Wontons

My father taught me how to make wontons as a child. I may have learned as young as five or six. We sat at the kitchen table with ground pork (mixed with oyster sauce, salt and corn starch), square wonton wrappers and a bowl of water. He held a wrapper in his left palm with one corner pointing to the wrist. After dolloping pork in the center, he wet the border of two perpendicular sides with his right hand's index finger. He folded the wet borders on to the dry ones to create a triangle, pressing edges together, the pork safely enveloped. Then he tucked the right corner underneath the left one to complete the parcel. The simple yet elegant process infatuated me.

I started making wontons myself in my post-secondary years. In the first summer of my 20s, I made a turkey version for friends because one, as a Hindu, ate no meat except poultry. My buddies devoured the turkey dumplings. In fourth-year university when I lived on my own, a classmate requested I prepare the original recipe with him because, I think, it reminded him of his mother who passed away. More recently, I taught the man I love how to wrap wontons for one of the first dinners we shared at home together. Just two weekends ago, my eldest sister served me her wontons for dinner. About her five-year-old son, she remarked, "You know Raja helped me make some?"

Sisterly Love (Part 2 of 2)

The dining room is narrow and long, in the shades of ebony-coloured woods and deep blood reds, and large windows to let the light of the world inside.

My sister Marie, her husband Georges and I sit at a table in the far corner. Privacy with a view.
"OK. Everyone figure out what they want," says Georges, hands splayed on the table at both sides of the menu. "I call the octopus... Ooo, and the bison looks good." The way Georges talks can instantly lighten the mood, even though for probably 80 per cent of the time, he doesn't mean to. His voice goes through different pitches; his eyes bulge; his smile goes corner to corner; and he does a sharp inhale of breath to indicate excitement. It's odd sometimes to think at this point, I've known Georges for half my life now.

"Tell me the real story about how you guys met," I ask them.
"What's there to tell?" says Marie in her usual brisk tone. "It's not like a movie, you know?" She gives me her Duh! look.
"I know it's not like a movie," I shoot back. "But I still want to know."
"I will tell the story," replies Georges.

It goes like this: Marie and Georges were in first-year engineering at the University of Toronto. They had class together and noticed each other, but didn't say anything until Marie "happened" to be sitting in front of Georges in a lecture, and she turned around and introduced herself.

"Tell her about the only friend you had," Marie interjects.
I die laughing: "You had one friend? So basically the story goes, Marie was cool and had lots of friends. And you had no friends till you met Marie." It's been over ten years since they met, and some things never change. I know Marie is like how her and Georges describe the story: happy, sociable, confident, smart, loud. Trademark signs of her personality. Her husband, on the other hand, is a little more shy, quiet and takes some time to get warmed up. I forget this about him often enough because once he does warm up, he is one of the best people you could ever meet in your life.

We sip on a California Merlot that is intoxicating for other reasons than just its alcohol content. There is a balance of sweet, spicy and dry--kind of like us. Nothing extraordinary occurred from that meal. No life-revealing moment. No terrific or terrificly bad news. But there was something about the night that made me pause and reflect on a relationship with a sister for over 21 years, and a person who has become a brother within 10.

There are many more years to come of ordinary dinners, naps in each other's houses, fights about the same old things, laughter over jokes only we understand, and a growing up where ties of family bond will forever bind you. The love of a sister, a brother, a family is sufficiently extraordinary enough.

I taste home.

It needs to be established upfront that I'm Chinese. I'm not exactly sure what I mean by this though. I was born and raised in Toronto. I've never visited China and I don't have any close relatives who live there. My parents and their siblings were born in Calcutta, India. They were part of a Chinese diaspora who speak a different dialect, Hakka. But my father never calls himself "Indian" the way I call myself "Canadian." It doesn't matter that he lived there till he was 21, the age I am now. It doesn't matter that he can understand and speak Hindi. It doesn't matter that he half-seriously claims he's going to retire there. It doesn't matter that some of the best dishes he cooks are distinctly Indian. He's Chinese, and that's final.

