Die Original Sacher-Torte

Food, Glorious Food

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DIE ORIGINAL SACHER-TORTE

Cafe Sacher: Wien, Austria 

$ Value: 9,00 Euro/slice (approx $9.68)

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Die Original Sacher-Torte has been the most famous cake in the world.

The story goes that in 1832, Prince Metternich commissioned his chef to create a new dessert. As the latter was ill, his sixteen-year-old apprentice Franz Sacher took over. The cake he created was a success and bears his name to this day - its recipe a well-kept secret of the Hotel Sacher in Vienna, Austria. 

We're headed there now, a mere three-minute walk from the State Opera, to treat ourselves.

The interior of Cafe Sacher is lovely and elegant, with refined decor and crystal chandeliers. I wait in anticipation - crumpling the napkin in my fist, poised to stab a mouthful of this culinary specialty.  

In the beginning, there is the Word. And the Word is with Chocolate. And the Word, soon enough as I see it, is Sacher-Torte. 

My fork halfway to my mouth, I pause, then pop a piece and take a bite as the delicious chunk melts over my tongue. I close my eyes with pleasure. I'm savoring the taste slowly, with silent, intense satisfaction like it is some sweet memory.

It's like a chocolate bomb that's exploding - perhaps it's the way it makes me feel: more alert to the sounds and scents of the world, more aware of the color and textures of things, more aware of myself, of the mouth, of the throat, of the sensitive tongue.

The torte is all chocolate, thick and on the firm side, with a crowning glory of - what else? A rich chocolate glaze. With unsweetened whipped cream schlag, it seems less dense. A thin layer of apricot jam complements its dark delectability. 

The sweetness sets my cheeks to aching. It is warm and soft, and I roll it in my mouth like perfumed comfort. 

Refined, elegant. Understated without swirls or curlicues. It is not a souffle, a trifle, or a mousse. It thinks it's a cake. It tastes like a cake, pure, unadulterated cake. And it is.

Given the premise, I'd say, Delicious! Köstlich! 

My Review: ** - Very good, worth a detour

Pizza Margherita

Food, Glorious Food

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PIZZA MARGHERITA

Neighborhood Pisseria: Naples, Italy

$ Value: 5,00-10,00 euro for one-person size (approx $5.38-$10.75)

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We've just visited the island of Capri. Coming south from Sorrento and the Amalfi Coast, we've boarded a train to Naples. Pompeii, now in ruins after the eruption of Vesuvius in 79 AD, is visible nearby. 

But we're not doing antiquities, as of yet. At the top of the day's agenda is food: Neapolitan cooking, specifically. After all, it has received the Michelin Guide's highest number of stars from among all the Italian cities' cuisine. In particular, we're shooting for pizza which the people of Naples claim was born here. 

According to an often-recounted story, in 1889 Raffaele Esposito was asked to bake three different kinds of pizza for the royal visit of King Umberto I and Queen Margherita of Savoy. The Queen’s favorite was a pizza that had the colors of the Italian flag: basil leaves for green, mozzarella for white, and tomatoes for red. Named Pizza Margherita in her honor, this is how this pizza is still universally known.

Surely, we're not going to pass up the opportunity to have a taste. 

Our neighborhood pisseria of choice is almost spartan, with no frills. Inside, the conversation is already buzzing with polite greetings of Buongiorno in the early afternoon. Someone is ordering two beers, Due birre, per favore.

On the menu are only two kinds of pizza - margherita and marinara.

Cooked traditionally in a wood-burning oven, the ingredients of Neapolitan pizza have been strictly regulated by law and must include fresh dough made from wheat flour type '00' with the addition of flour type '0' yeast, natural mineral water, peeled fresh cherry tomatoes, mozzarella cheese, homemade roasted garlic, sea salt, and extra-virgin olive oil.

We opt for the margherita.

I'm practically drooling with anticipation as the gooey, creamy smell of cheese fills the air. A few minutes later and with the summons of a hearty, Buon appetito! we're inhaling the fragrance of just-off-the-oven pizza set before us.

I use my knife to slice into the yeasted flatbread and stab a mouthful with a fork. I groan with pleasure as I devour my first bite. I chew slowly, savoring each morsel before swallowing. My mouth is too slick for words.

Our margherita looks plain, but its crust is soft and light. The filling on top is a simple, thin layer of sweet San Marzano tomatoes. Perhaps, this is how pizza in its original form is supposed to be. Amazingly, it melts in the mouth, goes straight through the throat and into the stomach.

