An ode to fish sauce, Vegan House, LA

There are many reasons why we chose to go to a Thai restaurant when we were staying in Filipino Town, none of which are remotely interesting.

But this place happened to be a short 25 minute walk from the airbnb apartment where we were staying. Apparently there are more than 20 vegan Thai places in the LA area, and I really can’t work out why. No amount of googling will tell me – if anybody knows why Thai people have all gone vegan when fish sauce is such a mainstay of all ther dishes, it would be great to hear.

It was just a local take-out with some authentic Thai tables and chair atmosphere included. I even got bitten on my foot by an ant which made me recall Bangkok vividly.

As well as the usual suspects like Pad Thai and Green Curry, there were also BBQ’ed tofu balls and green apple salad, both of which sounded delicious. However, being the tedious and dull person that I am, I went for Thai Gren Curry and Papaya Salad, two meals done well, would surely be contenders for the last supper.

The food was ok, and I could ensure that there was no fish sauce had been used anywhere near the dish: It was as enigmatic a Thai meal as I’d find in London. It just made me crave Rosas in Soho more than anything else in the world.

I also ordered tea, which came in a wildly disconcerting orange hue. I had to mention it so I could include the picture and warn you. It tasted a little like it looked: like a rusty iron pipe had been submerged in milk.

Despite all this, the service was wonderful, and the location, super convenient.

Cross country by train…and, vegan food?

Please don’t get out your tiny violin and play for me, but it can be hard being a travel writer. I want so much to write what is already written about the train ride between New Orleans and LA here, in my blog, but I’d also like to possiy monetise the trip  in order to have the opportunity to go on another one in the near future. So I’m compromising slightly and writing about the highlights, with a vegan slant.

1. Being on a train lets you see everything and nothing. Clunking through the desert means that for a moment in time, you become part of the landscape as much as the cacti, scrublands, and odd railway siding.

2. The sunset limited (for that is the name of the train we were on) had showers. Nothing beats having a shower in the morning, feeling all spruce, and sprinting up to the observation car to watch the sun, hanging like a grapefruit, blossom it’s pink-orange light around the train in the Texan desert.

3. Watching the communities who had sprung up along the railroad. Travelling across the southern states really makes you realise how desperately poor so much of the U.S. is. Trailer parks with smashed out windows, and well kept but minuscule houses which almost always had children running around outside of them were a common theme. Otherwise, row upon row of trailers with steps up to the door and a beaten up car were the most ubiquitous living arrangement I saw across New Mexico, Texas, and Louisiana.

4. The changing landscape. This goes without saying, but from the lush, green, alligator filled bayous of Louisiana to the dusty deserts of New Mexico, watching the landscape change from mangrove to mesa was awesome.

5. The company. With the exception of the boring people who are taking the train because they can’t fit in plane seats, people who take the train in America seem to be far more interesting than those who haven’t. They have a knowledge of their world and country too, and a respect for the wealth of landscape or poverty of the towns that the train is passing through. The dining car is great at this – they make you sit with other couples so you share stories along the way.

6. The vegan food was not awesome, nor was the menu. With every meal, including, apparently breakfast (my grapefruit came with an enormous lettuce leaf) a side salad was served, and you could select whatever else you wanted off the menu including all non-alcoholic drinks for free. Options included steak, tilapia, and meatballs. For vegans, I had to order my own special meal which was always a rank, sticky, creamy “udon”, also inexplicably served with a lettuce leaf. If you ate eggs you could opt for the corn and black bean burger which was really good. That came with a generous helping of kettle chips, and a smile from Karol, the dining car attendant. It also came with many miniature bottles of wine, in an attempt to wash down the horrific taste of “udon”.

    

 

Why my salad “dazzled”, and other vom-worthy descriptors. Cafe Gratitude and graveyards, Los Angeles

My last trip to Cafe Gratitude was to the Berkeley branch, where the server asked me what I was grateful for when giving me a slice of cheesecake and wouldn’t go away until I’d given her an answer. (I think I fobbed her off with “the cheesecake?”). I like it a lot; the vegan food is exceptional, and unless you’re on the Paleo diet, chances are you won’t even notice there’s no meat-matter on the menu.

