EatingAsia

Another Thing Mr. Zhang Taught Me

No Garlic. Not as in, "Never ever cook with garlic, ever," but as in "When stir-frying greens skip the stinking rose."

(If you're wondering who Mr. Zhang is and what else he's taught me, go to our first post in this very sporadic series, here. And while we're at it, here's an article on Mr. Zhang's place, and other Chengdu eateries like his, that we did a while back for the South China Morning Post: Page 1 and Page 2)

Common knowledge says when you're stir-frying green leafy veggies in the Chinese manner you want to throw in some chopped garlic. But beginning wok jockeys -- heck, even myself on occasion -- often find that the garlic browns too quickly, or burns as it's being tossed with the greens once they're in the pan. One way to deal with this occasional issue is to fry the garlic, remove it from the wok, fry the greens, and then add the garlic back in.

But like many Sichuanese cooks Mr. Zhang has a better, easier way of adding in flavor to those stir-fried veggies: skip the garlic in favor of suan miao.

Suan miao, or leeks, show up in many Sichuanese dishes. A properly made mapo dofu gets its jade-green accents from the green part of suan miao. They're stir-fried with la rou (Sichuanese bacon), pork slivers and black beans, eggplant, pressed and dried tofu, and all sort of other ingredients. They're heaped in mounds in Chengdu markets, tucked into shopping bags, and bundled home under arms.

And, in Mr. Zhang's kitchen at least, the greenest part of suan miao substitute for chopped garlic when he stir-fries rape, mustard and other green leafy vegetables.

We can't find suan miao here in Kuala Lumpur, so I substitute scallion greens. And since returning from our last trip to Chengdu I have been turning out some pretty fantastic chao qing cai (fried green veggies). These stir-fried greens (choy sum/flowering mustard, usually) find their way to our table two or three times a week. For our Sichuan-leaning palates, they're best with a few Sichuan peppercorns and dried chilies thrown into the mix, a la Chez Zhang.

Thanks Mr. Zhang!

Mr. Zhang's Stir-fried Leafy Greens (A Recipe of Sorts)

I understand there is a raging debate among Asian cookbook authors whether or not one should dry one's greens before stir-frying. If I had a flame like Mr. Zhang's (see above) I never would dry my greens. But all I've got is a regular gas burner with a pretty unimpressive BTU. I find that spinning my greens dry a few times after washing makes for a much more successful stir-fry. Experiment or, to err on the safe side, dry those greens.

Cooking oil (rapeseed oil gives that Sichuan flavor; if that's unavailable, peanut oil is preferred)

OPTIONAL but authentically Sichuanese: a heaping tsp or two of Sichuan peppercorns, whole and unroasted AND a heaping tbsp. or two of dried red chilies, snipped in half crosswise

About 1 lb. / one half kilo sturdy greens (Sichuanese rape, mustard greens/choy sum, gai lan leaves, bok choy, etc) -- sliced into 1-inch/3-cm shredds, washed and if you prefer, spun dry

a good handful of scallion greens, washed and snipped into 2-inch/4-cm lengths

salt

a Tbsp or two of stock or water

1. Set a wok or big frypan over high heat, and add a good glug or two of oil. Swirl the oil over the surface of the wok/pan and heat till not quite smoking.
2. Toss in chilies and Sichuan peppercorns, give a good stir but don't let the chilies blacken.
3. Start adding greens by the handful, stirring and tossing as you go. When the last of the greens are in add a few pinches of salt (less if you're using salted stock). Stir-fry for a minute or two, tossing to expose all green to the heat.
4. Add just a bit of stock or water (you don't want a pool in the bottom of your wok/pan, you just want to moisten the greens a bit to create a little steam) -- this may not be necessary if you haven't dried your veggies, toss, and cover the pan.
5. Check after a minute or two. The veg stems should still be fairly crunchy. Now, throw in your scallion / leek greens, toss for a minute or so, and turn the lot onto a plate.

 

Salad Days in Chiang Mai

Over the last few weeks Dave and I have developed what I would call a deep -- and hopefully abiding -- relationship with a guy who spends most of every day sporting protective eyewear.

We're not talking about a welder here (although some of the materials he handles can be as dangerous as a blowtorch). The safety goggles-wearing dude in question deals in food, not metal.