When the meal is over, I sit back and view my stomach with a pretense of dismay. In truth, it is a kind of no-guilt pizza and therefore, for me, puede pasar. I give it a 'passing' grade.

My Review:  * - Just good

Sauteed Ampalaya

Food, Glorious Food

This Mother's Day, I fondly remember one of Mum's unparalleled lessons on food and beauty. This is a true story of how stir-fried bitter melon came to be my most favorite dish.

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SAUTEED AMPALAYA

My Home In Manila: Mummie's Kitchen

Value:  94 centavos for three pounds (approximately $1.25)
Sentimental value:  P R I C E L E S S

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Ampalaya, also known as bitter melon, has an acrid taste. It grows off the vine as a green, oblong-shaped vegetable with a distinct warty exterior. It is rich in vitamins and minerals. Sadly for the whole family, sauteed ampalaya has been a Friday staple at our table year-round.

The evening rite begins with Mum processing to the table and bringing forward the sanctified food in front of The Brood of Faithful. One would think that she's leading us to fulfill the Jewish mitzvah of eating bitter herbs on seder night. She prefaces the offering with a solemn pronouncement, Dinner!

And there it is - the ceremonial dish, a gift from on high filled with small, green, horrid-looking, bumpy slices of bitter melon sauteed with dried shrimp. Balm for the soul, she proclaims slowly and clearly. 

We all stiffen, like lambs being led to the slaughter. She pauses solemnly, perhaps waiting for us to respond with some empty Latin phrase from the missal, but we suppress our communal sound of distaste into an anguished whisper. Holy Jesus, save us from our plight. I would have crossed myself, if I were Catholic. 

But salvation is nowhere in sight. Dadee suppresses a sigh, narrowing his mouth into a thin line. He mimics turning a key to lock his lips and throwing the key over his shoulder. Shhh, he gestures hastily for us to keep quiet and endure the trauma.

Fourth Brother, the most fastidious eater of all, is choking. He opens his mouth a few times, to no effect. We all watch him struggle like the prodigal son contemplating how even the pigs eat better slop than this.

Fifth and Sixth Brothers are spared the ordeal. Being toddlers, they get to eat the egg-drop porridge instead.

Eldest Brother is smart. He looks into his plate with sullen disinterest, takes a spoonful, then surreptitiously takes out each unchewed mouthful. Here, he lures Mighty, Second Brother's dog (the two brothers are arch-enemies). We later hear the unsuspecting puppy throw up in the corner with his tail behind his legs, looking like a cornered rat with terror on his face.

Second Brother is shifting his weight and glancing uneasily about. He stabs at his food and mutters something nasty. After breathing deeply and trying to control himself, he clears his throat. Mum glares at him. Third Brother giggles, covering his mouth with his hand and ducking his head so she can't see.

Dadee likes to get over his misery quickly, clearing up his plate with abandon. Then like a born-again person, he frantically juggles a toothpick which he twists and turns through his teeth with circus-like dexterity. His form of catharsis, I mumble. He's getting himself cleaned of the culinary abomination.

As for myself, I struggle with all my might, squeezing my eyes tightly shut. I force myself to be calm, even through my horror. My nose is tweaked. The dish feels heavy, like eating clay, and my stomach rebels against it. I quietly declaim a lamentation. Look and see! Is there any pain like mine? My groans are so many, yet there is no one to comfort me.

My suffering would have gone on unmitigated were it not for the Goddess of Beauty herself, in the guise of my mother, who comes to my rescue at that very moment. Note that I'm a tad naive for thirteen, intensely gullible, and just beginning to be conscious of my looks.

With controlled calm, Mum whispers in my ear. You want to know the secret of being beautiful? My ears perk up. My breath quickens with interest. I watch her mouth as if pearls of wisdom were about to fall from it. She grins down at me, exposing the sweetest downward smile. Then in a suave tone, she divulges, Bitter melon!

Hallelujah! A mystery has just been revealed to me. I've been anointed with oil that overflows, and I've never been so sure, though I walk in the valley of adolescent zits and hormonal changes, that I will fear no evil, for the magical potion of this sun-kissed gourd will follow me all the days of my life.

Food keeps us linked to certain incidents, to seasons and traditions, to life's mysteries. Bitter melon, so 'delish,' has been for me the key to making everything beautiful in its time.

My Review: *** - Exceptional, worth a special journey 

Dragon Fruit

Food, Glorious Food

This month's entries will feature my food reviews using the Michelin system which rates culinary merit, as follows: * - Good, ** - Very good, *** - Exceptional.