Just south of Melrose, I’d just spent an hour trekking from Vine/Hollywood to Hollywood forever cemetery. This sounds a lot more awful than it was, especially if I tell you I got my eyebrows waxed en-route. But Sam was bemoaning my lack of enthusiasm when it came to embracing the “glitz and glamour” of the city (correct), so after we walked along the grotty stretch of road that constitutes the Walk of Fame, I suggested a detour to the strangest cemetery I’ve ever been to. And I’ve been to a lot.

They’re peaceful, reflective places. This one looked more like a brochure for a housing estate, such was the grandeur of the tombs. As well as Johnny Ramone’s, there was also a tomb on an island on its own lake, and hundreds of metres of mausoleum space complete with a baby grand piano and casually strewn roses. It was all very melodramatic.

Added to the melodrama was a half finished grave, a set of seats, and a sun canopy, which gave the impression that the service had been abandoned mid-speech as the congregation suddenly realised the coffin had gone walkies.

Needless to say, being around so many dead people had made me famished, so I headed a few blocks south to cafe Gratitude, where the correct answer to any probing questions about my state of mind today would probably be “being alive”. However the server asked instead: “what have you seen today in a different light?”

This was taking philosophical questions to a level of conversation I wasn’t prepared to encourage pre-lunch, so I squinted at her until she left. I promptly ordered the caeser salad which was called something like “dazzling”. She looked a little confused when I asked for the “caeser”, until understanding dawned on her face and she said “oh you want to be dazzled.”

When I’d finished throwing up in my hand, I asked for water and a green smoothie called something like “impossible” or “magnanimous.”

This aside, the food at Cafe Gratitude is the best specifically vegan food I’ve eaten in London or the U.S, without doubt. It’s interesting, clever, beautiful balanced food. Sam had the “Yo soy fuerte”, which was a Mexican torta with chorizo tempeh, avocado, tomato, chipotle vegan mayo and lettuce, encased in ciabatta. It was incredible, as was the beet and carrot coleslaw which came with it. I had an enormous bite of it, and although the caeser was clever – Brazil nuts were used to make the fabulous Parmesan taste, and avocadoes and capers gave a creamy/tangy zing – after having spent 50 hours on a train I was ready for something eye-wateringly tasty.

The smoothie tasted (in an excellent way) like blitzed raw cookie dough even though it was made with kale and various other sprouting ingredients.

The table next to us talked about being on set with actors, and those opposite were talking about a screenplay. It was clear the type of people who visited – it was almost like being back at the Guardian, yoga mats and clean living included. I just wish that people wouldn’t assume that because I don’t want to be part of the mass slaughter of animals, that I want to open up about what I’m actually feeling when I’m about to order lunch. Because the answer is almost always going to be, uninspiringly, hungry.

Seed: vegan po’boys and beignets, N’awlins style

Waiting for the streetcar

“Garden based, Nola taste.” The tagline of Seed in New Orleans suggested that this restaurant was exactly what I was after: I craved vegan food, but I wanted to sample the true flavours of the south too. In short, I wanted a po’boy.

Although I turned up at Seed knowing exactly what I wanted to order (Tofu po’boy), I’d just been to Mothers with Sam so he could get his very own New Orleans traditional po’boy too. I’ve never eaten meat in my life, but watching him demolish his “Ferdi Special” with roast ham, beef, and jus to dunk, made me think nothing could be a match for that sandwich.

I toyed with getting a salad, or tofu “fried chicken” bites, or even a soup. But I knew I would cave, and order the po’boy; something my gluten sensitive insides would hate me for heretoafter. Our servers were both young and “hip” looking, and I saw next to a lady who lived and worked in New Orleans but who had never visited before. She order a two small starters, and then took half of each to go. Not sure why she bothered.

