EatingAsia

A Fine Fritter

'Robyn!' Amy puts her hands on her hips and fake-frowns at me. 'Why'd you come so late!?'

Amy works for Pak Din, who mans the grill at his stall in the Lake Gardens. When it comes to ikan bakar (barbecued fish) Pak Din has few peers. Arrive after lunch and you'll find slim fish pickings; his stall's daily array of delicious curries, sambals, and vegetables is also likely to be depleted. Which explains Amy's consternation when we stroll in at 2:45p.

But this day we've come not for ikan bakar, but for another, less widely known Pak Din specialty: corn fritters. They're available weekday afternoons only, for just one hour. I've had the pleasure, but Dave - a bit of a corn obsessive - has not.

'Ah, fritters!' Amy brightens, then disappears out back of the stall and returns with three plates, which she lays on our table. 'Which do you like for pictures?' she asks. She knows us well by now.

After an unusually long wait (someone had called ahead to place an order for one hundred fritters) Amy emerges bearing a a mound of what appear to be jade and gold-flecked clouds. One bite confirms that these fritters are possibly the most artfully crafted deep-fried item on earth: barely a hint of grease, impossibly light, chewy and crispy at the same time. Studded with corn kernels (that's Asian corn, which is older, starchier, and less sweet than - but every bit as flavorful as - the varieties of corn eaten off the cob in the States), and bits of Chinese celery and red onion, and encased in a lacy armor of browned shallot shreds, they're impossible to resist. Even for a deep-fry-phobe like me.

The fritters are served with a sweet-hot dipping sauce, which Dave and I go hot and cold on. It's likeably spicy, but the main event is so scrumptious in and of itself that a dab of sauce seems gilding the lily. In the end we eat most naked (the fritters, not us).

We're not the only ones enjoying a mid-afternoon snack - several folks at tables around us are tackling plates heaped as high as ours, all by themselves. Pak Din's fritters are worth a drive across town. They merit putting cholesterol and calorie concerns out of mind for at least half an hour. And they definately justify playing hooky.

Ikan Bakar Pak Din, Tanglin Food Court, Jalan Cenderasari, Lake Gardens, Kuala Lumpur. Fritters are sold 230-330p, Mon-Fri (closed public holidays). Four fritters for one ringgit.

Last Malaysian Tastes ... For a While

I'm heading back to the States later this week.

While it will be great to see family and friends, smell that sharp San Francisco air (I'm hoping for fog), return to Manhattan (which Dave and I left 18 years ago - haven't been back since!), and eat fresh flour tortillas wrapped around New Mexican goat cheese and roasted green chilies while taking in the view from my parents' porch, there are a few things about this trip that I'm really dreading. Intra-US air travel, for one, driving on the wrong side of the road for the other, and - most of all - being without Malaysian food for 21 days. I've thought about trying to sneak in some sambal belacan to see me through, but I know I'd be sniffed out by an SFO security beagle in seconds.

So, I'm bulking up on Malaysian flavors before I leave. Saturday afternoon it was assam laksa which, for me, is more quintessentially Malaysian even than char koay teow and nasi lemak. There's something about assam laksa's sourness tempered by characteristically Malaysian sweetness, and the combination of intensely fish-flavored broth with the freshness of mint leaves, pineapple, and cucumber, that tell me I'm not in Thailand or Indonesia or Vietnam or the Philippines, but firmly on terra firma Malaysia. Assam laksa is also truly pedas (chili hot). I know the scuttlebutt is that Malaysian food is sooooo spicy, but I really don't find it so. Assam laksa is more the delicious exception to the rule than an accurate indicator of the overall spiciness of this country's cuisine.

This bowlful was had for lunch from a stall on Madras Lane, inside the Chinatown (Petaling Street) wet market. It's a good version, though I generally prefer my assam laksa soup to be thicker with fish flakes. The addition of chunks of canned sardine (yes, canned) is a nice touch and the sambal (you'll need to ask for it if you don't look like a Malaysian) is truly fiery. In two weeks I will so be pining for this lunch.