My father is the indisputable cook of our household. I grew up on his food. He came home from nine hours of manual labour at a nails and screws factory, and made dinner for his wife and four kids for what felt like every day of my childhood, and for most of my adolescence. As far as I was concerned, he could cook everything from seafood stir-fries to yan-yan (meatball) soup to spaghetti to stewed beef. But above and beyond everything else, he could cook Indian food. Curries, homemade bahnas (a thicker, doughier and greasier version of a tortilla), biryani, tandoori, masala ahloo (potato in Hindi). He did it all and I loved every last bite. So when it comes to food, what resonates the most for me is not the clean, delicate tastes of Chinese cooking. Bold, aromatic Indian flavours bring me home.

Last Sunday, one of my closest girlfriends from high school said she wanted to take me out to eat for my 21st birthday. Coincidentally, Toronto Life came out with its "Best New Restaurants" issue the same week. And an even luckier coincidence, Amaya, a new Indian restaurant at Bayview and Eglinton, was listed as one of the top ten. I read James Chatto's review on the place a few months earlier and this was a reminder that I still needed to try it out. Stephanie never really had Indian food before. I felt Amaya was going to be the best place to start.

I instantly like the place as soon as I walk through the door. It's a small, casual space that comfortably fits about 40 people. The tones of the decor remind me of the warmth of beef curry--golden yellows and chestnut browns, accented with clean white linen tablecloths and hints of red lighting. On the walls are huge, framed photographs of India, astonishing in its cultural quietness of two men pushing a boat in Goa, women harvesting food, children scattered in streets. A tall, brown-skinned gentleman dressed in black kindly hangs our coats and shows us to a table. His voice is as smooth as almond butter, without any smugness. Steph and I are easily the youngest patrons.

To start, instead of bread, we are served pappadums--a thin, crisp, Indian-spiced flat bread. It comes with a mango mint sauce. As soon as I bite into it, everything inside wakes up yet I dreamily close my eyes.
"Oh my god," I drawl. "This is pure nostalgia." Steph, on the other hand, doesn't have the exact same enthusiasm.
"It won't feel the same for you, I know," I rush to explain. I hate getting people's expectations up and then they get disappointed. "But for me, this is my childhood."
She laughs. "It's OK. When Brian asked me why an Indian place, I told him it's because you're Hakka and he was surprised," she says in reference to her boyfriend.
"Really? Why?"
"Because he says you don't look Hakka. But I don't know what that's supposed to mean." And quite frankly, neither do I.

Our waiter comes by to explain Amaya also serves a tasting menu for $50 each, along with its a la carte. I am giddy at the thought. As soon as the waiter walks away, Steph says, "Order whatever you want. It doesn't matter to me."
"Are you serious? Because if you're serious, I'm going to go crazy and insist we both do the tasting menu." (I'm practically foaming at the mouth because I'm so deliriously happy.)
So we order the tasting menu. In the meantime, Steph orders a mango mint mojito that actually disappoints me. I can't really taste mango or that much mint. But it's OK, because I'm here for the food.

For anyone who doesn't know, a "classic" tasting menu is often five to seven small experimental courses where the chef showcases ingredients and plays with different flavour ideas. I'm surprised to hear Amaya offers one because Indian fare is a communal experience. It lends itself to cooking in large quantities. I shouldn't have been surprised when the food turned out to be just that.

A large appetizer course is set down. It looks like a tower of rice, almost risotto-like in its sauce mixture, jewelled with pomegranate seeds. The first bite reveals that the "rice" actually has a texture similar to rice krispies--airy, light and crackly. It's sweet, salty and has a kick of spice to it. Something that quickly becomes a theme for the rest of the meal.

