No Expectations III: Churrasca Tipica

I'm on my way to Eighth Street Soondae, on foot, about a 4 mile traverse along the west edge of downtown.  Not a quarter of the way there, not even all the way out of my own neighborhood, my foot starts killing me.  Every time I bring it down on the pavement my ankle whines.  Not screams, just whines.  On a normal street, this may have been tolerable, but here on Alvarado Street, northwest of downtown, where all the concrete-laying appears to have taken place right before a massive earthquake or three, this is a serious, abruptly-walk-ending issue.

Limping into a strip mall for shelter from the clattering cars, I see a carnival of colors in front of me.  Initially, I assume it's a party supply store, but, getting closer, I see that the reds and greens and yellow and blues are framing images of food: Salvadoran, Guatemalan, Mexican, and... Mediterranean?  Hmm.

Coco's International Food.

It is empty but for the proprietress and the cook, who remains behind a divider, and many of the things on the menu are entirely new to me.  Pupusas, sure, huevos divorciados, of course, tamales, of course... but then there's also the garnachas, and the pepian de pollo, and the churrasca tipica.  The most I can say about any of that is that there's chicken in the second one and third one is barbecued... maybe... probably.

I mess up a hundred times while ordering the churrasca tipica (the maybe probably barbecued one).  I order it because it's kind of expensive, so it must be a big platter of something. This no-expectations thing is hard for me.  I'm super Type A.  Finding a restaurant I don't have preconceived notions about is tough enough.  I spend so much time on Yelp and Chowhound and local food blogs and scouring the LA Times that almost every place I see has some rogue phrase from somewhere branded into my mind already.

And even if one falls into my lap like this one did - practically beams down from the sky like a vision - I have trouble ordering totally blind.  What if it's - gasp - steak?

Guess what?  This is - gasp - steak!  (At least partially!)  She asks me how I want my beef cooked and I'm halfway through asking her to substitute another kind of meat before I bite my tongue and answer the question: "Medium's fine," I say, which is another leap of faith, because usually ("usually") I get it bloody and rare, practically alive.

But she asks me how I want it cooked as follows: "You want it well-done?" - nodding encouragingly - which makes me think she knows something I don't about the meat.  I'm sure she knows everything I don't about the meat, actually, since my grasp of what will be on my plate still consists only of knowledge that it will probably be from a cow.

My agua jamaica comes out first, and I can say, since I do have experience with jamaica drinks, that this one is without a doubt the cinnamoniest, floweriest joy I've ever sucked through a straw.

The platter, when it comes, is not as sprawling and intimidating as I'd pictured it.  It's cute; each food item is compact, perfect, and arranged artfully separated from its neighbors.  This is a flourish I attribute sometimes to the Japanese and sometimes to five-year-olds who don't like their food items touching.

The plantains (or bananas: a consequence of my not knowing what's on my plate is my not reporting to you precisely what's on my plate) are an absolute crispy cloud of flavor, melting almost like a good macaron on the tongue, but with a satisfying oily bite.  The chorizo, though it looks kind of like fruit cake, is a crunchy play on textures, almost like that Lao sausage with the crispy rice.

That triangle of white in the upper corner that looks like those pre-cut Brie wedges at the grocery deli?  Fresh, crumbly, moist, salty cheese.

And the steak, that wild card, that meat I never, never order on purpose because it's either bloody or bust, and even then I can only ever manage a few bites of it?

Gone!

Even though it is medium-well, it's pounded thin like chicken-fried steak, and rubbed thoroughly with a savory dry spice blend.  While it isn't spicy in the fiery sense, I am provided with a bottle of homemade-looking sauce whose dominant flavor profile is pork fat.

As for the tomatoes, they quickly become the second tomatoes I've ever happily finished!

Chamango

There is a certain balance - it's hard to strike, but it's there - where adding hot pepper magnifies the refreshment level of a dish.  It's when, for some reason, your madly watering mouth and burning lips can form nothing but the word "Ahhhhhh."

That's why a cucumber lime agua fresca tastes just that much better with a thin line of cayenne around the rim.

Thanks, Three Many Cooks!

And it's also why I'm in love with a drink called the chamango.

The fact that I didn't know it existed until I was a good way into my twenties is a source of much regret.

I mean, think of all the experience it could have augmented!  I find myself rewriting history, adding it in where it would have helped the most:

Bodysurfing for the first time, getting my head forced into the sand, swallowing a mouthful of it, plus ocean water, staggering back to my towel and... a chamango waiting for me.

Doing a 10k in the mile-high city, gasping for breath, refreshment tables staffed by smiling, encouraging volunteers holding out little paper cups of... chamango.

What is a chamango?  It's a mango smoothie, first and foremost, but then its inventors had a stroke of genius.

"Mango smoothies are already ridiculously, almost unfairly delicious," one must have said to the other, "but how about we add pickled apricot preserves and chili powder?  We'll make it real thick and beet-red so that when we pour it over the smoothie, it drips through the cracks and looks like blood, scaring away all but the most dedicated refreshment seekers!"

"Yeah!" said the other one.  "And then we'll coat the straw with dried chili powder so just in case anyone ever accidentally makes it unevenly and there isn't enough chamoy in each sip, people's lips will burn anyway!"

Chamango on left, escamocha on right

And they created the chamango, and they saw that it was good.

The preservedness of the apricot and the heat of the chilies makes you thirsty and the mango neatly quenches that thirst, all at once within one stunning sip.

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Where to find a chamango in Orange County:

Natural in Anaheim makes a mean one.  They crafted the one in the picture!

