Leaving you with gorgeous gnocchi I cooked last week.

Aside from my foray into chicken stuffed waterbugs last month, I’ve had two other recent experiences that have convinced me none of this is going to change. The first was in an Indonesian restaurant in Roswell, Ga. Let me repeat that, for those of you not paying attention: an Indonesian restaurant in the northern burbs of Atlanta (which, if you’re running for your atlas, is in fact, a province of Whitebreadia). I was the only Anglo Round-Eye that had been in since the place opened over a month ago. You know that classic scene where the stranger pushes through the saloon door and the place goes quiet and everybody stares, glasses halfway to mouths, cards unplayed? Yeah? Now imagine that in a strip mall in Roswell, and that they crazy old guy that always breaks the tension in the movies is instead a nice middle aged woman who asks if I didn’t mean to go into the Crazy Taco next door.

Amongst other things, I had the nasi gudeg, known amongst my people as beef skin. Half way through the meal, the cook and a waiter came over and demanded to know why I was there, and where - exactely - I had lived in Indonesia. And, by the way, how I could possibly enjoy the mounds of chilies I was going through. We had a nice chat, about the food, the business, and their prospects. In a slightly sad development, I learned that the Indonesian community - while strong - just couldn’t support the entire store, and so they were planning a lunch buffet in an effort to attract the local office lunchers. $5.95 for all the food you can eat. I’ve seen the buffets in Georgia, and they’ll get a nice flair at the beginning, but won’t attract people back for dinner - where they need to be, and where the melting pot has a chance to melt.

Even funnier? I was at a Korean restaurant this last weekend - in Northern Virgina - one very, very popular with Korean and Anglos alike - and as I was looking at the menu, the very nice and helpful waitress insisted that what I wanted to drink was a Budweiser. I swear I stared at her for two full blinks. And then ordered a bottle of soju (yeah, I know, in retrospect and for future planning: Soju + Gin + a little wine = not what you’re looking for. Regardless of what you’re looking for.).

Thankfully, that very same Korean restaurant does it right with its food. There is very little Anglosizing going on, and everything is really quite good. For instance, their dumplings (a weakness of mine, regardless of who makes them):

are really good (and a perfect excuse for this post’s only picture).

Being a white boy - I’ve discovered - allows you to star in a huge and unpredictable culinary adventure, even if you’re not actually aware of it.

Inevitably, Nubi would find himself - mysteriously - underfoot in the midst of some mad dash to bring a meal together. His favorite assistance to the cook was to wait until the feet had stopped, then he would undertake a perfect, textbook flanking action before rubbing up against and then biting the cook’s toes. Repeatedly. Despite the flailing of arms and promises of pain and agony. Only when sprinkled with water would Nubi run from the kitchen, stop short under the dining room table, undertake a quick bath, and then return committed to his mission once again.

Many meals happened with Nubi at the center, which means of course that a great deal of my joy in the kitchen came from interactions with his good natured self and his insistence that whatever I was doing wasn’t nearly as important or fun as what he was doing. That, and I think he just enjoyed watching me attempt to steer my way around him while whisking egg whites, sauteing garlic, and sipping wine.

Nubi died this morning of a horrible, untreatable disease called feline infectious peritonitis (FIP). It was quick; he went from healthy to not in a short, short time. But, at only a year and half old, he was much too young to die the way he did; and I too close to handle it with anything other than grief and anger.

I’ve never thought of cooking as chemistry, although it is, and lots of very accomplished cooks do extraordinary things working within that sort of framework (Achatz at Alinea comes to mind). Nor do I see cooking as a sport, as something that you must excel at to better others or to feel better about yourself. Cooking contests are fun to watch, and I like the Chairman and his stadium as much as the next guy. But, there, something lacks as well.

I find joy in cooking. I am rarely happier than when I’m in the kitchen, or thinking about the kitchen. I hold no illusions about it, no romance. But the smells and the sights of a meal coming together cause me to smile.

I’d grown up eating some version of chicken paprikash, concocted by my father, based no doubt, on some recollection of a story he read someplace. Then, sometime in the mid- to late-nineties, a radical (as in communist battling, flee the country, and work hard to undermine the system) Hungarian who I will call A, fixed a pot of chicken paprikash that changed the game for me entirely.

I’ve spent the last 15 years trying to get the same flavor…and I’m getting closer. But more than anything, more even than nearly transcendent moment when I tasted his version, I love cooking chicken paprikash because it is such a visceral dish. It is visceral in the way that babi guling is visceral. It it, simply, a joy to cook.

From the very beginning, when the cut-up whole chicken browns in butter with salt and pepper, the kitchen takes on the smells and sounds of a place where something good is happening. The butter, just as it begins to brown, gives off that wonderful rich, sweet smell, that then is transformed with the addition of the chicken into what is probably the consummate primordial smell: sizzling fat.

Once the chicken goes into the stock, and onions, and paprika, and begins to cook slowly into tenderness, the deep tangy richness of the the smell combined with the scarlet color (and the knowledge that I’m half-way to eating) makes this moment by second favorite of the dish. There is something about the color, the multitude of visual and physical textures, and the sound that inspires another glass of wine (and, conveniently, this is right about when you should need it…THAT I did take from my father’s school of paprikash manufacturing).

Despite the earlier addition of thinly sliced onions cooking in butter and chicken fat, my absolute favorite part of the dish is when, chicken removed to platter, I begin to cook down the stock, the onions, flour, paprika, and the chicken juices. Once I can pass a spoon through the mixture and leave a trail, I know that it’s time to whip in the sour cream, bring everything to a bubble with the chicken added, and then serve over noodles (or, if you’re feeling Germanic, spaetzle).

It is a joy. Anyway you serve it.

First off…these scallops? Absolutely stunning. One of those times when you’re walking by the fish stall, and all that nicely, brightly, color-infused stuff fades into the background, and you’re left with these succulent scallops almost the size of tangerines. Finger jabbing, head nodding, wallet opening, car driving, towel dabbing, and then finally knife slicing (but thinly, thinly).

Next, rice, using some excellent vinegar and some kombu that, as it luxuriates in my cupboard is slowly becoming sentient (but no less tasty). Then, into the rice roll I pressed a little slice of jalapeño, on top of that a slice of scallop, then a slice of avocado. On the very top, a little dab of hoisin sauce, a squeeze of lime, and a quick shake of black sesame seeds. I served it with some soy and grilled sardines (which also looked magnificent) with miso.

Do I have a picture of the resulting feast? No. I do not. Why? Because once the vultures scented blood there was nothing photographic remaining. Next time, I promise, there will be pictures.