Pineapple ginger burst

The clientele was a mix of (young) ladies who lunch, business people, and one cheerful family with two young kids who were demolishing the plates of vegan beignets (wise).

I ordered the pineapple, almond butter, ginger and almond milk smoothie which tasted decadent and like having a pudding for start. Usually I’d opt for something healthier like a green goddess or something the colour of indigo, but I’m glad I had a “cake” drink because it was totally delicious, if a little bland.

The po’boy was hands down the largest sandwich I have ever seen in my entire life. Seriously. It was the length and breadth of my forearm, and crammed full of deep fried tofu pieces that tasted a little like cake. The sandwich came with lettuce, vegan mayo, and tomato, but I asked for extra avocado. There was a cauliflower pickle salad side which I upended into the sandwich.

I couldn’t fit it in my mouth, so I basically gnawed on the bread for a little while, hoping to make an inroad somewhere. Inevitably the entire contents of the sandwich spilled out over plate/table/leg/cleavage, so I covered my face in a napkin and just went for it.

The lady from New Orleans next to me was laughing, but she only finished half a starter so I don’t care.

Although I’d never eaten tofu like this, and I was having an enormous po’boy sandwich, it was ever so slightly bland. I feel as the restaurant held back with seasoning – both the ginger in the smoothie, and the mayo on the sandwich. It needed something else, like a sharp mustard, or a heavier garlic mayo. I added siracha which made it taste delicious, but turned it into a banh mi rather than a po’boy.

We ordered beignets to go, and several hours later (I am still stuffed from the po’boy), have polished them off, licking icing sugar off our fingers and chewing happily upon having found this excellent vegan beignet: my first doughnut in three years.

The heart of New Orleans: origins

 

 I don’t want to gripe, but Lonely Planet’s walking tours can sometimes really suck. Take the French Quarter in New Orleans. LP promises us an hour and a half of walking, but instead we get a 20 minute spin throught the French Quarter with sparse description of the things we’re passing. So like all visitors to a new city should, we (metaphorically) throw the guidebook into the bin and potter around by ourselves.

The French Quarter was built by -no surprises – the French, and it looks like the sort of idealised place that Americans would draw when asked to depict Paris. Think wrought iron railings, bougainvillea, and balconies. The neighbourhood immediately East of the quarter is even called Faubourg. 

  

It’s pretty, there’s no doubt about it. It’s the sort of place that’s delicious to wander around and drink coffee/beer depending of the time of day and then pop in to galleries and buy artworks and antiques (depending on your luggage allowance Obvs).

There are some odd shifty characters who’ve probably enjoyed far too much of the towns excesses and overstayed their welcome by thirty years or too. Drinking on the street is allowed – it’s not uncommon to see somebody cycling down the tramlines with a pint in their hand or a beer in their basket, but except on Bourbon Street, where there’s the odd fight, this liberal attitude to drinking doesn’t seem to cause many issues.

Louisiana has the second highest poverty rate out of all American States at 20%, coming just after Mississippi, it’s neighbour.

  

 The centre of Orleans bucks this trend, with cute coffee shops and expensive cocktail bars, but just a few miles out of downtown, grasping poverty is on full view. The excesses and decadence of the Frenchman district are enjoyable for a long weekend, but the galleries and freshly hosed hanging flower baskets make it too easier to forget the State’s other side.

The food of the Deep South is what it is for a number of reasons – creole and French influences and copious amounts of fresh seafood. But it is also a food that has evolved from poverty: the need for starchy, filling items with hundreds of calories to feed multiple kids and family members as cheaply as possible.

  

And while we’re stuffing our faces with po’boys (poor boys), it’ll do us good to remember that.

The smell of the South

London in March fits the stereotype most people have of England. It’s cold in the morning, hot at lunch, and possiy snowing by the afternoon. Let me tell you, choosing what to wear is damn annoying.

