EatingAsia

Ode to a Kopi Nation

Coffee should be black as hell, strong as death, and sweet as love.     Turkish proverb

Who knew Malaysia has a coffee industry? I didn't, not before planting myself here in Kuala Lumpur last year.

Where had I been all those years? A dedicated (or, if you like, addicted) first-thing-in-the-morning consumer for - yes - decades, I've sipped Sumatran, sampled Kenyan, poo-poohed Blue Mountain (did I miss something there? I wasn't wowed), fallen for Balinese, and come to prefer Papau New Guinean. Though I'm not one to hang out in coffee houses I've done my fair share of high-end bean browsing, but never ran into Malaysian.

No surprise, when you consider that for the last ten or so years coffee production here in Malaysia has held steady at only about 160,000 bags, or 10,000 tons, yearly. To put that in perspective: Malaysia produces just .01% of the world's coffee and lags far, far behind Asia's big three producers (India, Vietnam, and Indonesia).

 

The majority of Malaysia's cultivated land is planted in rubber trees and oil palms (Malaysia is a major player in the world rubber and palm oil markets). Coffee plants cover only 25,000 hectares or so (primarily in Kedah, Kelantan, Selangor, Terengganu, and Pahang states). What little coffee is grown in Malaysia is consumed here, and because there's no export dollars to be gained from the industry there's been no official emphasis on improving the crop's quality.

About 95% of Malaysia's coffee beans come from liberica plants, a little-known variety that's also grown in west Africa and accounts for less than 2% of the world's coffee (most coffee comes from arabica and robusta beans). A liberica tree can grow as tall as 18 meters; its leaves are large and leathery, it produces big fruits and seeds, and it's extremely hardy. Professional tasters describe the bean's flavor characteristics as "undesirable" - thin, harsh, acidic. All of which means that you're unlikely to find a Malaysian bean or blend on offer at your local specialty coffee dealer anytime soon.

It also means that there's a lot of dreck drunk here in Malaysia. But careful cultivation and skilled roasting can make even liberica beans shine. Some Malaysian roasters add sugar during the process, which lends a hint of caramel to the cup. Ipoh's famous 'white' coffee is roasted in butter (or, less desirably, margarine), which makes for one smooooooooth caffeine hit. Though mediocrity abounds, if one heads to the right places - old-style Chinese kopitiam (coffee shops) that boast a regular clientele, single vendors who attract queues, and more contemporary shops, geared to a younger Malaysian crowd, that focus on local brews - it's possible to strike black gold.

Coffee has probably been consumed in Malaysia since the 15th century, having migrated with Middle Eastern traders to the Sultanate of Malacca's ports not long after it appeared in Mecca and Medina, although it wasn't grown here until the British began cultivating it in the Cameron Highlands in the latter half of the 1800s. Malaysia's favored brew method, using a 'sock' or 'butterfly net' filter suspended in a pot of hot water (see above), might have been introduced by Chinese immigrants from the island of Hainan or by Indian Muslim immigrants in the 1800s.

This method of filtering results in a fragrant, strong (with its high caffeine content liberica is known in the industry as the 'no-doze coffee'), thickish cup of coffee. Though some folks take it black ('kopi o'), it's more often mellowed with a generous dose of sweetened condensed milk ('kopi') or with a mixture of sweetened condensed and evaporated milks ('kopi special', at least at some shops). Milk barely alters the color of this rich brew, which stands up well to ice.

Relative proximity to a tasty, restorative cup of local coffee is one of the joys of living - and traveling - in Malaysia. As a slow fooder I'm pained by the proliferation of international coffee chains that would obliterate local coffee traditions and standardize our choice of brews the world over. When I'm Italy I'll have a macchiato; in Istanbul I want my coffee black and thick enough to stand a spoon in. Here in Malaysia you'll no sooner find me in a Starbuck's than a McDonald's. Make it a kopi special please, preferably drunk in an aged, unfashionable kopitiam that places me in a local context and lets me know where I am - that's Kuala Lumpur, not Kansas City.

Where to find a good cup of coffee (readers, if you'd like to share your favorite spot for local coffee I'll update this list with your suggestions):

Kuala Lumpur - Yut Kee, Jalan Dang Wangi; Village Park, 5 Jalan SS 21/37, Damansara Utama.

Kuantan - Kemaman Coffee, corner of Jalans Baasah and Tun Ismail; Stalls behind the Kuantan wet market.

