My Stir-fried Life

by Ken Hom

  Nevertheless, they were mostly fascinated by Chinese cookery, with its big wok and cleaver, and they were raring to go.

  * * *

  Many of them had never seen a wok, and I would take them through the process of seasoning the utensil. All woks (except non-stick or stainless steel) need to be seasoned. Many also need to be scoured first to remove the machine oil that is applied to the surface by the manufacturer to protect it in transit. This is the only time you will scour your wok, unless you let it rust.

  Rub it with kitchen paper and water to remove as much of the machine oil as possible. Use a plastic cleaning pad or a coarse cloth, not a metal scourer.

  Dry the wok and place it over a low heat. Add two dessertspoons of vegetable or sunflower oil. Use kitchen paper to rub the oil over the inside of the wok, coating the entire surface. Gently heat the wok thoroughly for 10 or 15 minutes – it will smoke – and then wipe it clean it with kitchen paper. Repeat the process until the kitchen paper is clean.

  Your wok, meanwhile, will darken. This is a good sign. The darker the wok, the more prolific the cook.

  * * *

  I had about thirty-five students, half of them women. Shortly after I began my classes, I went one day to Chinatown and bought a chicken. The chicken was alive and when the students came into the room, the bird was flapping and squawking. I proceeded to despatch it. Many people are squeamish about such things but the fact is that the animal’s life must be sacrificed in order to prolong ours. Plus, I thought my students were serious about cooking. Ron had assured me that was the case.

  Swiftly, I cut the chicken’s throat to let it bleed. ‘Now,’ I said to the class, ‘you have to collect the blood in a bowl – and put salt in the bowl so that the blood will coagulate.’ As I collected the blood in the bowl I gave a clue as to what would come next: ‘Once I’ve done this, I’m going to show you how we’re going to use every part of the bird.’

  Wanting to check that my students were paying attention, I glanced around the room. There was a mass of faces, ashen and grimacing. Then the room started to empty, as the students made a dash for what the Americans call the bathroom, though I can assure you they were not going to have a bath. Most of those who hurried off to throw up were men, not women. They just couldn’t take it.

  From a seat in the corner, Ron Batori had been observing his new teacher. When the class finished, and it may have ended a little earlier than planned, he came up to me and said, ‘That was fantastic. But please don’t ever do that slaughter stuff again.’

  I said, ‘Slaughter stuff? I thought they were serious about food.’

  Deadpan, Ron replied, ‘Not that serious.’

  Ron became a dear friend, and at weekends he’d host parties at his house, which was up in the Delta and built in 1863 during the Civil War period. Jeremiah and I would cook; Ron was generous with the wine cellar. Darrell Corti, the wine merchant, would also arrive with a few drinkable gems.

  I am not sure if it was the episode of the despatched chicken that did it, but at some point Ron suggested it might be best if my cookery classes took place at my home. My classes were increasingly popular, and there was space to accommodate more students in the kitchen of my house in Berkeley. I agreed to the suggestion.

  I’d drive Ron’s colleagues crazy by charging for every cost. I charged for aluminium foil, for cling film and even sent in bills to cover part of my water bill – the students, I figured, used bucketloads by flushing the toilet and there was a drought in California. One of my invoices for reimbursement read: ‘Cost to replace Eau Sauvage stolen from bathroom by student.’ Another invoice read: ‘Cost to replace chair broken by large female student.’

  Begrudgingly at times, the Academy coughed up, knowing that my classes were drawing in large crowds and fees. Why, the students awarded me a nickname: Hollywood Hom, deriving, I imagine, from the fact that I dressed well, perhaps with a bit of style. There was also comedy and drama during the classes.

  BY now I was good friends with Jeremiah Tower. One night he cooked a spectacular feast at his home: pig, and it was every part of the pig except the oink. My idea of heaven. And I remember taking Jeremiah on a guided tour of Chinatown, pointing out the best places to buy certain foods and ingredients.

