Spaghetti Western

Mention “green spaghetti” in passing, and I’d wager that that vast majority of people would immediately think of pesto. That was certainly my first, second, and last thought too, before I moved to Texas. Here, and especially the southernmost part of the state, right alongside the border of Mexico, it’s something else entirely. Espagueti verde, a uniquely Tex-Mex invention, is slowly gaining traction farther afield.

Born From BBQ

My first exposure was probably the same as most outsiders, through the feverish praise bestowed on Lockwood’s own James Beard semifinalist and one of New York Times’ best restaurants of 2024, Barbs B Q. No, nothing is remotely vegan, including and especially the green “spaghett,” so you don’t need to stress over standing in that perpetual line. As a dish of legend and lore, its influence has outgrown the humble lunch counters and potlucks that once contained it.

Easy Being Green

Impossible to miss cloaked in an arresting green cream sauce, roasted poblanos and fresh cilantro are responsible for both the flavor and the name, with a touch of spinach thrown in for extra vibrancy. Some describe it as a smooth salsa verde alfredo, but that’s really selling it short. The charred edge from the peppers lends a subtle smokiness with a buttery, velvety depth from the supple flesh itself. The topping of vegan cheese is honestly superfluous, but it does make for a pretty picture.

Truly Awesome Sauce

You might have noticed that I used bucatini instead of spaghetti in my version. Why? Because bucatini is simply the superior noodle, that’s why. You can use absolutely any pasta shape you have in the pantry, be it long or short, thick or thin. The sauce is generous enough to coat whatever you throw at it, and nobody’s meemaw is going to materialize in your kitchen to issue a citation for improper noodle selection. For that matter, you could use it to smother baked tofu, creamed corn, roasted cauliflower, or grilled summer squash. Green Spaghetti is supposed to be a side dish, but with that sauce on the plate, it’ll upstage any entree.

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Hannah (BitterSweet)3 Comments

Gotta Khach Them All

If you’ve ever wanted to eat an entire loaf of buttered bread that’s smothered in melted cheese (and really, who hasn’t?), then khachapuri was made for you. So integral to Georgian culture that it is used as an economic indicator, known as the “khachapuri index,” its importance to the culture cannot be overstated.

Nearly every region of Georgia has its own distinct variation, but it’s the Adjarian khachapuri that’s captured the hearts, and stomachs, of intrepid eaters overseas. Almost like pizza without red sauce or cheese soup in a bread bowl, there’s no denying its universal appeal.

A Worldly Bread, Baked At Home

For years, this dish remained captive on my baking wish list. It seemed like the sort of project that called for an occasion, rather than an ordinary afternoon in the kitchen. The arrival of World Bread Day was the push I needed to make it happen. For this 21st edition, I knew exactly how to celebrate.

Whatever Floats Your Bread Boat

While Adjarian khachapuri may be the version most familiar to outsiders, it’s only one of many. Across Georgia and the surrounding Caucasus, the name encompasses a wonderfully varied collection of cheese-filled breads and pies, each with its own shape, filling, and regional identity. A few of the most distinctive include:

  • Adjarian (Acharuli): The iconic boat-shaped version from Adjara is filled with cheese and baked open-faced, then finished with a raw egg yolk and often an extra pat of butter. The egg and butter are stirred into the molten cheese before eating, with pieces of crust used for dipping.
  • Imeretian (Imeruli): The classic round, enclosed khachapuri from Imereti has a thin layer of cheese fully enclosed inside the dough and baked until golden. The filling traditionally uses Imeretian cheese, which is mild, tangy, and a bit crumbly.
  • Megrelian (Megruli): Similar to Imeretian khachapuri, this version adds cheese both inside and on top. The extra layer melts and browns in the oven, creating an especially cheesy, blistered crust.
  • Achma: Sometimes described as the Georgian answer to lasagna, this one is made from multiple thin layers of dough that are boiled, layered with cheese and butter, and baked until crisp and golden on top. Unlike the other versions, it isn’t really a stuffed bread so much as a layered cheese-and-dough casserole.
  • Gurian (Guruli): A crescent-shaped variation from Guria, traditionally filled with cheese and hard-boiled egg, it’s especially associated with Christmas and New Year’s celebrations.
  • Ossetian (Khabizgini): A round, enclosed pie filled with cheese and potato, heartier and more substantial than many other Georgian khachapuri, thanks to the extra spuds.

Not Milk?

Veganizing such a dairy-laden dish is really quite simple. A straightforward swap to plant-based milk and butter takes care of the dough without changing its essential character. To replicate the mild, salty, tangy, and slightly sour qualities of sulguni cheese, the one-two punch of mashed tofu and vegan mozzarella shreds does the trick. Plus, with the added benefit of soy protein, you can justify such an indulgence as a proper meal. At least, I like to think so.

Aquafaba takes care of the egg wash and then for the crowning jewel, I used my favorite trompe l’oeil of peeled yellow cherry tomatoes for those golden “yolks” on top. When all is said and done, you still get that gloriously gooey, cheesy, buttery bread that makes khachapuri so irresistible in the first place.

