My mother maintains that the only worthwhile recipe she took away from cooking school was for pata tim. “That’s not saying much,” she insists, “considering it’s just water, sugar, soy sauce, and star anise.”
Jenny remains doubtful. I think it is the sight of the whole leg of pork that intimidates her. She tentatively probes the skin with her fork, which sinks right through. “Wow,” she says, “that’s really tender.”
Just like Ma said it would be. “But too dark,” I point out, just in case she has missed it — or, likelier, is too polite to mention. It is my first attempt at the dish, after all.
“That it is. Soy sauce?”
“Nah,” I say. “More like sugar.” Worried the leg would turn out pale, I had melted/scorched a tablespoon’s worth before pouring in water (careful!) and a quarter cup more of brown sugar, same of pineapple juice, and two tablespoons each of soy sauce and oyster sauce, plus a teaspoon of salt. Then added the pork leg (parboiled and rinsed to remove scum, and rid of any remaining hair), two pieces of star anise, and more water (total of six cups in my case) to just about submerge everything. That was all there was to it, really. The rest was mostly waiting, with the occasional turning.
“Three hours?”
“Close enough.” Over low flame. Meanwhile, I had set about prepping and steaming some water spinach — pechay being good, according to Ma, “but tangkong is better” (and, if she is to be believed, more traditional) — then re-hydrating dried shiitake mushrooms. The latter she had not mentioned, though they had turned out to help absorb some of the saltiness from the broth (so if you are not using any, leave the salt for last-minute seasoning, sparingly while tasting as you go). Finally, some cornstarch in cold water to thicken broth into a sauce, and sesame oil to round out the flavor.
Sitting down to eat, Ma squints at my pata tim. “Dark, isn’t it,” I volunteer, adding the bit about the caramelized sugar. “But it tastes good. Go ahead.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have,” she says. “These too.”
It takes me a second to realize that she was referring to the water spinach. “But,” I start to protest, “you said–”
“–and I thought you knew better than buy this kind of tangkong. Have you any idea how dirty these are?”
Shit. Are they now? I know there’s this, and then there’s that other kind called Chinese tangkong, but I had never bothered to tell between the two, the same way I keep forgetting which leg is best: front or hind? Like his job, a cook’s education never ends.
This post has no comments.
Post a Comment