and bacon egg spring rolls too. But food in context gives you understanding and depth. It centers you. Sitting in a cold winter holding a cup of sweet, tannic black tea, chewing heavy Russian bread and eating a Kazakh beshbarmak stew of mutton, potatoes and hand made pasta sheet just feels right. It would be bland and fatty if eaten in a Singapore café. Undesirably heavy and "˜bleh'. Huddled near a heater, just in from the snow, with jacket hanging in a cloak room and flushed cheeks coming back to blood temperature - it's possibly the best thing you could ever eat. You don't want a Caesar salad or a carpaccio. It sustains you, and fills you with warmth, vigour and good cheer. Sweating on a street in Bangkok, there's nothing like the endorphin rush of a chilli laced broth, the flavours exploding in a gastronomic cacophony. It fights the heat, enlivens the senses and suits the climate and atmosphere. A spaghetti carbonara would put you off your game and give you a hatred of all things European. A club sandwich? Meh! You feel bloated and lazy. Dulled. But foreign food is popular in most cities. Almost everywhere I've worked or been, people enjoy trying different cuisines. There's always a battle about authenticity versus accessibility, price and local taste preferences. Authenticity is not just about the ingredients, but also about the right touch. The context. The technique. We can try and teach technique, method and understanding, but context is hard to learn. As expatriate chefs we are a combination of things. To subordinates we can be trainer, mentor, daddy, policeman, culinarian, colleague, role model, teacher, weird foreign devil, fussy bastard, and more.
We are also host, guide, manager, mediator, innovator and protector of traditions to our guests. The roles do not always sit side by side and complement each other. You often have to juggle each, and also their associated values. Writing menus is sometimes about meeting the expectation of guests who understand, appreciate and demand authenticity, context and depth. It's also about being flexible enough to adapt to those who don't. Hotels need to create warmth, hospitality and understanding for the traveler. We have to understand our market mix and juggle the roles and the products we offer to fine tune them to hit the sweet spot. One always thrives for authenticity and quality amidst pressures to the contrary, be it skills, staffing, budget, equipment, supplier limitation or market expectations. Pricing and competition is also a factor in what is offered. The locals in Vietnam, Thailand and Kazakhstan love to have foreign food outlets to go to. They must be "authentic", but that's often judged by hype or by the established competition. Without context and depth, without a yardstick to compare against, it's hard to hit the right note. Harder still when existing or previous foreign venues already set a precedent with dumbed down or substandard "˜foreign' cuisine. Maybe due to an untrained workforce or lack of a specialist chef. Maybe due to suppliers without the experience to provide the correct products. Sometimes due to budget, being cheap, or being lazy. Think Chinese or Italian restaurants in Australia 20 years ago with their sloppy pasta, bread-like pizza, stewed chow meins served on packet noodles and stodgy battered pork in a fluorescent sweet and sour sauce. The "˜real' products are a breath of fresh air for those who understand the food in its proper context, and often a shock to those used to the lazy version or the cheap, fast food, frozen convenience items that everyone has become used to. Introducing proper sourdough bread here was not popular at first. The Vietnamese taste is for sweet, soft breads, or mellow unchallenging flavour with a soft interior and a thin crispy crust. The taste, texture and characteristics of classic European breads were considered a flaw or a drawback. The holes in ciabatta were hard to butter over. The crust was hard on the baguette and the bread was salty! Six months later, it's understood that we do the best bread in town. Properly. So we now have the face and the understanding required to present something different as authentic and desirable. We created a market by not doing the same as everybody else. It takes time to educate, explain, provide alternatives, and also create acceptance by building awareness and developing a core of clients who will become cuisine or brand ambassadors and guide the others to want to try it. That confidence and trust is needed to take the next leap forward. I love the challenge of striking that balance. It would be great to have a single focus, fine dining style. I do miss that, and it's required to climb to the top of your game as a chef when it comes to cooking or dominating a cuisine style. I strongly believe that a niche is the way to go, and that you can't please everybody. Resort and hotel life is a new set of challenges and skills and the learning curve never mellows or straightens out. I enjoy balancing the menu to our market mix. It's satisfying to develop and improve our overall product as we develop the skills of our team and the understanding of our market. It's rewarding to specialise and fine tune as w
e work with purchasing and suppliers to get where we want to be. The understanding and context that I'm getting by working as an expat is definitely improving my abilities and my food and helping me to be a little less one-sided in my approach to food, menus and life. Who? I'm a kiwi from Australia who's working in Southeast Asia as exec chef at a beach resort. I'm a serial expat, currently in Vietnam, withdrawing cold turkey from my passion for Thai food. My wife keeps me sane with regional dishes from Chiang Rai. The cat and my laptop take my mind off all things culinary when they get the chance. I post regularly on my website about food, recipes and photos from my travels. Drop by with your comments or suggestions. Or feel free to hook up on twitter and berate me in person.