  I knew, however, that Jeremiah was having a difficult time, financially. So I said, ‘Why don’t you come and give cookery classes at my place? Just pay your expenses, and you can keep the profits.’ He was happy with that, and his classes filled up immediately, as he was a bit of a legend.

  He was also good to have around if I was organising an event. ‘Let’s get George Linton along to the party,’ he would say of the renowned wine collector. ‘George will bring some nice bottles.’

  Jeremiah was keen to introduce me to James Beard, a deity of the national food scene. Known as ‘the Dean of American Cookery’, James was a writer, teacher, author of cookbooks and a champion of local produce. His childhood summer holidays were spent on the beaches of Oregon, where he would fish, make a fire and use it to cook his catch from the sea. In the mid-1940s he appeared in his own segment for what would be America’s first cookery show. A decade later he established the James Beard Cooking School in New York (Madhur Jaffrey was among the people who taught there). His legacy is an eponymous foundation which, every year, presents the James Beard Awards, the Oscars of American gastronomy.

  I liked James. I met him several times, including on a couple of occasions in New York, where he died in 1985. He was also extremely kind about my first book, writing a supportive review for one of the New York papers.

  10

  Dining with Danny and James

  JAMES BEARD WAS a large man with a huge reputation. Gossip was a big part of his life. James had an opinion about everybody, whether they were in the James Beard circle or out of the James Beard circle. (Most people, I would learn, had their circles. Usually, you were in either one entourage or another. I wasn’t really in anyone’s entourage. This was partly because my career was international. I wasn’t Californian or American, and was destined to spend a lot of time in Asia and Europe, keeping me away from the cliques. But everyone was respectful to me.)

  I’d like to take you back to the 1920s, when James was a young man. He had finished college and his dream was to become an actor. He toured with a theatrical troupe and then travelled abroad, studying voice and theatre but not achieving any real success. He returned to America, still determined to become well known on the stage or in the movies. Well, he was making barely any money from acting and – by now in his mid-thirties – he figured he better earn some money to see him through his periods as a ‘resting’ actor. So he set up a little catering business and, sure enough, he had found his vocation.

  Should you ever wish to prove the point that you can take the man out of acting but never the actor out of the man … I give you James Beard. He loved, loved, loved to be the centre of attention. And he regaled us with long stories with all the booming power and projection of a seasoned thespian centre stage at the Old Vic.

  Even heart problems had seemingly been unable to silence him. Once you were friendly enough with James, he would raise the subject of surgery and say, ‘Hey, take a look at this…’ Then he would unbutton his shirt to reveal his broad, bare chest and the horrendous long, deep scars of heart surgery. In those days, they had yet to perfect tidy surgery so, take my word for it, the great Beard’s chest was a far from pleasant sight. It was like, too much information, James.

  MY friend Ron Batori once gave me an incredibly useful piece of advice about lunch or dinner parties. ‘Never’, said Ron, ‘invite two stars on the same night.’ This does not apply merely to Hollywood stars. If you know one person who loves to be the focal point, then it is foolish to invite another friend who also craves all eyes upon him or her.

  I will always be grateful for Ron’s advice, but regrettably he gave me the tip after I had invited James Beard to dinner on the same night as Danny Kaye. Too late, in other words.
Now, Danny, of course, was indeed a Hollywood star. He could sing and dance, was funny, and was a big hit in the ’40s and ’50s, in films such as Up in Arms, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty and Hans Christian Andersen. When his movie career faded, he moved into television, presenting his own show. All around the world, Danny was adored.

  The 402-room Stanford Court Hotel – where the cable cars intersect on Nob Hill, in San Francisco – hosted events with chefs from all over America, drawing in a crowd of connoisseurs and gourmets. I happened to be friends with the hotel’s managing partner and president, Jim Nassikas, one of the best hoteliers that ever lived (his style and innovations were copied all over the world). One day, Jim phoned to say he was coming over to mine, ‘and I’ve got someone I want you to meet’. Shortly afterwards, he pulled up outside the house with Danny Kaye. That initial meeting was memorable because there were French friends staying with me and, although Danny did not speak the language particularly well, he managed to greet them in rusty French, saying: ‘What I do not understand about French – why is the woman’s vagina masculine – le? And why are the male genitals feminine – la?’ Danny sure knew how to break the ice.

