What makes homey food homey, homies?

One chilly night last week, my friend and I sat down to a bowl of soup and a bottle of wine and in between our sipping we began to ponder the characteristics of "homey" food. Comfort food. What makes it comforting?

Did you come home to it when you were a kid? The simple snacks and desserts after dinner that rocked your sixth grade world? Like a brownie or root beer float? Mac and cheese and carrots or broccoli dipped in some kind of sauce that makes the vegetables less vegetably? (ranch if you're normal, mayonnaise mixed with soy sauce if you're Ferron). And while the food is important, is it more about the memories surrounding the food than the food itself?

If that's it then Homeroom, the new mac and cheese joint around the corner from me is the recess bell, the sleepover, the under-the-desk passed note of our food nostalgia. Only now the options of mac and cheese (artisinal Californian cheese) are many and worldly, the oreos are salted, the root beer is home-brewed, and there's beer on tap.

But what if your Jewish mother (my dad) didn't make you macaroni and cheese? Or Cambodian soup? Why would three people from different upbringings be able to go into a Cambodian restaurant and label a dish they never had as comfort food?

Maybe it's witnessing and participating in someone else's comfort food, and adopting it as your own. When we walked into Phnom Penh House there were three families, grandmas, babies, teenagers abound, having family meal. Find it on the dim corner of 8th and Alice Streets. The pink awning outside has faded into an awkwardly charming Easter-egg hue, there's chintzy wall paneling and scuffed tables, but on a rainy night it's the place you want to be: small, tucked away,  family-owned and family friendly, where wafts of coconut milk, BBQ chicken, and cilantro wander around you.

The coconut milk soup (#218) has tomatoes, pineapple, and catfish and tastes like a spoonful of the tropics.

What about flavors? Deep flavors we find in soups and dishes that have been stewing for hours. Homemade dishes with ingredients that we can identify as real food. When my friend Danny Perales makes a soup we all come running and it doesn't matter how cold it is outside, we just know we can count on it to taste delicious and make us feel better. That's why when Danny was guest chef at Guerilla Cafe earlier this month, there was a line out the door of people waiting to try the special menu dubbed "Like Water for Chocolate" after a Mexican novel whose protagonist best expresses herself through cooking. Building off his mom's recipes from Chiapas, my favorites were Guisado, a stewed chicken dish with prunes and olives, and Pozole, a Mexican stew that makes Raul (Danny's brother) come into the kitchen and without fail say, "mmmm it smells like Mexico up in here!" every time it's on the stove.

If comfort food is made up of flavors we can count on, then we should all count on coming to the next Perales guest chef night at Guerilla (email me to get word on when it's happening). I'll be helping out on the floor, so stop me (not when I'm carrying food, people) and let me know if it's comfort food to you:  Does it strike a chord in your food memory? Make you feel like part of the family? Taste like something homemade and authentic?
Did I mention the flan made by Danny's mom? Tastes like sex on the Mayan riviera with caramel on top. And now I'm thinking my next post should be on aphrodisiacs.

 

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