Much as we had our Fruit Guy in Istanbul, we now have our Somtam Guy in Chiang Mai. He can be found putting pestle to mortar most days of the week behind Warorot market, in a busy alley that runs alongside the impossible-to-miss Guan Yu temple.

We're not the only fans of this papaya pounder. Arrive within an hour either side of lunch and you could be looking at a wait of 30 to 45 minutes. The idle is more than justified by his product. Grab a seat at the "counter" attached to the front of his cart or at one of his red tables and cool your heels with an order of gai yang (grilled chicken) from the stall just down the alley or a cool Chinese sweet soup from the ladies at the cart adjacent his.

On offer here: somtam Tai (made with fish sauce and dried shrimp), somtam Isaan (sour and spicy, with pickled crab), somtam pbuu bplaa raa (sweetish, with pickled crab and super-fermented fish sauce), and somtam bpuu (sweetish but just with pickled crab). He also whips up cucumber somtam, dtam mamuang (green mango salad), and sup nawmai (Isaan-style fermented bamboo salad).

A perfect dtam mamuang (green mango salad), with cha om and wild pepper leaves

While his somtam Tai (our favorite; neither Dave nor I do pickled crab) is excellent, it's this guy's dtam mamuang and sup nawmai that really knock us dead. For the former he peels and shreds the green mango to order, pounding it with dried chilies, sugar, fish sauce, a bit of lime juice and a whiff of bplaa raa. Served topped with peanuts, the salad bears the barest suggestion of sweetness. It's drier than your average pounded salad -- great for wrapping in the the wild pepper leaves he serves alongside.

(Attention to detail here -- each salad comes with a different assortment of fresh leaves and vegetables.)

The fermented bamboo salad is simply out of this world. We adore sup nawmai but let's face it -- the dish can be overpowered by fermented bamboo's funkiness. But this guy ferments his own, and it's a notch above the rest, retaining much pre-pickle bamboo crunchiness and sweetness. The funkiness is a welcome back note in this sup nawmai, a twangy response to a bit of lime-y sourness, toatsed rice nuttiness, and as much heat as you can stand. Eat it with the accompanying mint leaves.

 

Sup nawmai (fermented bamboo salad)

We've only known our Somtam Guy for three weeks, but we saw each other almost every day. Dave and I knew that our relationship had taken a turn for the serious when our Somtam Guy stopped asking how hot and/or sour we wanted our order. Five chilies in the mango salad, four in the sup nawmai.

We think this might just be a long-term thing.

Somtam guy. From 11am till about 3 or 4, almost every day (his days off are unpredictable). Behind Warorot Market, Gat Luang neighborhood, Chiang Mai. Anything he makes is perfect with an order of grilled chicken from a stall down the lane.

Gat Luang Diaries: Cooking for the New Year

 

This week we're hopping around Thailand's far north (Fang the last two days, Mae Salong for the next two, and then ... ??), taking a break from the research we began last week in Chiang Mai's Gat Luang neighborhood.

If you read our Happy Year of the Rabbit post, you know that this year we're collaborating with several Chiang Mai residents on a book that will be published in commemoration of Warorot Market's 100th year. Warorot (and its sister market Don Lam Yai) anchor the neighborhood of Gat Luang. Though Chiang Mai's "old city" (located within the crumbling city walls) is in fact the city's oldest section, it is Gat Luang -- which is located right on the Ping River -- that has long been its commercial heart.

While our Thai colleagues pull together a "History" section for the book, Dave and I will be collecting "snapshots" of daily life in Gat Luang. After our first week "on the job" it's really begun to hit home what a complex area Gat Luang is -- a neighborhood of multiple ethnicities and religions, diverse businesses and commercial interests that date back decades, of long-timers and newcomers and sojourners just passing through.

While it was Gat Luang's food markets which initially drew us there seven years ago our interest in the area is widening with each day spent in the 'hood. So many people to meet, so many stories to tell, places and personalities of significance not usually noticed by the visitor.

For the purposes of Gat Luang Diaries -- a new EatingAsia series highlighting our experiences in the neighborhood, which we intend to update every few weeks or so throughout 2011 (look for a sidebar banner soon that will link to all Diary posts) -- we'll start with last week's "big event": Chinese New Year.