  Danny was a keen cook and crazy about Chinese food, and that is why Jim had figured we should meet. We exchanged phone numbers and subsequently I invited him over for that dinner when Danny and James Beard were both in town, for an event at Stanford Court. The minute they were both in the house, I knew I had messed up. Each one of them was accustomed to being the sun, with everything spinning around them. Once you have two suns it gets to be a problem, and I had two suns in my house.

  I was not quite sure where to sit them at the table, and each was vying for attention. If one of them told a story about so and so, the other had to tell a funnier, longer story about so and so. Not really a dinner, but more like being a spectator at a grand slam tennis match, one second looking to the right (Danny), the next second turning to the left (James). Retaliation by anecdote. No one else at the table dared say a word. James, remember, had always yearned to be a movie star, which just added to the slightly tense air of competition between the two men.

  I kept in touch with Danny, and a couple of times when I was in Los Angeles (where I was a consultant for a restaurant) he invited me for dinner at his home in Beverly Hills. Here, he was the Sun King, in his mid-sixties. The house was the largest I had ever set foot in. The walls were lined with scores of framed photographs of … the ever-smiling Danny. There was Danny with royalty, Danny with other movie stars and Danny with world leaders. I was amazed by the variety of people he had met. On one wall, I spotted a photograph of Danny with the Duke of Edinburgh, who was dressed in uniform. We stood and looked at the photo and Danny said the shot was taken just as he was about to have lunch with Prince Philip. ‘I told him, “Before we eat, take off that silly jacket with all the medals. You’re not going to be comfortable at the table…”’

  There were two kitchens next to each other: one was a Western kitchen, should Danny fancy cooking French or Italian cuisine; the other was a Chinese kitchen, fitted with three powerful gas rings specially designed for woks. Each of the kitchens was spotless, kitted out with professional equipment, and large enough to cater for an eighty-cover restaurant. This man was taking it seriously.

  On my first visit, Danny had also invited Hélène Rochas, heiress of the perfume company, and she brought with her a Greek shipping oligarch, as you do. The oligarch, in turn, was joined by his solid gold worry beads. He spent the entire evening playing with that clattering chain of gleaming balls, noisily running his fingers along them. I mean, he played so much with those worry beads that it worried me.

  Danny had three or four maids, and this is how the Kaye cooking routine worked. The maids would chop up the ingredients and do all the prep. Then Danny, the Sun King, would step forward in his apron and perform the grand art of cookery. His guests – us – were required to perch on stools and witness him as he made the meal and showed off his skills. Behold, the maestro! His stir-frying was impeccable; his food was delicious. Danny Kaye was one of those crazy people who when into something was really into it. He liked flying so had learnt to fly a jet liner, for instance. So when he cooked, he gave it his all. The result was impressive and, to the soundtrack of beating worry beads beneath the table, we ate magnificently.

  It was said that Danny’s wife, Sylvia, was domineering. I went for dinner once and he was eager for me to meet her. She came downstairs and we said hello, and then she went back upstairs and Danny took his place at the stove. She did not stay for Danny’s exquisite food. That was the only time I met Sylvia. Perhaps she did not like to intrude on the Danny show. After one dinner, we finished the meal and he said, ‘OK, follow me. Have I got an after-dinner treat for you guys!’

  We stood up from the table and our host ushered us into his living room, telling us to take a seat on one of the luxurious sofas. He flicked on the TV, and then put on a videotape. It was one of his television shows. So we all sat there, with Danny, watching Danny on the box. That was strange. I’m not sure I would ever do such a thing. But Danny, who died in 1987, was fantastic company, very funny and curious about food. Have you eaten this, or have you eaten that? Ortolans, the tiny birds eaten whole in France, were one of his preferred delicacies.

