EatingAsia

Exceedingly Droolworthy

I don't blog blogs.

It's not a rule of mine or anything, it's just that, you know, my sidebar's to the right, there's a list of food blogs I enjoy, and if you're interested you can do the click thing.

But in the last week I've become just a little obsessed with this blog. I mean, what this guy is doing in a kitchen somewhere in the California desert really puts me - a gal who thinks herself a darn fine cook - to shame.

Scroll down this page to the nasi lemak. I know you purists out there will snicker at the sight of baby squash nestled next to coconut rice on a banana leaf, but just try to convince me that that sambal doesn't look fine enough to lick right off the computer screen.

Chiang Mai's Beloved Noodle

It's own homegrown cuisine is one of Thailand's hottest exports; these days it's hard to find a sizeable city in the world that doesn't boast at least one Thai restaurant. Yet much of what's known as 'Thai food' is in reality the food of only two regions, the central plains and Isaan, in the country's northeast. From the former come well-known dishes like gaeng kiaow wan gai (mild and 'sweet' green curry with chicken), tom yam gong (spicy and sour shrimp soup), miang kham (snacks rolled in 'betel' leaves), various fresh lime juice-dressed yam (salads), and Chinese-influenced noodle stir-fries. Grilled chicken and searingly spicy favorites like somtam (pounded green papaya salad), nya nam tok (grilled beef salad with ground toasted rice), and laab (chopped meat or fish 'salad') hail from the latter.

There is one dish, of neither central plains nor Isaan origin, that has become - both within Thailand and beyond - an intrinsic part of the Thai gastronomic vernacular: kao soi. This humble yet exquisite curried egg noodle, served all over northern Thailand but most often associated with the city of Chiang Mai, is in fact not originally Thai, but a Burmese dish adapted by Thais and influenced by their contact with Cin Haw, Muslim Chinese traders from the province of Yunnan.

Descendants of Uzbek warriors brought by the Mongols to China to help with the conquest of Yunnan province, Cin Haw became the consumate traders of the Golden Triangle, pushing, with their heavily armed mule caravans, as far south as Chiang Mai, Luang Prabang (Lao), and Moulmein (Burma). Those that remained in a subdued Yunnan assimilated over time, dropping their Turkic language in favor of the Yunnanese dialect. Han Chinese called them 'Hui' to distinguish them from non-Muslim Chinese ('Cin Haw' are the Thai words for 'Chinese Hui').

In the mid-19th century, in response to Chinese Qing government's systematic oppression of Muslims, a large part of Yunnan province broke away to form the independent kingdom of Ping Nan Guo ('Kingdom of Southern Peace'). When the rebellion was put down by the Qing, and followed by government supported massacres of Hui, many Cin Haw fled to Burma, Lao and Thailand. Some of the latter settled in Chiang Mai, in Cin Haw Village, now the site of the city's night bazaar.

Burmese food is heavily influenced by India, its neighbor to the west, and the Burmese origins of kao soi are evident in the Indian spices, such as turmeric and coriander seeds, in its curry paste. Kao soi may have migrated directly from Burma to Thailand via the countries' shared border, or it might have been brought to Thailand by Cin Haw plying the Golden Triangle trade route. It's said that in its original Thai incarnation kao soi was made with rice noodles. If that's the case then the golden egg noodles now so integral to the dish are likely a result of Chinese influence.

Kao soi shops and vendors are liberally sprinkled about Chiang Mai's streets; we set out to find a stellar version. Inquiries pointed us in one direction, to a plain shop with a faded sign smack dab on the busy road that runs along the east bank of the Ping River.

Lamduan Kaosoi has been a Chiang Mai fixture for over half a decade. The shop's original owner (the operation is still family-run) has the distinction of having prepared her noodle for the Thai King whenever he stayed at the Royal Palace on nearby Doi Suthep Mountain. Our guesthouse owner, a Chiang Mai native, fondly remembers eating kao soi here as a boy.

The always crowded restaurant, divided into indoor (but fan-cooled) and metal sheeting-roofed outdoor dining areas, is fronted by prep and cook stations. At one side of the entrance a coal jockey tends to wooden skewers of pork sate, while just opposite, a long narrow table serves as the kao soi assembly line.

Lamduan's staff work at a brisk pace - portioning cooked noodles into bowls, adding meat (choice of pork or chicken) and curry, and finally a garnish of deep-fried egg noodles (see top photo) - to fulfill the orders that never seem to stop coming.