The majority of Gat Luang's residents trace some family ancestry back to China -- Chaozhou to be exact. The neighborhood has two Chinese temples. And last week, in the lead-up to the first day of the Year of the Rabbit, home kitchens were active with the preparation of food for merit-making in the home and at the temples.

Offerings may vary house to house, but only to some extent. Several items must be included, such as fruit, kanom (sweets), and proteins -- duck, chicken, and pork. For those who choose to prepare the latter themselves (as opposed to ordering out or accepting items prepared by friends or relatives) this means almost a half to a full day of cooking, depending on how many pieces are to be cooked.

As part of our research we sat in on the preparation of "the three proteins" (that's my own term, not an official Chinese New Year term) in one Gat Luang household. The lady of the house is a graceful and gifted cook, and with the help of her daughter-in-law she turned out gorgeously glossy five spice-cooked chickens, ducks, and slabs of pork belly.

This type of Chinese stewing is fairly standard (and not at all limited to the new year): chickens, duck, pork belly are cooked till very tender in water combined with sugar, soy sauce, dark soy sauce, five spice, cinammon, star anise and perhaps a few other items. In this household the Thai touch takes the form of galangal stuffed into the duck, and unrefined local brown sugar and a thick bundle of cilantro roots and stems added to wok.

What most struck me as I watched this woman patiently, and with evident love, teach her new daughter-in-law (married less than a year) how to prepare these all-important foods was her concern with appearance. Of course -- when you're offering something to the spirits, gods, and your ancestors it must look its best!

And so, before the raw ducks were cooked their feet and heads were carefully arranged (feet crossed over breasts, heads tucked in and beaks down). Then they were carefully slid -- breast down to fix their positions -- into the simmering scented bath. And after a couple of hours they emerged from the wok tidy and peaceful-looking, a beautiful addition to the New Year offerings tray.

 

Our Year of the Rabbit

.

At Chinese New Year kanom kaeng (steamed sticky rice flour cakes) are sold everywhere in Chiang Mai's Gat Luang neighborhod

Yesterday the alleys of Gat Luang, the Chiang Mai neighborhood centered on Don Lam Yai and Warorot markets, smelled faintly of caramelizing sugar and five spice. Last night and this morning they were thick with folks on their way to make merit at Gat Luang's two Chinese temples. Families paraded in bunches and in single file, toting five-spice red-cooked whole ducks and chickens, slabs of pork belly, platters piled high with fruit, trays of kanom kaeng (steamed glutinous rice cakes similar to nian gao) and other goodies.

Today is the first day of Chinese New Year -- which in this predominantly Teochew Chinese-Thai neighborhood means cooking for spirits, ancestors, gods, relatives and friends. It also means firecrackers and lion dances, and air thick with smoke from smoldering paper offerings and thousands of incense sticks. This year, for us it's meant the opportunity to observe Gat Luang residents at home in the kitchen and at temple, in worship.

This trip to Chiang Mai is the first of many we look forward to making in the Year of the Rabbit. In 2011 Gat Luang celebrates its first 100 years, and we're honored to have been invited to collaborate with several locals on a year-long project to document daily life in this historic and fascinating market-centric neighborhood.

The culmination of all of our efforts will be a beautiful book on Gat Luang -- its history and living culture (markets, residents, economy, and yes, food) -- photographed by Dave, with text by me to accompany the photos. The end of 2011 or early 2012 will see an exhibition of Dave's photographs from the project. (Both book and photos will be available for purchase.)

Throughout 2011 we'll occasionally update you on our progress here and on the EatingAsia Facebook page, posting glimpses of this wonderful community in the form of out-takes from the book (and perhaps a few recipes). We'll also alert you to centenary happenings in Gat Luang.

(In the meantime, have a look at a slideshow and article on Gat Luang that we did last year for food and wine website Zester Daily, here.)

Gong Xi Fa Cai, everyone -- Happy Year of the Rabbit! Ours is off to a great start, and we hope yours is too.

 

 

The Open Arse of the Fruit World

No, EatingAsia has not gone pornographic.

The title's words are not mine, but Shakespeare's, employed in Romeo and Juliet to characterize the rather unattractive medlar fruit:

Now will he sit under a medlar tree,

And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit

As maids call medlars, when they laugh alone.

O Romeo, that she were, O that she were

An open-arse and thou a poperin pear!

