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Philippine Party Food

My article on lechon (accompanied by Dave's photo) appears in today's Wall Street Journal Asia 'Weekend Journal' section.

I can't reprint the article in full here, nor can I link it (the WSJA site is subscriber-only). So I'll just share the final paragraph, which highlights key points of lechon connoisseurship and etiquette:

As to the mark of a superior lechon, aficionados are in agreement. 'The skin must be smooth and crunchy and easily separated from its underlying layer of fat,' says [artist, writer, and chef] Claude Tayag. Traditionally it's the crispy skin that is eaten first. As the lechon is served, diners gather around the table, awaiting the signal to dive in. Self-control is advisable, warns [managing director of Quezon City's Restaurant 9501] Myrna Segismundo: 'The guest who is greedy and takes too much skin will not be invited to the next party.'

Update: Read the article here. Cheers Phil, for the link.

Sinfully Delicious

But Will Lard's Newfound Dietary Legitimacy Temper Its Allure?

Hakka mee bathed in 'white sauce'

KLue  September 2007  vol 107

Text:  Robyn Eckhardt  Photos: David Hagerman

The other day a friend passed along the coordinates of a hawker stall offering 'heavenly' char koay teow. As I wrote down the address she moved in close, lowered her voice, and added, with the tight little smile of a kid about to raid the cookie jar, 'He uses lard.'

Lard occupies a special place in the the culinary imagination of Malaysians undeterred by religious belief or doctor's orders from partaking of the pig. To true believers, stir-fried Hokkien mee lacking lard and cracklings is like a day without sunshine, rendered pork fat-free char koay teow is merely a pretender, and sweet bean biscuits made without hog fat evince all the flakiness of a piece of cardboard. Hardcore lardies worship at the altar of Hakka mee, assembling in the morning at a little stall in Pudu to gobble noodles dressed in 'white sauce', the vendor's euphemism for pure, unadulterated lard. It doesn't get much more animal fatty than that.

What accounts for lard's irresistible appeal? What explains, for example, the preference for koay teow fried in pig fat over that charred in vegetable oil?

'You can taste the difference straightaway,' claims one lard aficionado. 'A char koay teow made with lard is much more fragrant. And there's that, you know, bacon-y flavor.'

But is it all in the imagination? Inspired by attacks on the health benefit claims made for non-saturated fats such as vegetable oils, American food writer and lard enthusiast Pete Wells conducted taste tests, using liters of the stuff to deep-fry chicken, fish, and hush puppies (the crispy vadai of the American Deep South).

Surprisingly, he found that hog fat contributed absolutely nothing in terms of flavor: 'My friends and I agreed that our food bore no trace of pig.'

Maybe Malaysians are born with extra-sensitive lard receptors. Or perhaps growing up amidst the easy availability of foods lubricated with pig fat has enabled them to develop lard flavor-detecting abilities the likes of which will forever elude Mr. Wells and his cohort, who were raised in an age of dietary fearfulness that not only disapproved the enjoyment of lard, but viewed it as akin to gastronomic depravity.

Or is Malaysian lard ardor rooted, in the end, in the allure of the forbidden?

Last year, a national survey conducted by the Malaysian Shape of the Nation found that 47.1 per cent of the country's males and 60.2 per cent of its females suffer from abdominal obesity. Clearly Malaysians love to live as they know they shouldn't: unhealthily. An insalubrious lifestyle - for those not bound by religion to avoid porky products, that is - no doubt includes the regular intake of larded foods.

'I know it's bad for me, but I just can't help indulging once in a while,' bemoans a regular at a Petaling Jaya Hokkien mee stall praised for its liberal use of lard.

'I really shouldn't. Only for special occasions,' says a woman picking up a few boxes of lard-pastry bean paste buns at a Chow Kit bakery.

It wasn't always this way. Saturated fats - animal fats chief among them - were once considered part of a balanced diet. Once upon a time American home bakers relied on lard for flaky pie crusts and McDonald's fried its potatoes in beef tallow. Malaysian cookbooks from the time of the nation's birth include dozens of recipes calling for loads of the stuff.