The wait for an order of kao soi can be up twenty-five minutes (observation told us that most patrons order two bowls at one go). Luckily, ravenous diners can keep themselves occupied with sate (lightly charred, tender slabs of turmeric-scented pork secured on skewers with a single, squared-off piece of gristle; the dipping sauce, while full-on peanuty and correctly light on sugar, is superfluous),

sai oua (grilled, smoky pork sausage redolent of lemongrass, galangal, cumin, and turmeric - spicy enough to warrant a chaser of the fresh Thai basil it shares a plate with),

or naem maw, a sour fermented 'sausage' of pork, pork rind, cooked sticky rice, salt, garlic, and chili. After the ingredients are mixed together, they're pressed into a earthenware pot and left to stand for three days before they're shaped into pyramids and wrapped in banana leaves.

 

Those who've jockeyed for a table, managed to flag down a waitress, and endured the wait are rewarded with a tableau almost too lovely to eat: yellow noodles and chunks of tender pork (or chicken drumstick) half-submerged in deep red curry, its surface brightened by a stark white drizzle of coconut cream.

Appearance gives a clue as to Lamduan's popularity: the deep red of the curry suggests that coconut milk is not the primary ingredient of this kao soi, which is rich with chili, spice, and herbs (but not fiery) rather than cloyingly fatty with coconut milk. The prevalence of curry paste over coconut is further evidenced by the barely visible, powdery red ring clinging to the sides of the bowl.

A quick comparison with a version dished up on the other side of the river, near the night bazaar, is instructive.

Note the golden hue of the chicken curry in this bowl, served at Kao Soi Islam, and the tiny globules of coconut cream clinging to its sides. In this kao soi - tasty enough, by the way, to warrant a sampling if you're in the neighborhood - spice takes a back seat to coconut. The curry is yummy, but not particularly distinctive. It's no match for Lamduan's.

Sweetness is not a hallmark of Lamduan's kao soi - another plus (and a real contrast to most overseas versions). Eaten with the traditional condiments of (clockwise from top) sour and salty pickled mustard, roasted chili sauce, a squeeze of lime, and sliced raw shallots, this substantial dish satisfies but doesn't overwhelm, making two bowls a definate, delicious possibility.

Lamduan Kaosoi, Faharm Road, Chiang Mai. 8am-4pm. 2 bowls of kaosoi (one pork, one chicken), a bottle of water, and 10 sticks of sate for 85 baht (that's barely over 2 US dollars, folks). 

Kaosoi Islam, soi between Chang Klan and Charoen Prathet Roads, Charoen Prathet entrance kittykorner to the Governor's Residence at Nawarat Bridge. Hours similar to Lamduan's.

In KL, Never a Need to Go Hungry

Well after two o'clock on a recent Saturday we were growing desperate. In Kuala Lumpur, arrive anywhere in search of lunch after 2:30 and you're pushing your luck; favorite dishes are usually sold out and vendors are starting to pack it in for the day. We'd already made a couple of passes up and down Jalan Klang Lama, a wide and frustratingly clogged divided road somewhere in KL (like most residents I couldn't tell you where I am in relation to the city center at any given moment; KL's confusingly intertwined, curvy roadways render directional navigation all but impossible) and were no closer to locating a recommended eatery than we had been when we'd started 30 minutes prior.

In a bid to escape the traffic Dave made a random left turn up a hill. The surroundings looked vaguely familiar. Another turn, right this time, took us past a couple of mobile roast duck vendors and spit us out in OUG, a gem of a mostly Chinese neighborhood that's home to a lively, sprawling  wet market and seemingly more coffeeshops and restaurants per capita than anywhere else in the city.

Despite the late hour (2:40, now) clusters of prospective eaters roamed streets still thick with double-parked cars. We breathed a sigh of relief. We would not go hungry this day.

Seafood porridge tempted; one glimpse at the contents of this vendor's styrofoam cooler and we knew we'd found lunch. A 'normal' eater might opt for porridge with several prawns, or a few squid, or a whole pomfret. We chose all three.

Freshness is the name of the game here, where seafood (or, if you wish, frog) is prepped a la minute. For our order vendor Hian started by dipping thick, long-cooked Hong Kong-style porridge (aka congee) from one of the hulking stainless steel vessels lined up on her stovetop into a traditional clay pot. She added a generous glug of of hua tiao jiu (Chinese rice wine) and then left the pot to cook over a low flame while she shelled shrimp, cleaned and sliced squid, and hacked the pomfret - head, fins, bones and all - into chunks.

