Epicurean Chubby

The legacy of French empire is manifest throughout the Cambodian kingdom. Its effects have coloured the country no end. It is three-fold. First, a coffee and baguette culture. A welcome surprise for anyone under the misapprehension the tepid flavoured water in Starbucks, is coffee. Second, a sense of style among the women of Cambodia leaving their regional counterparts struggling in various disgraces of Hello Kitty. Third, and most importantly, the flushing loo.

Those foodies whose sensitive palate has been honed on French cuisine may come with a heightened sense of expectation chasing the authentic tastes of Cambodia. There is amok – fish or chicken, curries and soups mild to spicy. All are exquisite. But in the hunt, there’s nothing more likely to turn the epicurean chubby flaccid than hearing the ‘ding’ of a microwave from the kitchen. You get an overwhelming feeling that McCain or Birdseye has beaten you to the punch, and the salad, and the curry.

Compensation must be English menu translations. Reproduced below is a sample from two restaurants which turns it into an art form. Some, for my delicate meat and two vegies disposition, are stomach churning.  Take your pick. Order up.

Fried penis with chilly

Bowel fried with sour cabbage

Solid Bowel with Paste Fish

Cookles steamp in Clay Port

Fried Frogs in Spicy

Fried Bean with Blood Pork

Snail with Mango Salad

French Taost

Deep fried stick

Baked Louts Seed Cake

I hope they meant ‘lotus seed’. I dare not conjure up what lout’s seed may be.

Here’s the good news. In a kingdom where kitsch has clout it’s pleasing to see the country not covered in golden arches. That’s not to say fast food is not available. In fact, you’ll find it plentiful, and in its own Khmer way, diverse and regionally unique.

On the menu at what I could only tag the Run a Mile Buffet: tarantulas, crickets, bugs, centipedes. Anything that creeps and crawls deep fried, piled high on a push cart. But for the fried food fanatic there is the house of eleven secret herbs and spices, finger lickin’ good.

For ‘special needs’ eaters Khmer food is so basic you probably won’t suffer a single hiccup. I come with Coeliac’s disorder, gluten intolerance. Western living is a minefield. Gluten is present in its raw state, in processed products, even prescription medication. Vigilance becomes a way of life. I can, with impunity, eat as much rice and corn as I can tuck into. Do you realise how poor a substitute corn or rice is to a crusty seeded bread roll?

Born and bread (intentional) in the Land of the Long White Loaf never did I imagine I would be cosying up to corn thins or rice crisps. I have turned my back on alcohol, cigarettes, drugs of addiction, chemical and artificial stimulants, additives inclusive of salt, sugar, low fat no taste everything, and Coca Cola. Not in all my years sober have I ever ventured back. Not a lick, sip, puff, tipple, or snort. Yet, within days back in Phnom Penh I start shadowing people carrying baguettes.

My fall from grace spilled out over breakfast one morning. Along with the two eggs came a warm crusty baguette. I opened my gob and posted it to myself. Wait! It gets worse.

I skulked down the street. Outside the baked fresh today homemade pies shop stopped to inhale deeply. Within an hour I had thrown myself off the gluten free wagon and devoured a toasted bagel. By mid-afternoon my stomach ballooned to the size of a kettle drum however, I was at it again. This time a toasted ham and cheese croissant. It couldn’t possibly be as damaging as the full flour triple chocolate cake. I put that theory to the test as well. This only happens when I’m in the Penh. On home turf, I seek comfort through Coeliac approved grains.

Truth is I’m not so interested in food. Dinner time as a kid was like manoeuvres. Orders were barked; pass this, pass that, don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. I ate in constant fear of having to recite my multiplication tables. To this day I sport a deep-seated phobia of anything in multiples of eight. We sat, we were polite. No elbows on the table, don’t chew with your mouth open, don’t speak with food in your mouth, chew properly before swallowing, ask to be excused from the table, and for heaven’s sake slow down, it’s not a race.

My high school instigated a progressive idea to publish a cook book. Every student to provide a family recipe. The book burst with whole roast leg of lamb, rolled beef, poultry of every plumage, chutneys and pickles, scones plain and fancy, pavlova, double and triple-decker sponges, and tarts. Recipes emerged that for decades had been held close to the family bosom. Recipes that won ribbons from the Country Women’s Association and the Agricultural and Horticultural Show poured in. Mum provided a one sentence recipe. Nell’s Porcupine Balls: first catch a porcupine.

This set the standard for me and the culinary arts. I’m confident with the toaster and electric jug, after that any other kitchen appliance I may as well be navigating the Starship Enterprise. I am ambivalent about food, more a means to an end.

In Cambodia that had to change. Food is central to the way of life. Everything stops for food, it is communal, everything is shared. Don’t be surprised to have hands reach to take something off your plate. It’s noisy. People come and go. Those sitting with and around you are not necessarily family. It’s a free for all. There may not be much to cheer about, money may be tight, health a bit dodgy, but something can always be scrounged up to bring to the table. Or footpath. Or wherever is the designated eating place. Food is a time to celebrate.

Seven years of Cambodia now I appreciate food. Not that I am about to challenge for an apron on a TV cooking show. Over time two real Cambodian offerings became the preferred option, Khmer Chicken Curry and Fish Amok. Given my earlier claims I’d rather go to hell in a hand-basket than cook, I have replicated these dishes on home soil.

So, with some trepidation, and a strike rate of many failures to utter disasters, I tempt your gastronomical juices to rise again. I throw down the oven mitt in challenge to you. How Mum would puff up with pride. I have recipes, observed, pilfered, handed down, whispered.

Aprons on. For the cook-off we commence with traditional Khmer Chicken Curry. First catch a chicken. No, really! Catch a chicken.