Assam laksa stall, Madras Lane, KL Chinatown. 830a-3pm, closed Monday. Note: it's the last stall in the row, directly across from the barley teh stall. Note also that vendors in this market are proprietary about seats - be sure to sit in the section of the vendor from whom you've ordered.

Overwhelmed...

...with deadlines and other demands. Normally my blogging mojo carries me through times like this but I seem to have misplaced it about ten days ago. Hope to be back in the swing by Monday.

In the meantime, we wrote about and photographed our favorite restaurant in KL for the May issue of Time Out Kuala Lumpur. (It's not on the site - trumped by an interview with Bobby Chinn.) The kitchen is pictured above. Any KL-ites know the place (not fair if you've seen the article)?

I also reviewed a darned good fish head beehoon in TTDI.

Nasi Ka-Pow!

Nasi Padang? Feh. So been-there-done-that. The problem with many of the nasi Padang places in and around Kuala Lumpur - the chain imports from Indonesia, especially - is that they seem to tone down the heat to suit milder Malaysian palates. So, when it's a burn we're hankering for nasi Kapau's a much better bet.

Warung Nasi Kapau, a small, squeaky-clean place on Jalan Raja Alang just up the street from Chow Kit Market, has been around for about twenty years. The owner and mistress of the kitchen migrated from Kapau (a small village about 10 kilometers from the western Sumatran hill town of Bukit Tingi) in the eighties; her sons work the front of the restaurant.

Places specializing in nasi Kapau display their tempting wares as those offering nasi Padang do, in pots and platters lined up in glass display cases.

Customers grab a serving of rice and then work the line, adding this and that to their plate. Or, they grapple with what's on offer as we prefer to, via a series of small plates. (Caution: the small plate approach is often the path to obscene overindulgence.)

A few things distinguish Kapau specialties from those of Padang: a preponderance  of green chilies (as the three dishes in the middle, above, illustrate), an occasional hint of tartness, lots of vegetable dishes, and HEAT. When it comes to chilies Kapau cooks don't pull any punches (ka-pow!).

Warung Nasi Kapau serves four types of sambal (chili sauce), including two types of sambal hijau (literally, 'green' sambal), made with the aforementioned chilies. These chilies, especially when combined with a bit of lime juice or lime rind, lend a very un-nasi Padang-like lightness to many dishes.

Particularly nice are the small fish, butterflied and deep-fried so crisp they can be eaten bones and all, topped with chilies and caramelized onions (second photo). Small eggplant roasted whole and swaddled in a tart chili blanket boast a superb creamy texture that's complemented by the slippery, silky sauteed peppers.

The restaurant's beef rendang is deep, smoky, and very tender, and its square tempeh 'cutlets' stewed in a mild turmeric-heavy gulai (coconut milk-based curry sauce) are wonderfully soybean-nutty.

Not every item at Warung Nasi Kapau is deadly spicy, but those that are, really are. Everthing we tried was hands-down delicious, but we left many a nasi Kapau stone unturned here. This place is the next best thing to the nasi Kapau stalls at Bukit Tingi's market. We'll be back.

Warung Nasi Kapau, Jalan Raja Alang, noon-12pm daily.

The Ephemeral Puff

He arrived in a cloud of (exhaust) smoke, four yellow plastic trays of curry puffs strapped to the back of his motorcycle.

'Puffs?' he asked, but we brushed him off. Yeah, yeah, curry puffs - a dime a dozen in this country. Besides, we were too focused on our clay pot of spicy gut soup to be distracted by mere pastry.

Then he laid a tray on the table and lifted its clear plastic tarp to reveal the biggest, fattest, most beautiful puffs we'd ever seen. We reconsidered. We bought two.

After finishing our soup and mopping our brows we pondered the puffs - exquisite works of pastry art they were, disks of layer upon layer of brittle golden dough folded over and sealed with neat pleats, their backsides a whorl of concentric circles.

With the merest of pressure shards of light, croissant-like layers fell away to reveal more filling than one usually finds in three puffs put together. Every inch of the dough pocket was packed with spicy curried potatoes so savory I'd swear they were mixed with meat (but he said they were not).