Next, she blanched the fish et al by placing it in a small pan and drowning it in boiling broth drawn from another of the metal pots. After quickly draining off the liquid she added partially cooked seafood to porridge.

After a quick stir or two,

she cranked up the flame and allowed the concoction to boil for a minute, then removed it from the heat.

Ginger matchsticks, coriander leaves, and chopped scallion greens were added at the table.

Chopped fresh red and green chilies, soy sauce, and white pepper were also on hand to dress up individual servings.

Thick and creamy, sweetly fortified with rice wine, flavored with the seepage from fish bones and prawn heads, this must be one of the best bowls of seafood porridge in KL. Hian's quick blanch assures that every morsel of piscene goodness is cooked just right - curled squid pieces are tender, fish is moist but not mushy, and prawns are toothsome. A nice touch here is the two-layered hit of ginger, from thick coins slow-cooked with the rice and delicate shreds added at the last minute. This porridge's flavors were so exquisitely balanced that I downed my first two bowls sans additional seasonings, only bringing in soy, chilies, and white pepper when we hit the bottom of the by now seafood-less pot.

Crisis averted. Yet more proof that in KL, goodness lurks around every corner, just waiting to dazzle when you least expect it.

Hian's Seafood Porridge, Restoran Hoong Pin, Overseas Union Garden (OUG). Early morning till 3pm.

A Nip on the Hoof

Though Buddhism discourages the consumption of alcohol, Thailand has an established drinking culture. Liquor is cheap and readily available. Drinking on the street may be illegal (at least in Bangkok) but it's not uncommon.

This setup in Chiang Mai isn't in a bar. It sits streetside at the entrance to a sundries store/laundry on busy Charoen Rat road, just opposite a wat.  No need to take a seat; this is booze on the hoof. Name your poison, throw back your shot, hand over 20 baht (about 50 US cents), and be on your way.

Drinking is such an ingrained part of Thai culture (at least for males) that the country is the fifth largest per capita consumer of alcohol in the world. There's a dark side, of course. Drunk driving is a severe problem in Thailand, especially around Songkran (the Thai New Year). Over the course of this three-day holiday Thai newspapers maintain a running tally of traffic crashes and road deaths (the latter regularly exceeds 600). The Thai government estimates that at least 70% are alcohol-related.

You couldn't pay me to take a roadtrip in Thailand over Songkran.

There's even a category of Thai dishes, called gap klaem, meant specifically to be taken with alcohol. Gap klaem privilege salty, spicy, and sour flavors over sweet. Examples include semi-dried spiced beef (nya dtaet dtiaow) and sour fermented pork sausage (naem). Gap klaem aren't heavy or rich dishes, just substantial enough to sop up liquor and lend the drinker stamina. For Thais, drinking on an empty stomach is anathema; a long evening of whisky and sodas will also involve the consumption of a steady stream of gap klaem.

One of my favorite gap klaem - which in fact I rarely consume with alcohol - is an addictive salty and slightly greasy mix of cashews and oil-crisped kaffir lime leaves, dried chilies, and garlic or shallots. It's sold in clear plastic bags at Thai markets and the odd stall (as of a year ago a wonderfully zippy version was being sold out of a small waxed meats booth at the 'Central' station of Bangkok's Skytrain), but it's easy enough to make at home. It keeps well, but is best stored in the fridge if you live in an area of high humidity.

This recipe is open to interpretation (and doubles well, as long as your pan is big enough); amounts listed are mere suggestions (I like to err on the side of spice and perfume -  chilies and lime leaves). Peanuts are sometimes used instead of cashews. If you don't want to deep-fry the nuts you can roast them (or substitute already roasted, unsalted nuts - heat them in the oven before mixing with the other ingredients) instead.

Thai-Style Fragrant Mixed Nuts

2 cups raw cashews (or peanuts)

5 Thai dried chilies

8 kaffir lime leaves, torn or cut into pieces

3 plump cloves garlic, roughly chopped or 4 shallots, sliced into rings

vegetable oil for frying

salt

Deep-fry separately cashews, chilies, lime leaves, and garlic. (Or, chilies, lime leaves, and garlic can be separately shallow-fried and cashews roasted.) Be careful not to let ingredients burn; nuts should be lightly browned, chilies dark red (not black!), lime leaves curled and crispy, and garlic/shallots deep gold. Drain on paper towels and mix ingredients together while they are still warm. Add salt to taste.

