When I moved into my new apartment a few months ago, the first thing I did was take inventory of the cupboards. (The previous tenants had left a decent supply of spices, oils, and condiments.) The second thing I did, even though it was almost 10pm by the time I was done unpacking, was march over the Trader Joe's and buy ground cumin. I had not planned on cooking that night. It just made me sleep better, knowing my kitchen was no longer eggregiously understocked.

Other than sea salt, cumin is the spice that I cannot with without. If I were only allowed two spices on a deserted island (with an otherwise fully-stocked kitchen), and had to choose between cumin and a pepper grinder, the former might win out. Just a whiff of toasted cumin seeds brings back a flood of memories of the best foods I have ever eaten: melty lamb shoulder from a Yemeni restaurant in Brooklyn, late night beef kebabs from a street vendor in Beijing, pilau from an Afghani restaurant near Boston.

On this blog already I have already made a good number of salads and other vegetarian dishes with cumin, but here's one for red meat eaters. Cumin is normally used in a lot of western Chinese cooking, such as that from Xi'an or the Xinjiang province, but periodically shows up in Hunan and Sichuan cooking as well.

Excuse me for a second, while I rhapsodize about fast food in Asia.

As frequent travelers know, the #1 cardinal sin when visiting a new place is to avoid fast food chains (unless you are in a developing country and just need a clean public restroom.) I have had bad luck when breaking this rule. Food poisoning from a Beijing KFC, for example. I have also had good luck. On one of those painfully humid summer mornings in Shanghai, I escaped into an air-conditioned McDonald's and discovered the joys of Sichuan-spiced chicken sandwiches.

Then there is my relationship with Yoshinoya. I can't speak for the quality of Yoshinoya's chains in the US (one in NYC, the rest mainly in around LA). But while living in Beijing and Shanghai, every couple of weeks I would succumb to my immense craving for their beef bowl, or gyudon. Even if it meant eating in a dingy mall basement with ambient arcade noises, alongside mega hoards of teens.

With all due respect to Memphis and Kansas City, Californians know the nation's best barbecue may be in their own backyard. I've spent enough time in the Central Coast to know that no occasion is too small for Santa Maria-style barbecue. Fundraisers, Quinceañeras, and Saturdays are all reasons to fire up the 50-gallon oil drum grill and slow cook enough beef for the whole town. For my Foodbuzz 24, 24, 24 event this month, I attended to a local fundraiser for spare ribs cooked on a giant grill, then at night, made my own tri-tip feast.

So what exactly is Santa Maria-style barbecue? Well, legend has it that California's barbecue culture dates back to the early 19th century, when vaqueros ended hard days of cattle branding with feasts of fresh steer, bread, and beans. And they were economical too, these cowboys. When they couldn't bear to toss the triangular ends of their sirloins,
they made the tri-tip a regional Cal-Mex speciality.

I made this for dinner early last week. By the time Jacob and I were halfway done, we were already sniffling, with sweat beads ready to form. Even in the pantheon of Sichuan cuisine, this is one helluva spicy dish.

Shuizhu niurou (水煮牛肉) is translated literally into English as "water-boiled beef", a rather benign name for such a potent tongue-burning dish. Restaurant versions usually come in a clay or iron pot, with about 100 chilis foating on the surface of the bright red broth, and a few pieces of beef poking through. It could more aptly be named "water-boiled chilis with beef garnish." The fish version can be equally alarming. But for spice fiends and native Sichuanese, this fiery dish is pure delicious comfort food.

Fortunately, the version I made at home is manageable, though just barely. The nice part is that if you don't care about how impressively red the broth is, you can adjust the spiciness to your tolerance level, by 1) using less chili bean sauce, or 2) leaving the dried chili peppers whole instead of chopping them up and unleashing the beastly seeds.

Bonus impressive ending (stricly optional): after plating the finished beef and sauce, reheat some oil in your wok until just smoking. Pour the oil over your dish so the beef and chilis crackle. If you hurry your dish to the table, it will still be crackling in front of your guests. 

Flank steak is something I hardly ever cook in China, mostly because I am almost never in the vicinity of a good butcher. But last weekend, I decided to treat myself to a massage to help with a sore back. Walking out blissful and somewhat painfree, I realized I was near Boucherie Michel, the only place in town where I could find quality cuts of meat and imported cheeses and wine and pricey organic food. (How I miss the days when I could pop down to the Fairway in West Harlem for all my grocery needs.)

I bought 200 grams of flank steak and made a stir-fry with peppers and onions. The sauce is relatively easy: soy sauce, oyster sauce, sugar, sesame oil, and most importantly, a copious amount of freshly ground black pepper. In fact, the only thing tricky about this dish in slicing the beef thin enough, which is made easier if you pop the meat in the freezer for about 15 to 20 minutes beforehand. Then just slice at an angle, perpendicular to the grain; doing so shortens the muscle fibers and makes the meat less chewy when cooked.

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Black Pepper Beef Stir-fry

Serves 4 as part of a multi-course meal

Marinade:
2 tablespoons dark soy sauce
1/2 tablespoon Shaoxing wine
1/2 teaspoon sesame oil
2 cloves garlic, minced
A few generous twists of the pepper grinder, or 1 teaspoon of freshly ground black pepper