Chanh muối-ing it around Little Saigon

(This is an edited and updated version of a similar article I wrote for Examiner last year.  Since then, I have probably drunk an amount of chanh muối roughly equivalent to the volume of a swimming pool, and my recommended list looks quite different.)

There’s a canned drink that’s prevalent in Asia but stocked sparingly here, probably because of its name: Pocari Sweat.  

Mmm, that totally sounds like something I want to drink.  Ions.  And sweat.

Perhaps only due to the power of suggestion, it does taste like sweat - or at least like seawater 7-up.  But people over there swear by it for keeping cool on meltingly swampy days.  After awhile, it even starts tasting, well... like sweat altered for consumption rather than sweat canned straight from an armpit.

If you don’t like canned soda, though - if, like me, you think most of it tastes like aluminum and chemicals (or if you've seen what an otherwise beautiful Indonesian lagoon can look like choked with Pocari Sweat cans) - you need something with similar properties, but fresh and handmade, with real ingredients, and less of a resemblance to bodily excretions. 

Enter the Vietnamese concoction chanh muối, which translates to salty lemon soda.  With only three ingredients - preserved lime or lemon, soda (or water), and sugar - it sounds deceptively simple, but after the first few tastes, quickly becomes ragingly addictive, especially alongside Vietnamese dishes brimming with fish sauce.  

Thanks, GardenBetty (and her recipe is the best one on the internet as far as I'm concerned!)

Of course, you may have to run past a few... not so palatable first impressions before you get to delicious, let alone addictive.  I've tried plying many people and have heard many gut reactions.  Seawater.  Beach towels.  Socks.  Dishwater (in all fairness, this particular restaurant had a crappy version).  

My own personal first impression was 'socks', but I quickly saw the light, and it is now my most-ordered drink.  It is also the first phrase I ever learned in Vietnamese so that just in case I found myself stranded and dehydrated in a Vietnamese café with no English translations or internet, I would still be able to sate my addiction!*

Overall, the effect of chanh muối is cooling for both heat and spice, crazy-delicious, and unlike any other drink on earth.  Once you become accustomed to it, and your friends ask, as they inevitably will, “What is that gross thing floating in your drink?!” you’ll get the pleasure of introducing them to this delightfully bizarre refreshment as well!

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In Little Saigon (Westminster, CA), most restaurants worth their salt (get it?  Ha!) will have it on the menu, whether with soda added or water.  (With soda, it'll be called soda chanh muối; without, it'll either be called nước chanh muối or just plain old chanh muối.)  Everyone makes it differently, though - some use limes, some use lemons.  Some use lots of sugar; some barely touch it.  Some use near-fresh fruit; some appear to have pickled their fruit for years.  Some just toss the fruit in the bottom of the glass; some blend the whole thing, peel and all, so the flavor is much more pervasive.

We all have our preferences (mine is lime; less sugar; more preserved fruit; blended).  Here's how to find a chanh muối suited to your unique tastes.

If you prefer milder, subtle flavors, want to edge into the experience slowly, or are a supertaster and just want to give your overworked tastebuds a break, try the soda version at Bánh Cuốn Tây Hồ 4.  They use lots of sparkling water and a very tiny, lightly preserved lemon that sits in the bottom of the glass like a rock.  Essentially, it just tastes like Sprite with a subtle kick.

If you have a sweet tooth, head to Thanh Restaurant, which must have to buy a new fifty-pound bag of sugar every day just to replenish the supply from a night's worth of chanh muối orders.  If that description makes you leery instead of hungry, congratulate yourself on not being pre-diabetic and try Cơm Tấm Thuận Kiều or Phở 54 - their outputs are probably more along the lines of a ten-pound bag of sugar.  Their fruit’s preserved flavor is stronger, but the sugar still coddles your tongue as it processes the strangeness.

Bò De Tinh Tâm Chay and Đạt Thành both manage to extract a more pickled taste from their whole limes, and don't overwhelm it or try to mask it with sweetness.  Both are unabashedly salty, and the fact that they use limes and not lemons gives it an even stronger citrus flavor.  The fruit stays whole, though, so it's still an infusion and not a blend; the brownish limes, floating near the bottom of your mug, look a little like brains in jars from creepy science labs in movies. This is probably the version you will like if you have a 'normal' palate: distinctive enough to be interesting; muted enough to be inoffensive.

On the flip side, Quán Vỹ Dạ (perhaps my single favorite restaurant on Bolsa, so don't let this critique discourage you from visiting) goes balls-to-the-wall with their crazily preserved, blended version.  If they don't leave their lemons out in a jar in direct sunlight for a good five years, I'd be very surprised.  It's so pickled it's almost metallic, like the citrus equivalent of when I tried drinking out of the Claussen Kosher Dill jar as a child to see what would happen.  The strength is even too much for me, and I rarely make that claim.

If you want to experience all the packed flavor that three ingredients can possibly give (without going to the level of overboard that Quán Vỹ Dạ does) there's only one option for you, and that's Phở Quang Trung's blended-pickled-lime, so-thick-it's-practically-a-smoothie wonder.  You suck up the whole fruit through that straw: seeds, pieces of peel, pith, arils, everything.  It is perfect.  You feel like you're living inside the lime jar that thing was pickled in.

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*When I was actually in Vietnam, I didn't see this drink much.  Traveling from north to south, I was all the way in Quy Nhơn before I finally spotted it on the menu.  My excitement was short-lived, as what was set in front of me was this:

- two limes, cut in half

- two empty glasses

- a bowl of sugar

- a can of seltzer water

Do-it-yourself chanh muối sans fruit preservation?!