Let cool and store in a sealed container.

Cantonese Noodles - The Search for Perfection Continues

I fell in love with this dish at a funky little coffee shop in Kuala Terengganu. I pursued my passion at a joint in Kuala Lumpur's Chinatown.

 

Recently the search for the definitive Cantonese noodle took us to Subang Jaya. Not a stranger to us, these noodles had served as appetizer to the glorious clay pot chicken dished up at a neighboring stall. But on that day claypot chicken anticipation, followed by a blissful state of satedness, rendered us incapable of evaluating the noodles on their own merits. We returned to Restoran New Apollos to render fair judgment.

Verdict: sublime.

How do I love these Cantonese noodles? Let me count the ways. One: skillfully executed eggy gravy featuring swirls of still runny yolk (bird flu be damned!). Two: a primo protein mix of large, tender slabs of chicken, fresh squid, and plenty of laudibly 'crunchy' whole shrimp. Three: plenty of crisp-tender, pleasantly bitter Chinese greens to balance the dish's overall richness. Four: rice noodles with substance - wide, thick, and chewy - that more closely resemble Hong Kong-style chow fun than Malaysian-style kuey teow. Bonus point: said nectareous noodles, first stir-fried solo in dark soy, retain their slightly caramelized wok-y char even after they're drowned in gravy.

Cantonese noodles aren't the only trick up this vendor's sleeve. We splurged - at 20 ringgit - on a plate of big prawn noodles.

 

While the gravy - gingery, thick with egg, and rich with roe - was a stunner and the prawns generously sized, this dish just didn't have the 'wow' factor of the Cantonese noodles.

Unless someone out there's got a convincing Cantonese noodle story to sway me, I'm calling off the search.

Cantonese noodles, at 5 RM (also: big prawn noodles, beef noodles, and Singapore noodles) at Restoran New Apollos. 2 Jalan USJ 4/6B, Subang Jaya. Till 4pm.

Daytrippin': Return to Kampar

What is it about this place? What is it about this wee town on the old road to Ipoh that can lure us out of the sack by 7am, and into the car for an hour and 45-minute drive, on a Sunday?

It might to be its infectious hustle

 

and bustle.

Or it could be the aging-gracefully town mascot.

(You'll find him in the parking lot by the wet market. Everybody knows him.)

Perhaps it's the friendly locals,

or the nostalgic atmosphere of good times gone by.

Yes, it could be all that. But if I were to be honest, it's more likely this:

On this fine morning we're here to investigate the offerings at a rice porridge stall in the town's food hall. But first, we're in need of a little fortification, in the form of strong Malaysian coffee and solid refreshment, at Kit Leng Food Center just up the street. Here you'll find curry mee and freshly made chee cheong fun; we opt for a couple of dim sum.

The shrimp dumplings are simply stunners, better than any we've had before, in Hong Kong, China, Malaysia - anywhere. The rice flour wrappers are tender but not not soggy, and the shrimp is so fresh it tastes as if it was pulled from the water not an hour before. The shellfish is just the tiniest bit 'crunchy' - a most desired characteristic for this type of dim sum, but one that seems beyond the reach of so many dim sum purveryors.

The dumplings are a hard act to follow, but these rolls of rough-chopped pork filled bean curd skin come through with shining colors. Again, the freshness of these beauties is evident - though they're wallowing in a shallow pool of soy-based sauce, the bean curd's not flabby; there's even the slighest bit of crunch to be found at the tips of the rolls. Rolled tight, they're compact and juicy, bursting with flavor.

Much as we'd like another 6 or 10 orders of dumplings and rolls, time's a-wasting; things start to wind down at the food hall by 10:30am, so we hustle up the street towards porridge. Unfortuantely we're waylaid by an unfamiliar dish on offer at a mobile stall.

A husband and wife team are working furiously to service a long queue; most customers walk away with five or more orders. A Kampar-ite helps us order to spec (extra vinegar-soaked chilies) and then pays for our package, refusing our money (didn't I say 'friendly'?). We're told the name of the dish is zhu cheong fun; 'zhu' means 'pork' in Mandarin, but there's no sign of the pig in this mash, just strips of savory soy-stewed gluten and green beans, wide chewy rice flour rolls, a sprinkle of toasted sesame seeds, and the aforementioned chilies. It's a wonderful mouthful, a bit sweet and mellow with a sour kick from the chilies. We'll return to Kampar to seek out this dish and sample it with some of its other sauces.

