Global Cuisine

If you ever visit a San Diego farmers' markets, then chances are you'll see several people milling around who are holding tall, clear plastic cups filled with deliciously ripe fresh fruit such as mangoes, pineapple, and watermelon that have been doused with lime juice, salt, and chili pepper. They may be eating the fruit with a long toothpick (or just with their hands, if they don't mind sticky fingers).

These fruit cups, called copas de frutas in Spanish, are the inspiration for today's recipe: salty, sweet, and tangy Chili Lime Fruit Salad. I have incorporated seasonal fruit such as fresh strawberries, blood oranges, and kumquats, but feel free to substitute what's available where you live.

I added jicama (pronounced hee-kah-mah), also known as a Mexican potato or turnip. It's a large, dense root vegetable with a thin beige peel and a juicy, creamy white flesh. What does jicama taste like? Jicama tastes sort of like a cross between an apple, a potato, and celery. It's mildly sweet and exceptionally crunchy, like a water chestnut.

I knew them so well, I am sure I could have called them by their first name or (at the very least) in our family’s preferred style – ‘Uncle’ Chiang and ‘Auntie’ Madame Chiang, but I had much too much respect for those monstrously large and patronizing portraits that hung in the Grauman’s Chinese Theater to call them anything but Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek and Madame Chiang Kai-shek. And, I always greeted them with reverence each Friday night when we went to the Chinese Theater and to the movies! I guess I was seven, and I had never seen portraits so grand and large. I wonder what happened to them. When were they un-ceremoniously dethroned and where are they now? Probably, resting on their sides against the wall of some antique warehouse in downtown Los Angeles smelling of incense and camphor…

Besides movies at the Chinese Theater, (Remember Dragon Seed with that lovely Chinese actress, Katherine Hepburn?) there were exotic dinners with my parents in Chinatown restaurants and visits afterwards to the small gift shops nearby where I fondled the porcelain dishes with green dragons, vowing one day to have plates just like them at home when I served Chinese food which I would surely learn to create.

Stuffed and sated without the ability to eat even one more bite – or so I thought – we headed to Hwang Hu Sam Gye Tang restaurant to experience Samgyetang, a hot bowl of bubbling chicken soup made with one very important ingredient: ginseng.

Ushered upstairs to the second floor of this elegant and glistening airy restaurant, we were seated next to a vast window overlooking a rainy busy side street below. We passed walls that were lined with photographs of celebrity and everyday patrons, leaving the menu to appear even that much more sparse. Hwang Hu Sam Gye Tang doesn’t offer too many things other than chicken and ginseng soup, a fact I’d later forget about once the scorching hot liquid touched my tongue.

The chef and host suggested that they bring our food to the table before cooking purely for photographic purposes. “Please, do not go through any trouble” I said to our guide, watching my translated words make their way to the chef. The chef wouldn’t have it any other way, his face said everything I needed to know. Once a boiling hot soup is brought to our table I would see none of the ingredients; steam and bubbles would make sure of that. I acquiesced and like a good guest I let them set out bowls of food to photograph.

Ever wonder what it would be like to marry a man who grew up in a palace? I did exactly that when I wed Ajay Singh, a fellow journalist who had grown up in Old Delhi and the Himalayas. Throughout the 1990's, I even lived for weeks at a time behind the rusted wrought-iron gates of the Singh family's one-hundred-room Indian palace.

Ajay and I met when we were both worked at Time Inc.'s newsweekly Asiaweek in Hong Kong. Although I knew very little about my fiancé or his family background, we still got engaged within three months of meeting at a company offsite event. A few months after this engagement, I discovered that not only did Ajay grow up in a rambling old 19th-century grand manor on the outskirts of Delhi, but also that we were now set to inherit the grandest wing of the house.

It may sound like a fairytale but, of course, there's always the fine print. Mokimpur - as the house is called - turned out to be not much of a fantasy palace. Believe me, it was no luxurious showcase of velvet daybeds, gilt-framed portraits of maharajas and other lofty ancestors, and sweeping palm-dotted landscapes. Instead, it was more of a sprawling moldy tear down, with hot-and-cold running mosquitoes, belligerent peacocks, and the odd royal ghost or two.