We wanted more. We stood up and looked around. But he was gone.

The beauty and the agony of the itinerant vendor, bearing untold treasures but perhaps - probably - never to be seen again.

For the Klang Valley's finest potato curry puff, try your luck in the vicinity of this restaurant in Seri Kembangan sometime between, say, 1 and 4pm (we didn't check our watches). One and a half ringgit per puff. Yes, relatively expensive for this common treat, but well worth it given the size, heft, and overall quality of this extraordinary puff.

Yu Sheng Worth Eating

A strange title for a post, perhaps, but when I started researching my article on yu sheng I had trouble finding anyone to describe for me their ideal version. Most Malaysians and Singaporeans, it seems, are somewhat indifferent to this dish that is so integral to Chinese New Year in Malaysia and Singapore. Yes, it's lucky and yes, it should be a part of any New Year banquet, but the consensus seemed to be that it rarely inspires cravings.

And I know why. Most versions of yu sheng are, to my palate at least, gloppy, overly sweet piles of unidentifiable ingredients with little discernible flavor, a dish of vegetables and fish (yu sheng means raw or fresh fish) that tastes nothing like either. Having eaten a few versions, I was content to never try another. Until Sunday.

I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose, to have been converted to yu sheng at Sek Yuen, an old-timer on the KL restaurant scene where much of the staff is original to the place and the kitchen is still fueled by wood. The restaurant began serving yu sheng in the early sixties, a year or so after it was popularized in Singapore, and they haven't changed a thing about the dish since.

The yu sheng is assembled at a lucky red-clothed, triple-tiered prep area at the front of the restaurant. Every ingredient is made or prepared in-house, making the dish an incredibly labor-intensive endeavor. Many restaurants have simplified the process by outsourcing some ingredients and leaving others out altogether.

Before the yu sheng comes together the staff marinates fish slices (jellyfish is another option) and ginger matchsticks in sesame oil. Then pickled ginger (two kinds - white and red), pomelo sacs, pickled green papaya, shredded green onion, pickled shallots, carrot and jicama strings, chopped peanuts, sesame seeds, julienned lime leaves, and chopped cilantro are heaped onto a platter and anointed with a drizzle of plum sauce. The lot is showered with strips of deep-fried won ton skins, garnished with lime wedges and green and red packets of white pepper and cinnamon, and served with the marinated fish.

It's up to diners to empty their packets of pepper and cinnamon onto the fish and give it a good mix before adding it to the other ingredients. Then, a squeeze of lime and much tossing with chopsticks, preferably while chanting a few lucky phrases to auspiciously usher in the New Year.

Sek Yuen's yu sheng is a textural marvel - the combination of six fresh and pickled ingredients, cut to almost exactly the same shape and size, culminates in one big, satisfying crunch. It's sweet from the plum sauce, but also boasts varying shades of tartness from pickles, lime juice, and fragrant lime leaves. The overwhelming flavors are of fish and vegetables, spiced up with ginger two ways (pickled and fresh) and white pepper. The cinnamon adds a subtle warm note. Won ton crisps (most other versions use colored crunchies of unidentifiable origin) - sturdy, grease-less, and wheaty - are delicious enough to eat on their own. Kudos to the restaurant for its light hand with the dressing and for its use of sesame oil; I've had more than my share of yu sheng drenched in plain old cooking oil - blech!

Balance, balance, balance. We eat at Sek Yuen at least twice a month, often more, and walk away from every meal wondering at the magic worked in that kitchen. The combined knowledge of the restaurant's chefs and prep cooks gives rise to dishes that are nuanced, complex, and always balanced. The yu sheng is no different.

The best illustration of the care taken at Sek Yuen, I think, are those red and green envelopes. They're wrapped by hand and their jagged, uneven edges suggest one-by-one, scissor-cut origins. Each year, Sek Yuen's staff cuts thousands of pieces of paper into rough squares, lays them flat on a table, spoons ground white pepper and cinnamon in their centers, and folds in the four corners. All this even though pre-filled packets can be easily sourced from a supplier.