Bellies nearly full but appetites eager, we head without further delay inside the still-humming food hall.

Stall no. 59 is operated by an outgoing auntie (fourth photo from the top) with a startlingly loud voice, her (not surprisingly) silent husband, and their thirty-something son. The set-up was started years and years ago by the husband's parents, immigrants from China's Guangdong province, and serves up what auntie tells us is 'good traditional Guangdong porridge' .

The rice porridge, unseasoned and 'loose' or watery (as opposed to thick Hong Kong-style) is eaten with any of a variety of side dishes that emerge from a large steamer,

from auntie's wok, or from a couple of stew pots manned by her husband. We attempt (but ultimately fail) to sample them all. Highlights here are a deliciously piggy, almost smoky steamed mix of chopped pork and an unidentifiable, pleasantly bitter, Chinese green (small saucers above); cubes of firm tofu stewed with slices of flavorful fish cake and scallion; wonderfully crispy-tender pieces of amber-colored chicken that auntie has first marinated, then stewed, and finally flash-fried in her wok; and beans that look like extra-thick, wrinkled snake beans (anyone know what these are called?), slow-cooked with ikan bilis till tender.

The blockbuster here is the one dish we managed to sample on our first gluttonous visit to Kampar, the dish that made this stall a destination on this second visit: steamed egg.

Here auntie is offering up a sublime saucer of firm yet yielding, velvety egg custard, touched with toasted sesame oil, topped with scallion slices, and encasing a surprise of well-seasoned chopped pork -  a delectable Chinese version of the classic breakfast combo.

As we eat and photograph our way through the dishes littering our tabletop auntie offers up a steady stream of high-volume commentary. When she puts a kabosh on Dave's trigger finger we know it's time to go - but the steamed egg insures our return.

On the way out of town we discover, at a deli/restaurant on one of Kampar's main drags, ethereal baked char siew buns with a flaky pastry and a not-too-sweet, brick red filling of deeply smoky pork and scallion. Unfortunately immediate consumption obviates the possibility of photos.

Next time.

Kit Leng Food Center, spitting distance of the food hall, Kampar. Zhu cheong fun vendor outside Kampar food hall, on the lane facing the parking lot/wet market. Early mornings, days ???. Guangdong rice porridge and dishes at stall no. 59, food hall. Yummy char siew buns (steamed are available too, only in the mornings) at Kam Ling Restoran, 105-107 Jalan Idris.

Let Sleeping Frogs Lie

It might not appear on many Thai restaurant menus overseas, but frog is a common ingredient in Thailand's upcountry (ie. outside of big-city Bangkok) cuisine. Whether stirred into a gaeng (curry), tossed into an herby stir-fry, pounded into a fiery nam prik (chili dip), or simply grilled and dipped in garlicky chili sauce, for Thailand's rural population frog is a tasty and cheap (or free, if you catch it yourself) source of protein.

Especially prized in Thailand for their sweet and 'clean' tasting meat are larger frogs that have been pulled from estivation, a state of torpor that reptiles in dry season-prone tropical zones enter to prevent fatal dehydration. During estivation frogs burrow underground and shed layers of skin, creating a nearly watertight wrapper that enables them to retain moisture. Their heartbeat and breathing slow; by using 90-95% less energy than in their non-estivation state, frogs can ride out the dry, hot season without taking in nourishment.

Telltale lumps on the ground and in depleted rice paddies begin to appear with the end of the monsoonal rains, around the beginning of November in Thailand. As the earth dries, hardens, and contracts over the three to four-month approach to naa roon (hot season), 'sleeping' frogs are easier and easier to spot, and frog feasting is undertaken in earnest.

But not by everyone. Frogs taken from estivation are called gop jam siin - 'frogs remembering the moral precepts' - after Buddhist monks engaged in the motionless pursuits of fasting, meditation, and retreat. For some Thais, to indulge in the meat of a creature that brings to mind a monk engaged in the holiest of activities is a sin. These ardent believers shun gop jam siin - their culinary attributes and ease of capture notwithstanding.

