Despite my pledge to eat healthier, I'm still on an Indian-Chinese food kick this week.  Following up my fried Gobi Manchurian, I decided to make fried chicken lollipops. A good excuse would be that this is a handy appetizer to know in case I ever host a last-minute party.

Since chicken is one of two meats that are popular in India (the other being lamb), it's not surprising that cooks would get creative with a little drumstick. All you need is a paring knife to cut the tendons and scrape down the meat so the meat forms a nice round ball at the end. And the end result is wings that are much less messy to eat, especially when you're dealing with the hazards of a spicy, sticky sauce. 

I first made lollipops way back in culinary school in my hors d'œuvre module. My chef-instructor hinted that this was his original idea, and that he deserved credit if we were to ever offer them on our own restaurant menus. I was impressed, until later when I began to see these not only in Indian-Chinese restaurants but also on the Food Network. So much for original ideas. At least you can rest assured that this is a better lollipop method than jamming chicken nuggets on popsicle sticks.

Note to self: Never bake cookies before breakfast, especially if you are starving.

Yesterday, faced with the prospect of no milk accompaniment for cornflakes, I decided to hold out until lunch. I wanted to try out a recipe for almond cookies and told myself I would only eat 1 or 2, then fix myself a sensible lunch. However, hunger and gluttony got the best of me, and I ended up wolfing down eight.

You live, you learn.

My father used to own a Cantonese bakery and he would make these enormous, 5-inch wide crisp almond cookies with an egg-y sheen. I wanted more manageable-sized cookies, so I tried a recipe out of Chinatown: Sweet Sour Spicy Salty, a book I borrowed from the school I teach at. A recipe from the book I tried before was a dud, but fortunately this one turned out fine, giving me crisp and buttery textured cookies.

The only alteration I made was adding a half cup of ground almonds for a more nutty flavor. Although next time methinks I should replace the all-purpose flour with almond flour from Carrefour's enormous flour selection. (Or cashew flour, or even goji flour. Ah, Carrefour. What unusual flour don't you have?)

___________________________

Other cookie recipes to try:

I was first introduced to Indian Chinese food a few years ago in Hong Kong, at a restaurant in Tsim Sha Tsui whose name now escapes me. My first thought was, "This is Chinese food?" My second thought was, "How ironic." The cuisine of China, brought over to India by Chinese immigrants many generations ago and given an Indian make-over, is now in the 21st century being brought to a special administrative region of China by Indian immigrants.

Chinese food developed in India the way it does around the world: by immigrants using techniques from home to cook their new world ingredients. They begin by feeding themselves, then perhaps open a restaurant to earn a living, thus adapting the food even more to suit local palettes.

Indian-Chinese cuisine incorporates not only Chinese ingredients like soy sauce and and ginger, but also cumin, turmeric, and hot chilis. Neither beef nor pork, the de facto meat of China, are used, because of India's large Hindu and Muslim populations. That leaves chicken, lamb, and vegetables as the mainstays. 

Life is slowly returning to normal. With the Olympics in town, I couldn't not be surrounded by sports fever. I attended 11 events in total, mostly through friends of friends with last minute tickets. Conversations around me all centered around tickets: who has them, who's willing to sell them, and why the heck they're all "sold out" but the venues are still half empty. The past two weeks have been fun, but also exhausting...too many early morning events, crowds galore, hour-long waits for security check, bad stadium food, and late night carousing (the last, though, was no fault of the Games themselves.) 

I'm continuing with the healthy recipes to combat the massive amounts of fried food I have been eating. Last week I posted Sichuan-Style Snow Peas, a light stir-fry. Today's tomato egg drop soup is even healthier if you consider the lack of cooking oil. It's also incredibly simple, which no special technique other than the swirling in of the egg whites to create the egg strands. Just pour slowly and stir at the same time.

Related recipe:
Seaweed Egg Drop Soup

_____________________________

Tomato Egg Drop Soup

Serves 4

I'll start off by saying that I have greatly enjoyed the Games here in Beijing. But I do have a gripe that is shared by many other people.

While the events have been fun, the food inside every venue leaves much to be desired. Or should I say, the lack of food. I know that it's common at many sporting and entertainment venues to restrict bringing in food, but it's also common to have food available for purchase. But no. Hot dogs and sausage links listed on the the menu at every venue are almost always "sold out." Sandwiches are nonexistent. The only things available are usually popcorn, Snickers, ice cream, and Tsingtao beer, which is what I have been mainly subsisting on. (You would think that with McDonald's as a corporate sponsor, we could at least get some ultra-hydrogenated fries and sad cheeseburgers.) Granted, everything is reasonably priced, but when you're on the verge of starvation in the middle of a 4-hour event, you would gladly overpay for a dinky club sandwich or frankfurter. 

Dried-fried green beans is one of my favorite side dishes to order in Sichuan restaurants. In contrast to crisp haricot verts or mushy microwaved diner-style beans, Sichuan-style green beans are blistered and well-cooked without being bland. With Sichuan peppercorns and dried chillis adding spice and smokiness to the flavor profile, this dish becomes positively addictive.