I'd never heard of medlar before this last trip to Turkey. We spied this relative of the quince in several Istanbul markets. After a new acquaintance in Istanbul described the fruit's flavor (and clued me into the Shakespeare reference) we picked up a few hundred grams and left them on our kitchen counter to ripen.

And ripen they did. Or, more accurately, they "bletted" -- the word used to describe the rotting state in which the medlar is eaten. (I love the sound of that, by the way: "The fruit is bletted.") Unblettted, the fruit's flesh is hard and vanilla white. Bletted, it's mushy and brown, with the consistency of thick apple sauce.

You know the medlar is ripe when it's become wrinkly and is showing a wee bit of mold at the, er, open arse end. To eat it, spread the 'petals' and pry off the little 'cap' that sits in their center. Then squeeze gently, and the flesh oozes out the top. (You can also open it rather messily by ripping off the top and a few strips along the side and squeezing, as a market vendor did for us in this photo.)

The medlar is full of small hard seeds that you can just swallow or hold in your mouth as you use your tongue to separate them from the flesh. It tastes something like apple butter with a hit of lemon juice and some very ripe Bartlett pear thrown in. It's a comforting, autumn/winter flavor. Jelly is made from medlar, and we met a cocktail master in Istanbul who concocts a mixer with the flesh. But I can see it cleaned of seeds and spread as is, on a piece of toast with butter or between layers of a walnut cake.

Our new friendship with the medlar was an unexpected bonus of this wintertime trip to Turkey. We hope to meet again next year -- same place, same time.

In Kuching, A Good Cup in a Forgotten Corner

I have often thought about giving up coffee. Because as a traveller my life would be so much easier if I didn't need that first killer cup in the morning.

It's not as if I don't, or can't, consume other forms of caffeine. In fact it's not coffee but Diet Coke that delivers my wake-up jolt. There, I've written it for all to see: I wake up with Diet Coke. Every morning, whenever I'm home: half a can (I share one with Dave) to get me out the door and walking our dogs.

And sometimes, when we're on the road, half a can to get me out the door in search of ... coffee. Do I embarass myself by confessing that when we road-tripped in southeastern Turkey last June we hoarded Diet Cokes, scooping cans off convenience or grocery store shelves by the half dozen and stashing them on the floor behind our car seats so that we wouldn't have to go a single morning without? Our days in Gaziantep, Mardin, Midyat, Van, Kars, and Erzurum began with a muffled "thuup" as we opened our warm can of Diet Coke and passed it back and forth before hitting the streets. To look for coffee.

Because even after a Diet Coke I still need that cup of coffee, a good strong coffee, to set things right. Just one cup (well, a big cup) and I'm good to go. Most of the time I don't touch the stuff again for the rest of the day.

So we were in Kuching last week, and I had a problem. The local kopi wasn't doing it for me. I tipped back mug after mug (a Kuching-ism -- kopi is often served in mugs, Nescafe is in cups) to negligible effect. Asking for my kopi "gaeow" (which means "strong" and rhymes with "how") didn't do any good.

By our second morning in town I was seriously in need. And then we found Nam Seng.

It wasn't coffee that initially drew us into Nam Seng, but the shop itself. It is one of the loveliest old kopitiam we've ever seen -- wide and deep, with a red tiled floor and old wooden front counter ood and glass cabinets running its length along both walls.

Nam Seng is sited alongside an alley so one wall is pierced with windows. The coffee station occupies the shophouse's central airwell, which in fair weather is left open to the sky. Morning light loves its yellow walls.

The coffee is good, and if you ask for it to be made strong it will be.

Most of the coffee consumed in Sarawak (plantations in the state grow robusta and Liberica beans) is roasted without the addition of the butter/margarine and sugar that lends peninsular Malaysian kopitiam coffee it's beefy bitter edge. If it's not made strong enough all flavor disappears with the addition of sweetened condensed milk.

Not a worry at Nam Seng.

The kopitiam is run by a couple in their late sixties. They're not especially voluble but they're friendly enough, and he takes a quiet pride in the kolo mee and wonton mee he prepares at a stall parked at Nam Seng's entrance. The wonton mee alone justifies a visit.

