This past Saturday, we were kinda strapped for dinner. We'd gone to the store, but by the time we got back, it was late and no one was in the mood for cooking. It seemed like we'd exhausted all options until Mercedes mentioned pho. Heck, why not Mai's?
Mai's burned down a while back, and to be honest, I wasn't really broken up about it. "Back in the day," it was a cool place to go at 2 in the morning to eat noodles. In the interim between "the day" and when Mai's burned down, midtown's demographic changed. You went to Mai's at 2 in the morning and you were eating noodles alongside the the Ed Hardy/boom-boom crowd, for whom yelling into their cell phones still represents some act of defiant prestige, who'd muscled its way in after leaving the cluuuuuuuuuub. All they talked about was the cluuuuuuuuuub and how drunk they were. Also, the wait staff got older and surlier. You'd ask for a water refill and some gargoyle would return with a pitcher, dump water and ice in your glass with such violence that it sounded like a meteor crashing into the Astrodome, and leave it teetering on the table, a smile never creasing his face. It doesn't seem like mere coincidence that the food became strictly pro forma as well. I just quit going after a while.
None of that explains our excitement about returning to Mai's. For better or worse, Mai's was an institution of sorts, so maybe we had an obligation. It occupies the same spot on Milam that it did when I started going there. Other than that, the place was hardly recognizable. The host greeted us very warmly, and seated us immediately (the restaurant was three-quarters full or so; then again, it was around 9:30. Mai's doesn't see much action until after midnight.) Upon entering, we noticed a new addition: a full-service bar, which lends a welcome touch of class to the joint, which surely has to be a first. The ambience has changed quite a bit, too. You no longer feel like you're eating with hot spotlights trained on you. The sheer whiteness, and I'm going to steal a phrase from Tobias Wolfe here, was "eye-frying." Subdued hues of green and tasteful wood molding create the ambience now. It's damn near romantic.
I'd planned to get my usual: a vermicelli bowl with grilled pork and Vietnamese egg rolls, very satisfying for around six bucks. Before ordering, however, I espied a family (family? At Mai's?) to my right. The wife ordered a colorful, attractive dish that, indeed, got my attention. I wasn't sure whether it's gauche to approach a stranger, poke her on the shoulder, and ask what she's eating. It seemed to me Larry David like.
As luck would have it, our waiter arrived while I wondered what the woman was eating, so I asked him. Garlic chicken, which sounds pretty prosaic, maybe like something you could get at Panda Express. The husband piped up and said, "The garlic beef is good too." What is it about beef that elevates a dish to poetry? I looked at the menu, and the description for garlic beef reads more-or-less thus: "Beef marinated to perfection, with vegetables..." I wasn't sure how to interpret that. "Perfect beef ruined by vegetables?" Facetiae aside, it sounded like a winner, so I ordered that.
Man. Oh. Man. They weren't kidding. The meat was among the most succulent I've ever eaten - dentures-tender yet beautiful charred, redolent with garlic, what tasted like white wine, balanced by salty/sour/sweet elements. I chewed the last morsel as long as I could, which is really saying something because I usually eat so fast that I've been accused of not chewing anything as much as ramming fistfuls of food straight into my stomach.
The meat rested atop a lovely presentation of leaf lettuce, tomatoes, red bell pepper, and garlic slivers. Unwittingly, I'd ordered a beef salad. Don't get me wrong: getting me to eat salad is not like embedding medicine in dog food to get the dog to take it. I like salad, and probably more than the next guy; however, I demand meat. I'm a confirmed meat-eater. Not in some Ted Nugent, mow-every-animal-down-in-sight-with-automatic-weapons-and-take-out-the-ones-you-can't-see-with-napalm way, but I enjoy meat with all the alacrity of the Nuge and then some. I swear I'm not going to come over and ask if I can grill and eat your cat.
Meat and salad makes for a fine combination. The meat juices permeate the vegetables and wilt the lettuce just so, creating a heavenly medley of taste, color, and texture. It's one of the most complete, satisfying dishes I've eaten in a while. I knew I'd have to replicate it at home.
During our trip to the store, we got two-and-a-half pounds of flank steak, which were intended for tacos. I decided instead to use it for the garlic beef. Flank steak is ideal for this type of dish. It's relatively thin and slices on the bias well. Bias slicing creates more surface area, thus more surface for coveted caramelization. Also, flank steak's striations lend it what's called in the biz more satisfying "mouth feel" - tender, but you still have to work at it.
I cut the steak, put it in a freezer bag, and added the marinade. The marinade consisted of five or six cloves of garlic, which I crushed using a garlic press, several generous squirts of fish sauce, several liberal bloob-bloobs of soy sauce, and sugar and honey. The idea is tangy/sweet/salty. After I'd poured the marinade over the meat, I worked it in with my hands. I suppose I could have sealed the bag and turned it end-over-end a few times instead, but I wanted to ensure that the marinade was good and worked in. I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty, and yes mom, I washed them before AND after.
I also wanted rice, so I soaked jasmine rice in a pot with tap water. Okay, wow, ancient Chinese secret, but this really works wonders. Soaking jasmine rice makes cooking it virtually effortless. After it's soaked for a couple of hours or slightly more, drain it, return it to the pot, add a little less than double the water (eyeball it), and bring it to a vigorous boil. Let it boil for a minute or so, and then put the top on the pot and remove the rice from the heat. That's it, perfect rice! Ancient Chinese secret, huh?
Truly, if you prep properly, and it doesn't take a heck of a lot of prep, garlic beef is one of the easiest, most efficient meals you could hope to make. The pot for the rice and a wok or deep skillet for the rest. Two big pans that wash easily after use.
The most difficult part of cooking the dish is charring the beef properly. I ran into a bit of trouble with this from the get-go. I cranked the wok up full-blast and then added the beef, yet it seemed like it wasn't browning at all, just swimming in circles in its own juices. I removed the meat from the wok and consulted the recipe again. Let wok heat to smoking. Bingo! I rinsed the wok, added two tablespoons or so of canola oil, let the wok smoke up, and then added the beef. This time, the meat charred dutifully.
Once again, I had a hit on my hands. Garlic beef was such a big hit, in fact, that my plans to have it again tonight were foiled because we polished it all off. I guess tonight's taco night.
Afterward, I had cantaloupe for dessert. I like fruit, maybe not quite as much as the next guy, but I like it. I just don't eat it often. The reason is simple: I prefer savory snacks. If I had the choice between cantaloupe and, say, hummus, I'm gon' tear up the hummus. I'll eat the odd apple or orange slice if it's given to me, but I'll usually pass on the cantaloupe. I like cantaloupe fine, definitely not like the next guy, but I like it fine.
This cantaloupe was different. On the way home, the 'lope's perfume dug deep into the car seats and stayed there, more potent than a pine tree rear view mirror car freshener. Mercedes said that it smelled like strawberries, and I agree with her. Every time you'd open the fridge, the cantaloupe greeted you. It was itching to be split open. Last night was the night. Mercedes cut it and cubed it. The cubes were bright, almost glowing, no shit, and consistent in color and texture. It looked like a bowl full of cheese. Here it is:
Mercedes put these next to me as I was watching TV. I kept digging my hands in and shoving the pieces in my mouth like I was eating meatballs.
This is but one among a million or more reasons I love Mercedes.
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