by Ken Hom
She replied: ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. Nobody is going to see it.’ I did. This dialogue was never cut from the audition tape, so anyone with the sense of sight could have seen it. Having lost that battle, I moved onto the struggle of being a presenter. ‘Hello. Today I am going to show you how to cook…’ My mind went blank. I knew I was going to show the ‘viewer’ how to cook but, momentarily, I could not for the life of me remember what I was going to show them how to cook. ‘Can we start again?’ I stammered. Then I remembered. I was going to show them how to cook dark chicken meat with shallots.
After that, it seemed to go quite well. I relaxed into my natural comfort zone of cooking, demonstrating how to bone the thigh and leg of a chicken, before turning to my slightly heated wok on the caravan cooker and stir-frying the thinly sliced meat with whole shallots and fresh, finely sliced ginger. I cooked with chopsticks, as I do, and this must have seemed new and different to my small audience behind the camera. I talked about the wok and how to cook with it, and demonstrated knife skills, showing how to slice the ginger in a neat, professional, cheffy way.
* * *
I sense that I am sliding – for only a few seconds – into ginger but cannot stop myself. In traditional Cantonese cooking, fresh ginger is as ancient and essential as the wok.
Ginger from Canton is said to be the most aromatic and, like garlic, it is an indispensable part of much Chinese cookery. As I had seen on my travels, this knobbly, golden-beige rhizome is used in many dishes in Hong Kong, even if in the early ’80s it was unfamiliar in its fresh form to the British. As a powder, the Brits used it in ginger cakes and gin ger biscuits.
In Hong Kong, the markets sold fresh ginger which had been peeled, as well as the older, shrivelled ginger which was intended for use in medicinal broths.
Young stem ginger – the newest spring growth – was also available in Hong Kong’s markets, and stir-fried in dishes or pickled. As it is young and tender, peeling is unnecessary and it can be eaten as a vegetable. Pickled young ginger is served as an hors d’oeuvre in Hong Kong restaurants, or eaten as a snack with preserved Thousand-Year Duck Eggs.
Peeled ginger will keep for several months when it is stored in a glass jar and covered in rice wine or dry sherry. You will be left with a flavoured wine that can be used instead of rice wine in some recipes. This is different from English ginger wine, made from ground ginger root, raisins and brandy; mix ginger wine with Scotch whisky and you’ll have a whisky mac. Cheers!
Dried ginger or dried galangal is a member of the ginger family, used by the Chinese for medicinal as well as culinary purposes, often to counteract the strong odour of meat. Keep it in a jar at room temperature and it will last indefinitely.
* * *
A decision was made quickly. Very quickly. That night, the executive producer invited me out to dinner, and over the meal he broke the news. ‘We would like you to do the series,’ he said, and we toasted the deal, clinking glasses of warm chardonnay (BBC expenses). Initially, I did not absorb what was happening. I did not have time to consider its potential effect upon my life. I said, ‘OK.’ And when he talked about publishing a book to go with the series, I said, ‘OK.’
At this point, I did not know of the extent that the BBC had gone to in order to find a presenter for their series about Chinese cookery. Much later on I learnt that many others had been considered, and there had been auditions with potential hosts, ranging from British-based Chinese chefs to ones on the other side of the world, in places like Australia. All of them had been screen tested. They had failed. They had been given the thumbs-down because their cooking abilities were deemed to be insufficient or their accents were so strong as to be incomprehensible to viewers.
There was also the job itself. Often, it is thought that presenting a cookery programme is an absolute doddle if you can cook quite well. People think that all you need to do is stand at the stove and make some food. However, there are chefs who are good at cooking but, alas, cannot cook and speak at the same time. It is made to appear easy so as to encourage the aspiring cook at home, but it is not as easy as it is made to appear. The producers were not out to make a silent cookery show. They had been unable to find a British-based chef, and so looked to America, where the Chinese-American chefs tended to have an English mother tongue.
