When she found out I was going to Hong Kong on holiday, my friend Bergman (not her real name) made me promise to eat at the Australia Dairy Co. Why? Because all over the Interwebs were glowing reviews of ADC’s scrambled eggs, which, when she tried it out, she found to be not as amazing as she expected.
“I can make better eggs than that at home!” she said.
“Maybe the cook was just having an off day,” I said, trying to be helpful.
“Try it and tell me I’m wrong,” she said.
It turns out the place was just a couple of blocks away from where my friends and I would be staying — a nice, tiny apartment overlooking the Temple Street Night Market. The AirBnB reviews were positive, and three pages down, a helpful reviewer mentioned there was “prostitution” down on the street but it was generally safe.
(I wasn’t worried. Prostitution in Hong Kong is legal so long as the, uh, professional is working freelance, and not with a pimp or organization.)
So on the first morning of our trip, we went in search of the restaurant. I was warned there would be a long queue for breakfast, and indeed there was.
However, after a minute in line, a staff came out asking if there are any parties of two. There weren’t any, but we said there were three of us, so they let us go in next.
So some of the staff of Buzzfeed agreed to try the offerings of Jollibee in the U.S. Some of the feedback was hilarious:
Little Big Bite (Spam sandwich): “It tastes like a sandwich made by a divorced dad.”
Spicy Chicken: “It’s like a new type of spice.”
Burger Steak: “It look beautiful. I love it.” “I think that looks disgusting.”
Halo Halo: “How stoned [were} the Jollibee people when making this stuff up?” “It looks like if Christmas was a food.”
So I finally got to eat at Abe again. After the first bite, I wondered why I’d taken so long.
The bihod fried rice alone is enough to send you into raptures.
My dinner companions did not know what humba was. I thought it was a great reason to order it, and they agreed. It’s not my Mom’s humba, but it was almost perfect. It’s chicken liver and pork stew, slow-cooked. This version had banana heart strips. Yum, yum, yum.
Most of what passes off as iced tea in this country has no actual tea in it. Most of the time it’s basically flavored sugar water. It’s gross. Most people like it (but then this is also a country where that so-godawful-this-must-be-what-satan’s-balls’-sweat-tasted-like San Mig instant coffee is considered coffee) so they, in turn, assume everyone shares their fondness for that crap.
Leche flan is one of my favorite things to eat (and cook). Anyone serious about surviving the apocalypse should know how to make it. Because when electricity becomes hard, if not impossible, to come by, you’ll need something to do with all the damn eggs before they go bad.
The good news is that leche flan is ridiculously easy to make. All you need are four ingredients — one of which is water. I use my mom’s recipe, but occasionally I change up the proportions a bit depending on how rich or sweet I want it.
My mom is a great cook, but she didn’t actually teach me how to cook. I was really interested in baking, and she did the best thing to inspire me to learn — kicked me and my sisters out of the kitchen every time she baked. I like to think she thought we were smart enough to figure it out on our own. I loved all the good things that came out of her oven, so I always took it for granted I’d learn to do it when I grew up. She did send me to a summer baking class for kids when I was about 11 years old.
I had an apointment with my uncle last night, and it turned into a dinner with him, my aunt and my three cousins at the new Japanese restaurant Marufuku.
The sign on the front door said “Soft opening”. Which I guess means they’re still ironing out hiccups in the operation. The staff didn’t do so badly — one of them served the salmon sushi claiming it was the sashimi, but other than that, we got decent service. The food was excellent. I had the seafood and vegetable ramen and the salmon sashimi.