EatingAsia

Street of Temptation

No, I'm not talking about a red light district.  I'm talking about the Ramadan Bazaar in Bangsar.

I'm a bit behind the times with this post, seeing that Ramadan started last week.  Especially in comparison to a digital camera-toting fellow KL blogger; this woman with a mission has already hit 5 or 6 Ramadan hotspots in KL to snap (and load up on? it's not clear if she's scarfing any of it or not) the luscious treats that are on offer this time of year.  What can I say -- we're low-tech, and developing, sorting, and scanning slides takes time.  Worth the wait?  Judge for yourself.

On Sunday we headed over to Bangsar for our usual afternoon stock-up-on-basics-for-the-week foray, and were surprised to find stalls selling buka puasa (breaking the fast) goodies as early as 3:30pm.  After a casual glance up the street we discarded any thought of walking the air-conditioned aisles of a sterile grocery store in favor of cruising the stalls on the hot pavement.  Our modus operandi: wander the street once, twice, three times if necessary (stalls lined both sides), decide what looked best, and take it home for dinner.  But first, some refreshment, in the form of iced chrysanthemum tea (top picture, middle container) and what I believe the vendor called a cheras a few kuih cara berlauk (above), little cakes with a savory filling of curried jicama.  Delightful.

Plenty of murtabak (griddle-fried dough stuffed -- usually -- with chicken, beef, lamb, or sardines) on offer, but our attention was drawn to this stall by the vendor's remarkable resemblance to the lad behind him toting tacos (tacos?).

Before it's cooked up, murtabak filling is surprisingly runny, so much so that it's poured from a pitcher onto the waiting dough.  The griddlehand must then quickly -- and deftly -- fold up the dough to enclose the almost-leaking filling in a square pastry.

A good murtabak will be greasy (it's inevitable) but crispy with a browned exterior and not so much filling that one can't taste the dough.  These beef lovelies, right off the griddle, were lightly crisped and fragrant with cumin and other spices.

We were tempted by many stalls selling barbecued fish and squid, some of which had bathed their product in sambal and wrapped it in banana leaves before tossing them on the griddle or barby.

But we passed over these seafood options in favor of a stall run by 3 guys eager to ham it up for the camera -- oh, and they were offering a unique and enticing piscene product.

Their sign introduced their ikan terubuk bakar (grilled tilapia fish) as a Sarawak specialty and indeed, there were no other vendors at the bazaar offering anything even remotely similar.

Before finding their home over the coals, the fish are doused with a marinade or rub that I'm guessing includes turmeric, then secured to a piece of split bamboo that is threaded in through their gills and out through their mouths.

The beautiful golden color of the fish, with plenty of char, and the fragrant smoke rising from this grill dictated that one of these babies find it's way into our shopping bag.  Entree taken care of.

Further up the street we found three girls selling popiah (soft spring rolls usually filled with grated and steamed jicama, among other things).  These looked especially good, with freshly made, substantial wrappers that wouldn't be likely to tear or leak.

To the question, "You like it spicy?" we nodded affirmative, and our popiah were slathered with a sweet and sticky, chili-laden sauce, then sprinkled with fried shallots, before being wrappd up to take away.

By our third and final pass up the street the queue at this stall had lengthened considerably, and I overheard one waiting customer tell another that these popiah had been mentioned in a Ramadan bazaar update in one of the local papers.  The popiah were indeed lovely, not mushy or too wet -- even after we had carted them home and let them sit for a while -- and the skins had a pleasingly assertive wheaty taste.

One treat we didn't partake of at this bazaar was the delectable looking fried noodles offered at a stall near to and across the street from the mosque.  We passed it a few times, eyeing the griddle (and snapping a few photos), but ultimately decided that we had already bought more than we could eat at home that night.  Here the noodles are getting started with sizzle of garlic and chilies and maybe some dried shrimp ...?

After the noodles had been frying for a bit, the vendor stirred in a pile of cubed tofu.

By the time of our final look-see he had finished up this batch of wide rice noodles, as well as another of thin wheat noodles.  Both were extremely tempting and I'm betting we'll be back next weekend to give them a try.

Barbecued chicken is a common sight at Ramadan bazaars; this stall was doing a brisk business.  Check out the pile of birds ready-to-sell behind this grillmaster.

