the curse of the too-good cook

I have a problem. I'm just never satisfied. My high demands can never be effectively met. And I'd like you all to know that I blame one man: my father.

It's not that other men can't live up to his standard as a truly kind and brilliant fellow. I found one who fit that bill and I've craftily (and legally) bound him to me. No, no, it's worse than that. I can't find anyone who can live up to his standards in the kitchen.

I find myself eating cereal quite often because if I can't have food cooked by my Dad, I might as well eat something made by Kellogs or Nestle. Cereal is consistent and dependable. Other foods just aren't. I think that we Niedzwiecki women have been hugely spoiled by my Dad. If there isn't a platter of grilled salmon and an arugula salad waiting for us when we get home, well then we might as well just go ahead and starve.

My problem is particularly acute when I go out to eat western food here. Last year for my birthday Phet took me out to a beautiful French restaurant and I ordered the choucroute garni. Those of you who have enjoyed Boxing Days with us will know that this is one of Dad's signature dishes - a complex and rich melange of tenderly cooked sauerkraut and onions mixed with hunks of smoked pork, slices of sausage, and other miraculous meaty bits, all of which have been simmering for at least a full day. When I had this at the bistro, they served me some fresh-out-of-the-can sauerkraut with a single semi-smoked pork chop and a hot dog. For dessert, I opted for chocolate mousse. I should never, never, never order chocolate mousse. My mother has perfected the most sublime recipe for chocolate mousse ever known on the entire planet (and I have eaten it in the most perfect way: from a juice jug, with a giant wooden spoon, sitting on a deck chair at the cottage at sauble beach, the day after the party where the mousse was originally served. You just can't beat that.) Of course, the mousse at the bistro was an insipid disappointment. How could it have been otherwise?

As an aside, perhaps this inability to fulfill my culinary desires is why I have chosen to live in Asia if I have to live away from home. At least here I am not taunted by what I am missing on a daily basis. But I have the great misfortune to be cursed on both sides of my family. Phet's aunts and sisters are also insanely good cooks and quite often if I order a dish here that I've eaten at their house I am sadly disappointed when I eat it at a restaurant. They've also spoiled dim sum for me by taking me to the greatest dim sum hot spots in Toronto (and various outlying environs whose names - Vaughn? Milton?? - escape me).

So it should have come as no surprise that I wasn't 100% satisfied when we went out for ribs last night here in Bangkok. Phet's been craving ribs, and I'm a ravenous pregnant lady, so I hunted down the best-recommended rib restaurant in the city. All reviews pointed towards The Great American Rib Company, which was very conveniently located just one subway stop away from our condo. Yesterday we fasted for most of the day in preparation for the rib chowing. This turned out to be a good idea, cause here is the platter we were served after our appetizers:

Check out all that MEAT! And the curly fries, which are covering up four slices of corn bread slathered with butter. And the three bowls in the background, filled with chilli, coleslaw and potato salad. It all looked so good. But looks can be deceiving. Especially when you're used to eating Niedzwiecki food. You expect the flavour to live up to your expectations. Unfortunately we found that: the meat was tepid, the ribs had been cooked with no sauce and then slathered in vinegary sauce post-cooking, and the cornbread was cold, as were the fries, and the chilli seasoning wasn't quite right, and, and, well you get the idea. We are hard to please.

Now these, these are ribs man. Courtesy of team Turner Niedzwiecki at the Countryside House Party this past summer. (See Ashley's weblog for her own tales from the land of the be-cursed, and her own troubles dealing with life sans perfect personal chef).

And in the meantime, curse you, Randy! Curse you and the barbeque you rode in on! And please, lord, if you're listening, hasten our return home so that we can grow plump and pleased in the shiny warmth and wholesome goodness of our family hearths. [Toronto-22-May-2006]