Kuala Terengganu - Ah Hung, 136 Jalan Bandar.

Cluck-Cluck in a Claypot

These smokin' pots hold one of China's greatest contributions to mankind: claypot rice. Cooked in a heavy, thick-walled vessel over a charcoal fire, the simplest of ingredients - rice, chicken, lap cheong (Chinese sausage), and salted fish - are transformed into something sublime.

At this stall in Subang Jaya a lone woman tends sixteen or so claypots set on braziers of varying heat, arranged in three rows. She starts each order on the bottom, slicking a pot with a bit of oil before adding water and rice, bringing it to the boil, and then covering it. After the water's been absorbed (instinct tells her when, but the untrained eye would know it from small craters on the rice's surface) she moves the pot up a row or two to a cooler brazier, and adds chicken, fish, and sausage. When the chicken is nearly done she anoints the dish with sesame oil, soy sauce, and rice wine, leaves it on the heat a while longer, and finally finishes it off with a flurry of chopped scallion greens.

Sweet, chewy lap cheong, thinly sliced edges curled and lightly charred from the heat, and savory bone-in chicken contrast with nubs of sharply salty dried fish. The rice on which they lay, its surface stained black with soy, is aromatic and fluffy, except for the thin layer that's adhered to the bottom and sides of the claypot. This blackened crust (I've been told it's not a desirable quality in a good claypot rice, but I love dislodging and munching on the flavorful crispy rice) is the conduit via which with the contents of the pot are imbued with a subtle smokiness.

The ultimate one-pot meal.

Claypot chicken rice stall, Restoran New Apollos. 2 Jalan USJ4/6B, Subang Jaya. 11:30am-3pm and 5-10pm.

'un blog que tu dois voir de toute urgence'

Sure, I'll admit it - I check my hits, at least once a day.

It's self-affirming, in a way, to know that friends and family are not the only ones stopping in. But mostly I do it out of curiosity. I want to know what led readers to EatingAsia. Another blog? A complimentary blurb in an little-known travel site (exactly one hit, to be specific)? Or is it a direct hit, indicating perhaps an RSS feed, which in turn suggests that said unknown reader is interested enough in my dribble and Dave's photos to want to be informed of new posts?

This morning I clicked an unrecognizable reference and was led to a memo from anonymous to anonymous, subject titled: un blog que tu dois voir de toute urgence. My high school French sucks, but I think that translates to something like "a blog you must see urgently".

How cool! Not that someone somewhere thinks someone else needs to check into EatingAsia pronto, but that there is someone somewhere whose mind (or whose friend's/family member's/colleague's/acquaintance's mind) works just like mine does; someone who obsesses about food, who's curious about what other people in other parts of the world are eating, who wants to know what is delicious where. "My friend, here is a very unimportant blog about FOOD. But of course, because it's about food, this is an urgent matter, something you must look into immediately!"

That I am somehow connected, however ephemerally, with likeminded people is an unexpected benefit of this whole project. Anonymous memo sender or receiver, if you're ever in the neighborhood I'll be happy to treat you to a plate of fine char kuay teow. (And please forgive me for publicizing the memo - you remain anonymous after all, and the subject line was just too wonderful to let lie.)

OK - enough with the lovefest. Let's get back to the food porn.

What Kind of Dipping Sauce Would One Want With That?

Meals on Wheels: Yam Ruam

This petite food cart can be found on the narrow street sandwiched by Chiang Mai's Warorot and Lam Yai Markets. Yam ruam (yam = 'salad', ruam = 'combine' or 'assemble') is what's on offer here.

'Yam' and 'ruam' are inprecise terms; in and of themselves, they don't reveal much about what goes into this dish. A peak under the steamer lid solves the mystery.

Deep-fried tofu squares, crab sticks surrounded by a thin layer of fish paste, two types of fish ball, and sliced fish sausage are the main ingredients. They're helped along by leaves of iceberg lettuce, shredded carrot, and slivered celery.

No tables here - this dish is strictly to-go. Veggies and steamed items ("unmixed" orders of, say, only tofu or fish balls pieces, are an option) are placed in a clear plastic bag and topped with deep-fried shallots and a ladle-ful of thickish sweet chili sauce or the classic Thai fishy-fresh dip of chopped garlic chilies, sugar, lime juice, and fish sauce. Extra-long wooden skewers are the only utensils needed.