Coming to New Orleans just reminds me how much I love the heat, especially in cooler times of the year like March and April. I love the smell of the hot ground after a rain fall, the smell of Cyprus trees and pine, the warm, dusty scent of the roads and grass verges that have been sprayed with a sprinkler. 

These are smells you never get in London. I love my city, the cool climate, the people (yes, even the people!), the food, the art, the Thames, the bars. But I love waking up and stepping out onto a wooden porch in the morning, usually before 6am because of jetlag, and watching the star-clad sky roll back, to be replaced with a grapefruit coloured sunrise. 

Bare feet on splintered, dusty wood, sticky warmth, smell of sweet leaves and fresh air; it’s not London, that’s for sure. 

  

After prosecco and salad for dinner, our plan for the morning was a hearty breakfast. We’d watched Man V Food the night before, in preparation for a New Orleans eating odyssey. Sam had crawfish boils, catfish, po’boys and jambalaya on his list. I had grits. No matter.

We were on our way to Mothers to pick up a breakfast po’boy, when we passed Betsy’s pancake house. Not on our list whatsoever, but I’m a huge fan of unpretentious food done well, and one that’s heaving at 7am surely gets my vote.

  

Sam ordered pancakes and bacon, I ordered a side of grits, and we both had steaming mugs of black filter, served by a beaming middle aged lady with ribbons in her hair.

Not traditional southern food (really), and terrible for vegans (no soy milk) but we got the cheerful, happy, feeling of finding a great breakfast spot where we could ponder over our day plans and drink lots of coffee. It was fantastically cheap too- ten bucks for everything. But then, after London, everything is. 

  

My first vegan hot dog: Dreamy Weenies, New Orleans

I’ve wanted to come to New Orleans for a long time for three reasons. The bourbon, the Ogden Museum of Art, and the eating.

  

And now, after a hairy Delta touch down from JFK where we almost took off again, I’m sat opposite Louis Armstrong Park, where jazz supposedly became a “thing”. There are water fountains, grass, and lots of statues of people playing trumpets, but I had my eye on Dreamy Weenies, a hot dog institution on the other side of Rampart Street. Given that we’d been travelling for over 30 hours, I figured it was only fair that we went someplace Sam could eat meat too. 

We’re spoilt for vegetarian food in London, but I’ve never had a vegan hot dog. Dreamy Weenies was voted by PETA as one of the top five places selling vegan hot dogs in the US, so it made perfect sense to head on in.

Located on the edge of the French Quarter, Dreamy’s is housed in a bright and airy building with huge windows and a cheerful ambience. The menu is extensive, and it’s one of those places you can go with your meat eating friends without much convincing.

There are four vegan sausage options, andouille, italian herb, falafel, and kielbasa: you can ask for a vegan bun too. Some of the toppings come free, like onions, relish, and mustard. Others you must pay for – I added chopped tomatoes and avocado, but it was tempted by the vegan chilli or thre creole curried vegetables. Always tempted by anything with creole flavouring – I’m a huge fan of paprika.

I decided I wanted to really try the sausage so kept it simple, and I’m glad I did.

  

Smothered in mustard, ketchup, with the sour tang of pickles and the herby sausage, my first hot dog was a success. My only quibble, and this is just personal taste, is that I just can’t get over the texture of quorn. It’s absolutely not my favourite. 

But for a sausage made of quorn, with great toppings, it was pretty tasty. 

A vegan’s homage to BBQ

Barbecue is big business in Texas. It’s so big that different barbecuing styles are split between North, South, East and West Texas – everyone claims that theirs is the best. In eastern Texas, where I am now, meat is cooked until it is falling off the bone, smoked over hickory wood and marinated in a beyond sweet tomato based sauce to counteract the slightly acrid smokiness.

Southern Texas style is a little different, where meat is slathered in a molasses sauce which makes the meat pretty moist. Either way, barbecue here is taken damn seriously. Even as a non-meat eater I was keen to visit a few traditional barbecue joints because this stuff is the cornerstone of Texan society.