Fish was on the menu that night so we passed on the chicken, but I've a mind to pick some up for dinner later this week.  Couldn't ignore this vendor selling rotisserie chicken, however, especially when we watched him cleaver up someone else's order and noted the abundant juices leaking onto the chopping block.

Half of one of these birds, tucked into the fridge after we got home, made me a couple of tasty lunches this week.  Lots of bird, lots of smoke, not much else -- done to perfection on the outside and remarkably juicy within.  Another stall I hope to revisit before Ramadan's done.

We couldn't head back to the car without stopping for a couple of otak-otak (fish paste wrapped in a banana leaf and grilled).

These nubbins were nothing like the fluffy fish "mousse"-style otak-otak we enjoyed a month or so ago at the Nyonya restaurant Padi Prada, but more of a toothsome fish "sausage", 2-bite sized chunks of spicy, chewy, fish paste.  Nonetheless, delightful in their own right.

We drove home -- and, that night, dined on some very tasty treats -- feeling depressed as all get out.  After all, Ramadan lasts only 30 days; we get to sample these foods, swoon over the flavors, but then are forced to wait another year for the opportunity to do so again.  How cruel is that?

Sour Rice Salad

Greens are a girl's best friend.  Well, they're my best friend.  Er... what I mean is that I love them like a best friend.  Collards, tatsoi, chard, gai lan, arrugala, pak beung --- I can't get enough greens.  Show me a green and I'll buy it, try, fry it up in a pan, toss it in a salad, add it to a stew.  When I go to a wet market in KL I'm like a kid in a candy store; it's exhilerating to be surrounded by heaps and heaps of succulent greens, both familiar and unfamiliar, all begging to be added to a dish.  But it's also frustrating, because every single time I'm forced to admit to myself that there's no way I can buy all that's on offer and cook it up for dinner that night.  So I've settled for working my way through the mountains of greens available here, one leaf at a time.

The lovely bunch above caught my eye during a recent visit to Taman Tun market.  Sour spinach -- aka red sorrel, pulichai keerai (Tamil), alas doce (Filipino), Hibiscus cannabinus -- it does indeed bear a remarkable resemblance to its infamous relative. 

Sour spinach's thick, almost leathery leaves taste clean and a bit grassy, and true to the vegetable's name, they are extremely sour.  One bite of this veggie in its raw state and I thought of cream soup, or a mild fillet of white fish napped in a tart creme fraiche sauce -- richness to counter tartness.  My handy (albeit incomplete) reference guide to Asian leaves reveals that in India sour spinach finds its way into curries, stews, and dhal, or is transformed into a spicy chutney or pickle.  So many possibilities ... but the abundance of fresh herbs -- like daun kesom (Vietnamese mint, laksa leaf), mint, Thai holy basil -- kaffir lime leaves, lemongrass, and a few buds of bunga kantan (torch ginger)

in my market basket dictated an uncooked dish.  Rice salad won the day -- a sort of nasi ulam (literally, "herbed rice").  My version here omits an ingredient found in most others: grated fresh coconut.  I didn't want the oiliness competing with the sour spinach's clean quality.

For this salad I used rice from the eastern Malaysian state of Sarawak.

Sarawak rice is beautiful to look at, both before it's cooked -- when it's black-and-white and all shades of brown with dots here and there of brick red -- and after, when it's turned a beautiful dark magenta/red with black bits.  It's a little nutty, quite grain-ish, and the stubby broken grains lend a pleasant chew.  Sarawak rice makes white rice seem very boring indeed.

I can't find Sarawak rice in KL (this was given to me by a friend), so I'm not sure if it's even available outside of Malaysia.  A possible substitute would be a mix of Bhutanese red rice or a good sturdy, nutty brown rice and American wild rice, say in proportions 3 to 1.

The predominant flavors in this salad are sour, salty, and fishy, and the torch ginger lends an ethereal perfumey essence.  Caramelized shallots add a touch of sweetness and the various herbs are a riot of contrasting notes.  I don't think you can go too overboard with herbs in this salad -- all those flavors converse beautifully with the punchy dressing.  The ingredients aren't set in stone, of course, not least because if you're whipping up this dish in the US you may not be able to source some of the ingredients, like torch ginger and laksa leaf.  Luckily, this rice salad won't be harmed if the dressing is adjusted to taste, or if this herb is substituted for that one.  Come to think of it, some shredded arrugala might be a nice addition.