This vendor's been peddling her version of yam for 4 years; she says business is good. After rising at 3am to fry tofu, craft fish balls and sausage, and mix up nam cim (sauces), she (along with her husband, who sells plain old wieners and other assorted processed meat-products-on-a-stick from a large cart next to hers) arrives at her regular spot by 7am, and stays till she's sold the lot. Unless it's a particularly slow day she's back home by 5:30p.

This yam ruam's a nice nibble. The fish balls are unmistakeably piscene, and different shapes are distinguised from each other by texture: balls are super springy, lumpy sort-of ovals are tender and less dense, and slices of fish sausage are quite soft. Good-quality sirimi lend the "crab" logs a briney seafood flavor, and the deep-fried tofu is firm and greaseless. Cool, crunchy veggies and warm pieces of protein are a pleasant mix, and the namcim phet (spicy dipping sauce), wonderfully sour with just the right amount of saltiness, is spicy enough to prompt a duck into a 7-Eleven for some bottled water (in my book this is a good thing indeed).

Just another testament to the ingenuity of the Asian mobile food vendor.

Yam ruam vendor, corner of Wichayanon and Chang Moi roads, just outside the entrance to the 7-Eleven, Chiang Mai. Early morning till late afternoon most everyday (with the occasional Sunday off).

Kampar's Meal in a Loaf

We were advised, prior to our roadtrip to Kampar, a quiet little town straddling the old Kuala Lumpur-Ipoh trunk road, not to leave without sampling its specialties: biskut ayam (chicken biscuit) and roti ayam (chicken bread).

Biskut ayam, a thin, sweet, crunchy "cookie" topped with what can only be described as powdered dessicated chicken, did not tickle my fancy. At all. I can do sweet and savory in one mouthful, but cookie and chicken just don't mix, not in my book. Sure, I'll allow that perhaps the cultural context in which my culinary preferences were molded does not allow me to appreciate the gustatory delights of a foodstuff resembling a Chinese almond cookie sprinkled with Knorr's chicken powder. But I'll leave it at that. For me, the door is ever closed on chicken biscuits.

Roti ayam, however, is a whole 'nother story. It's quite an ingenious creation, really: chicken curry baked in a bag of grease-proof paper that's been tucked inside a huge loaf of bread. This isn't a one-pot meal, it's a one-loaf meal.

But beyond the novelty factor, what does Kampar's roti ayam have going for it? For starters, the curry - red, with plenty of fragrant fresh curry leaves, sour and zesty with chili and a hint of lime - is kick-a**. Big chucks of long-stewed, tender chicken slide right off the bone. And the bread, slightly sweet and eggy (think challah) with a crispy, burnished crust and a tender crumb, is divine on its own, and just this side of heaven dipped in the curry.

I've been pondering the origin of this strange and wonderful treat. Kampar, a mostly Chinese town, also has a fairly large Indian population. Indian curry in a Chinese-style sweet baked dough - here we have the Malaysian ethnic mix on a plate. (I've considered, and discounted, the possibility that roti ayam is distantly related to that most frightening of American mall 'pub' food, chowder in a bread bowl.)

Is Kampar's chicken bread worth a stop on the way to Ipoh or back down to KL? Yes, most definately. I'm fairly certain it's also available to go, to be re-heated, if not baked, in one's home oven. The place to find it is here:

Yau Kee Restaurant, 55 Jalan Idris, Kampar. Tel. 05-465-1738. Open 7am-6pm. About 24 ringgit for one loaf (hey, it's big!).

Chill-Chasing Chinese: Two Stews (One Hot and One Not)

News of the nearly thirty inches of wet, white stuff that blanketed much of the eastern US last weekend made me think of the warming qualities of bak kut teh and my assertion that nobody does comfort food like the Chinese. Don't get me wrong - I love a rich, red winey daube, at times find myself pining for a big bowl of Mexican posole, and the thought of Italian sausage ragu makes me ravenous. But when I'm looking for culinary consolation in the face of wet and/or cold weather (or when the aircon is set low!) it's one of the following two dishes, a Hong Kong-style braise of pork belly and a Sichuan-ish red-cooked beef over noodles, that immediately pop into my head.