Then, in the West, when saturated fats were linked to obesity and stratospheric cholesterol levels, lard ceased to be accepted in the kitchen. The contagion spread to Asia - though it did take a few extra decades for Asian lard admirers to come to grips with the notion that a favorite foodstuff had suddenly become forbidden fruit.

Now the tables have turned, and saturated fats have relinquished their high ranking on the scale of culinary-evils-incarnate to trans fats. The reasons for the flip-flop are the stuff of serious science, something to do with crazy, cell-attacking, dementia-causing free radicals that are created when vegetable oil is hydrogenated to a solid state. The details really aren't important. All a lard lover needs to know is this: Trans fats bad. Saturated fats (including - yes - lard) OK.

This turn of events has led Americans like Mr. Wells to contemplate the joys of living in a Brave New World, one that embraces hog fat. For many Malaysians this dream has long been a reality. The question is, now that one can argue with a straight face that the quest for good health practically demands a heapin' helpin' of crackling-speckled Hokkien mee, will the Malaysian zeal for lard cool?

After all, when have the words 'Go ahead, it's good for you!' ever stoked the appetite?

Three Squares and Then Some

There's no shame in a between-meal meal. Sometimes, when you're on the road and time is limited, circumstances dictate that the number of squares in a day exceed three.

On a quiet Sunday morning, when Penang's Jalan Transfer was otherwise deserted, almost every seat at the long tables that stretch from either side of this roti stall's prep area was taken.

We weren't looking for a meal, or even a snack. We'd followed a hearty breakfast at a bustling neighborhood market with a couple of cuppas at a local institution. Now, we were on our way to a Hainanese coffeeshop for what promised to be a sizeable early lunch.

But this place was really doing the business. The air of concentration hanging over the rows of customers tucking into roti and curry, combined with the enticing smells wafting from the mammoth stainless steel pots at the center of the action, spoke to us: 'Do not pass this by!'

We're glad we listened. Our almost grease-free, light, flaky, and admirably layered roti was one thing. The chicken curry that accompanied it was altogether another: fiery, slightly sweet, and indescribably, addictively delicious. What was that unidentifiable flavor? A surfeit of cardamom? A hint of fenugreek? Some odd combination of dried spices and fresh herbs not usually associated with a chicken curry?  The guys running the place weren't talking.

But the mystery ingredient(s) in the red chicken curry dished up at this forty-year-old stall has had us guessing for going on four months now. It will, in the end, draw us back to breakfast on Jalan Transfer.

Roti stall, Jalan Transfer near Jalan Argyll (just down the street from this coffee shop), Penang. Mornings.

Noodles Worth the Abuse

If you've been to Penang you know this noodle.

And, chances are, you recognize this woman.

She has been called many things ('crusty' might be the most complimentary) by those who have supplicated at her stall and endured the wait for what is argued to be Penang's best char koay teow.

'We Penang-ites are arrogant,' a native of the island told me before our last trip up north. 'We know we make the best food in the country, and we know you know it. So we don't have to be nice.'

Uh-huh.

In truth we didn't find Soon Suan Choo, who's been working her well-seasoned wok on Lorong Selamat since the mid-1970s, to be quite as gnarly as all that. She might have even showed a bit of teeth. Smile or grimace?

Frankly we don't give a hoot, because she makes one incredible stir-fried rice noodle. Soon Chuan Choo's char koay teow are well seasoned (not gloppy with soy, just slightly heaty with chile paste), heavily imbued with wok hei, the 'breath of the wok' (see the smoke in the second photo? it's flavoring those rice noodles), and silky-smooth yet pleasantly chewy.

The piece de resistance is the generous number of big, incredibly fresh, and perfectly cooked prawns in each serving.

It's a true talent, the ability to take a prawn to just barely-cooked and ever-so-slightly crunchy but no further. It takes triple the skill to do it in a scorching wok over high, charcoal-fueled heat. The prawns in this woman's char koay teow are among the most sublime we've eaten anywhere.