If sour spinach isn't available where you live (check Indian grocery stores), sorrel would make a reasonable substitute.  Choose older, sturdier leaves, and add the sorrel to the dish at the very last minute so that it retains a good amount of crunch.

Sour Rice Salad (or, a sort-of nasi ulam)

serves 2 with other dishes

Dressing:

1/2 Tbsp dried shrimp, soaked for 30 minutes in hot water, then drained and squeezed dry.

1/2" square piece of belacan, toasted under the grill until light brown and fragrant

2 ounces cherry tomatoes -- or a wedge of a larger tomato

3 Tbsp kalamansi juice (1/2 Tbsp orange juice and 2 1/2 Tbsp lime juice)

1 clove garlic, roughly chopped

1/2 - 1 Tbsp fish sauce

3 oz. shallots, roughly chopped

fresh chili peppers to taste, sliced and seeds removed if you wish

freshly ground black pepper

Salad:

1 ginger flower, very thinly sliced

small bunch each (about 1 ounce) cilantro (keep stems), mint, and holy basil

2 sprigs of daun kesom

2 stalks lemongrass, bottom 3 inches only

3 fresh kaffir lime leaves, stacked, rolled like a cigar, and thinly sliced

8-10 sour spinach leaves, or double the amount sturdy sorrel leaves, sliced as the kaffir lime leaves

2-4 plump shallots

2 cups cooked rice at room temperature

Thinly slice the shallots from the salad ingredients list and drop them in a small pan of vegetable oil heated to medium.  Fry till light brown -- careful here, they'll go from golden to overdone in the blink of an eye -- remove from the pan, and drain on paper towel.  Set aside.

Make the dressing:  In a mortar and pestle, pound the shrimp to a pulp.  Add and pound together the shallots, garlic, and chili peppers, if using.  Add the belacan and pound it as well, then the tomatoes/tomato wedge.  Mix in lime juice, and add the fish sauce 1/2 Tbsp at a time; taste dressing after the first 1/2 Tbsp, you may not want to add the other.  Add black pepper to taste and try the dressing again -- more kalamansi juice will be in order if your tomatoes were exceptionally sweet, or if you're after a real pucker.

Pick leaves from mint and basil sprigs, and chop these very finely together with the coriander.  Pick the leaves from the daun kesom stem and chop a bit less finely.  Remove the hard outer layers from the lemongrass stalks, quarter them lengthwise, and slice thinly.

Mix rice and dressing, then add torch ginger, coriander-mint-basil, daun kesom, lemongrass, kaffir lime leaves, and sour spinach or sorrel and mix again.  Allow the rice to stand and absorb the flavors of the herbs and the dressing for about 1/2 hour.

Serve topped with fried shallots.

Lunch on a Leaf

As Dave and I were slurping pork mee on our first morning in KL, we couldn't help but notice that at least half of our neighbors were supping off banana leaves.  A couple of laudatory local reviews taped to this stall's window -- and a thumbs-up from a friend who likes her banana leaf -- led us to revisit New Lay Sin coffeeshop for lunch.

There's something about this nothing-special little coffeeshop that says "KL" -- or what I know of KL so far.  The noise: the rumble of traffic, the scrape of plastic chair legs on tiled floor, the whack of cleaver on chopping block, the clack of chopsticks, spoons, and forks on plastic plates and bowls, the whir of overhead ceiling and wall fans, the din of conversation -- all of it bouncing off New Lay Sin's concrete walls -- add up to a pleasant cacaphony that says "people are happily chowing down".  The scene -- Indian families scarfing pork noodles and Hainan chicken rice, Malay and Chinese couples downing rice and dishes off their banana leaves, elderly guys sipping tea and youger ones slouched in the back over a bottle of beer -- is unique to most other large Asian cities (Singapore excepted). 