For us Chinese New Year has always meant extra vacation days and a travel adventure. From now on, it will also mean yu sheng at Sek Yuen.

If you're in KL, you have two more days to try it this year.

Sek Yuen Restoran, 313-315 Pudu (almost at Jalan Pasar), Kuala Lumpur. Tel. 3-9222-9457 (though if it's busy your call may well go unanswered). Lunch and dinner, closed Monday. Serving yu sheng through this Thursday, Feb 21.

Magic Mushrooms

We're in the food court of our new favorite KL wet market and, having just finished coffee and toasted, halved buns sandwiching kaya (coconut 'jam') and grossly thick slabs of butter, are about to give up our seats, when my eye wanders to the other end of the table. Two young women are eagerly tucking into noodles. One of the eaters dives in with her chopsticks, secures a tangle, lifts it high, then brings it back down to the bowl. Over and over again she does this, coating the noodles in thickish dark goo.

We've been in Malaysia for a while now, and when it comes to tempting edibles we're getting pretty jaded. But Oh. My. Got to have one of those.

The old guy behind the cart serves plain old wonton mee and a not-too-uncommon twist on wonton mee, topped with stewed mushrooms and chicken feet instead of pork. Order 'everything, dry, mixed' and you get it all: a nest of both wide and thin egg noodles sauced with dark soy and topped with thickly sliced mushrooms, sticky char siew (barbecued pork), bits of chicken, chicken feet (we opt out on this item), and chopped green onion.

The pork's great and the chicken is fine, but what makes this dish is the overwhelming forest-floor essence of the funghi. The rest of the ingredients are bit, albeit pleasant players in this one-act play of shroominess. We've never eaten anything the likes of this pasta, not even in northern Italy at the height of fresh porcini season.

This guy could teach us a thing or two about coaxing every ounce of flavor from a mushroom. But if he's like most hawkers, he won't. All we can do is return to his stall to supplicate in front of another couple bowls of his magic mushroom mee.

Wonton mee stall, across from coffeeshop sporting yellow 'Hainan Tea' banner, food court of Imbi Market, behind Jalan Imbi, downtown Kuala Lumpur. Mornings. A mere 5 ringgit a bowl for everything but the chicken feet.

Commerce and Community

It's Not All Business at Kuala Lumpur's Pasar Bandar Baru Sentul

KLue  January 2008  Issue 111

Text: Robyn Eckhardt     Photos: David Hagerman

Should the Ministry of Tourism want images with which to promote multi-ethnic, multi-religious, multi-cultural Malaysia, it needn't look farther than Pasar Bandar Baru Sentul ('New' Sentul Market).

Ramshackle appearances aside, the thirty plus-year-old pasar is a Malaysia-Truly-Asia marketer's dream. The cavernous structure, anchored at one end by a Chinese temple,is located a short walk from Amru Ibni mosque and sits just across the street from Kuil Sri Maha Kaliamman (a Hindu temple). Inside, the market is a seamless transition, over the length of a football pitch, from Chinese to Malay and Indian sections, each populated by vendors of fresh ingredients and cooked delights.

A tiny pork stall, partially obscured from view by corrugated metal dividers, sits just behind the Chinese temple's main altar. Beyond, incense curls over the heads of grizzled caffeine jockeys filtering their thick brew, a couple tending to customers at their bounteous kuih cart, and sellers of noodles and yung tauhu. At tables interspersed amidst the food and drink stalls Indian and Chinese sup on curry laksa, char koay teow, and Cantonese fried mee as they're serenaded by the faint strains of Chinese opera.

Plastic net bags of mandarin oranges and bunches of bananas suspended from the rafters of fruit stalls mark the beginning of a vegetable section heavy on Malay and Indian goods. Stacks of burdock root and bundles of choy sum give way to curry leaves and daun kesom (polygonum), pristine pucuk paku (fern tips), and mounds of lengkuas (galangal). Seats and tables sit cheek to jowl with stalls offering me rebus and soto ayam, nasi lemak, freshly griddled chapati, and pillowy appam.