The frogs above aren't gop jam siin, just ordinary everyday frogs like the ones sold in most any upcountry Thai market. They're small, just 6 inches or so long, and pack a negligible amount of meat. Skewered on bamboo (five or six to a stick) and flash-grilled, they're not meant to be eaten out of hand, but rather taken home and mortar and pestled into a rustic dip for fresh and blanched vegetables. With no access to a kitchen when we came across these specimens outside Chiang Mai's Warorot Market, we were unable to indulge. But I made note of the friendly frog vendor's recipe.

Key to the success of this dip, or so I was told, is a hearty char - achieved via barbecue, heavy grill-pan, broiler, or open gas flame - on the garlic, shallots, eggplant, and chilies. In Thailand of course, everything can be purchased at the market fully prepped and ready to use.

Nam Prik Gop (Frog and Chili Dip)

2 plump cloves garlic, unpeeled

3 red shallots, unpeeled

10 small green or red chilies (if you like fire, make them prik kii nuu)

1 long, thin Italian or Japanese eggplant

1 thick slice fresh kha (galangal)

1/2 tsp. Thai shrimp paste

about 1 cup cooked, shredded frog meat (boiled, roasted, or - for the best flavor - barbecued)

2 cloves garlic, peeled and minced

vegetable oil

assorted vegetables (see below) for dipping

Roast, grill, or hold over an open flame the garlic, shallots, chilies, and eggplant until their skins blacken and they soften. Set aside to cool, then peel and roughly chop. Finely mince the galangal.

In a mortar and pestle, pound the garlic, shallots, galangal, and shrimp paste to a rough paste. Add the chilies and pound to blend, and then do the same with the eggplant.

Separately, break up the frog meat by pounding it lightly.

Heat a little oil in a wok or pan over high heat. Add the minced garlic and fry just till golden. Add the vegetable paste and fry, stirring continuously, till fragrant, about 3-4 minutes. Stir in the frog meat and remove from heat.

Serve warm or at room temperature with fresh vegetables like watercress and sliced Napa cabbage, cucumber, and zucchini; and blanched and drained vegetables such as whole baby eggplant, carrots, and summer squash and Chinese greens (bok choi, choi sum, gai lan).

Yearnin' For a Burnin'

Been here,

chowed this.

And it was de-lish.

We've returned to Restoran Yu Ai, but not for the fantabulous seafood curry noodles. Today we're craving a hit of heat, so it's the tomyam seafood noodles we're after.

If all you know of tomyam is based on encounters with Thai tomyam gung (spicy-sour soup with shrimp), please set aside your preconceptions. The only thing the two have in common is 'hot' and 'sour'.

Malaysian tomyam is Thai tomyam on steroids. Whereas the latter is clear and delicate, the former is brick red and gutsy. Thai tomyam is spiced up with slices of fresh chili; Malaysian tomyam is built on a foundation of ground chili paste. While the Thai version makes a light and piquant accent to an assembly of other dishes, Malaysian tomyam is a hearty meal in itself.

Yu Ai's second floor offers air-conditioned comfort, but we're dining out back, al fresco. In addition to plenty of umbrella and tree-shaded tables, here you'll also find the extended kitchen.

These pots hold backup supplies of tomyam, curry, fried tofu in chili broth (for the curry - opening second photo), and qing tang (clear soup). There's also a heavy, blackened wok big enough to take a bath in; it's put to use early in the morning, when some lucky staff member fries up a mess of pungent sambal.

At 2pm on a Saturday the restaurant - indoors and out - is packed. We wait a good half hour for our order. We're starving, and contemplate waylaying the waiter as he carries steaming bowls of goodness to other tables.

All's forgiven when our order arrives.

It's everything we're looking for a in a tomyam noodle. The flavorful, complex broth is perfectly phet-priow, 'spicy-sour' in Thai. After a few bites our tongues are burning, our lips tingling. The broth is so limey we're nearly puckering. Moist red spots appear on our cheeks, and under our eyes. We're wishing for a breeze; comfortable in the shade just a few minutes ago, now we're sweltering.

We're ecstatic. This tomyam noodle is the spiciest Malaysian dish we've ever had.

Generous amounts of seafood (head-on shrimp, squid, mussels, surimi) are icing on an already sensational cake. Dave likes his fresh mee noodles, but I think my dried yee mee have done a better job of absorbing the delectable soup.