A contract was drawn up. I signed and checked out of my miniature hotel room. On the return flight to America it hit me. I thought, Oh my gosh, my life is going to change. But I didn’t realise how much it could and would change. Yes, I felt it was another opening or an opportunity but I never dreamt how the series would turn out and how it would shape my life.
It is funny; I always feel my life has been a progression, that I have taken opportunities not knowing where they would lead. Others say, ‘I want to do this, I want to do that.’ They plot the coming steps. By contrast, I had no idea what I wanted to do. I was thirty-three years old and, in hindsight, I felt that my audition went well because I had behind me quite a few years as a teacher. I wasn’t just a chef or a cook – I wanted to teach. Had I been younger and with less experience of teaching, I would (and could) never have survived the audition.
The discussions in London had been upbeat. The series would be called Ken Hom’s Chinese Cookery. ‘We want to make it terrifically exciting,’ they had said, and they had adventurous plans in store. We would film for a week in Hong Kong. To take a cookery programme out of the studio and to another country – let alone another continent on the other side of the world – was a new and almost sensational proposition. It was beyond terrifically exciting. From the comfort of your armchair, you, the viewer, could almost taste the food and travel to explore China.
In October 1983, the film crew joined me in Hong Kong and we filmed for a week. It felt entirely natural. Paul Levy, the pioneering food writer, sensed a story and flew over from London to write a piece for The Observer. Then, in the summer of 1984, I went to London to shoot the studio work. It was quite a painful experience. I did not have a restaurant, had never done television, and was unknown in Britain.
Why then did the producers want me – or anyone, for that matter – to present a series about Chinese cuisine? The answer is that the department fell under the category of ‘continuing education’. There was an agenda, hidden, to show viewers the multicultural aspects of Britain and how another nationality has lived within the nation. Madhur’s series had done this with Indian food, showing indirectly how Indians had contributed to British culture. I was doing the same with the Chinese.
The British liked Chinese food, as they still do, but they knew little about Chinese culture. The notion of continuing education meant that viewers could be educated, but in a way that was not pedantic or preachy. This approach, you could say, was so successful that it remains to this day. The best and most successful cookery programmes are educational.
19
Dipping a Toe into Japan
AS WE WERE greeted at the door of the restaurant, I glanced into the dining room beyond and saw waiters wearing wellies. A new one on me, I thought. Could be interesting. We’re in Japan, by the way, mid-’80s.
The room was filled with small pools of water and we were shown to a table beside one such pool. One of the waiters, squelching in his shiny green knee-high boots, came to our table to take our order. We asked for fish and then watched as the waiter turned, grabbed a net, climbed into the pool, splashed and waded for a few seconds and then climbed out of the pool. He had a big fish wriggling in his net. This would be our lunch or, at least, one course of it.
In Hong Kong I had seen a similar approach. There, waiters took the order before hauling the required fish or seafood from a large tank of water; this was then brought to the table in a bucket. Of course, the point is that you, the customer, know that what you are about to eat is as fresh as can be. Freshness is sacrosanct. And so fresh that the fish is actually alive when the order is placed.
Here in the restaurant in Fukuoka, the beautiful big fis
h was carried to the table, its eyes still crystal clear. All of the flesh had been removed and thinly sliced into sashimi. This had been put on a bed of finely sliced daikon, the crisp winter radish, which looked like waves on the side of the dish with the fish upon it. We all proceeded to eat. Ten minutes in, the fish’s mouth started moving. It was still alive. What an extraordinary sight, though not to everyone’s approval, admittedly.
A couple of years later, I was in Japan and at a restaurant, and the chef showed me how this was achieved. A thin, very sharp, metal chopstick is put through the spinal cord, which anaesthetises the fish and just before serving the chopstick is removed, keeping the fish alive, though not for too long. Since then, I have eaten squid or octopus in the restaurants of Japan, various parts of the body moving during the meal. Theirs, not mine.
