed, the dish was steaming in a matter of minutes.

"Taste everybody else’s," said Heath, who indicated we should go around the room, sticking spoons in everybody else’s wok. At the first stop, amazement hit me – the dish tasted totally unlike mine. Sweeter, saltier, and with less of a hot pepper bite.

So it went at every stop. Each student had prepared an edible version of Cap Cay – some were quite good in fact – but no two were alike. "That’s the way wok cooking is," said Heath. "The fresh spices are different – some peppers are hotter than others. Some cooks add a bit more sugar. The results always vary."

This was a tough proposition for some of the students to swallow – aren’t some more proper than others? Health wouldn’t bite: "The truth is in your wok," he said in his shorthand Zen of cooking.

That proposition freed me. Before, I had been trying to create dishes that slavishly imitated ideals – recipes I only vaguely comprehended. But that isn’t what cooking is about, according to Heath, who preached a creed that if it tastes good, it is good.

He set us now to cooking Nasi Goreng, a quick-fried rice that ranks as Indonesia’s signature dish. Make it with chicken, prawns, pork – whatever, said Heath. More critical is everything else that goes in, and he provided us with leek, onion, hot pepper, red pepper (mild), cabbage, carrot, green bean, egg. The drill had become familiar. Cut them small, then add them to a hot wok that contains just a little oil.

My wok began to smoke. Jonathan appeared, snapped off the gas, and said, "Control your wok or it will control you."

Once the wok had cooled, I put the heat back on, then I stirred and shook the veggies, added the egg, stirred more, added the rice, stirred faster, then added a large mound of sambal – "for color and for taste," said Jonathan. I drizzled on sweet soy sauce, regular soy sauce, sesame oil, a bit of sea salt. I tasted the concoction.

"Finished," asked Jonathan? He stuck a spoon in my Nasi Goreng. He swallowed and clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Hot. It’s a tad spicy. But good if you like it hot."

I did. I do. And now I had learned that my way is plenty good enough, at least according to Jonathan Heath’s Zen Cookery School.

 

Copyright by Robert McGarvey.  All rights reserved.