My Stir-fried Life Read online

  Selected works by Ken Hom

  Truffles (with Pierre-Jean Pébeyre) (Serindia Contemporary, 2014)

  **Winner Gourmand World Cookbook Award 2015 for Best Mushrooms (USA)

  Exploring China: A Culinary Adventure (with Ching He Huang) (BBC Books, 2012)

  **Winner Gourmand World Cookbook Award 2013 for Culinary Travel

  **Shortlisted for The Guild of Food Writers Awards 2013 for both the Food Broadcast of the Year Award and the Award for Work on Food and Travel

  Complete Chinese Cookbook (BBC Books, 2011)

  Ken Hom’s Chinese Cookery: 25th anniversary edition (BBC Books, 2009)

  Ken Hom’s Quick Wok (Headline Books, 2001)

  **Cookbook of the Year from Food & Wine magazine, USA

  Ken Hom’s Foolproof Chinese Cookery (BBC Books, 2000)

  Easy Family Dishes: A Memoir with Recipes (BBC Books, 1998)

  **Winner of the Andre Simon Memorial Book of Year 1998

  **Winner Gourmand World Cookbook Awards Best in the World in Year 1998 in the category Best Chinese Cuisine Book

  Ken Hom’s Hot Wok (BBC Books, 1996)

  Ken Hom’s Illustrated Chinese Cookery (BBC Books, 1993)

  The Taste of China (Pavilion Books, 1990)

  **Shortlisted for Andre Simon Memorial Book of Year 1990

  Ken Hom’s East Meets West Cuisine (Macmillan, 1987)

  **Shortlisted for Andre Simon Memorial Book of Year 1987

  Ken Hom’s Chinese Cookery (BBC Books, 1984)

  Ken Hom’s Encyclopaedia of Chinese Cookery Techniques (Ebury Press, 1984)

  KEN HOM

  MY STIR-FRIED LIFE

  with

  JAMES STEEN

  This book is dedicated with love and affection to all the people of the United Kingdom who embraced me and took me into their homes and especially their kitchens. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  1. Eating

  2. The Tea Ritual

  3. Never Play with Chopsticks

  4. Cracking Conch, Peeling Prawns

  5. Sticking to the Ribs

  6. Going West

  7. A Career

  8. The Call and the Calling

  9. The Academy

  10. Dining with Danny and James

  11. The Wild Child of the Kitchen

  12. Making Stir-Fry in the House of Chaos

  13. The Cook on Crutches

  14. The Boy Who Was Ip Man

  15. Embraced by Hong Kong

  16. A Product of Sunflower

  17. The New Chapter

  18. The Test (and Testing Times)

  19. Dipping a Toe into Japan

  20. The Trials and Tribulations of Peking Duck

  21. Cooking and the Books

  22. The Evolution of the Wok (Mine)

  23. A Moment in a Château

  24. The Table of the Shepherdess

  25. Have Wok, Will Travel

  26. Men United

  27. At Home with Hom

  28. Meals, Ready or Not

  29. Life and Living

  30. The Turner Point

  31. … And the Turning Point

  Acknowledgements

  Index

  Plates

  Copyright

  Introduction

  A COUPLE OF WEEKS ago I was in Bangkok, and in Departures at the airport. At check-in, there was a woman and her daughter in the same queue, and close enough for me to hear them as they chatted. The daughter said, ‘Mum, look. It’s the Dalai Lama.’

  I turned and realised the daughter was nodding towards me. Well, if I were to be mistaken for anyone, I figured, let it be the highest-ranking monk of Tibetan Buddhism. I could not stop myself from smiling.

  It was the third time, of which I am aware, that I had been confused for His Holiness. The first time was in a restaurant in London. The second occasion, coincidentally, was also at an airport, but in Arrivals; at a baggage carousel. ‘Excuse me, are you the Dalai Lama?’ a lady had asked me, as I tried to spy my suitcase amid the circling luggage. (Yes, just the type of place you’d expect to see the spiritual leader.)

