Last Friday I started cooking brunch at a cafe near the former French Concession, and predictably, something caught on fire.
The cafe's kitchen is in the basement, and has about two square meters of floor space. There's a big deck oven, two refrigerators, a cluttered countertop, a sink, flour bins, and a filing cabinet claiming most of the room. In the remaining space we managed to squeeze in a big gas-powered grill, sticking a five kilogram gas canister in one of the cabinets below, rubber hose sticking out and running under the grill to the back.
This big grilling surface was the key component in our operation: our showcase dish was sourdough buckwheat pancakes, and to cook enough pancakes to satisfy the orders that were going to be pouring in as soon as we started, we would need to be able to cook a whole batch all at the same time. The lonely little electric burner the kitchen already had was going to be laughably insufficient.
I had tested the burner the night before. The stove had filled the kitchen and the cafe above with toxic-smelling fumes, part of it had turned from the original shiny silver to a plasticky yellow, and the back of the grill got much hotter than the front. But these problems notwithstanding, I was pleased to see it produced some of the most evenly hued golden-brown pancakes I've been able to make so far.
I got to the cafe early Friday morning, crouched into the basement kitchen, put on my gas mask, opened the gas canister, and started the grill. I mixed the pancake batter while it heated. The stove began letting off noxious fumes again, but not as profusely as the night before.
The barista/cashier came in and stood by the door. He started coughing.
What's up? I asked.
Not much, just curious, he said.
Just making some pancakes, I replied.
Oh. Cool, he said. He went back upstairs.
I had just turned back to my batter measurements when there was a sound like a big match head igniting, and kitchen got noticeably brighter. Something other than the burner itself was shooting flames from under the stove: the rubber hose had caught on fire.
While the rubber fire blazed, I turned off the grill and cast around for something to smother it with. I was dimly aware that if the fire reached the gas canister, something bad would happen, but the sudden adrenaline rush kept me from reflecting on this idea for too long.
The fire went out on its own before I could do anything to it. The kitchen went quiet. Hands shaking, I opened the cabinet door and closed the valve on the gas canister.
I took my first coffee break.
No orders came in that day, luckily. The barista had been telling customers all morning that breakfast wasn't ready yet.
The next morning, Saturday, I came to the cafe with a bag of bagels and eggs.
Over the past few weeks I've set up a mini home fermentation lab. It comprises many layers -- this is just the top shelf.
From left to right, back to front: mashed grapes (i.e., wine), kumquat pu'er tea mead, shiso mead, burdock beer, traditional kvass, kefir, basil soda, grape tea enzymes, pineapple soda.
Underneath and not shown are all the pickles, including various kimchis, dill cucumbers, spicy okra, and beet kvass.
I'm hoping to produce bigger batches of whatever works best and sell it at the local craft market.
Here are some more photos of Shanghai:
Typical breakfast foods: tea eggs, fried glutinous rice cakes, doughnuts, and sesame balls
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