Both of these recipes, which fill the house with glorious aromas, have been adapted and re-adapted over the years from well-worn, soy-stained books. Both, despite their at-first-glance long ingredient lists, are exceedingly easy, and keep well as leftovers. No special equipment required (I prefer my Le Creuset-type Dutch oven over my wok for these dishes) and ingredients should be readily available. Authentic (whatever that means)? I make no such claim. But I'm hoping in particular that EatingAsia readers who don't often cook Asian at home will be convinced to write up a shopping list, visit a local Asian goods store (or the Asian foods aisle in your grocery store), and dive right in.

Spicy, Anise-y Red-Cooked Beef over Noodles, adapted from Asian Pasta by Linda Burum

This recipe will produce a "kind of" spicy stew. I like it very Sichuan-style hot, so I up the amount of hot pepper paste by at least 50% (yup, 50%), quadruple the amount of Sichuan peppercorns (and sprinkle the finished product with a few more), and blacken 6 or 7 whole dried chilies in the oil before adding garlic etc.

Lightly toasting the peppercorns in a dry pan until fragrant (don't scorch) really brings out their flavor.

Blanched bean sprouts or pea sprouts, shoots, or greens twirled through the noodles before they are covered in sauce, make a nice addition.

1/2 cup peanut or veg oil

4 Tbsp each minced ginger and garlic

2 cups roughly chopped yellow onions

8 thinly sliced green onions

1 tsp Sichuan peppercorns, crushed in mortar or ground in a spice/coffee grinder

4 star anise

5-6 tsp Chinese hot chili paste (NOT chili bean paste - good brands are Kim Lan and Lan Chi)

1.5 pounds of botom round or other lean stewing beef, cut into 1/2 to 1-inch cubes

1 1/2 tsp sugar

3 Tbsp soy sauce

1 cup beef broth (canned is fine) or a beef bouillon cube mixed with 1 cup water

4 1/2 tablespoons cornstarch mixed with 6 tablespoons water (optional, if you prefer a thinner sauce)

1.5 pounds of fresh Chinese egg noodles or 1 pound thin dried egg noodles (in a pinch, fettucine will do)

Heat oil in cooking vessel on high and add ginger, garlic, and onions. Stir-fry for a minute and then add two-thirds of the green onions (set the rest aside for serving). After 10 seconds add the peppercorns and star anise, and after 10 more seconds stir in the pepper/chili paste. Stir-fry briskly for about 30 seconds and add the beef, frying till every piece is seared. Sprinkle sugar and soy over all and stir-fry two more minutes.

Add broth (or bouillon cube and water), along with 2 1/2 cups of water, stir well, and bring to the boil. Reduce heat to very low, cover, and simmer until the meat is falling-apart tender, about 2 hours.

At this point, refrigerate or freeze and reheat, or proceed with the recipe (if you plan to freeze part of the recipe, remove it from the pan now, before adding cornstarch).

Cook noodles in boiling water and divide into big bowls. Bring the sauce to a boil and stir in the cornstarch, a tablespoon at a time, until the sauce is as thick as you'd like (it will thin a bit once it's on the noodles, especially if bean sprouts or pea greens are added). Ladle sauce over noodles and garnish with green onion and, if you like, a sprinkle of Sichuan peppercorns.

4-6 servings, depending on the size of diners' appetites

Long-Stewed Claypot Pork Belly, adapted from Fragrant Harbor Taste by Ken Hom

This dish is mild, savory, and a bit sweet; the lemon and orange peels add an unexpected perfume. If you don't want to use pork belly (I know it's awfully fatty but it's also awfully delicious), substitute beef brisket. Dried bean curd is a wonderful flavor absorber, and I love its chewiness. If you can't get fresh bamboo shoots, skip them, canned are awful. Chinese greens added at the end, to steam over the stew, are an easy side dish. Rice is a must, to sop up the lovely porky goo!

15 large dried Chinese mushrooms

4-6 sticks of dried bean curd

2 1/2 pounds pork belly or beef brisket

2 Tbsp peanut oil

6 1/2-inch thick ginger slices (young fragrant ginger preferred)

5 garlic cloves peeled and crushed

1/4 cup bamboo shoots sliced 1/4-inch thick

10 fresh or canned water chestnuts, or 8 arrowroot

4 Tbsp bean sauce (whole bean preferred but crushed is fine too)

4 Tbsp oyster sauce

3 Tbsp sugar

2 slices each of lemon and orange peel

3 Tbsp rice wine or dry sherry

5 Tbsp soy sauce (if you've got light and dark sauces, make it 2 of the former and 3 of the latter)

Optional: a bunch of Chinese greens (mustard, baby bok choy, gai lan etc), washed and shaken dry

Soak mushrooms in warm water until soft, about 20 minutes. Squeeze out the excess water and discard woody stems. Strain mushroom water into a measuring cup and add plain water to equal 4 cups.

