Piroshky (or pirozhok—but not to be confused with pierogi) is the Russian version of an empanada, calzone, or any other stuffed hand-held pie. Common fillings include poppy seeds, sausage, and cabbage. At Piroshky Piroshky in Seattle's Pike Place Market, they add a Pacific Northwest twist with a version that rolls up smoked salmon pate.
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In my United Nations of a household, the Halloween tradition is for the housemates to contribute to a giant candy stash—so we have a pool of unusual, globetrotting candy to offer the neighbors’ kids. This year, I was ready to break out my childhood fave—chewy, milky, nougaty Chinese White Rabbit candy. But in September, four babies died and thousands of people got sick after drinking melamine-tainted milk from China. Tons of milk-containing products were recalled, and I had to feed my beloved White Rabbits to the trash. My housemates joke that I should have kept the candy and put them in a bowl with a sign that reads: Beware, Poisoned Apples. But I haven’t quite the same sick sense...
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The L.A. Times details the genesis of some of Southern California's favorite Hong Kongstyle coffee shops, places that serve a mish-mash of dishes: "escargot, Russian borscht, Spam-topped noodle soup, German-style pork knuckle, French toast, Chinese chow fun and a panoply of Italian-style pastas re-imagined for Asian palates." Seems these hotspots took a long and winding march to the L.A. area. First, Russians fled to Shanghai after the Bolsheviks came to power. There, they set up cafes, which had a nice go of it till '49, when the Communists took over. They scurried to Hong Kong, where the mix of HK residents, mainland Chinese, and British spawned a unique type of establishment, one that gave many Hong Kong residents their first...
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The Grocery Ninja leaves no aisle unexplored, no jar unopened, no produce untasted. Creep along with her below, and read her past market missions here. Has anyone else been in a situation where you bump into someone from somewhere completely fabuloussay Cambodia, or Fiji, or Mozambiqueand, horror of horrors, you find, after asking them a million and one nosy questions about the food back home (questions you've always wanted to ask but could never find the right books or expertise to), that this fabulous person, with such a potentially fabulous culinary background, isn't much of a food person at all? How tragic is that? There is nothing more heartbreaking than hearing someone say, "Food schmoodit's all fuel." (I justify such...
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The Grocery Ninja leaves no aisle unexplored, no jar unopened, no produce untasted. Creep along with her below, and read her past market missions here. It's mid-afternoon, and I've managed to drag the Russian roommate out of bed (with promises of French toast and a TiVoed Heroes premiere) to accompany me to the tiny Russian grocery store to "translate." "Okay, show me the funky stuff!" I command, only to have him retort "I grew up with this stuff, remember? It's all normal to me." Teething problems. But I zoom in on the foodstuffs I had puzzled over on previous trips that had so tantalized yet evaded me in my inability to read the language. "What's this?" I ask, holding up...
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