Traditional sides to a Texan BBQ are fries or a baked potato, coleslaw, black beans and perhaps a gherkin or two. These sides obviously differ depending on where you go, but there’s certainly something fascinating about having the enormous tray brought out from the smokepit and being given enough food to fuel a small family for a weekend for $12.99.

Non-meat eaters traditionally don’t get much of a look in when it comes to BBQ unless you’re a massive fan of potato, but sometimes that’s ok. Sometimes it’s fine to just sit in a huge, wooden shack, the windows darkened by years of smoking, and breathe in the smell of hickory and oak. There’s the obligatory stuffed deer standing by the counter, and tables are ramshackle and the floors are uneven.

This isn’t even completely for effect. BBQ joints are the epitome of rough and ready. On every table is a roll of kitchen towel more than a foot tall for mopping up juices, sauces and spills. There is a constant stream of people kicking back the swing saloon doors to the bathroom with their elbows, covered in BBQ sauces and chipotle.

Out back is where the magic happens, so there’s often a woody aroma wafting around these BBQ shacks. And maybe that’s why I like them so much. They don’t smell like meat, but they smell of the forest; that autumn smokiness when you light a bonfire using wet wood.

What’s interesting about BBQ here is that some places are trying to make the barbecue a more welcoming place for everyone. I’m almost with the school of people who say “leave it well alone. If you want vegan food, don’t come to a BBQ joint”. But then I suppose I like the idea of going with friends who want to really enjoy the meat and being able to eat something other than shoestring onion rings (did I mention that these were beyond incredible?).

Places like the Woodshed Smokehouse in Dallas are throwing things on to the grill that isn’t just slabs of meat. Among the typical offerings of pulled pork, chopped beef and brisket, there are a plethora of vegan/vegetarian friendly options. How about crispy potatoes with aioli, or smoked Texan peanuts and chili salt? Smoked artichokes covered with lemon? Or try the three kale salad, guacamole, and smoked pepita? Dig into the arugula, pickled red onion, smoked pecans, with orange supremes salad instead. Or opt for the slow smoked cauliflower with mornay sauce. I love how these dishes sit on the menu at no expense to pure, traditional BBQ items. No grumbling meat eaters because they’ve been dragged somewhere that only serves salad, and no sad, po-faced veggies who have to nibble on a lettuce leaf while looking mournful at the rack of ribs baked in sticky sauce.

Heaven. But sadly too far to walk to from our flat on the Katy Trail, so it’s being appreciated from afar. >

The changing face of Texan food

It’s early. 5.12am to be exact. I’m sitting at the granite worktop of our Airbnb host’s breakfast bar, savouring the air-conditioning that’s so cold I’ve had to pull on a sweater. At 4.45am I made my first drip-through filter coffee pot. At 4.55 I broke the filter coffee pot. And now, I’ve mopped up the spillage and trying to work out what to do until dawn breaks.

I’ve come to Texas mostly for the food – Texas barbecue, Tex-Mex, Ranch. But as a dairy-free vegetarian, I’ve also travelled here to appreciate how the state has adapted its traditional fare to suit new diets and ideas.

The local bookstore is a great place to start when working out how local diet is evolving. Alongside the table bowing in the middle under all the books on the Bush’s (both Laura and Dubya – with one entitled, rather creepily-“Their Wedding Anniversary and Golden Years”) -there is an extensive cookbook section. I run my fingers along the spines: “Perfect Brisket”, “The Big Barbecue Book”, “How to Grill”. There’s even one cookbook I flick open with an entire non-ironically written chapter called “Why the Barbecue is the man’s domain”. Ah Texas.

But it’s across the aisle where things get interesting. An entire two shelves are dedicated to vegan ideas: “Afro-Vegan”, “the Vegan student primer”, “Vegan Chocolate”. This isn’t even taking into account the two shelves above it on vegetarian cooking. Perhaps rather than symbolising a massive cultural shift in Texas, it’s simply because fewer people know how to make a salad than bake a cow. Who knows? What’s clear is that this “phenomena” (if you could call it that) has expanded across Dallas.