Soak bean curd sticks in hot water until soft, then drain and set aside.

Cut pork belly or beef brisket into bite-size chunks, then blanch for 20 minutes in boiling water, then drain and set aside.

Heat cooking vessel and add peanut oil, ginger, and garlic, and stir-fry for 30 seconds. Add bamboo shoots, water chestnuts (or arrowroot), mushrooms, citrus peels, and bean curd sticks. Stir-fry for a minute. Add the rest of the ingredients and bring to a boil. Add blanched meat, bring back to a boil, and then simmer at least 1 1/2 hours, partially covered, until meat is very tender. (Skim surface occasionally for excess fat, if you wish.)

If using greens, lay them on top of the stew, bring it to a steady simmer, and replace the cover. Steam the greens till tender, and then serve them on the side (or serve the stew ladelled over a bed of greens).

serves 4 to 6

Slippery Squares of Deliciousness

No doubt about it, Thailand is grazer's paradise. No matter the place or the time of day, it's impossible to walk more than a block or two without running into a storefront, stall, or cart peddling something tempting. Thais don't so much live from meal to meal as they do from nubbin' to nubbin'. From a small bowl of noodles to a stick of muu yang (barbecqued pork), from a cup of coconut ice cream sprinkled with roasted peanuts to a petite bag of caramelized grilled bananas, the country is fueled by a steady, sunup to sundown supply of snacks.

Khao giap maaw is Thailand's contribution to the Asian steamed rice flour noodle sheet or "pancake" genre (think Chinese chee cheong fun or Vietnamese banh cuon), an anytime-of-the-day treat with an intriguing sweet-savory split personality.

It's somewhat old-fashioned, a bit labor intensive, and not all that easy to find. To score a fix, khao giap maaw devotees (that's me) must take to the streets and keep a sharp eye out for vendors juggling the telltale inverted stainless steel cones (above right) that top their circular steamers.

Khao giap maaw wrappers are made from rice flour batter that is half-poured, half-spread over a piece of thin cotton stretched and tied tight over the mouths of milk can-shaped steamers. After the dough has cooked under its lid for a few minutes it's decorated with four small knobs of filling, a moist mixture of chopped peanuts, dried shrimp, grated coconut, and palm sugar.

Dough is folded over filling and the pancake is cut into four square, lumpy envelopes; they're lifted from the steamer, placed on an oiled tray (top photo), and lightly anointed with fresh coconut milk.

(Bangkok versions of khao giap maw omit the coconut milk. Pancakes, which are a bit smaller in diameter, receive only one knob of filling, in the center, and the pancake is folded in half. The finished product looks like an American Halloween "ghost", white ball-shaped "head" over a body draped in loose, flowing cape.)

Khao giap maaw are sold ten to a styrofoam box for twenty baht (about 50 US cents) and come with leaf lettuce, coriander sprigs, fried garlic, whole phrik kee nuu chiles, and - only in the north - a small bag of coconut milk.

Here's where this nibble's split personality shines. Place a parcel on a leaf, sprinkle with shallot, lay on some coriander, and top it all off with a whole fresh chile. Fold and eat. The overwhelmingly sweet filling (made more so if coconut milk is part of the mix) goes head-to-head with savory garlic, astringent coriander, and the searing heat of that killer mini chili. What seems like dessert, if you sample one without its accoutrement, suddenly morphs into a drinking snack, or even an entree. Meanwhile warm filling and silky, slippery dough battle it out with cool, crunchy lettuce.

In one enticing bite, khao giap maaw exquisitely covers all the taste and texture bases.

In Chiang Mai, khao giap maaw in sold in front of a shop on Charoen Rat Road, steps from the foot bridge (3 minutes' walk across the river from Lam Yai market), in the mornings until about 10am. There's also a single vendor in Warorot Market at the very end of the first khanom (sweets) aisle, near the magazine stands. She's there in the mornings as well.

In Bangkok, find this treat at Aw Taw Kaw market (across from Chatuchak), which can be reached quite easily by subway (till 2 or 3pm). There's a vendor on Soi Suanpluu (Sathorn Road area), across and just up the street from the entrance to Suan Plu market (late mornings to mid-afternoon), and one on Soi Thonglo (Sukhumbit Soi 55) very near to Sukhumvit Road, from about 3pm.

