The Golden Mountain

For a guy who likes to cook and eat exotic foods with exotic ingredients, New York City is a dream.

During one of my recent Google inquiries into Thai cooking, a search that often returns more junk than useful facts (c’mon, ketchup in my pad thai?), I came across the name of an ingredient little known in America kitchens, but widely utilized in Thai restaurants, Golden Mountain sauce. Think a slightly sweeter soy sauce with more umami punch that has the ability to add that restaurant-quality depth of flavor without the headache-inducing MSG.

My quest began a week or so ago. My Upper West Side neighborhood Whole Foods let me down. But whom was I kidding? Just because they stock twelve brands of quinoa, compost-able plasticware, and Tom’s shoes, doesn’t mean they’ll have a relatively unknown sauce (though the planned Williamsburg Whole Foods might stock it for “ironic” reasons).

My search continued South. I was in Mid-town one day for a pork belly and pickled Asian pear Cambodian sandwich at Nam Pang and decided that a stroll through Korea town couldn’t hurt my chances. The local grocer had shelves of sauces. I stood, perplexed, glancing slowly over the labels written in Korean, Thai, Mandarin, and Japanese. They had $20 bottles of soy sauce but the Golden Mountain sauce once again proved elusive. I did stock up on some dependable Kim Chi, a reliable alternative to my home made version that bubbles on the countertop for several days, filling the apartment with that unique acrid aroma of fermenting cabbage and fish sauce.

One afternoon last week, finding myself with some free time and an appetite for exploration, I hopped on the Brooklyn-bound D to explore Chinatown. Since moving to the city a month ago, I had not yet had a chance to explore this unique ethnic enclave, and I had just finished a Wednesday dining section article about the best dumplings in New York. It is a must-see for any “foodie” and anyone desiring to experience one of the last remaining unique ethnic neighborhoods in Southern Manhattan, one that is sadly being squeezed from all sides by developers.

The subway dumped me at Grand St. and I headed south on Mott. My senses were immediately overwhelmed. Fish stalls, smelling more like the sea than the oily fish I had been dreading, were stocked with white Styrofoam containers of ice and whole specimens. Their eyes were clear, not glazed over, a sign of freshness. As I continued on, bags of dried mushrooms, trays of exotic fruits, and hanging durian adorned the sidewalks. I could hear no English being spoken. I passed specialty teashops, stores that hawked cheap plastic junk, small American flags, made in China, and dumpling houses. Golden crispy Peking duck hung in restaurant windows dripping fat into hotel pans of pig’s hooves and chicken feet. My mouth watered.

I took a right on Mosco, a quieter street that exits into Columbus park where, in the mornings, people practice Tai Chi any by mid-afternoon the northern square is clogged with elderly immigrants, or children of immigrants, playing cards or crowded around a riveting chess game.

Bangkok Center Grocery is one of the few exclusive Thai grocers in the area. Upon approaching, I looked in the window and there it was, staring back at me, row after row of Golden Mountain Sauce. I came for the one ingredient and left with tamarind pulp, palm sugar, a new fish sauce, rice noodles, and my much-anticipated Golden Mountain.

When I left, I sat for a while in the park. A besuited Caucasian father and his young son plopped down next to me on a park bench and hauled out a bag of fresh dumplings from an area restaurant. The father explained to his son that the dumplings were like ravioli with different fillings. Only in America would a father use a traditional Italian pasta as a comparison for a Chinese staple.

As I wandered north I passed, unknowingly, through Little Italy. I remember reading in the New York Times, when the 2010 census data was released, that not a single resident of Little Italy was born in Italy. New condominium developments, however, were sprouting up in places. A whole block was being redone for what looked like it would be a store selling outdoor sporting goods. What a SoHo resident would do with a kayak or crampons, I don’t know. Is this what Chinatown’s destiny?

I passed a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant with no name posted outside but just a small flag with a picture of a hot dog being held with Chopsticks. I peeked in. “Asiadog.” I wonder if any of neighboring Chinatown’s residents ate here. Not likely. It seemed like a restaurant better fit for Williamsburg but I’m sure SoHo provides a steady stream of clientele.

As I descended to the train at Broadway-Lafayette, a woman approached me with a map, wondering how to get to Times Square, arguably my least favorite part of a city I have still seen so little of. She spoke in a thick accent tinged with a sense of panic and helplessness. A tourist, no doubt. I showed her the route and put my headphones back in and resumed my Afro-Cuban All Stars.

Growing up in a small town in Maine, and attending college in a largely un-diverse corner of Upstate New York blinded me to the wonders of such rich cultural diversity. I was worried, upon moving here, that I would miss the quiet, bucolic life of Maine. I would miss the solitude and privacy of undeveloped forest. I would miss being able to drive five minutes to see and smell the crisp, clean air of the Atlantic. But none of that has occurred yet.

Instead, I am drunk with the sensory stimuli of the blending of cultures. And, best yet, I now have the proper ingredients to make an authentic Pad Thai. Move aside, Ketchup, you don’t belong in Pad Thai, now that I have my palm sugar, tamarind, and fish sauce.