We visited three bars/diners/coffee shops yesterday morning, buying a single item at each. This was completely unintentional. I wanted a coffee at the first one. Sam wanted a banana so we popped in to another. And then after the coffee and banana we both wanted breakfast so we went into the third and ordered granola/bacon and juice. Life’s complicated, what can I say? But what we both noticed was that the menus all had a gluten-free option. They all served a variety of milks with their coffee. As well as just the usual soy there was almond and rice milk if that’s what we felt like. At the place we had breakfast there was a plethora of standard brunch and breakfast items like pancakes and huevos rancheros, but there was also a portion of vegan granola on offer, or a stack of dairy-free, gluten-free pancakes.

Texas’ stereotype is one of a meat-loving, carnivorous pack of people. I’m sure this still exists from the number of barbecue pits and steak houses I’ve seen. And yet, it just goes to show that two very different ways of life can co-exist pretty happily. I saw it in Arizona, I saw it in California and I saw it in New York. I dismissed it as a trend and instead assumed it was because people here were health freaks.

In the UK I suffer abuse from my friends because I don’t eat meat and I’m somehow missing out. But the UK has shitloads to learn on this. I’m not trying to convert you, I just wanted to enjoy food where my friends can also enjoy food. Because food is a happy, social thing. So please, UK restaurants, enough with the snootiness when I ask for “no cheese”, and take a leaf from the book of the most carnivorous states on the planet.

Long hail vegan-why airlines need to stop arseing around with inflight meals

Once, on a thirteen hour long-haul flight to Bangkok with Lufthansa I was given a Granny Smith and a small pat of butter. This wasn’t because I had allergies or was vegan or anything complicated back then. This was because I was vegetarian, and Lufthansa had simply forgotten to load up any veggie trays. With hindsight, my response now would be “Thank God”, as the last Lufthansa meal I ate was a tray of rice with vinegar and olive oil as condiments.

Since developing shed-tonnes of allergies, I’ve had to be pretty flexible when travelling. I.e. Taking what I can get, when I can get it, as quickly as possible. This can mean stocking up on sweet potato shoestring fries as if they’re my last sustenance for weeks on end, because, as far as I know, they are. At a diner this morning for example, I ordered coffee, and then noticed they had a side of an avocado so got that too. I wasn’t hungry, but just in case. Just in case that was all I could eat for the next three weeks.

But for flights that are longer than seven hours, I expect a bit more provision for travellers with allergies, veganism, or weird food preferences, especially if travelling business or first. My last long-haul was a trip from Detroit through to London with Delta-I had a bread roll and a lovely and apologetic cabin crew member. “sorry, but we don’t have anything else for you. Oh wait, I packed this lettuce to eat onboard. Do you want it?”

The flight I took yesterday was over ten hours direct from London through to Dallas flying business. The sum total of my food on board was two side salads (after I’d picked out the blue cheese), a breadstick, and a bag of low-fat kettle chips. The cabin crew were beyond fabulous and one of them donated me a bag of celery sticks that she’d packed for her trip. I appreciated the gesture, although the negative-calorie producing snacks probably weren’t the most helpful. I also downed a miniature bottle of olive oil in the hope that I’d get a few extra calories that way.

This has to change. Airfares, especially when you spend a fortune on taxes out of the UK, should cover a meal or two for everybody. They manage halal, so how do they manage to forget vegan-dairyfree-or gluten free options? This isn’t simply fussiness on my part. I eat cheese and I will vomit over your cabin. If you want that, then bring it on. But please, airlines, make more of an effort with your vegan meals by remembering them. I shouldn’t be just an afterthought, but as valued as any of your other, more carnivorous travellers.

Anyone else out there got any horror stories? Or if you care to leave a recommendation for airlines where you’ve had great on-board food then please do below!