Food festivals - there always seems to one on in one or another of Bangkok's shopping centers - are also a good place to look for this snack.

Green Tea Soup for the Soul

In the world of Malaysian food, lui cha fun is rather an anomaly. It's not a dish made with coconut milk, sweet or savory. It's not fried - in oil or lard. It contains no pork, chicken, lamb, or beef. It's light and fresh and full of fiber. Lui cha is ... healthy.

It's hard to imagine that the Hakka, a Chinese dialect group known for their seductive ways with fatty cuts of pork, invented lui cha fun. This Ho Po (a Hakka subgroup) dish of steamed white rice topped with vegetables and served with a green tea-based "broth" is about as far from khaw yoke (thick slices of stewed pork belly served with taro or preserved vegetable) as watered-down Horlick's is from a vanilla milkshake. It's poverty food, a dish invented of hardship and displacement, a satisfying meal conjured from cheap and portable ingredients stretched by tea and water.

It's commonly referred to in English as "Thunder Tea Rice" but the Chinese characters more accurately translate to something like "Pounded Tea Rice" (lui = to hit or beat). The name derives from the way the dish's broth is traditionally made: green tea leaves are pounded to a paste with peanuts, sesame seeds, and herbs and then steeped with water.

This Ho Po Lui Cha Fun vendor, who's Shah Alam business was established by her husband's grandfather, employs a slightly different method, pounding sesame seeds and peanuts separately from tea and herbs, and then mixing tea (lower right, in the plastic green tub), nut paste (next to the tea), and hot water by the bowlful.

Her camouflage-colored broth is fresh, clean, and "green" tasting, with a white pepper bite and a bitter note from the tea. Nut oils lend richness but overall it's surprisingly light, with a stong vegetal note that screams "good for you", an impression that's helped along by the accompanying bowl of a small portion of rice topped with peanuts, black-eyed peas, chopped mustard greens (both blanched fresh and sour preserved), blanched long beans and cabbage, tiny cubes of firm tofu, and salty dried shrimp.

I'd heard that lui cha fun is an acquired taste, and I know more than a few Malaysians can't stand the stuff, but I found it to be a superb combination of flavors and textures, reminiscent of the Japanese rice-and-green-tea dish ochazuke. Moistened with the well-seasoned broth, healthy rice and vegetables are transformed into savory spoonfuls - a fine break from fried and otherwise rich Malaysian foods but also a delightfully different dish to seek out based on its own merits.

If you're just visiting KL, without transport to this vendor's stall, and curious about lui cha, I understand it can also be had at Restoran Chuan Hupp on Jalan Wawasan Ampang 2/10, in Ampang. Perhaps readers will weigh in with other closer-to-KL spots to find this dish.

Copious thanks to C for the recommendation.

Ho Po Lui Cha Fun vendor, Xin Dajia Restoran, Jalan Sepadu (next to Public Bank), Taman Industri Axis, Section 25, Shah Alam. Early morning till 4pm-ish.

Virtual Vacation: Bhutanese Chiles 'n Cheese

In the spring of 1998, when we were living in Shanghai, Dave and I spent two weeks in Bhutan. It was a splurge, meant to be our "last hurrah" in Asia before we returned to the US later in the year for good (or so we thought at the time).

Travelling by car along Bhutan's one road, we gawped at the magnificent, nearly untouched mountain landscape

dotted with majestic dzong (half administrative buildings-half monasteries).

We caught a few archery matches (it's the national sport),

met plenty of friendly locals,

noticed, after three or four days, that most of the country's traditional stone and wood houses are decorated with a phallus or two,

and marvelled that in this world there still existed a place that kept beat to such a leisurely rhythm.

In Bumthang, a Wild West sort of town set deep in an impossibly green, fertile valley, we joined Bhutanese villagers who journeyed for miles, mostly on foot and dressed in their finest clothes,

for a spectacular three-day Tibetan Buddhist festival. After two days of music and dances, performed by monks resident at the hilltop dzong where it was held,

the festival culminated in a feverishly emotional mass blessing in which attendees were fed pieces of dough representing a demon who, on the festival's second day, had been vanquished and killed by the gods.