The second appetizer is chicken liver paté served with toasted pita. I fell in love with liver after my first experience with foie gras and milk-fed veal liver at Thuet two winters ago. This paté is sensational. It's dense but spreadable, and the Indian spices tickle my senses. It's making my heart, my soul, my body say, "More, more, more!" And sometimes you get exactly what you wish for. The appetizers are already fairly big. When the mains come, there's hardly any room left on the table.

We first try venison served on a bed of steamed julienned carrots, green string beans, and roasted potatoes in a dark, biryani-like sauce. I eat it with saffron-tinged basmati rice but take the first bite of meat separately. Cooked at perfect medium-rare, it practically melts in my mouth. Steph, who doesn't even know what venison is, relishes in it. I can tell she is starting to fall in love with Indian cooking. Next I try cauliflower curry with naan. Normally I dislike cauliflower so I'm taken aback when I eat it. There is definitely a hot spiciness but it's beautifully juxtaposed with a honey-like sweetness that elevates everything to a flavour dimension I've never experienced before. Even the little bursts of fresh, diced tomatoes add a subtle but distinct cooling feeling. Our final main course is shrimps and scallops in a butter sauce. These too are perfectly cooked. Both are big, plump, tender, moist and juicy. The sauce is velvety but light, and I am more than impressed that this is by far the best Indian food I've ever had. Stephanie is happily surprised as well with how delicious the meal is, but I suspect for reasons different than mine. Equally pleased with the experience, she genuinely oo's, aw's, and yum's at everything. And we have enough food to doggy-bag for a hearty lunch the next day.

Our meal ends with a dessert sampler of a white chocolate shortbread cookie, a dark chocolate truffle with Indian spices, and a caramel brittle with cashews, pistachios and cardamom. I love them all for their varying textures and tastes but the brittle stands out as my favourite. Normally I am a chocolate-fiend but combining nuts and cardamom? That is signature Indian with a spectacular modern twist.

As we head home, I cannot thank Stephanie enough for treating me to such an amazing dinner. The food may have been more original, inventive and even cooked better than anything my dad has ever made, but in its essence, it is the food of my father. The food of my family. Yet at the same time, while the meal was definitely a pleasure, it was the experience of sharing something so close to my heart with someone who is so close to my heart. I consider Steph to be like a sister. Introducing Indian food to her at a place like Amaya... It transforms what it means for me to return home.

How much and how little we've grown.

Museums and galleries have always fascinated me. I love how they can be a place of history, beauty, delicate intricacies, fantastic spaces and an adventure of my choosing. I don't think I've realized it until this moment but the Royal Ontario Museum holds many special memories for me. And a light, bubbly, happy one was created Saturday night.

"You look so hot! You are my hot girl!" squeals my friend Annette as she rushes over to us in the lounge of C5, the new restaurant atop the Crystal addition of the ROM that opened in July 2007. Annette is referring to our friend Jamie who I'm with. We went ahead early to make sure we kept our reservation, while Annette picked up Wina and Camille. It's a bit of a high school reunion. I'm closer with Jamie and Annette than I am with Wina and Camille. But we all used to hang out in the same, much larger group of friends so every once in awhile there's always an overlap. Lives diverge and come together again, and I find myself in situations that are familiar and comfortable yet awkward and distant.

For the record, Jamie does look hot. So do the rest of them, I might add. I don't think I've ever felt "hot" myself when I'm around them. But it's no insult to me. It's just a feeling I have. But I am quite happy to be friends with such beautiful girls. More so, I am lucky to be friends with such beautifully-minded people.

We are seated and we are definitely like silly schoolgirls around one another. I'm a touch too loud for public. Annette is in her infectiously giggly mood. Jamie is calm and serene while making faces. Wina is angelic. Camille has a matured but beaten air to her. Of all the girls, it's Camille who I'm most unfamiliar with.