THE great and the good came on the Hong Kong tours, and on one trip Darrell Corti joined the group. I mentioned Darrel a little earlier on in this story. He was a wine merchant and connoisseur, and he contributed (along with Ron Batori) the wine notes for my book East Meets West Cuisine.
Darrell said, ‘After Hong Kong, I’ll take you to Japan.’ This is how I came to see waiters in green wellies. In fact, Darrell had put together a ten-day trip, including stop-offs in Tokyo, Kyoto and Nagasaki. We would eat, drink and see many aspects of Japanese food.
Some things were a bit edgy. For instance, up high on a farm in the mountains we had a dish of chicken sashimi. First, the breast meat was brought to our table. It was very thinly sliced and raw. The chicken had been despatched only shortly beforehand. The texture was unpleasant, or at the very least strange to my palate. Then, the chef took the legs and thighs of the bird and these were cooked in a broth. The broth was flavourful but, alas, the meat was tough and chewy: the flesh had not had time to ‘relax’ and soften.
Japanese food is fantastic, even if it does not have the breadth and variety of Chinese cuisine. This is because it is a small country, making the range of food specific rather than expansive. However, they are masterful when it comes to taking a something like tempura, which began life as the heavy, soggy Portuguese tempera, and then improving on it and making it deliciously light and superb. Deep-fried in hot oil, it is made by the chef right there, in front of the customer. Their cuisine is a refined art, with almost obsessive attention to detail. They have taken Chinese dumplings and turned them into superior dumplings: less stodgy and with garlic added.
The Japanese chefs are also brilliant at producing lots of different dishes with the same main ingredients. When we visited Tokyo, Darrell took us to a restaurant which specialised in gyoza, the pan-fried dumplings. It served nothing but these dumplings, though in different forms, be it boiled, pan-fried or steamed, and with a range of different fillings.
In Osaka, we visited Japan’s largest cookery school, the Tsuji Institute, and were introduced to Shizuo Tsuji, the founder of this impressive school where Japanese chefs are trained. It was like having a meeting with the Pope. We did not eat with him, but just to have an audience with him was a great honour.
Tsuji was a remarkably cultured man who spoke French and English – both fluently – and had a medal or two bestowed upon him by the French government for his exemplary services to the world of culinary arts. He was the extremely proud owner of the world’s largest collection of Bach recordings on vinyl.
Among his massive library was one particularly fascinating tome: a seventeenth-century French cookery book which he had duplicated at a cost of $300, then a considerable sum. He was also, as you can imagine, an accomplished author who wrote in suitably magisterial terms about the philosophy of cuisine, as well as technique. His book Japanese Cooking: A Simple Art was published in the ’80s and many consider it to be the bible of Japanese food.
Later, I worked in Japan with Cathay Pacific, creating dishes for the airline’s passengers. This gave me the chance both to be with and to observe Japanese chefs. They would take my dishes and make them so that they were precisely as they appeared in photographs. But the food lacked taste. Meanwhile, the chefs of Hong Kong, Thailand and Singapore could copy the dish and make it tasty. I believe this difference arose because the Japanese palate does not require, or wish for, similar seasoning that you or I might want. And they do not like too much spiciness. (Even though I didn’t grow up with spicy food, and my mother did not care for it, I love it.)
How did I deal with this palate issue? Well, when you are in Asia it is important to save face and to get people on your side. You never say, ‘This is rubbish.’ First, you must say, ‘This is very, very good. You have done a super job.’ Second, you say, ‘However, what do you think to the idea of just adding a little more seasoning? Do you think it would be better?’
The response will be, ‘Yes, chef.’
Asian chefs are used to Western chefs who taste and then get upset and become dramatic. No, no, no; that is not the way. Progress is obtained by showing a positive side so that we can all live in perfect harmony. To insult people is wrong. To me, this attitude is natural, thank goodness, because of my childhood.
Once the chef had added the correct amount of seasoning or spice, I’d say, ‘I think you are right. It is definitely better.’