What we did not do in Bhutan, unfortunately, was find a whole lot of deliciousness. Most towns didn't have restaurants, so we were obliged to take meals in our hotel with other tourists. Always served buffet-style (a particular dislike of mine), lunches and dinners generally consisted of the sort of food Bhutanese tourism officials must have imagined foreigners preferred to eat: bland, overcooked, and often pseudo-Chinese.

There were a few bright spots. After pestering our guide (required for all tourists at the time, and probably still) for seven days straight we finally scored a breakfast not of fluffy, tasteless toast and greasy scrambled eggs, but of Bhutanese red rice porridge - thick and creamy like congee, but flavored with savory smoked pork hock, zippy dried red chilies, and numbing ground Sichuan peppercorn. In Bumthang, we found local, freshly made apple cider, a wonderfully hoppy and refreshing microbrew, and - thanks to the presence of a Swiss-owned dairy farm - richly milky tomato and cheese tarts.

On our third night we tried ema daji, a Bhutanese dish of plump green jalapeno-like chiles in a thin cheese sauce. Fantastically fiery chili heat balanced by creamy, mild-flavored cheese - just the sort of flavorful, highly spiced break we needed from gloppy hot and sour pork and stir-fried mystery meat with cashews. We spooned it up with nutty Bhutanese red rice that night, and the next, when it showed up again on the buffet table. And then the next several nights as well ... until we were so sick of the darned stuff just the sight of it could turn our stomachs.

By the time we left Bhutan ema daji was a bad dream, a black spot on our otherwise wonderful trip to Bhutan. I buried it deep in my subconscious where it slept soundly ... until Reid at Ono Kine Grindz and Alan at maona announced a Virtual Vacation one-off MeMe.

When I read the assignment - to share the recipe for a dish sampled on holiday - ema daji popped into my head. Wondering if eight years had cured me of my phobia I cooked up a batch, and found it to be - as scrumptious as the first time I tasted it. Many thanks to Reid and Alan for inspiring me to reinvestigate this altogether ambrosial dish. The single smear on my memories of Bhutan is wiped clean.

UPDATE, February 22: I won! I do believe it's the first time I've won anything in my life. My prize? A boxload of edible Hawaiian swag. I'll be blogging it.

Ema Daji (Bhutanese Chiles 'n Cheese)

This recipe is adapted from Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid's "Mangoes & Curry Leaves" . They call it "Chile-Hot Bhutanese Cheese Curry" and include tomatoes, which I've omittted, because I never encountered them in the versions of the dish I sampled (or the ones I avoided) in Bhutan. Ema daji is all about fire (the chiles) and fire extinguisher (the dairy). I could swear the chiles used in Bhutan are jalapenos or a variation thereof, but you can use any kind you like. Go ahead and tone down the heat with a milder chile if you must, but do use a flavorful one (no plain green bell peppers!). If your fresh chiles aren't spicy enough, add cayenne with the cheese.

Outside of big towns where fresh, mild cheese can be bought at the market, Bhutanese cooks used Indian canned cheese. Alford and Duguid suggest feta and I found it to be an excellent substitute; the brining lends the finished product a sort of gamey aroma which seems right. Other possibilities are farmer's cheese, a Mexican cheese like queso fresco, or haloumi, if it's not too salty. Don't go the route of cheddar - the cheese should be mild enough that the taste of the chilies comes through.

The final result, which is soupy, is best served warm rather than hot, with Bhutanese red rice. Brown rice would work well too. A simple stir-fried green vegetable or a mound of golden oven-roasted carrots with cumin would round out the meal nicely. This is sublime comfort food that warms you up from the inside.

1 1/2 cups of water

heaped 3/4 cup of chiles that have been cut into 1 to 2-inch lengths (deseeded or not - its' up to you)

1 large onion, cut in half vertically and then sliced into then half circles

2 tsp. vegetable oil

5 plump cloves of garlic, coarsely chopped or mashed to a paste

250 grams feta or other mild, non-melting cheese

salt, if needed

a handful of fresh coriander leaves, torn into small pieces

Bring the water to a boil in a medium pan and add the chiles, onion, and oil. Cover, reduce heat to a strong simmer, and cook for about 15 mins.

Add the garlic and return to a boil, reduce heat again and simmer for an additional 5-10 minutes, until the garlic and chiles are soft.

Stir in the cheese and simmer for about 5 minutes. Remove from heat, stir once, then cover and set aside for 10 mins.

Taste and add salt if needed. Serve sprinkled with a few bits of coriander leaf.