However, no matter how many times I tried to recreate the dish at home, I ended up either burning the green beans before they got cooked, or dumping some water in order to save the beans, the latter which defeats the purpose of dry-frying. For help, I finally emailed Kian from Red Cook. He said that his method is using a ton of oil and constantly stirring the beans to get them cooked without burning. Almost like deep-frying. No wonder the green beans in restaurants taste so good.

My good-enough-for-publishing recipe in this post can be considered vegetarian, depending on whether you consider dried shrimp meat. (Or maybe I'm just turning incredibly Chinese: "Oh, you don't eat meat? Don't worry...it's just chicken.") Some versions use minced pork in addition to dried shrimp, and some avoid both. For dried shrimp, make sure to get the kind that's bigger, pinkish, and more expensive, not the cheap itty bitty gray ones. 

I'm sure most Westerners who have ever dined with a group of Chinese are familiar with the the following scenario. After a ___-course lavish banquet, you look forward to something nice and sweet to cap off a great experience. Your Chinese hosts inform you that you'll love the dessert; all Westerners love dessert. This one is a Chinese specialty. Anticipation mounts. Then the long-awaited dessert arrives...in the form of red bean soup. You take one sip, utter an "Mmm!" with all the false bravado you can muster, and wonder if anyone will notice you "watering" that plant close by.

Yes, it is well known that most Chinese desserts are merely tolerated by Westerners. While I personally don't mind red bean soup or other sweet dessert soups every once in a while, other people, like a certain significant other of mine, have developed an intense fear of them. It's understandable. While in the West we crave and lust after rich chocolates, cakes, and pies, the Chinese palate can tolerate only moderately sweet things. Thus, Chinese desserts never seem sweet enough, but anyone living or traveling extensively in China can't help but encounter them again and again. 

Not long ago I picked up an outdated Chinese cooking magazine from the bargain bin of a magazine stand. I was enamored of the existentialist thought-provoking photos inside, such as this gem:

When Jacob and I lived in New York, we were frequent patrons of the "$1 for 5" fried dumpling places in Chinatown and the Lower East Side. Those quick meals of crisp pork dumplings satisfied both sudden hunger pangs and skinny wallets. Then we discovered the dumpling joints also had bags of frozen dumplings for sale, even cheaper at $7 for 50, and multitudes better than the factory brands at Chinese supermarkets. So every month, Jacob would ride his bike 150+ blocks down to lower Manhattan and come back with about 15 pounds of frozen dumplings in his messenger bag.

I didn't subsist completely on Chinatown dumplings, but they were definitely handy when working full-time, freelancing on the side, and too tired to cook.

Now that I'm in Beijing, southern-style dumplings are almost non-existent. Northern-style jiaozi are wrapped in a thick doughy skins, and the dinky amount of filling per dumpling usually makes me feel somewhat cheated. (Exceptions, of course, exist.) There are die-hard Beijing jiaozi afficionados out there, but I'm not one of them. I craved--no, needed--dumplings whose skins didn't overwhelm the savory morsels of meat and vegetables inside.

Ever since the calendar switched over to August, a miraculous thing has happened. Beijing has clean air.

No, really. And honest to goodness blue skies. The city promised clean air for the Olympics, and lo and behold, it actually has been ridiculously clear for the past 3 days. Maybe it's because of fewer cars on the road, or closed factories, or just the luck of 8. Whichever case it may be, I love being able to breath again.

So when the sun is able to shine directly onto the city, the temperatures get just a smidgeon hotter. And when temperatures get hotter, my brain starts to churn out more ideas for cold drinks.

Like this plum and ginger soda. I had seen various recipes for lime and ginger soda, and I did have a bag of ripe plums from the new fruit store down the street. And if plum and ginger make a good sauce for duck, they would surely be find flavors for a soda.

Digression: This aforementioned fruit store, by the way, began renovations last Monday, finished on Thursday, and opened on Friday. The pace of construction in China continues to astound me. I wouldn't be surprised if the owners came up with the business proposal on Sunday.

I grew up with two kinds of sweet and sour pork. Like any American child living in close proximity to a Chinese take-out, I ate a good amount of Ping-pong ball-sized pork laced with red food coloring and accompanied by canned pineapple. At home, my mother would also prepare her version, using bone-in chunks of pork encased flavored with a subtler orange-vinegar sauce. 

In Beijing, I once took a home-style cooking class in which the teacher revealed that her  secret ingredient for sweet and sour pork, also what "the better restaurants in Beijing use", was a bottle of locally produced ketchup. Why not the American brand Heinz? Too sweet.

Sweet and sour pork is thought to have originated in Guangdong province. But now that the Cantonese have flung themselves afar, each place they have landed has its own local variation. I'm sure Canada, the UK, Austalia, and other immigration hot spots have slightly different sweet and sour composites.