A packet of tissues and about 29 ringgit (about U$8) later, we're outta there. Expensive, you say? Well, until I'm directed to a cheaper, tastier, and hotter tom yam noodle in KL, I'll be lighting my fire at Yu Ai.

Yu Ai Restaurant, 42 Jalan Segambut Utara. 8am-4pm.

Roadside Snack Attack

Public transport in Malaysia is well-developed, cheap, and fairly efficient. With the likes of Air Asia flying to all corners of the country for as little as 15 ringgit (less than five US dollars) one way, why resort to car travel?

Lots of reasons. Malaysia's roads are excellent; even the old roads that Malaysians like to moan about, the two-lane trunk roads, are in far better shape than anything you'll find in, say, Vietnam, or even Thailand. Travel at the right time of the day and they're fairly empty as well. A car gives you the freedom to set your own schedule. Souvenirs can go in the trunk, which means not having to cart them around from hotel to hotel. Having your own set of wheels means not having to deal with Malaysian taxi drivers, who, quite frankly, can be a real pain in the arse at times. And with a car,...

OK, wait a minute. Who am I trying to kid here? The best reason to travel by car in Malaysia is that it allows you to eat whatever, wherever, and whenever you like. A car gives you the freedom to sample whatever roadside nubbins fate throws in front of you. It enables up-close investigation of regional delicacies that just might be dished up from unassuming stalls like this.

In the northern state of Kelantan the road from Cabang Empat to Tumpat is lined with vendors selling putu piring, steamed rice flour cakes filled with palm sugar. We stopped in at this one and were told that the first batch was still a half hour from ready. "We shall return!" we cried, climbing back in the car, and continued on until, fifteen or so minutes later, we reached a road block. Tumpat was flooded, and the road was closed. No matter; we turned around and by the time we reached the stall, our putu were ready.

These putu piring are assembled in essentially the same way as their Kuala Lumpur cousins: a layer of rice flour is tamped down into a circular metal mold, topped with palm sugar, and then capped with more rice flour (top photo).

But in other respects these putu herba, as they're called, are a variation on the theme. 'Herba' in Malaysian simply means 'herb', and that's as much as I could get in the way of description from the friendly vendor. But a gander at the herba (above) that she mixes into her palm sugar filling led me to guess that it's ground fenugreek seeds that give these Kelantanese putu their intriguing flavor.

Another respect in which these putu differ from those we've run across in KL is the way in which they are cooked: wrapped completely, rather than partially, in thick cotton cloth, and then steamed uncovered. As they steam, the cakes' filling seeps through the dough and stains their cloth wrappers.

A certain heft in weight and texture, and a decided stickiness further differntiate these putu. Could there be some glutinous rice flour in the dough? Extra dark palm sugar in the filling makes them sweetly smoky, and the fenugreek adds a nutty, bitter, and almost medicinal (but not in an unpleasant way) note. An altogether more substantial snack than those found streetside in the country's capital.

The next day, on our way back to Kota Bahru after a bit of kite shopping near Pantai beach, this hand lettered sign advertising unfamiliar snacks reeled us in.

Akok are small, wrinkled egg and coconut milk 'cakes' - unfortunately they were not of offer here that day. But the baulu were delightful enough to suffice.

This vendor oversees the baking while his wife mixes the baulu batter - eggs, white sugar, rice and wheat flours, and a leavening agent - and packages deliveries. Prep is simple. The batter is ladeled into greased oval molds and baked for about 10-15 minutes. This vendor's 'oven' consists of a layer of hot charcoal and a charcoal-filled pan the size of the cake mold; the cake pan is sandwiched between the two.

I had sampled baulu before (without knowing what they were) and found them to be dry and tasteless. Judging from the cakes above, freshness is key. Hot from the 'oven', these treats boasted a thin, golden, crackly exterior and a pale, fluffy and crumbly interior. Their pleasingly mild flavor hinted at vanilla and reminded me of a childhood favorite - Nilla Vanilla Wafers.

When it comes to Malaysian sweets small batch is best, it seems. I'd love to say these baulu exhibited a staying power superior to their mass produced relatives, but our bag o' baulu didn't make it back to the hotel.

Find putu herba vendors (there are at least 10 of them) about 10 kilometers from Kota Bahru on the road to Tumpat, late afternoons (after 2pm). Akok and baulu vendor is about 10 minutes from Pantai beach on the way back to Kota Bahru, right hand side of the road. Afternoons.