  At Bangkok’s airport there was a twist. The daughter had pointed me out, but then the mother looked me up and down before she tutted and said, ‘It’s not the Dalai Lama, darling. It’s only a cook.’

  I am only a cook. I am only a cook and feel as if I am the luckiest person in the whole wide world. I have lived well. I have cooked almost incessantly and to my heart’s content, and have eaten everything I have been offered, including insects and reptiles galore, although I also have cravings for fish and chips in Britain. The tastes of life from all corners of the globe I have relished. Marvellous experiences have been there for the taking, and I have taken them. I have wonderful friends and family. I am not an unhappy person.

  As you read on, you will see that this is a story about food and its ability to inspire. It is the story of how food shaped my life, beginning as a child fed by a mother who had little but sacrificed all that she had. I was a minute speck in a tiny corner of Chicago, and part of the minority that kept themselves to themselves in Chinatown. Head down, button up. I did not set goals. That has never been my way. Instead, I relied on the virtuous belief, instilled in me by my mother and my Chinese-American relatives, that if I was good, then good things might happen to me. They did and they have. Thank God.

  Of course, bad things have happened too. My father passed away before I had reached my first birthday. Often, however, I have felt that he is watching over me. That sense of reassurance was more frequent when I was young and craved fatherly guidance but lacked wisdom. Even though I grew up in an impoverished style, I do not regard the early years of my life as an enduring struggle. I was neither the wayward teenager nor the angry young man.

  My formative years were spent as a wide-eyed pupil, not necessarily at school but learning from my mentors, who included my uncle Paul. He gave me a job in the kitchen of his restaurant when I was eleven. Through him I learnt, and throughout my life I have never stopped learning or wanting to learn. Curiosity, politeness and a decent meal have taken me onwards and, with the help of British Airways, upwards.

  MY life has been one great, big stir-fry. In California, I taught cookery at my home to an audience hungry to learn about Chinese food and its folklore. In Hong Kong, I realised my dreams and for the first time felt accepted. I came to London for a ten-minute audition for a BBC series about Chinese food and cookery, the first of its kind.

  It brought success I never dreamt I would have. Eight million woks have been sold, all with my name on them. I have been the author of thirty-five books (thirty-six now), many of them bestsellers. I have cooked for prime ministers and presidents, as well as a few of my childhood heroes.

  Every day I reflect on my existence, and am grateful for what I have been given, and for what I have achieved, as well as travelling the world and meeting people who share my passion for food, cooking and life (even if they are not quite sure who I am).

  Chi fan le mei. This is a Chinese greeting, and perfect for an introduction. The phrase is often heard when one person meets another. Translated literally, it means: Have you eaten yet? The phrase is the closest you can get to the Westerners’ greeting: How are you? So even if food is not always in the mouths of the Chinese, it is often on their lips, in the form of words. Chi fan le mei. I certainly do hope that you have eaten, but either way you are about to get hungry.

  1

  Eating

  THE KEY TURNING in the lock, and then the slam as the door closed. Two sounds I dreaded. They were followed by that high-pitched yell – ‘I’m here!’ – and next came the swish
of her slippers as she walked towards the kitchen. I figured the cleaner had arrived again. I figured right, and her name was Mrs Kelly.

  I was staying in a basement flat in Lincoln Street, just a minute’s stroll from Sloane Square, Chelsea. My home was in California, where I had my own cookery school, but this was the summer of 1984 and I was here, in London, to film my first series for BBC Television.

  This was a big deal. We were venturing into unknown television territory, and success was by no means guaranteed. The British were not well accustomed to shows about food and cookery, and this was to be the first of its kind devoted to Chinese food and cookery. As the presenter, and someone who had not previously appeared on television, I was a little nervous and apprehensive. Therefore, I was determined to ensure the dishes were just right.