Ordered "dry" it arrives graced with meaty slices of Hong Kong-style barbecued pork, thick-skinned wonton encasing a decent-sized plug of more pork, chopped, and perfectly al dente noodles dressed with nothing but cracklings and lard oil. Sliced chilies in white vinegar and clear broth are the only accompaniments.

Nam Seng has its regulars but it's sadly nowhere as busy as it once was. The same could be said for most of the businesses at this end of town, no doubt hit hard by the municipal government's lame-brained decision a few years ago to remove the Kuching's wonderful wet market from its riverfront. 

Nam Seng, Jalan Market, Kuching, Sarawak. Closed Sunday.

 

What Mr. Zhang Taught Me

Mr. Zhang taught me many things. Let's start with this: No Soy Sauce.

In September we ate, over the course of 5 days, seven or eight meals at the Chengdu "fly" restaurant of Zhang Lingchen and his wife. One thing I love about these low-key establishments is the accessibility of their kitchens. Want to learn how to cook a few local dishes? No need to sign up for a class. Just find a fly restaurant serving food you that strikes a chord and hang out in the kitchen.

Granted, some cooks will be more receptive than others to close observation and note-taking. When we asked, Mr. and Mrs. Zhang opened their door wide.

We had some wonderful meals at Mr. Zhang's table. They all came from a kitchen that justifies use of the  over-used adage "less is more".

A cement floor, a single window, two doors, a small refrigerator. Two gas burners (I only ever saw one used at a time),

a simple shelf holding wok-ready fresh ingredients,

and a wok-side table displying Mr. Zhang's mise en place.

Left to right, top to bottom (disregard the bowl at the very upper left; it's a dish in progress):

sliced green onions, Pixian chili bean paste, soy sauce, black vinegar

sliced green chilies, sugar, MSG, salt, chopped ginger

salted black beans, cornstarch, chopped garlic, thickly sliced garlic.

Not in the photograph are a bowl of chopped tomatoes, whole dried red chilies (2 varieties, one for fragrance and one for heat), and whole hua jiao (Sichuan "peppercorns"). On a shelf under the table, pickled ginger and pickled red chilies, and sliced local leeks.

Mr. Zhang's restaurant shares a narrow alley with a couple of others. His is always busy, even when his competitors are quiet. Many of his customers come from nearby construction sites and run tabs that they pay when they receive their salaries. But others come from beyond the neighborhood. After a couple of visits we saw familiar faces. We're not the only ones who like Mr. Zhang's food.

One of the restaurant's most popular dishes is corn and edamame stir-fried with sliced green chilies and sometimes, la rou -- pine bough-smoked and air-dried pork belly.

If you visit Chengdu you must eat la rou. And if you live somewhere with lax customs and visit Chengdu, you must pack at least 3 vacuum-packed kilos of la rou home with you. That's what we did in September, and we're wishing it had been 5 kilos.

One night I watched first Mr. Zhang and then Mrs. Zhang, when the Mr. disappeared on his motorbike for half an hour, make yumi huangdou larou pian (corn with edamame and la rou slices). As with many of Mr. Zhang's dishes this one contains no soy sauce. In fact, other than the la rou it incorporates no ingredients explicitly "Chinese".

This is one of a few things that I took away from Mr. Zhang's kitchen -- salt is used as often, perhaps more often, than soy sauce. I don't think I once saw him add soy sauce to a vegetable dish. Which, if you've ever gawped at the vegetables on display at a market in Chengdu, makes perfect sense.

When you're working with ingredients as beautiful as those which Mr. Zhang has at his disposal seasoning beyond salt would be overkill.

Mr. Zhang's Stir-fried Corn and Edamame with Sliced Bacon

This is not a difficult or time-consuming dish (that can be said for most everything from Mr. Zhang's kitchen, actually). After you've gotten your ingredients together -- which may be very quick indeed if you're using frozen veggies -- it will take all of three to five minutes to cook.

La rou is probably not available where you live -- substitute a really good quality bacon (smoked is best, but it doesn't have to be), or maybe guanciale, or any other super porky cured meat. Don't cut off the fat! And don't overdo it with the protein -- there's plenty of meat here, but it shouldn't overshadow the flavors of the vegetables. Instead the meat's saltiness and the smokiness of the wok should enhance them.