For those shellfish alone, we'll happily suffer her indifference.

Char koay teow stall, Lorong Selamat, Penang. 11:30a till 6 or 6:30p. Closed Tuesday.

Thailand's Other Northern Noodle

Our mental maps of the places we've been aren't marked with the names of provinces or states, cities or towns, streets or alleys. Our coordinates are local specialties, and our landmarks are the stalls and shops that dish them up.

When we lived in my quang-ville we always welcomed an excuse to visit bun cha. Our first trip to Sumatra was all about nasi Padang, and our last introduced us to babi panggang. From the Philippines we fondly remember our Holy Weekend at halo-halo, about an hour and a half's drive from sinigang. On our last trip to Turkey (too long ago) we drove cross-country, starting at fresh purslane drenched in garlicky yogurt, continuing on to semolina flour halva and then further to bastirma and the country's finest manti, finally arriving at lahana corbasi and Laz boregi. And Kuala Lumpur? Well, most trips to the grocery store take me by Sarawak laksa, just ten minutes from north Indian chaat.

In northern Thailand our plane landed at kanom jeen nam ngiaw, and then we road-tripped from kanom jeen nam ngiaw to kanom jeen nam ngiaw, stopping for kanom jeen nam ngiaw along the way. The northern provinces are one big kanom jeen nam ngiaw sinkhole. Khao soi attracts all the attention; with its combination of crunchy and soft noodles and a gentle coconut milk come-on followed by restrained chile hit, it's easy to love. But observation tells us that kanom jeen nam ngiaw is the region's true noodle superstar. That's just fine with us, because we can't get enough of the stuff.

Kanom jeen are vermicelli-like noodles made from a batter of fermented rice. They're found all over Thailand, topped tasty curries toppings (and, in Isaan, served side-by-side with green papaya salad) like gaeng kiaow waan ('sweet' green coconut milk curry) and gaeng tai bplaa (pungent and fiery fish innard curry) and served with an endless variety of herb and vegetable sides. In the north deep-fried pork rinds, sold in small bags, are part of the sides-show. Local crush them in the bag and then sprinkle the pieces over their noodles.

Nam ngiaw is said to be a Shan dish and is most often associated with Chiang Rai. It is a coconut milk-free curry made with dried chilies, tomatoes, and beef (if the cook is a northern Thai Muslim) or pork and blood cakes. It's thin and soupy and varies from surprisingly light, slightly sour, and tomatoe-y (almost ragu Bolognese-like) to salty, pungent with gapi (shrimp paste) and searingly hot. Every cook has his or her own twist on the dish - which is, I suppose, why we find it so easy to eat kanom jeen nam ngiaw day after day, and sometimes even meal after meal.

Hidden down a tiny soi across from Chiang Mai's Mahawan Temple, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it storefront seats eight at just two tables. The shop's owner (above) has been making and selling her kanom jeen nam ngiaw (and kanom jeen nam yaa - noodles topped with a mild fish curry) here for over ten years; she opens mid-morning and closes by late afternoon.

Her version is hearty: meaty, a wee bit fish-flavored, and full-on spicy. Unlike most vendors, who garnish their kanom jeen with a flurry of crisped garlic, she sprinkles on a spoonful of powdered toasted chilies (opening photo) along with bits of basil leaf. Diners who desire more fire can add prik tawt (crisp-fried dried chilies, above) to taste. We find her blood cakes to be exemplary, with a good bit of resistance (we don't favor soft and wobbly, gelatinous cakes) and a lovely smoky flavor that seems to have leached into the curry.

A week - and many bowls of kanom jeen nam ngiaw - later we find ourselves in Fang, a town about an hour from the Myanmar border. It's a quiet Sunday morning and we're wandering the streets, admiring Fang's old wooden houses and looking for - what else? - something worthwhile to fill our bellies.

A woman operating a kanom jeen stall in front of her house obliges us, dipping up her own version of nam ngiaw from an enormous vat and serving it with a generous spread of blanched and fresh bean sprouts, shredded napa cabbage, blanched and chopped snake beans, chopped cilantro and basil, and slivered pickled mustard (a must with kanom jeen).   

