One of the advantages of living a nomadic life is experiencing the local food. Good memories are the result of great flavor and colorful situations. Such as the Pho we ate each morning in Hanoi. We sat on tiny stools; right on the curb, around a large pot heated by a kerosene stove, and ate the delicious soup in the company of other citizens on their way to work. Or the sticky rice served on a banana leaf during a jungle trek in Laos. We collected the rice with our fingers, rolled it into a little ball, and holding it between finger and thumb, dipped it in thick spicy sauce. We were amazed how such a small amount of rice can be so satisfying. Or the barbecued fish on Bali's Jimbaran beach. Our order was delivered from the wood-fired grill just as the sun set and the tide came up. Tiny wavelets washed over our bare feet as we utilized candle light to lick the last tender pieces off the spines.
However, eventually our palates craved something familiar, something from home. Since world-wide cuisine is not readily available where we travel, we knew that in order to eat comfort food, we will have to learn how to prepare it. The extended stay in Oaxaca, living in a fully equipped apartment, gave us the opportunity to become cooks.
Adi was the first to take the plunge. During her annual visit to Korea she received hands-on instructions from her mother, and soon after our arrival, she set out to prepare Kimchi, the holy grail of Korean dishes. To get cabbage, the main ingredient, we visited a large vegetable market. Lacking the Spanish name, we browsed stall after stall till we finally found it. Unfortunately, it was not the Chinese cabbage which tradition demands. We looked through many other stalls, but to no avail. Later that week, Gia, our Korean friend, told us that Chinese cabbage can only be obtained in Mexico City, a six-hour (one way) drive from here. Adversity leads to innovation. Adi decided to try the local variety. She cut and salted the cabbage, prepared the other vegetables, mixed them all with special Korean spices and left it to ferment overnight. It was a tense night. When morning came, Adi opened the large jar with visible apprehension. Like all Koreans, she is very picky about her Kimchi; so first, the contents had to pass the smell test. Then, she gingerly took a tiny morsel in her mouth. Immediately, her eyes brightened, and head held high, she clapped her hands with joy. "Successful!" she cried. I too like Kimchi, and soon agreed that this Mexican variation tasted just like the original. Adi's mother was very proud to hear that her forty-six year old little girl prepared, for the first time, a dish on her own. We thought she would frown on the use of the unconventional vegetable, but on the contrary. She was familiar with regular cabbage Kimchi. Koreans had to eat it during the hard years of the Korean civil war. "It was pretty good." she admitted.
I dreamed about Hummus. After obtaining the recipe on the internet, I embarked on my quest: chickpeas, Tahini, and Pita bread.
I readily discovered the chickpeas in Soriana, our favorite supermarket. Soriana provides, on a large floor, both a department store, and a grocery store. On my first visits, it was a bit disconcerting to walk along the dairy isle searching for cheese, and find myself looking at engine oil in the automotive section. Later, when I learned to pay attention to the narrow lane that separates the two functions, shopping became a pleasure. I found the Garbanzo beans right next to the maiz (corn). I was happy. Only several hummus spreads and many web sites later, did I realize that not all chickpeas are created equal, and that Mexican Garbanzo beans do not exactly replicate the Middle Eastern flavor.
Tahini posed a logistical challenge. If we would have gone to Mexico City for the cabbage, most likely we could find a Middle Eastern store. However in Oaxaca there would be none. I must have earned some good karma because just as I was losing hope, Kobi and Rivka'le announced that they will come to Oaxaca on El Dia De Los Muertos. They graciously agreed to allocate room in their light luggage for two cans of Tahini, and despite our concerns, the cans passed the security inspection without causing too much alarm.
While pondering the issue of the Pita bread, without which making hummus was pointless, I noticed that on every street corner in Oaxaca, stands a woman that, depending on her specialty, sells Memelas, Tlayudas, or Empanadas. All of which involve the baking of corn tortillas on a round baking sheet, heated by a charcoal fire. The tortillas are then covered with toppings, such as Frijoles or mushrooms, to form the aforementioned delicacies. A vague memory brought me back to Arab villages in Israel, where women bake Pitas on a tabun, a round clay oven. I reasoned that even though the Mexican baking sheet was concave, while the tabun is convex, it would do the job. Our corner's Memela vendor verified that the baking sheet is called comal, and that it can be found in the general-goods market. Although most street comals are metallic, some are made of clay, and it was such a comal that I found in a small shop inside the crowded and noisy building. My karma credits were still good and provided a comal that would fit perfectly in our oven. It was the only item in that size.
The rest was just following procedure. We doused the hummus plate with olive oil, sprinkled it with cilantro (a Mexican alternative to parsley), and enjoyed heaven on a Pita.
Hummus recipe:
http://humus101.com/EN/2006/10/14/hummus-recipe/
Kimchi recipe: http://www.davidlebovitz.com/archives/2008/02/a_kimchi_recipe.html