What makes or breaks this dish is a pan or wok hot enough to give a little smokiness. I've successfully stir-fried on an electric stove using a flat-bottomed non-stick frying pan, and I make do now with a wok and a crappy gas burner. The secret is letting your pan get so hot that a drop of water sizzles and evaporates on contact.

This is a great, easy anchor dish for a Chinese meal -- paired perhaps with something spicier and a plain soup. It's also wonderful topped with a fried egg!

1 or 2 long green chilies, sliced about 1/4-inch / 1/2-cm thick

1 to 1 1/2 cups each corn kernels and edamame -- if using frozen, do not defrost

1 1/2 - 2 inches/3-5 cm of bacon (or other cured pork product) sliced about 1/8-inch/ 1/4-mm thick

Salt

Cooking oil -- preferably rapeseed or peanut oil

1. Heat your pan/wok to very hot. Test by flicking in some water -- it should sizzle and evaporate.
2. Add a glug of oil, pick the pan/wok up and swirl the oil over its surface.
3. Throw in the green chili and bacon/pork. Stir-fry for 1 minute.
4. Add the corn, the edamame, and a pinch of salt. Stir-fry for 1-3 minutes. How long will depend on whether you're using fresh or frozen veggies and how hot your wok is. You only want to barely cook the vegetables. The corn should not be soft.
5. Taste a bit of vegetable for salt and add a bit more if necessary.
6. After one final stir, plate and serve, preferably with rice and maybe a simple soup or another stir-fry.

Just in Time for the Holidays: 20% Off Prints

For pig lovers only

Folks, we try to keep advertising to a minimum on this blog. But one of us makes his living from selling images, and the holiday season is upon us. So allow us this brief advertorial diversion.

For a limited time Dave is offering 20% off all prints. You can view and purchase from his galleries -- including George Town (Penang), Rice, Street Food, Markets, Coffee, the Philippines, Bali, Pulau Ketam, food-related and not -- on Photoshelter, here. He's just added two new galleries: one of images that beg to grace a kitchen or dining room wall, here. And another of his own favorite/best-selling images, here.

The fiery foods addict in me likes this trio of images, from the kitchen wall gallery:

As a markets hound I'm also drawn to this couple of photos, also from kitchen wall:

And street foodies should be able to relate to these two, from the Street Foods gallery.

Photoshelter prints and ships worldwide within a couple of days; previous purchasers have been pleased with the print quality.

To get your 20% off simply enter 'EatingAsia' in the coupon box upon checkout.

If you're looking for something specific and don't see it in the galleries, drop us an email (there's a 'Contact' link on our sidebar). And of course any image you've seen on this blog can also be made available.

Happy holidays, and thanks for your support.

A Wonton Mee Taste-Off

Early last Friday our friend H, a seriously food-obsessed Penang native, squired Dave and I to Jelutong, a suburb about 15 to 20 minutes -- in rush-hour traffic -- from George Town. At the entrance to the morning market H turned down a narrow lane and into a makeshift parking area, squeezing his dimunitive box of a car between two others.

We had wonton mee to sample -- two versions. A taste-off was at hand.

A few words about wonton mee in Penang: there it is less likely to be served with the sticky sweet char siew (barbecued pork) or multi-layered crispy/fatty Malaysian-style char yoke (roast pork) that adorns versions further south in Ipoh and Kuala Lumpur. Pink-edged, relatively lean Hong Kong-style barbequed pork is the norm.

Second, wonton mee eaters in Penang may choose to accompany their noodles with either steamed/boiled or deep-fried dumplings. Or both.

Finally, sambal belacan (chili sauce made with shrimp paste) is as likely a noodle go-with as are the pickled green chilies ubiquitous to wonton mee elsewhere on the peninsula.

We started at Kedai Kopi Lum Wah, a typical tile-floored corner coffee shop at the intersection of Jalan Jelutong and Jalan Penaga. H has been eating the wonton mee served here by a husband-wife team since he was a child.

The couples' noodles (H isn't convinced that they make the pasta themselves) are exquisite -- slightly transluscent and somewhat flattish, with a nice chew and even a bit of snap. "Q" (springy, chewy, elastic) to the max, in other words. There is certainly lard oil in the dark soy sauce mixture that dresses a "dry" order -- a positive characteristic, in our book. And the shavings of roast pork that sit atop each nest of noodles are moister and generally have more flavor that that which we've tried elsewhere on the island.