A row of sundries shops operated by Malays, Indians, and Chinese line the market's back wall. Indians heading to the temple pick up jasmine garlands at the flower shop as home cooks with curry on their minds queue for grated coconut and freshly extracted santan (coconut milk).

   

'Hey there, how you doing, Cat Man?' asks a Malay dad, young sons in tow, as he passes an elderly Indian gentleman scratching the heads of one of the market's resident felines. Cat Man beams at the kids, nods to their father. From behind the counter of a vegetable stall two rows over, a vendor in her thirties gently pushes a gratis bundle of chilies into the hands of a protesting granny.

In this cramped center of culinary commerce the residents of Bandar Baru Sentul seem to have found the sort of amiable coexistence that, at times, eludes other parts of the Klang Valley. It's a sociability that hasn't been willed from above, but that has come about as a result of the market's position between several large mixed-race housing flats. Sellers and customers live together, shop together, and eat together. Over more than three decades this commercial space has become not only an extension of the neighborhood but a source of community, and pride, as well.

'Look at this market!' instructs the youngest of a group of Chinese men reading newspapers and sipping teh tarik as, nearby, an elderly Indian woman rolls out dough for chapati.

'We've got everything,' he says. 'What do you want to eat? Malay food, Chinese food, Indian food? It's all right here!'

Four blocks away, opposite the mosque, the finishing touches are being put to a new three-story building. Its completion will herald the end of old Pasar Bandar Baru Sentul, a prospect greeted here with ambivalence. While most agree that the cheerfully painted structure's spanking new cleanness will be welcome, vendors fret over rents that will rise significantly with relocation. Meanwhile, customers worry about convenience; for the market's many elderly shoppers, especially, the extra walk will be a burden.

Then there is the new building's design. The old market vividly illustrates the social function of Kuala Lumpur's (and all of Malaysia's) traditional wet markets - there's more being exchanged here than goods and money. With its open layout, narrow aisles, and tables placed willy nilly, the old market effortlessly integrates business and pleasure. Should friends or acquaintances meet over piles of produce, there's invariably a spot nearby to which they can repair for a cup of coffee, all the while remaining within gossiping distance with the produce vendor.

In the new building fresh and prepared foods are relegated to separate floors. A food court, comprising stalls arranged single file along an exterior wall, facing outward and beyond conversation range of a clutch of permanently fixed tables and chairs, seems unlikely to encourage social exchange either among vendors or between sellers and customers.

'I just don't think I'll go there,' says an old-timer of the new market. If I want to eat, or even if I just want a cup of coffee, I've got to climb the stairs. And if I'm upstairs drinking coffee I'll miss my friends shopping downstairs.'

Only time will tell whether or not the new Pasar Bandar Baru Sentul will earn the affection of its community. The old market is a tough act to follow.

In the words of a banana seller no older than the market itself: 'This place, it's a classic.'

The Winson Berger

Some foods must be tried because ... well, just because.

We had grazed to beyond bursting at a great little market on the edge of Kuala Lumpur's Golden Triangle, and were on our way out when we were confronted with the Winson Berger.

Soft squishy buns, waxed pork, chicken floss. Initially, it's not tempting. But the Winson Berger has so many things going in its favor - the jerry-rigged portable prep station lashed to the back of a motorcycle, the funky hand-lettered sign, the jowly vendor.

Plus, there are customers. People are queuing for the Winson Berger. Two people are, anyway.

The grill's a nice touch. A bit of char can kick even the softest, squoogiest of breads up a notch.

Winson is generous with the waxed meat, which has had it's own turn on the barbie.

It's the first time I've eaten chicken floss voluntarily. I generally don't care for meat that's been processed to achieve the texture of cotton candy. But I want to experience a full-on Winson Berger, so I go with it.

It's surprisingly good. The bland soft bun and salty, chewy waxed meat work well together, the cucumber is fresh and crispy. Next time (yes, I think there just may be a next time!) I think I'll tweak my Winson Berger a little: leave off the floss, request double the amount of cucumbers and waxed meat, and skip the overly sweet chili sauce.

But if nothing else, the Winson Berger deserves a place in the pantheon of KL original eats.