Hers is a lighter (both literally and figuratively) version than that served on the Chiang Mai soi, the curry more orange than red, the chile heat subdued, and the flavor of tomatoes almost more prominent than that of meat. No powdered chile topping here (plenty of fried garlic, though), although she does offer us a serving spoon full of prik tawt, suggesting that we eat the crispy chilies on their own, between bites of kanom jeen, rather than mixing them in.

On our way back to kanom jeen nam ngiaw (oops, Chiang Mai) from kanom jeen nam ngiaw (er, Fang), we stop somewhere between Chiang Dao and Mae Rim to stretch our legs and, perhaps, to sit down to a meal of, um kanom jeen nam ngiaw. The stall is decidedly rickety and situated on an unpleasantly busy and exhaust-smoked street and the couple manning it not overly friendly. But we're curious about a vegetable offered alongside the kanom jeen. Its leaves resemble those of cha-om, a not entirely pleasantly-scented, but nonetheless delicious, green vegetable that, in addition to often being served alongside kanom jeen, is cooked into omelets and thrown into gaeng som (sour curry).

The nubbly knobs attached to the vegetable's stem are something new to us. The stall operator calls 'gatin' and advises that it's much tastier than cha-om: 'It doesn't stink like cha-om.' Then he tells us, 'Eat the whole thing.'

Sure enough, the gatin makes a fine addition to the couple's exceptionally meat nam ngiaw, studded with big chunks of greenish tomato and spongy blood cakes. This is the least spicy version we've sampled; the emphasis here seems to be on fresh turmeric and garlic. It's satisfying in its own way (and the gatin is wonderful, sweet and crispy and slightly broccoli stem-like), but we miss the chile hit.

Days later we find our kanom jeen nam ngiaw Holy Grail in a morning market in Lampang. We're drawn to a stall at the back of the market by the gorgeous smells wafting from a huge, bulbous clay pot. It's gaeng om, the vendor tells us, and then instructs us to sit down for a taste. Gaeng om is made with beef or buffalo - that's the most we're able to get out of this otherwise friendly woman who hails from Chiang Rai regarding her specialty. The curry is knock-me-down heady with galangal and lime leaves and, like a good French daube, thick with bits of long-simmered protein; it's easily one of the most memorable dishes of our trip.

When she lifts the lid off a pot of nam ngiaw and asks if we'd like a taste. We don't hesitate.

As fantastic as this woman's gaeng om is, her kanom jeen is better. It hits all the right notes - bold and fatty-rich porkiness tempered by sour from tomatoes, enough heat to zap the tongue in passing but not enough to overwhelm the taste buds. There are dried spices mingling in this curry that we can't even hope to guess at.

Rather than serving accompaniments on the side she piles everything right on top, with the assurance of a woman who' s been eating kanom jeen nam ngiaw all her life and so knows just how much pickled mustard and bean sprouts are required to bring the dish into perfect harmony. After two bowlfuls we're sorry to admit that we don't have room for more. We're even sorrier that we live a good bit of air time away.

We can't wait to go back to kanom jeen nam ngiaw. Lampang, I mean.

In Chiang Mai: Chang Mai Road, Soi 2 (across from Mahawan Temple).

In Fang: Tessaban Road, 2 streets behind Wat Chedi Ngam and 3 blocks from the river. Mornings and afternoons.

On the road between Chiang Dao and Mae Rim: we're sorry, but we have no idea where this place is. We're not even sure we could find it again.

In Lampang: Wisonin morning market, in the roofed section in the back of the market (away from the main street). 

Where to Eat in Mandalay

At this stall offering Burmese samusa salad, apparently.

Cheers to EatingAsia reader meemalee for directing me to her website, a treasure trove of Burma-related culinary videos. Makes me want to catch the next flight to Mandalay.