At stalls and shops like this one at New Lay Sin rice, curries, and side dishes are "plated" on a large piece of banana leaf.  A pile of rice stakes its claim roughly a few inches south of center, while chutney, "salads"/raita, and cooked veggies are arranged in a row above.  Curries arrive separately, a variety of gravies serve to moisten one's rice, and the whole is crowned with a crispy pappadum or two.  Banana leaf rice is meant to be a literally hands-on affair but -- in KL, at least -- fork and spoon can be had for the asking.

Simple enough.  We placed our order ("Two, please."), and the vendor followed us to our table with our plates ... er, leaves.  Within a few seconds plain white rice and three veggie dishes (potato "salad" strong on turmeric, curry leaf-dominated cabbage and lentils, and cooling cucumber and tomato raita) sat before us.

   

A delicious fish gravy -- really more of a thin soup -- soured with tamarind and chockablock with fresh curry leaves, onions, and black mustard seeds was ladeled from a stainless steel pail over our rice.  Dave ordered chicken curry while I went for the fried fish ... and a few minutes later we broke down and ordered a small plate of the mutton curry as well.

I have to say that the surprise star of this show was the fish.  It arrived on my leaf looking, frankly, like a big, dried-out hunk of crud, but turned out to be a fantastically moist piece of firm, white, flavorful fish with a nearly greaseless, extravagantly spiced (I detected chile powder, fennel and coriander seeds, turmeric, and...?) crust.  Moist chicken-on-the-bone curry was delightfully dominated by chili, yet not overwhelmingly spicy, and the mutton was wonderfully tender.  Perfumed with whole cardamom pods and cloves and pieces of cinammon bark, it also packed a sneaky little chili whallop.

This block of Jalan Tun Sambanthan, a tiny little slice of India, is worth a ramble (especially after a lunch like that one).  Here on this very short stretch you'll find Indian eateries, CD shops blaring Bollywood theme hits, stores selling Indian ingredients and kitchenware and assorted household goods, and tables and glass cases displaying all manner of Indian sweets and fried snacks.   

Banana leaf rice stall at New Lay Sin coffeeshop, 250 Jalan Tun Sambanthan, Brickfields.  By public transport, take the monorail to the Sentral stop.  Upon exiting the station, turn left and continue up the street about 4-5 blocks.  The coffeeshop is on your left.

Char'd to Perfection

Stir-fried rice noodles -- these days they're so common worldwide that we've all (I would wager most of us, anyway) ingested them at one point or another, some place or another.  Frankly, what's the big deal?

What we have above is a plate of char kway teow, a treat that, along with laksa and nasi lemak, might well be considered Malaysia's national dish.  A tasty -- but inevitably greasy -- pile of noodles, the residue of which probably lingers in your stomach a wee bit too long after you've pushed back from the table, right?

No, not this plate; not this noodle.  It takes a certain bit of artistry to fry up a serving of supple noodles lightly kissed with, but not drowned in, grease.  This is the big deal:  this is a plate of stir-fried noodles that is, for lack of a better word -- fluffy.  Can stir-fried rice noodles be "fluffy"?  Should they be?  This man banks his business on it, and it's quite a steady business indeed, so I guess the answer to that rhetorical question would be: Yes, "fluffy" is a most sought-after characteristic of char kway teow, at least in this little corner of the world.

Wang works out of a small coffee shop (only 3 food stalls) facing a parking lot, behind a row of stores (including an Austrian restaurant ... ??? I don't know, maybe it's just me, but in Malaysia's wet heat Austrian fare somehow just does not strike a chord) about 15-20 minutes from downtown KL.  Friends introduced me to his kway teow shortly after I arrived in Malaysia, at lunchtime on a weekday.  The coffee shop was packed out and at least one customer at every table (and quite often the entire table) was waiting for a plate of Wang's workmanship.  The backlog was about 40 minutes.  When Dave and I revisited on a recent Saturday the shop was noticeably quieter -- but the wait for char kway teow was still a good half hour. 

Luckily the coffee shop's wonton mee (wonton and thin egg noodles in soup)vendor is not nearly as busy, so we were able to occupy ourselves with a perfectly tasty bowl of shuijiao (boiled pork dumplings in soup).  Eight dumplings of thin dough encasing well-seasoned pork, not overcooked, in a rich broth with plenty of greens.  Very tasty, but really not the main event at this coffee shop.