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DRAGON FRUIT

Floating Market: Damnoen Saduak, Thailand

Value: 34.4 Thai Baht per single fruit (approx $.99)

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The floating market in Damnoen Saduak is crowded with hundreds of vendors paddling along the narrow klong canal. Everywhere is a hodgepodge of delights. 

From the kitchens located right on the boats, I smell the rich aroma of coriander and dried chilies frying in red palm oil. A row of marinated chickens is sizzling from the intense heat of a grill in a long-tailed boat nearby. Poised on the upper edge of the boat's side, a vendor in red bandanna has stood up to offer a taste of mango sticky rice and sweet rolled sesame pancakes that he's holding in both hands like a Wise Man bearing a precious gift. I crack a smile, grinning at him with excited courtesy and pleasure.

As a flotilla of vessels docks by the concrete ledge where we're standing, I raise my eyes to the sun, tilting my head for a closer look. The wooden boats are loaded impossibly high with an assortment of plump rambutan, mangosteen, durian and other tropical fruits. I lift a fragrant mango and my fingers dent its yellow skin. The meek vendor, hovering close by, gives me an amiable nod. It's ripe alright, she seems to say. After nodding back at her, I gingerly move on. 

Behind a fruit stand, a woman with a bright orange head scarf is presiding over a pyramid of rosy fruits that look odd, yet so impossibly attractive and  seductive. The fruit has the hybrid look of a hot pink, thorny-skinned jackfruit and the magenta flower of the saguaro cactus. Shaped like a small football, its exterior has scale-like succulent leaves that are tipped in green. 

I must have shown a bewildered look of fascination mixed with curiosity because she quickly identifies it for me. Pitaya! Dragon fruit! She's glowing with a sort of triumph, like a game-show hostess who has just bestowed a prize. 

According to legend, this fruit, also known as strawberry pear, was created by the fire-breathing mythical creature itself. During a battle when the dragon would breathe fire, the last thing to come out would be the fruit. After the dragon was slain, the fruit would be collected and presented to the Emperor as a coveted treasure and indication of victory. 

With interest, I break open the strange-looking fruit. Its edible, white interior flesh is dotted throughout with tiny, black seeds. 

I bite into its spongy pulp, firm and only slightly juicy like that of a pear or a not-quite-ripe melon. Sucking into it until it is squashed and empty, I note its surprisingly bland flavor. I'd expected something stronger and more pungent. At best, I'd say it tastes like a subtly zesty radish but otherwise, it tastes just like a pockmarked, pale nothing.

It hasn't made a dent in my appetite. I hold my breath and push it aside.

The fruit costs just about a dollar and is therefore a cheap buy, but I'd rank it more as a showpiece rather than the kind of fruit I'd like to be snacking on while floating along the canal of the Thai river.

My Review: Sorry, beautiful on a platter, but no stars... - Not exceptional

Forbidden City

Landmarks

If ever there was a palace that deserved the name of a prison,

it is that palace in the Forbidden City. - Reginald Johnston

Sweet Forbidden.

For almost 500 years, the Forbidden City in Beijing, China served as the home of emperors and their household as well as the ceremonial and political center of  government. It was so-called because no one could enter or leave the palace without the emperor's permission, and also because ordinary people had to be authorized for entry.

Today it is no longer forbidden, as it has been transformed into a public museum, and I'm one of the hundreds of wide-eyed spectators who are stepping onto its threshhold.

As I eagerly glance inside, I see the light breaking through. I shade my eyes with my hands as I study the replica of the Purple Palace where the Celestial Emperor was thought to live in Heaven. It is enclosed by a 33-foot high wall, heavily guarded in the past at each corner with a magnificent watchtower.

A complex with over 180 acres, 980 buildings, 90 palaces and courtyards, and 8,704 rooms! I let out a gusty sigh.

From across an expansive brick-paved square, I reach the Meridian Gate which is the main entrance to the palace. Proceeding to the Golden Stream Bridge onto the outer court, I pass through the hall of Preserving Harmony.

I keep wondering, Can it really impart inner serenity?

I raise my eyebrows quizzically, but there is no time to test its claim. Out the hall and straight ahead, I spot the Gate of Heavenly Peace, the main passage to the inner living court and the emperor and concubines' sleeping quarters. 

So magnificent.

And yet a hollow feeling hits me. The emperor could not leave the palace grounds without an official escort and usually not unless it was to attend an official function or to travel to another palace. Being female, the empresses and concubines led even more sheltered lives because they could not be seen by any males outside the immediate family circle.

How like a cage it must have felt to them, I mumble with a heavy sigh.

With a wry smile, I contemplate how their hearts must have been heavy hidden behind these walls. So painfully, so suffocatingly small.