  In Chelsea, I spent hours in the kitchen of the apartment, testing the food that I intended to cook the following day in the studio. There were stir-fried dishes of shellfish, as well as cashew chicken, sweet and sour pork and the majestic Peking duck, with its skin roasted brown and as crisp as parchment. I was content in that kitchen, darting about – stir-frying and steaming, creating and crafting, tasting and … and smiling. This contentment was interrupted twice a week by the key in the lock, the slam of the door – ‘I’m here!’ – followed by those banana-yellow slippers as they swished towards me.

  When Mrs Kelly reached the entrance of the kitchen, I always knew what was to come. She’d grimace, tilt her scrunched-up nose to the ceiling, inhale – with considerable dramatic effect – and then say loudly, ‘What’s that muck I smell?’

  What’s that muck I smell? That was my food. Chinese food.

  After two months of filming, the series was in the can and only a couple of months away from being broadcast. I thought, Oh God, Mrs Kelly could have a point. What if this series bombs? I mean, maybe it’s not going to fly … Maybe fifty people will watch it … And they’ll switch it off after ten minutes. And sure, Mrs Kelly will not be one of them.

  Part of me wanted to lie in a dark room with a cold washcloth on my face. Instead, I hatched a plan to escape. I had to get out of London town, and out of the country. My plan coincided with the dollar being at a record high. So a few friends came over from California, and we set off on what would be a fantastic European road trip, gourmet style. Oh, there was a whole bunch of us: Ron Batori, Ted Lyman, Terri McGinnis and Susie Maurer.

  The journey would turn out to be the trip of a lifetime, and took us through the cities and countryside of France, motoring in a rental car, stopping to eat amazing food and sip, and sip again, exceptional wines in Michelin-starred restaurants. Often these places had rooms, so we could simply haul ourselves from table to bed without exerting too much energy. We’d settle for two-star restaurants, but they were mostly three. And we reckoned they were virtually free because the healthy American buck could buy us so many French francs. None of us was rich but, for a brief period, we lived as if we owned the world. Or France, at the very least.

  This was a mouth-watering adventure, through country lanes and over rickety hump-backed bridges, passing brightly speckled fields of lavender and forests of buried truffle treasures; all of it purely in the pursuit of exceptional gastronomy. And driving in the opposite direction to Mrs Kelly. As we hurtled along, we sang to the radio, every music station blasting out Stevie Wonder’s hit of the summer, ‘I Just Called to Say I Love You’…

  WE were joined by a French friend, Yves Vidonne, who worked for the grand chef Joël Robuchon, and who would later become highly successful in the world of pâtisserie. Yves, in turn, invited his father to join us on the trip. Monsieur Vidonne knew all the best restaurants, and if we knew his first name we never used it. He was always Monsieur Vidonne.

  At the first restaurant, we sat at a large, round table and, as the sommelier poured champagne into exquisite crystal flutes, Yves’s father produced a small gold pill box from the inside pocket of his navy blazer. This box he carefully opened as if it were the world’s most delicate object, and then he counted out the contents – little grey pills – onto the tablecloth. He passed around the pills, one for each of us, saying in whispered French, ‘Take it. This pill means you can eat all you like, but will never gain weight.’

  As he whispered, he patted his stomach; the wizard casting a magic spell. Monsieur Vidonne was quite heavy, by the way, but we were in awe of him. We all popped the pills and then spent the next few hours cheerfully tucking into six courses from heaven. Not one of us asked about the pills. We were too respectful to question the master. He assured us they were not illegal and, I assure you, they were not. Subsequently, at each fantastic restaurant M. Vidonne performed the same routine – pill box, grey pills, pat stomach, whisper, whisper, pass around, swallow, eat six courses (minimum).

  This patriarch of the Vidonne clan possessed immense knowledge about food and wine and steered us towards the finest places of indulgence. He took us, for instance, to Georges Blanc’s restaurant in Vonnas, an hour north of Lyon, the belly of France. There, we dined on house specialities such as crêpes vonnassienne – a generous spoonful of caviar is spread between two thin slices of salmon, and fried for merely a matter of seconds upon a fluffy crêpe made from potato purée. We ate Bresse chicken, that small, world-renowned bird, roasted to perfection and served with foie gras. From the incredible cellar – it contains 135,000 bottles of wine – we chose, among others, a spectacular bottle, or probably two, of Moulin-à-Vent from the 1964 vintage; purple, concentrated and suitably opulent for us, the young group from California who were feeling wealthy.