Back to the topic at hand.  What's the secret to a fluffy char gway teow?  Observing Wang at work gives a few hints.  Number one: wok master must truly enjoy his work.

Here, Wang starts a plate of noodles by stir-frying an egg and then removing it from the pan.

Number two: ingredients -- in this photo, bean sprouts -- must be added to the red-hot wok from theatrical heights.  Some may land well outside the cooking vessel.  That's OK.  (Note the plate of stir-fried egg awaiting its reintroduction to the wok, at left.)

 

Number three:  once rice noodles are added to the mix, ingredients must be kept moving at warp speed, nonstop.  From this point on until they are plated, Wang pushes, stirs, flips, turns, cuts, and churns the delicate noodles, while at the same time gently pressing them to the wok to achieve the lightest bit of smokiness.

To finish, he reintroduces the cooked egg and adds a fresh one, creating layers of egg flavor and texture: overdone and just done, firm and tender.  A shake of white pepper finishes the dish.

The result -- a plate of brilliantly fried rice noodles tangled with big, unevenly chopped chunks of garlic, bean sprouts, scallions, eggs, prawns cooked so they retain a bit of "crisp"ness, and cockles tender and tasting of saltwater.  A spoonful of chili sauce added during the cooking process, together with the end flourish of white pepper, add a low-level hit of heat. 

As for the noodles, they're airy not leaden; light not heavy; barely veiled rather than soaked in grease.  In a word, fluffy. Our plates, once cleaned (1 minute 30 seconds tops), show dabs -- not slicks -- of oil.  This, more than anything, tells me that Wang is a master of his art.

Char guaytiaow and shuijiao at Restoran Seng Lee, behind row of shops at 6-1 Jalan Batai (including Klimt's Austrian restaurant and Hock Lee minimarket), Damansara Heights.  Mornings to mid-afternoon.

Grilled Rice Rhapsody

I've been eating fairly widely, and quite regularly, since landing in KL a couple of months ago.  Not a single dog in the bunch yet -- pretty indicative, I think, of the quality of the snarf scene here. 

Favorite so far?  I would have to say that it's the freshly grilled pulut panggang we came upon after a shopping spree at the Kuala Selangor fish market a few weeks ago.

These dimunitive leaf wrappers are packing a whollop of flavor: coconut-scented sticky rice enclosing a filling of dried prawns, sambal, and finely shredded lemongrass and coconut.

Pulut panggang boasts a mix of flavors that, to me at least, is instantly appealing: a little sweet, a little savory, a little fish-stinky and a little spicy-hot, all accented with the teeniest touch of smoke.  The kind of combination that lends itself to breakfast, lunch or snack (it's certainly not enough for dinner!). 

KL offers many wonderful treats, but I think I left a piece of my heart at that pulut panggang stand in Kuala Selangor. <sob>

KL readers, if you're out there: I'd be forever in your debt if you'd tell me where I can find these lovelies in the city! 

Gaeng Ki Lek: On the Trail of a Curry from Northern Thailand to Suburban KL (Part 2 of 2)

(.....cont'd)

"Ki lek!" she announced triumphantly, before heading off to her kitchen table to prepare the leaves for inclusion in a spicy upcountry gaeng (curry).

I'm no botanist, and an English translation on the menu of the Bangkok restaurant mentioned in Part 1, of ki lek leaves as "caper leaves", threw me off-track for well over two years as I tried to identify their source.  (The flower buds of the ki lek tree, below, do resemble caper berries.)

In the comments section of my previous post (Part 1) knowledgeable EatingAsia reader RST informs me (or reminds me? presumably I followed and probably even participated in the Chowhound Chicago Board discussion of ki lek to which he alludes, but that was a few years ago) that the leaves Wan brought home are from a cassia tree common to SE Asia.  Some googling turned up this link to photos (click the photos icon on the upper left of the page) of Canafistula (cassia fistula), a hardwood tropical tree native to India, the Amazon, and Sri Lanka.  Also known as the "golden shower" tree because of the cascades of yellow blossoms it produces after dropping its leaves, the tree's leaves and bark are said to lower cholesterol and aid digestion.  Another few photos of Canafistula here suggest a possible match with ki lek (to health benefits listed prior Wan adds that ki lek reduces flatulence, relieves a sore throat, and "helps men when they need it").  I'm willing to call it mystery solved -- and so let's get on with dinner.