No Forks Required

Emerging from the oven puffed and deeply golden around the edges, cheese browned and bubbling in the center, it’s hot enough to scald and still impossible to let cool. I initially made the faux pas of cutting it into strips, unaware that the proper way to indulge was to dive in, hands first. Tear off a chunk of crust, drag it through all that molten goodness, and pay no mind to any greasy fingers. Khachapuri is a communal experience, where everyone can dig in together, reaching across the table to leave no corner untouched.

It’s Easy Being Cheesy

After dreaming about the pure savory decadence that is khachapuri for so long, I can unequivocally say that the reality is even better. No more difficult than your average batch of dinner rolls, such a delicacy is well within anyone’s grasp, should they be bold enough to bake it.

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Hannah (BitterSweet)5 Comments

Carrots Go To Heaven

A single perfectly browned latke slid onto his plate, leaving a trail of oil over the stoneware dish painted with faceless angels circling the rim. Grazina placed one on her own plate, then dropped the pan into the sink with a hush of steam.

…

She gestured at the bowl of raw carrots. “Those are for you. Eat up.”

Hai took a bite from a carrot, then picked up his fork, eager to try the latke.

“No, eat the carrot first. Please.” She leaned forward, knife and fork on each side of the plate, a paper towel tucked in her collar. “It’s important.”

He finished the carrot, then picked another from the bowl and put the whole thing in his mouth.

“They’re good for you, believe me.” She cut into her latke like it was a steak.

“For the eyes, right?”

“That’s a lie the army told in World War Two to hide the fact that they used top-notch radar. Carrots,” she paused for effect, “give you the will to live.”

He took a bite of the latke, which was perfectly made, crispy at the edges and delicately salted with a touch of herbs he couldn’t name.

“What do you mean?” he said, chewing.

“It’s a root. And roots prevent you from getting the blues.” She picked one from the bowl; it gleamed under the kitchen light. “You see, carrots become bright orange because it’s so dark in the ground. They make their own light because the sun never reaches that far—like those fish in the ocean who glow from nothing? So when you eat it, you take in the carrot’s will to go upward. To heaven.”

— Ocean Vuong, The Emperor of Gladness

Hannah (BitterSweet)8 Comments

For Crying Out Loud

Thailand is a vegan paradise any day of the year. The word “jay” (เจ) is the key that will unlock centuries of Buddhist tradition, built on the principles of compassion towards all creatures. Splashed across yellow flags, restaurant signs, market stalls, and food packages, it’s as common as seeing an “open” sign on establishments elsewhere.

During Thailand’s annual Vegetarian Festival, it’s the only game in town, transforming even the most meat-centric dishes with plant-based makeovers. Experiencing firsthand how incredible the food scene was on a random visit in January, I can’t begin to imagine such superabundance on display. It’s a dream of mine to return in time for the festivities, though I may truly eat myself to ruin, given half a chance.

Much of the attraction is the opportunity to eat traditional Thai foods that usually don’t come with a naturally vegan or vegetarian option. Something like Crying Tiger (เสือร้องไห้; Suea Rong Hai) is exactly what I would make a beeline for. As meat-centric as main dishes come, it’s essentially just grilled beef served with Nam Jim Jaew (น้ำจิ้มแจ่ว). Bold yet balanced, a riot of intense flavors, it’s a deceptively simple dish that packs a serious punch. Despite how central the beef is to the whole concept, it’s just as simple to make it meatless.

While I remain firmly grounded for this year’s Vegetarian Festival, the distance won’t stop me from getting a taste of the celebration at home. Lion’s mane mushrooms are truly the beef of the earth, capable of being compressed into outrageously decadent steaks, the likes of which could satiate the most ravenous omnivore. A hard sear and heavy weight develops a smoky, charred crust encasing a succulent and tender interior, ideal for dousing in that fiery dipping sauce for a final kiss of heat.

The name “Crying Tiger” is considerably more contested than its ingredient list. There are plenty of theories about what exactly brought those tears to the tiger’s eyes. My favorite is the most folkloric, imagining that people would come across the remains of cattle hunted by tigers, with the brisket left behind. They would take this particularly rich cut for themselves, imagining the tiger looking back in regret at the delicious morsel it had abandoned. Hopefully it’s some consolation to our tiger that there was no kill necessary to make this particular prize.

Even if you skip the entree, don’t pass on the jaew. If you make the entree, you’re best advised to double the jaew. This potent mixture of dried chiles, lime juice, toasted rice powder, and shallot is the sort of condiment that makes itself indispensable, bringing enough heat, acidity, and depth to transform whatever happens to be within dipping distance. Though it usually contains fish sauce, I find that a combination of soy sauce and tamarind fills the gap with all the salty, tangy, pungent umami you could ask for.

Crying Tiger is served without fanfare or pretension, alongside a mound of sticky rice and fresh vegetables or herbs to temper the intensity. I like keeping that same spirit here. Let the lion’s mane take center stage, supported by a cooling, gently contrasting cast of characters. A few slices of crisp cucumbers, juicy tomato wedges, or fresh lettuce is all you really need, though you could always add a side of papaya salad or a light vegetable soup to stretch your entree into more servings.

Thailand will have to wait. Until then, homemade sliced lion’s mane mushroom steak, glossy with with fiery jaew, is hardly suffering. When you eat enough hot chilies to bring tears to your own eyes, you can almost imagine the tiger’s face when it realizes the best part of the meal has escaped its paws yet again.

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Hannah (BitterSweet)5 Comments