"I am so tired from working all day. I'm supposed to go to a club after and I didn't bring a change of clothes for dinner or partying. These are my work clothes," she remarks. Nonetheless she is stylish and stunning in vintage jewellery and a Posh Spice-esque messy haircut. Throughout the night, I have these wonderful moments where I see women who have learned to be so aware of the world that surrounds them. At the same time, I see girls who love to indulge in laughter, food and talk, and fall into a self-created bubble.

It's around 9:30 p.m. when our orders are taken and bread arrives. We were half an hour late for our 8:45 reservation and it takes some time for giggly girls to calm down. The bread is soft and wonderful. I try so hard to pinpoint the exact flavours. While they stir the senses of my tongue, my memory can't seem to be jiggled enough. Plus I'm starved. I haven't eaten since noon so I can't be bothered to pay too much attention. It's enough that the bread is delicious. The butter is perfectly spreadable and adds a sweetness.

"Why are you such a bread Nazi?" Annette calls over.

The CN Tower is to the left of me, framed by the jagged open shapes of the building. Toronto's cityscape always gives me great pleasure. I marvel at the ingenuity of man-made structures.

I love thick, creamy, hearty soups. It's Winterlicious. This is why we can (sort of) afford C5 tonight. I debate between a salad and a soup. When I hear the butternut squash bisque is made with lobster stalk, I am sold. It arrives as a lovely orange square pool of steaming aromas. The first sip is intoxicating. A perky, Indian-like spice tantalizes my tongue while the undertones of hearty lobster and squash fill the rest of my mouth. "Jamie, you have to be my date tonight. Try this," I say to her as I offer her a spoonful. I demand that more than one person recognizes the amazement of this bisque. Her eyes stare straight ahead and as she pristinely slurps, her wide eyes go wider in delight. "Oh my god. That is sooooo good," she sincerely comments. I take a bite of her deconstructed salad. The textures are interesting and play together nicely. Creamy avocado with grainy black olive-infused couscous and tiny pieces of slippery, tender calamari.

Because I love when my food has a theme, for main, fish is the obvious choice. A butter-poached grouper in a spicy tomato shitake sauce blows me away. The grouper is meaty and flaky and tender and smoky all at once. The sauce is punchy and tangy and fruity and warm all at once. It's garnished with pea shoots. Delicate yet filled with an amazing amount of fresh, zippy flavour to contrast the heartiness of the dish. I couldn't be more pleased. I try a bit of Wina's 72-hour sous vide beef short ribs. The chef of C5 is supposed to be notorious for his sous vide preparations. The beef is outstanding. It's a fall-apart-in-your-mouth experience and the richness of the beef is so well-rounded.

For dessert, I veer off course. The chocolate bread pudding isn't exactly a pudding. It's more like a slightly less dense brownie. The more exquisite part is probably the orange and vanilla foams that are airy and light yet surprisingly intense. I find the pecorina cheesecake much more innovative and yummy. The sweet cream cheese and the salty percorina are brilliant together. Sugar crystals crackle happily in the mouth against the smoothness of the cake, and a raspberry sauce melds all the flavours.

"Food makes me happy," I exclaim.

The night starts to wind down after we've engaged one another in definitive stories about the men of our lives and share strong opinions on the debate about black-focused schools. We snap some photos and gather our jackets. Off the elevator, our banter echoes out into the emptiness of the museum. "Jamie lost her shoe in the holes in the vent and didn't even notice!" I burst, and we all burst into giggles.

As we part ways and shiver in the cold, I'm exhausted but sad to see the night end. It's been almost three years since high school has passed. It feels like a long time ago. I've always had a tendency to leave the past in the past but I've learned to savour these moments. These are friends who've known me since early teenagehood. To be able to venture out into the world on your own and return to simpler, sweeter days is an unexpectedly precious gift. Often, I feel like I have to protect and shield myself from reality's harms. It can be a difficult challenge to take on your own.

I realize later on that despite everything, when friends come together and create their own world, no one but ourselves could ever possibly burst the bubble.