20
The Trials and Tribulations of Peking Duck
THE MAILMAN KNOCKED one morning. Note: mailman rather than postman. We are back in you-know-where, before heading to London to film Chinese Cookery for the BBC. The package was large and from London, and I opened it to reveal a videotape from my new friends at the Corporation. The accompanying note read something like: ‘Here is a video of Delia Smith. Can you be more like her, please?’
I watched the video and despatched a letter of response, saying something like, ‘No, I can’t be like Delia. For starters, I’m sorry, but I don’t talk like her.’ Delia is clever and brilliant at teaching a recipe, focusing on the measurements and quantities. Madhur, meanwhile, was also an accomplished actress and learning lines came naturally to her. Sarah Brown, presenter of the series about vegetarian food, had been a dancer so knew the principles of entertainment.
My style, however, was laid-back: add a bit of this and then a touch of that. Delia had a way of standing or turning her body, with the camera in mind. She did it so well. The producers also wondered if I could do the same thing. No, not really. It was so non-me.
When I returned to London to film the series in the summer of 1984, I stayed in the apartment near Sloane Square, which I mentioned way back at the beginning of this book. Although I had funny, fussy Mrs Kelly as the cleaner, I guess I had moved on and up from the hotel in Bayswater. Ron Batori – ever the fixer – knew the owners of the apartment and had secured a ‘mates’ rates’ deal of £100 per week. We would film over eight weeks: one episode per week. This put the approximate £1,000 bill within the BBC budget for accommodation, so everyone was happy with the arrangement.
The basement flat had a sofa bed and a small kitchen, where I was testing the recipes. At my home in the States, I had already tested them. I wanted to repeat the testing process but with ingredients bought in Britain. So I would totter along the King’s Road and see what was available in Waitrose. I had also bought about fifteen cookery books published in Britain, to see what authors were writing about and how they talked about food.
There was good news and bad news in terms of production.
The good news was that I had already completed the book, Chinese Cookery, which would tie in with broadcast of the series. This book was more or less the scripts of each episode, and I would have sessions with the producer and production team, discussing which dishes would go with each programme, thereby giving a theme to each episode.
The bad news? Although the book seemed to me like a script, there was, in fact, a real script for each episode. This included ‘links’ – the bits where the presenter introduces a segment – or delivering lines to camera. Most of the time I was ad-libbing because I was cooking. But the tortuous – and indeed torturous – pa
rt of this whole process was memorising the lines. Oh God, it sucks.
FOR me it sucks. Let’s go back quite a bit. For three years during my childhood, from the age of six to nine, I was sent to a Chinese school. Along with the other kids of Chinatown, I attended for three hours, every evening after my usual day at the English-speaking school. The teachers thought I did not pay attention. If a pupil was naughty, the teacher would put a black ink dot on the child’s face. The idea was, you would return home and your parents would see the dot and know that you had misbehaved during lessons.
Frequently, my teachers thought that I was not paying attention. Such was the frequency that it led to not one black dot but many on my face. I would emerge from the Chinese school and head home to my mother with a face covered in artificial freckles. At my English-speaking schools, things were no better. There, the teachers thought that I could not work well because I was Chinese and therefore did not comprehend as well as the other young students. They thought I couldn’t speak much English.
Both schools were way off. I was paying attention and I did understand English just as well as my classmates. My problem was that I was dyslexic. This learning disability was rarely diagnosed and, throughout generations, dyslexic children were merely regarded as stupid. As with so many others of my age, I did not realise until later in life that my so-called inability to pay attention or understand – my trouble, as I saw it, of absorbing words as I read them – is a common condition. Making the series, trying to learn lines or read from a script, made it even more obvious to me.
I was sent to the BBC’s elocution sessions. At these classes I was taught to say marinade in the English way, so that it rhymes with lemonade, instead of marinade in the American way, which rhymes with lard. For tomatoes, I was not allowed say toe-may-dohs (American). Instead, I had to say toe-mar-toes (English).