My voice falls as I mutter. Imagine being kept under scrutiny from the moment they rose to the moment they retired for the night. They must have slept deeply, but without dreams.

From behind the Imperial Garden, I exit through the Gate of Divine Might.­­­ I open the door a crack and gaze yearningly beyond. For me, all of the morning's buoyancy has faded. I feel a slow but familiar sinking feeling of having seen one of the saddest places ever. 

I turn away, leaving my  bitter-sweet memory to haunt the soft, diffused light of a celestial sky.

Taj Mahal

Landmarks

Let the splendor of diamond, pearl, and ruby vanish
like the magic shimmer of the rainbow.

Only let this one teardrop, this Taj Mahal, glisten spotlessly bright

on the cheek of time, forever and ever.- Tagore

It is a gorgeous, breezy day in Agra, India. The sky overhead is a deep, cloudless blue, a child's crayon drawing of heaven.

Where I'm standing, clustered amid the endless bustle of tourists and local folk, the air is electric. Everywhere I look, people are wide-eyed and animated. The atmosphere is joyous, alive with individuals crammed into a very long line headed toward the Taj Mahal, also known in Persian as 'crown of Mahal.'

A love poem in marble. The teardrop on the cheek of time. I whisper the appellation in a tender voice. It sounds like a caress in itself.

I keep thinking of Mumtaz, the emperor's favorite wife, declaring with pitiful dignity her wish to be entombed in a crypt that will make her immortal even past her death. I reflect on how after she dies giving birth to their fourteenth child, the heartbroken Shah promises that he will build her a marble mausoleum resembling paradise.

How elaborate can a final resting place be? Built on 42 acres, including a mosque. A guest house is surrounded on three sides by medieval-style walls on top of which are rectangular spaces through which arrows or other weaponry may be shot. I turn the words over in my mouth as if they were hard candy. In all honesty, I marvel at how a piece of architecture can embody love's passion to such heights and take twenty-two years and twenty thousand workers to complete.

As I survey the complex, I'm immediately captivated by the mirror-image of the ivory-white edifice reflected on the long rectangular pool. I look up to capture the details of the gardens and wide marble verandas. Light is flooding the impressive dome and the four minarets, elegant as a swan's neck, that frame it.

The relentless press of bodies continues, but the mood is congenial. We surge forward as the line inches along, and then stop again. I wait, sighing, my palms on the balustrade behind me. Finally stepping onto an arched balcony, I can see intricate floral patterns and geometric designs inside and outside standing out in glittering focus. They're inlaid with precious stones, I comment in admiration.

I glance at the fluctuating light reflected from the building. Delicate, elaborate hand-carved screens from single slabs of marble adorn windows and doors. We continue on. The place is packed. No matter which way I go, I always seem to be fighting against a tide of bodies. 

Finally, we come to a stop as we pass into the area where the bodies of the emperor and his wife lie in the vault below. The noise has quieted down in a simmering silence of deep, timeless peace as we gaze through a filigree screen that has been set up as a veil around the royal tombs. 

My chest constricts at the sweetness of that captured moment. Like a salmon swimming against the tide, I immediately push my way down the dome-shaped chhatri pavilion. 

I step outside to take a fresh breath of air in what feels like forever. 

Sydney Opera House

Landmarks

The sun did not know how beautiful its light was, 

until it was reflected off this building. - Louis Kahn

The sky is clean and upbeat, sunny as ever. We're in Australia, headed to the Sydney Opera House to purchase tickets for the evening performance of Mozart's Le nozze di Figaro (Marriage of Figaro).

I lift my chin, dazzled by unexpected brightness. I spot a large, white sculpture looming in the harbor, catching and mirroring the sky in all its varied lights. I'm impressed.

Its white shell-shaped roof tiles give the feeling of moving upwards, soaring with sails, I note with obvious appreciation. I take a deep breath and exhale. I want to appear keen, alert to nuances.

All around and below the iconic structure's massive red granite platform, circles of sunlight dapple the rushing waters of Bennelong Point.  

Then all at once, in a dizzying moment, I feel the heat as the sun rises higher and higher and higher still, straight, straight up. I stop to catch my breath. The iconic edifice is so full of radiance that I imagine the people coming around as if they were in the negative of photos - gray, with white features.

A fresh breeze blows in over the shore of Sydney Harbor. The day gleaming with a golden luminosity looks like it had been stolen from a place of darkness.

Entra Figaro. I can see him in my mind's eye. My heart is suddenly full of song. 

Cantante. His voice will peal like a glass bell through the warm summer day.

La, la, la, la, la, la!