[Update: now, thanks to yet another comment by reader RST, mystery *really* solved.  Leaves in question are from the "Kassod Tree" (Cassia siamea), a fast-growing 30-40' tree native to, among other places, India, Sri Lanka, Malaysia and (probably) Thailand .. and naturalized in the American tropics.  Photos of the tree and a good ones of the leaves and buds, which helped me to confirm identification, can be found here.]

Before being added to a curry fresh ki lek leaves must be washed well and boiled to tame their bitterness.  Wan boiled leaves and ki lek buds together for 15 minutes.  After draining and rinsing the leaves well, she boiled them again for another 15 minutes.  At this point the ki lek leaves can be stored in the fridge for up to 2 days before using.

Those of you not living in Asia may be able to find fresh ki lek leaves at a well-stocked Thai grocery.  If you live in Florida, where Canafistula is not uncommon, you might even be able to pick some yourself (younger, smaller leaves are tastier).  Otherwise, look for bottled, pickled ki lek leaves.  RST reports that in Chicago they are available at Thai Grocery at Broadway and Argyle; I also found them available to mail order (in the US) here.  Prepared ki lek leaves should be rinsed well in warm water and patted dry before use.

Gaeng Ki Lek (Ki Lek Curry)

The measurements for this curry are inspecific, in part because Wan, eager to get the ki lek show on the road, proceeded to pound together the curry paste while I was out walking the dog.  So I've had to pull together a recipe from her recollection of how much of each ingredient she used, in fairly vague amounts.  No matter -- ki lek is a true homestyle Thai dish, prepared with slight variations, region to region and cook to cook.  A Thai cook would say, if you like it garlicky, add more garlic, if you can't take the heat reduce the number of chilies (or/and remove their seeds) or use a milder variety of chili, and if you like your curries with a wee sour edge go ahead and throw in a couple kaffir lime leaves or stir in a bit of lime juice at the end, even though the recipe doesn't call for it.  You can also, Wan says, substitute grilled pork, chunks of fish, chicken pieces (on the bone), or beef for the pork in this recipe, if that's your preference.

6 plump cloves of garlic, chopped

5 shallots, chopped

10 dried long red Thai chilies, soaked in warm water for 1/2 an hour, then cut into quarters

5 fresh red chilies (mild to incendiary, according to your taste), sliced crosswise about 1/2 inch thick

4 fingers of krachai (if using pickled krachai, soak in hot water for 1/2 hour, rinse and dry), chopped

2 one-inch slices of kha (galangal), chopped

4 stalks of lemongrass, bottom tender 4-5 inches only, peeled and finely chopped

2 1/2 cups rich coconut milk (coconut cream not separated)

fish sauce

a big bunch of ki lek leaves, prepared as described above, or a large jar of pickled leaves, rinsed

approx. 1/3 pound of pork, sliced thin as if for stir-fry

For the curry paste, pound together, using a heavy pestle and mortar, the garlic, krachai, kha, lemongrass, and dried chilies.  Add the chilies and pound lightly just to bruise them, not to incorporate fully into the paste.  (Alternatively grind the ingredients together in a powerful blender or a food processor, adding *just* enough water to get them blended.  Then pound the fresh chilies with the handle of a heavy knife and chuck them into the paste.)

Bring the coconut milk to a boil, in a wok or heavy-duty fry pan, over medium heat.  Lower heat to a gentle simmer.  The milk should thicken and eventually (within 10 minutes) give up its oil (globules of fat will appear on the surface).  At this point stir in the curry paste.  Simmer gently and continue to stir. After about 4-5 minutes, until the paste ingredients are sufficiently heated and the mixture becomes aromatic.  Continue to stir another couple of minutes and then add fish sauce, a tablespoon at a time, until the salt balance of the curry is to your liking.  The curry should nap a spoon, but not too heavily -- add some water if necessary.

Add the pork and stir until it is cooked through.  Add the ki lek leaves and buds and cook until they are heated through.

Serve with jasmine or Thai red rice.  About 3 servings, with one or two other dishes.