Kaya Convert

I was slow to discover the charms of kaya. But now that I have there's no turning back.

Who can blame me for initially turning my nose up at this 'jam' of coconut milk, eggs, and white sugar? My first taste of the concoction was from a can plucked off a dusty shelf in an Asian market in California. Inside, I found not a trace of coconut flavor - just sweet, thick, exceptionally sticky blech. It took fourteen years for me to learn that 'real' kaya has as much in common with the canned stuff as a Maggi chicken cube dissolved in water does with long-simmered homemade chicken broth.

Kaya means 'wealthy' or 'rich' in Malaysian, and those words accurately sum up its attractions. Lushly coconuty, extravagantly eggy, and deeply caramely, kaya tastes something like a moist macaroon, a well-executed flan, and mom's butterscotch pudding all rolled into one.

Its natural partner is bread, and the pair is a standard Malaysian and Singaporean kopitiam menu item. (Nothing puts a kopi-stoked caffeine high into overdrive like an order of kaya toast.)

Some prefer their dough sliced from a loaf, while for others only a bun will do. I can't play favorites. Less than a week after swooning over butter and kaya-slathered sweet, puffy, soft-as-a-baby's-bottom xiao mianbao (little buns) in Kuala Terengganu (above) I was swearing eternal allegiance to the larger, wheatier, and altogether more substantial puffs on offer at Kuantan's Kememan coffee shop (below).

Then with one bite of Village Park's kaya toast all thoughts of buns were wiped from my mind. This restaurant's Singaporean owner decrees that plain white loaf be sliced super thin, evenly toasted on both sides, and then sliced again. The "raw" sides are stuck back together with the barest slick of butter and kaya mortar. The result is an ethereally light but saporific kaya toast that, after the initial crunch, practically melts in the mouth.

Beyond the loaf-versus-bun debate, there are a three requirements for a memorable kaya toast. Bread or bun should be white - not sourdough, not whole-grain nuts 'n stuff, not chewy artisanal provincial French doorstop bread. I'm not a white bread fan in general, but it's really the best kaya base.

If the dough product is to be toasted (kaya is also eaten with steamed bread) it should be over charcoal (or at least not in a toaster - use your oven's broiler instead; all the better if the oven is powered by gas). And the medium of lubrication should be butter, not margarine (Kememan comes out a loser on this point). Kaya and butter may be served on the side, but if an order arrives pre-spread the layers should be thin, ant there should be re-enforcements on the plate.

Readers who have been living a kaya-less existence (if you've tried it but don't like it - huh? - this won't apply to you) and can't purchase the good stuff (ie. not canned, not jarred, not mass-produced) should consider making their own. I can think of a few uses, other than as a bread spread, for this delicacy: as filling for a vanilla or chocolate sponge roll, as a topping for ice cream (a bit beyond the pale, perhaps), used instead of frosting on a rich chocolate cake (or in addition to frosting, between cake layers).

This recipe looks quite good (it's from the author's grandmother). It's not clear as to the amount of coconut milk to be used, so I'll clarify. Based on a survey of five different recipes, 600 ml of coconut milk, 10 eggs (the bigger the yolk the better), and 400-500 grams of sugar (depending on how sweet you want your kaya) seem to be the standard quantities.

A few things to keep in mind:

• canned coconut milk will, unfortunately, produce an inferior product. But making your own isn't that hard (or time consuming, if you use dessicated coconut). From freshly grated coconut: place 2 cups coconut into a blender and add 1 1/2 cups very hot water. Blend for a few seconds. Line a sieve with cheesecloth and place over a bowl. Pour the coconut mixture into the sieve, gather up the corners of the cloth, and squeeze the liquid out of the coconut. From unsweetened, dessicated coconut milk: bring 2 1/2 cups water and 2 cups coconut to a simmer in a pan. Pour into a blender and proceed as for fresh coconut. Both methods should produce about 350 ml/12 ounces of thick coconut milk.
• if you use a double boiler constant stirring throughout the entire process is unnecessary, unless you desire an absolutely smooth kaya (for those, like me, who like a bit of texture, small lumps are not a problem). Some recipes require the kaya to be cooked over a double boiler for as long as 4 or 5 hours. Have a look at the photo above, see how your product compares in terms of consistency, and continue to cook if necessary.
• the recipe can be halved.

Refer to my Malaysian coffee post for addresses of the kaya toast spots mentioned above.