But the gold star of this wonton mee goes to the wonton. H ordered extra for he and Dave and I to share, and that was a Good Thing. With skins thin but not so delicate as to wimp out after 5 minutes spent in hot broth, the dumplings are dainty in proportion but packed with meat. And their incredibly flavorful pork filling isn't overly dense; like a meatball formed with the lightest of touches, it falls apart with the nudge of your tongue.

Next, we dove into the market, maneuvering our way past plastic bag-lugging shoppers to a cart fronting a vanilla bungalow with a dozen or so tables set on its concrete lawn.

The attraction here, H told us, is the sauce that dresses an order of dry wonton mee. Made with copious amounts of viscous black soy sauce, it's much thicker than usual, sticky and sugary. On its own, not so exciting, H points out. But when mixed with a spoonful of sambal this black goo is transformed into an roller coaster ride of sweetness, fishiness, and fire. Probably anything cloaked in it would be irresistible. The noodles certainly are.

Although this version's noodles aren't as notable as those at Lum Wah, they're better than average. The vendor's method -- boil, soak in cool water, and then reheat with a quick re-dip into boiling water -- insures a springy texture and a decent chew.

Also notewothy: plentiful nubs of crackling to mix through the pasta, and deep-fried wonton boasting sturdy but thoroughly crispy skins that somehow reminded me of thick potato chips. Be sure to ask for extra green onion when you order here, advises H.

This was meant to be a taste-off, but in reality we're talking apples and oranges here. On some days you're going to wish for meaty boiled dumplings and enticingly Q-Q noodles; on others, only over-the-top sweet, spicy stickiness and a crackly wing of wonton skin will do.

Either craving can be satisfied in Jelutong.

Wonton mee at Kedai Kopi Lum Wah, Jalan Jelutong just across from the entrance to the market. Mornings, off Sundays and public holidays.

Wonton mee inside Jelutong Market: enter the market across from Lum Wah and proceed straight up Jalan Penaga. Turn left just after the market building housing the fish section (it will be on your left). The stall is a few dozen paces ahead, on your right, in front of a cream house with green shutter. This stall is open Saturdays, Sundays, and when they feel like it.

 

 

 

To Market: Permanence and Evanescence in Luang Namtha, Laos

There was a time, when we were writing and photographing only for this site and not for a living, when our travels were all about marketing. Not the sort of marketing that requires credit cards and ends with stuffed shopping bags and a big dent in your bank account, but the kind you do if food is one of the first things you think about in the morning and among your last thoughts before bed before bed. The kind of marketing that sees you cruising crowded aisles while ogling fresh produce; trading smiles, hand gestures, and shrugs with vendors who don't speak your language any better than you speak theirs; stepping daintily between puddles in dimly lit, cavernous structures; holding your breath as you transit areas thick with the smell of caged fowl; and dodging pushcarts heaped with melons or bags of ice or pig carcasses.

Yep, Dave and I are market hounds -- connoisseurs, even. "Market before sights" is our motto; quite often sights don't figure at all into our travels around Asia and beyond. Click the 'Markets' category on our sidebar and you'll find market photos and ruminations from Mindanao to northern Sumatra. We've got a stack of notebooks and a store of photos focused purely on markets that would fill a small filing cabinet.

But this changed when we started traveling for work. Sure, we always make time to hit a market no matter where we are, but rarely anymore do we have time to do markets justice, to really dig into them the way we used to. To spend hours a day, days in a row, becoming a temporary regular. Names of produce and dried goods duly recorded, recipes eeked from busy vendors and chatty shoppers, connections made over a number of visits that enable Dave to get close with the camera.

What a refreshing change it was then, to find ourselves in Luang Namtha with no work and some time on our hands. We'd just wrapped up a couple weeks of work in Luang Prabang. We hadn't enough energy for a trek (perhaps next visit -- Luang Namtha is northern Laos' premier eco-tourism destination), but we did have a few days to ourselves in a beautiful place, with no internet and no obligations.

Of course, we reverted to our old ways. We hit the markets.

Our favorite by far was the morning market in Luang Namtha town. It's not a huge market, not a packed and heaving market. But it's a just-right kind of market. Small enough to cover thoroughly in a couple of hours, lively enough to draw us back several mornings in a row.