A Fish Ball-Related Public Service Announcement

This just in from EatingAsia reader sailorsim, in reference to the beloved fish balls formerly served at the long-defunct Kuak Nyuk Loong (Jalan Raja Abdullah, Dang Wangi neighborhood):

... this fishball stall has sort of been reborn at another kopitiam in SS2; at the opposite end of the shoplots where Kayu Nasi Kandar/Chow Yang is.

The stall is manned by the younger man now, though. Taste-wise, I'd say it's still OK.

Good to know. Thanks, sailorsim.

Perfect Palm Sugar Vehicle No. 3: Kuih Ketayap

We're going to go out on a limb (with non-Malaysian, southeast Asian readers) and assert that when it comes to sweets, Malaysia rules in the region. Kuih (a generic word for sweet 'cakes', though there are savory kuih as well) are thick on the streets here; it's difficult to drive (does anyone walk, in Kuala Lumpur?) more than a couple of blocks without running into a sugary something or other.

That said, all kuih are not created equal (nor are kuih vendors). There are two kuih that we simply cannot pass by without stopping to make a purchase: putu piring and kuih ketayap (also known as kuih tayap and kuih dadar).

We think we've found an exceptional version of the latter - a sort of pancake tinted green with pandan leaf and rolled around a filling of grated coconut and palm sugar - in Brickfields. The Malay sweet is sold, ironically, from an Indian vegetarian stall. Look past the mounds of curry puffs and various other deep-fried whatchamajiggers to the green, individually wrapped logs.

What places these ketayap a notch or two above the average version is their heavy-duty toastiness.

Usually the palm sugar and grated coconut that stuff a ketayap are fried together, with a knotted pandan leaf, until the sugar starts to melt and the ingredients meld into one. This vendor, by contrast, toasts the coconut on its own, bringing it to a golden brown before adding palm sugar. The only thing more wonderful than grated coconut is toasted grated coconut. These ketayap evince a heady toasted coconut fragrance (you can almost smell the coconut before you taste it) that plays up the natural smokiness of the gula Melaka.

For hardcore fans of these two ingredients (that would be us), it doesn't get much better.

Khui ketayap stall, southern end of Jalan Tun Sambanthan on a corner across from Vidaya Curry House, Brickfields. Daily from about 3pm.

Making it the Old Way

Food tastes better in Penang. It really does. But we didn't 'get' that until our last short stay in June.

On previous visits we - like most foreign (ie. not Malaysian) tourists - parked ourselves in atmospheric Georgetown and wandered aimlessly. While this may be a great strategy for sightseeing and breathing in local atmosphere, it doesn't make for the best eating. One wouldn't (or shouldn't) stroll around Florence expecting every morsel one stumbles upon to be luscious. The same applies to Penang.

Sure, coffee shops busting with hawker stalls abound. It's possible to eat seven or more local specialties within the length of one city block. But they won't all be worthy. As anywhere else in Malaysia, it pays to be selective. And being selective requires a little footwork (or taxi-work). Breakfast here, lunch there, dinner elsewhere, and a snack halfway across the island. If you accept that Penang's best food isn't all within a stone's throw of the E&O Hotel or your favorite guesthouse or hostel, if you're willing to expend a bit of effort, you'll find that when it comes to Penang food, the superlatives bandied about really are based in reality.

Having finally had our 'Penang epiphany' we must ask, 'What is it that makes food in Penang so delicious?' It has little to do with Nyonya this or Nyonya that (another mistaken belief saddling many tourists: that one goes to Penang first and foremost to eat Nyonya food). The Penang Nyonya food found in a few select low-key, old-time shops is wonderful. But so are non-Nyonya specialties like char kuey teow and Hokkien mee.

After reviewing notes and slides from our last trip, we're led to a terribly trite conclusion: food in Penang (or the majority of it) is better because Penang cooks do things the old-fashioned way. That means cooking over charcoal, whether the vendor is grilling fish or boiling up congee. It means everything from scratch, no premade sauces or powders, the best quality ingredients prepared with care (you'll never have more perfectly cooked prawns in a char kuey teow than in Penang). Penang-ites are awfully picky when it comes to their food, and vendors respond accordingly.