Winson Berger, outside the entrance to Imbi Market (behind Jalan Imbi), downtown Kuala Lumpur. Most mornings (but not Sundays).

A New Home for the Elephant God

The streets of Kuala Lumpur hide small, usually anonymous treasures. We've often wandered past makeshift Chinese and Indian shrines tucked away in alleys or lodged under trees and wondered what they're about, how they came to be, who worships there.

Near Imbi market we're alerted to an auspicious Indian occasion by the presence of hanging decorations made from coconut leaves. A new shrine to Ganesha, the Hindu elephant god, remover of all obstacles, is being conscecrated by a priest (in black) and his assistant. We're waved over by the small group of worshippers.

The shrine, or tiny temple, sits at the base of a sacred Bodhi Tree, a type of tree that, we're told, is rarely found in Malaysia's urban areas. One of the worshippers, a young man, 'owns' the shrine. The idea to set it up just came to him, he says. He arranged for the consecration ceremony, hiring the priest and arranging for a vegetarian meal to be served afterwards. He will be responsible for insuring that the temple is maintained and, when necessary, re-consecrated.

The priest begins by purifying the ground around the temple with turmeric water. Observers get a spray of drops as well, and are then invited past the line of coconut leaf decorations and onto temple's 'grounds'.

Laid before and to the side of Ganesha are apples, oranges, and mangoes, bananas in coconut halves, and a plate of rice topped with vegetarian foods. All will be distributed to worshippers after the ceremony is over.

Incense is burned and a flame passed before and around the shrine. A sanctified coconut is split in half and its water poured before the god.

After offering chandan, a powder made from sandalwood, to Ganesha, the priest smudges it on the foreheads of worshippers.

Those observing the ceremony from the temple's temporary 'kitchen' on the other side of the fence get a smudge as well, and so do we.

Before the ceremony is finished fruit is distributed to worshippers. The priest places it on a metal plate, along with a flower from one of Ganesha's garlands. Recipients rest their fingers on the rim of the plate as the priest blesses the fruit.

And then we're invited to lunch. Over in the kitchen, a 30-second walk from the temple, rice is swaddled in banana leaves and cloth. It's spooned onto banana leaves laid side-by-side on a long, makeshift table.

Out come bowls of southern Indian vegetarian dishes one after another, so many I lose count.

There's cabbage stewed with turmeric and cubes of firm tofu in a chile-tomato sauce. There's gravy thick with chunks of eggplant and potato and carrot, curried pumpkin, a raita of yogurt, cucumber, and onion, and a wonderful rice treat sweetened with jaggery. And there's a fried cauliflower dish that's found on most Indian menus, but this version is the best we've ever eaten, light on batter and grease, long on spice, and so light it almost floats.

   

We're not the only non-Indians here. Next to me sits a Chinese man who's worked at the market for years and, next to him, another Chinese vendor and his son. All wear a smudge of chandan on their foreheads.

'I know these people from the market,' he tells me. 'They're my friends.'

The mound of food on our banana leaves grows even as our stomachs shrink. We're forced to refuse the repeated offers of seconds made by our hosts.

After a while the owner of the temple appears with the platter of rice that was offered to Ganesha and offers it around (see opening photo). Tonight he'll fly to Kerala to make the pilgramage to Sabarimala Temple, an annual pilgramage that's the second largest in the world, after the Haj.

It's an auspicious thing to do, ingesting this rice that's been given to the god, and everyone wants a handful.

When we can eat no more we push ourselves back from the table. We chat with a man who's brother supplied the delicious food; he himself is retired from 30-plus years in the kitchen of the French Embassy. He also owns a small temple in KL, he says, and holds a ceremony there every year.

Feeling incredibly full - and lucky, to have stumbled across this occasion and been invited to participate - we take our leave and head back to the car, carrying our bag of blessed fruit.

Note: Many thanks to our hosts. This is but one of several occasions on which we have been welcomed - with grace and wide-open arms - to observe and photograph religious rituals observed by Malaysia's Indian community. Last year we documented another, larger gathering, here and here.