The market building itself is a typical small-town southeast Asian affair: open-sided, concrete pillars and wood cross beams supporting a high-pitched metal roof, a dirt floor, and several rows of permanent stalls displaying fresh and dried goods.

As you enter the market, flies buzz around a row of meat and fish stalls on the right-hand perimeter. Here too are upturned rattan baskets holding chickens awaiting their fate.

Far opposite are prepared food vendors offering cubes of rice flour jelly/cake in sour tomato water, scraping green papayas for salad,

pounding chilies and other ingredients for jaew (dips),

and rolling thick rice flour sheets speckled with bits of chopped scallion greens around pork. These rolls are then shallow-fried for a northern Lao-style spring roll, to be dipped in dark soy sauce seasoned with chopped fresh chilies.

This same vendor also makes a sort of filled dumpling by pouring rice flour batter into shallow ladles, adding a bit of pork, and then covering the pork with more batter before immersing the entire thing in hot oil. It must be said that these treats are incredibly greasy -- but absolutely delicious.

  

In between the meat sellers and the food makers are ladies (because in Laos women rule about 98% of the market) selling fresh herbs and leafy greens, dried fish and sakan (a woody stem that imparts peppery-ness to local stews and soups), mushrooms and banana flowers and pea greens, buffalo skin and mak tua nao (fermented and sun-dried soybean discs) tied in stacks, and goods imported from China: the ubiquitous oily chili-and-black-bean condiment called Lao Gan Ma (addictive, if you're into chilies) dried prickly ash (aka Sichuan peppercorn), ginseng, and dried sweet potato noodles. Among other things.

At the rear of the market several women cook broth for kao soi Lao and fer (the Laotian take on Vietnamese pho) in huge blackened pots set over wood fires. They'll serve their noodle soups all day long, at low picnic tables arranged in L and U shapes around their 'kitchens'.

Our favorite part of Luang Namtha's morning market exists for just a few hours each day. Each morning before dawn women and a few men converge on the patch of concrete in front of the market building. Plastic tarps are rolled out, newspapers and squares of cardboard unfolded and laid on the ground, bicycle-pulled carts parked and turned into display counters.

Braziers are fired up, for making sweet puffed cotton candy-like cassava crisps. Sellers squat behind their patch of concrete, arranging vegetables cultivated and foraged, small local river fish and the occasional batch of squid or prawns imported from Thailand,

wild birds, and the odd forest creature. The most plentiful items are mint, green onions (white portion sold separately from the green, which is generally eaten raw), watercress, yellow flowering mustard,

and bamboo.

There are other, less familiar vegetables -- including rice paddy herb

and clover, which we saw being harvested at the edge of dry rice paddies and alongside roads. Vendors told us it's eaten in soup.

An unusual find: puckeringly sour 'seeds', which the vendor called 'som pot' and said would be used to make 'mak som pot' -- dried, flattened discs of sourness to be used to flavor dishes?

And a favorite one: tart and spicy pickle of mustard leaves and chilies, sold with a frresh slivered scallion (the white part here) and feathery dill fronds. We are dedicated Pickle Lovers, and this preparation is one of the best we've encountered in southeast Asia. Dave and I took to purchasing a big bag every morning to add to and eat with our Lao kao soi and fer.

The corner of this evanescent section of the market belongs to rattan sellers, Akha women who trek to Luang Namtha from villages in the surrounding hills. You'd know them by their beautiful headwear

and the wooden yokes, attached to burnished rattan baskets, balanced on their shoulders.

Rattan -- yes, the same rattan used to make baskets and other furnishings -- as foodstuff was the most curious culinary discovery of our time in Luang Namtha.

It is the younger part of the rattan that's harvested for food. The sticks, which are covered with long thorns, are charred over an open flame and then stripped of their 'skin' with a sharp knife.

The inner core is boiled and its softened flesh pounded with shallots, garlic, cilantro, and various other ingredients and eaten as a dip, or added to soups and stews. (Note: you may be able to find bottled rattan shoots in Thai groceries.)

By 7:30am the crowd in front of the market is beginning to thin out. Arrive at 9am and you'll never know it was there.

Luang Namtha Morning Market -- every day, rain or shine. Arrive by 7am.