Case in point: six mornings a week an Indian Malaysian man makes putu mayam and putu piring in front of Pulau Tikus market. It's rare, in KL, to find putu mayam (aka string hoppes) made on the spot (freshly-made putu piring, while not profligate in the Klang Valley, is more easily found). It's even rarer to find it prepared as this man does, squeezing his rice flour batter through an old-fashioned wooden press (opening photo) onto an upturned shallow bamboo tray. (These days the presses and steaming trays are more often than not made of stainless steel.)

Anything steamed over bamboo is essentially tastier than if it's steamed over metal. The special flavor that bamboo imparts may be hard to qualify, difficult to describe, but - as dim sum afficionados can attest - it's tangible. And this man's putu mayam has it.

Putu piring - steamed in cup-like metal molds - is on offer here as well, in two flavors: plain and pandan. The vendor has a light touch with his rice flour, just barely packing it in around jaggery imported from India.

As we talked with him and watched him work (and had an unsuccessful go ourselves at squeezing out a putu mayam) numerous regulars stopped by for their breakfast putu. 'The real thing!' said an elderly customer. He's been selling here, in front of Pulau Tikus market, for about ten years. After insisting that making putu mayam and putu piring requires little in the way of skill, he admitted that it took him six months of tutoring by a friend before he perfected his methods.

Our preference for vendors and cooks who do it the 'old-fashioned (dare we say 'traditional') way' isn't indicative of some rose-tinted view of what are in fact laborious and inconvenient and what-may-be-perceived-as 'unhygenic' cooking methods. In most cases doing it the old way drastically affects flavor and texture. The vendors and cooks in Penang (and anywhere else) who hew to old-school methods make tastier food, plain and simple.

Our hats are off to them.

Putu mayam and putu piring, Pulau Tikus market, Penang. Mornings - Mondays off.

Penang's Gem of a Wet Market

We travel for food. Would we relocate for a wet market?

It's a question we asked ourselves in Penang, after a couple of mornings at Pasar Pulau Tikus, a market in the middle of a neighborhood of the same name (which means, literally, 'rat island'; the neighborhood was supposedlyy named after a mouse-shaped island off Penang's coast).

Pulau Tikus market isn't jaw-droppingly huge (in fact it's rather dimunitive) or overbearingly frenetic. It's crowded, but not claustrophobically so. It's not the kind of market that makes one stop in her tracks and say 'Wow.'

But this market is easy to fall in love with. In almost every respect, it's just right - just big enough to offer everything you could ever need in the kitchen: fresher-than-fresh vegetables, gorgeous fruit at the right price (not a little of it imported from Thailand), fantastic seafood, dried and preserved foods galore.

It's inside and outside - a market building flanked front and side by open-air stalls. If you're there for serious shopping, head inside. But if you just want to pick up a bit of fruit, a vegetable or two, or any manner of prepared foods, outside is the place to be.

A whole day's worth of meals and snacks could be assembled from the cooked foods on offer here. There are multiple vendors selling local specialties like Nyonya kuih, kerabu beehoon, vinegared fish (something like an escabeche),

and apom balik, not-too-sweet pancakes enclosing a few slices of banana.

Here, noodles are fried to order.

There, mounds of coconut-scented rice are doused with sambal, topped with ikan bilis, fried peanuts, and half a hard-boiled egg,

and wrapped into bungkus to make a portable breakfast.

In the middle of the prepared food section stands a couple using the old-fashioned 'sock filter' method to brew coffee. Thick and fragrant, its indigo hue barely lightened by the addition of sweetened condensed milk, it's mostly served in bags to go - but if you ask they'll rustle up some seats, making it possible to enjoy a proper cup, sitting down.

Perched on tiny plastic stools, hemmed in by hawkers and shoppers, attempting fruitlessly to parse the spoken commerce swirling about our heads, alternating sips of coffee with hearty sniffs of the aromas drifting over from the fried noodle vendor, we agreed that we'd stumbled upon the best spot in Penang to pass an early morning hour or two.