  We went to Paul Bocuse’s restaurant Auberge du Pont, just a couple of miles outside Lyon, and on the banks of the Saône. I must tell you that I may have been small but in those days I had an enormous appetite. I think I began with Soupe aux truffes noires (black truffle soup beneath a lid of golden, flaky pastry), which Bocuse created in the mid-’70s especially for the new President, Giscard d’Estaing. Then I ate a divine salad of lobster.

  Now, I had also ordered Volaille de Bresse truffée en vessie. This is a famous Bocuse dish, which I had heard about. A whole Bresse chicken is poached in a pig’s bladder, which swells into a big ball as it cooks. This bird-in-a-ball is carried to the table, and next comes the real theatre of it all: the bladder is burst by a waiter with a steady hand, and the chicken is carved and served on the plate, coated in a creamy sauce made more indulgent by the addition of small slices of black truffle.

  On our visit, the waiter carried the chicken dish on a silver platter, and then burst the bladder in front of me. My senses were aroused. However, he gave me only a slice or two of the breast meat before taking the bird on the chopping board back to the kitchen. That was not supposed to happen. He was meant to give me the whole chicken. I felt cheated, so beckoned another waiter and said, ‘I’ve only been served a bit of the chicken. I’m paying for a whole chicken – where’s the rest of it, please?’

  They quickly brought me the rest of the bird, and I ate every last succulent morsel on the plate. Later on we discovered that the restaurant was popular with Japanese tourists, who often ordered this en vessie dish but did not eat the whole chicken. The waiter thought I was Japanese.

  In Les Baux-de-Provence, less than an hour’s drive from Marseille, we lunched in style at Baumanière. The restaurant overlooks vineyards and rolling fields that inspired Van Gogh and Cezanne, although Terri lost her umbrella there. We bundled up masses of wild lavender to take home, optimists that we were. The flowers’ scent was so overpowering that we almost choked. Five miles down the road, coughing and sneezing, we stopped to toss away the purple bundles.

  The escapade went on, taking us from Arles to Moustiers, where we had a great meal at La Bastide, and then for a couple of nights in Eugenieles-Bains, and Les Prés d’Eugénie, the restaurant of Michel Guérard, one of the founders of nouvelle cuisine. Every detail was perfect, and afterwards Susie said of the chef-patron, ‘Did you see how Michel came through the dining
room, made eye contact with everyone and made them feel very special and loved, but never slowed down one notch?’ I nodded. One day in the future I would cook with the great Michel at Château d’Yquem.

  We, too, did not slow down. As the villagers slept, we danced like tipsy angels in the narrow streets; I tried to be Fred Astaire to Susie’s Ginger Rogers, and it was magical.

  We drove to Château Raymond-Lafon, producer of the fine Sauternes, where we were entertained by cellar master Pierre Meslier from Château d’Yquem. Susie bought a magnum and carried it home like a baby, and we consumed it that réveillon. From there, we travelled to La Rochelle, and then, en route to Paris, we were hungry for more, so stopped at a few châteaux on the Loire, to dine beside the river.

  In the French capital, we went to Yves’s home, and to his kitchen and then his fridge, which he opened to reveal a few shelves of chilled champagne, Cristal no less. Corks popped, the party continued. We danced and sang and toasted life and living it to the full. Then we went for dinner at Taillevent, where Claude Deligne ruled the kitchen. The following lunchtime was spent at Joël Robuchon’s restaurant Jamin, which had just won its third Michelin star.

  I love cooking because I love eating. When the passion of eating is strong enough, you will want to cook.

  RON had noted the name of Monsieur Vidonne’s pills. About a decade later, he said to me in his soft Californian lilt, ‘You remember the grey pills…’