  He would ask me about food and I would ask him about Hong Kong. Danny, you see, had been there. Movies had paid for his trips to that faraway land. Whereas I only knew of Hong Kong through the movies.

  * * *

  Zheng Ji/Steamed Chicken

  On my first visit to my ancestral home, as part of the ritual of paying homage to our ancestors, I had to prostrate myself before the household shrines. As I did so, my cousin was despatching a sacramental chicken in the yard. The bird was quickly plucked and cleaned, then rubbed with salt and steamed. We two then offered it up to our common ancestors, bowing three times before the shrines.

  Then we quickly cut it up into small portions, and everyone in the family was served the chicken with a ginger and spring onion sauce that brought out the full flavour. The liquid from the steamed chicken was poured over the rice for an additional taste treat.

  Let me assure you that even without ancestor reverence, this dish is delicious.

  Serves 4 as part of a Chinese meal or 2 as a single dish

  One chicken, about 3½ lb/1.5 kg

  1 tablespoon Kosher salt (Maldon sea salt)

  Dipping sauce:

  Pinch of sugar

  ½ teaspoon salt

  2 teaspoons light soy sauce

  2 tablespoons finely chopped peeled fresh ginger

  5 tablespoons finely chopped spring onion

  2 tablespoons groundnut or vegetable oil

  1 teaspoon sesame oil

  I do like to rinse the chicken under cold running water – which is authentic – and then blot it completely dry with kitchen towels. However, we are told not to wash chicken, so, if you prefer, you can leave out this part of the method. Rub the salt inside the cavity and on the skin of the chicken. Place the chicken, breast-side down, on a heatproof platter, and set aside for 15 minutes.

  Set up a steamer or put a rack into a wok or deep pan. Fill the steamer with about 2 inches (5 cm) of hot water. Bring the water to a simmer. Put the plate with the chicken into the steamer or onto the rack. Cover the steamer tightly and gently steam over medium heat for 1 hour. Replenish the water in the steamer from time to time.

  Remove the platter with the cooked chicken and pour off all the liquid.

  In a small bowl, combine the sugar, salt, soy sauce, ginger and spring onions, and mix well. In a small pan, heat the peanut and sesame oils until they are smoking. Pour the hot oils over the ginger mixture. Chop the chicken into serving portions and serve immediately with the sauce.

  * * *

  11

  The Wild Child of the Kitchen

  OCTOBER 1961 IS a monumental point in gastronomy. It marks the publication of Mastering the Art of French Cooking.


  The book was written by Julia Child, Simone ‘Simca’ Beck and Louisette Bertholle, who had spent nine years researching, testing and crafting the recipes.

  This seminal book, as I have mentioned, taught me how to create French cuisine when I was a student at Berkeley. It was my bible, and not just mine; millions of other cooks can nod in agreement. The authors followed up with a second volume in 1970.

  These three women were also les trois gourmandes behind L’Ecole des Trois Gourmandes, a cookery school which gave French cookery lessons to American women living in Paris. Julia’s husband, Paul, had received a posting to Paris by the American Embassy. After France, the Childs returned to America, living in Massachusetts. However, they retained a foothold in France, building a house on land owned by Simca’s husband, Jean. The building work took years and was finally completed in 1965. They had their own place in France, where they would spend part of the year.

  Although Julia Child was my heroine, it seemed unlikely that our paths would ever cross. They would, I am delighted to say, but not in America.

  In 1979, I cooked for a couple of fundraising events for a charity which had the support of a couple called Ivan and Dorothy Cousins. I had just been signed up by the publishers for my book, Chinese Technique. The Cousins lived in California, outside of San Francisco, and (pertinent to this story) Dorothy was Julia’s sister. They were thrilled with my support and, when I said I was going to France, Dorothy said to me, ‘Julia would really like to meet you.’ She gave me her number.