EatingAsia

In Kota Bharu, A Friendly Hello and a Killer Soup

It rained buckets our first evening in Kota Bharu. We sat in our room sipping vodka we'd brought from Penang, watching the sky turn from mud to black and waiting for the rain to stop. It didn't. So around half past seven we grabbed umbrellas and went in search of dinner.

Big mistake.

Kota Bharu goes to bed at sunset. The streets were empty, the sidewalks rolled up. We splashed our way past Pasar Siti Kadijah to the night market and found it a shadow of its 2005 self. There were no crowds, no buzz. Nor was there anything tempting on offer at the few stalls weathering the storm.

So we headed back to the hotel, passing fast food joints belching out that nasty elixir of too-sweet baked goods, preservatives and grease that hangs over airport food courts. No thanks. We'd rather go hungry, and were reconciled to doing so until we turned onto Jalan Tok Hakim and saw, three blocks up, a promising glow.

'Hello my friend!" shouted the white taqiyah-capped proprietor as we stepped over the threshold of Kedai Kopi Din Tokyo.

Pak Din grinned at us as if we were long-lost friends, then pointed  to a place at his counter. "Come in, come in! What will you eat? What will you drink?"

Kedai Kopi Pak Din Tokyo is an indoor kuda, the Kelantanese term for old-fashioned coffee stalls with U-shaped counters and long wooden benches that must be mounted like a steed (kuda is Malay for horse). Inside the interior of the U sits a big boiler on legs where Pak Din makes good, strong Chinese kopitiam-style coffee and tea by pouring water through grounds-filled cotton socks suspended from metal rings. At the U's base is a long stainless steel trough over which he "pulls" tea by pouring it glass to glass, stirs quail eggs into hot ginger infusion and steeps eggs in boiling water before serving them in classic kopitiam green-and-white saucers.

Short and sturdily built, Pak Din is a blur taking orders, serving drinks and food, selling cigarettes, making change and shaking hands, all the while spewing friendly banter and communicating, via the occasional shout, with the kitchen at the back of his shop. If there's a break in the action he makes good use of it, wiping down counters, replenishing the water boiler from a red plastic bucket and keeping glasses -- always at the ready, stacked in a drainer over the trough -- warm with splashes of water from the boiler.

What would we eat? On a night like this, our backs wet and our pants soaked to our knees, something hot and comforting sounded about right. So thought Pak Din's patrons, most of whom were leaning over bowls of the house specialty: sup ekor (oxtail soup).

We ordered two bowls of soup and spooned it up slowly, marvelling at this concoction of meat, bones, tendons, cinnamon, star anise and nutmeg that tasted too good to be medicine yet instantly rendered us healthy, happy and certain that the world is a beautiful place. The hyper-distilled broth was deep, real deep, a gut-punch of meat essence. When we got to the bottom of our bowls it came as no surprise to find them stained sup ekor brown.

By now the rain had stopped but we lingered, reluctant to leave the comradely warmth of Pak Din's U. We ordered a hot milky teh tarik just for the enjoyment of watching his exuberant way with the pull, and then another because the first was so darned tasty, the tea strong and bitter enough to not be overwhelmed by sweetened condensed milk. We sauntered back to our room wired and satisfied.

We returned to Kedai Kopi Pak Din the next day and the next and the next, always around 7am for our caffeine fix and then once or twice again, for tea and a banana leaf-wrapped nasi lemak or a few Kelantanese kuih plucked from the trays and plates lined up along the inside edges of the counters. During the day Pak Din's staff set tables out front of the shop, and if there were no places at the U two were always found for us there.

On our last day in Kota Bharu, after a morning of too much food and before the long drive back to Penang, we stopped in to bid Pak Din farewell. Dave couldn't resist ordering a couple of soft-boiled eggs. When they arrived he followed the lead of other diners and blanketed them with black pepper from a shaker on the counter. (That black pepper is a Kelantanese touch, courtesy of the state's long-porous border with southern Thailand. In other parts of Malaysia it would be white).

We agreed that if we lived in Kota Bharu -- which would never, ever in a million years happen -- Kedai Kopi Pak Din would be a daily stop, if not for the sup ekor, the coffee, or the soft-boiled eggs then simply for the pure pleasure of Pak Din's hello.

Kedai Kopi Din Tokyo, 3945 Jalan Tok Hakim, downtown Kota Bharu, Kelantan; 012/959-0153.

Not Your Usual Grilled Chicken

Way back in July we spent some time in Kota Bharu, the capital city of Kelantan state, in the northeast of the peninsula, working on a feature story for Travel+Leisure Southeast Asia's September 2011 Food Issue.

Khota Baru or KB, as Malaysians call it, held many surprises for us. In what is often described as the country's most conservative Islamic state, we found its friendliest people -- warm and incredibly welcoming to outsiders. And there, in a city that most tourists breeze through on their way to the Perhentian islands, we ate as well as -- maybe even better than -- than we do in Penang. The food in Khota Baru and around is mind-bogglingly good.

We ate the best of many great meals in Wakaf Baru, a scruffy town about 20 minutes from downtown Kota Bharu by car. I opened my article with a paen to that dinner, which we'd never have had the pleasure of eating if not for the guidance of Kota Bharan hotel manager by day and food writer by night Addie Chang:

Waiting on dinner in Wakaf Baru, I sipped grassy sugar cane juice and watched bullets of rain bounce off a Singapore-bound train. When the last car had passed families popped out of vehicles parked on the other side of the tracks and made their way across to Restoran Kampung Kulim. The restaurant's dining area, a corrugated metal-shaded patch of concrete furnished with plastic tables and chairs, comes with a view of a Thai Buddhist wat, one of hundreds in this northeastern Malaysian state where 95% of the population is Malay and Muslim.

The family that owns and runs Kampung Kulim are Hokkien Siam, a term for descendents of marriages between immigrants from China’s Fujian province and Thailand. They speak a mixture of  Malay, Fujianese and Thai, a linguistic fusion that plays out on the plate in dishes incorporating coconut milk and chilies, bitter melon and taucu (fermented bean paste), curry paste and budu, a wincingly odiferous fermented fish condiment beloved in southern Thailand and along the northeastern Malaysian coast.

We ate a few dishes that night: hong bak, an intriguingly salty-sweet stew of pork belly made with star anise and copious shavings brown palm sugar, mustard leaves simply fried with sliced pork and dang hoon heh, a sparingly seasoned red coconut curry with whole prawns and vermicelli.

But the dish that stays with me 9 months later is siew gai or grilled chicken. I have eaten much grilled chicken in my time in southeast Asia. Restoran Kampung Kulim's is sublime, as in beyond-description sublime. I could have written 1,000 words about that siew gai alone. But then half my article would have been about chicken.

It's all in the technique, as Dave and I found when we walked out back of the restaurant to its open kitchen. There we found a lean, mean septuagenarian grilling machine laboring over a coconut husk-filled trench, using upturned, jerry-rigged cracker tins to infuse their birds with extra char.

After dropping a whole chicken -- unmarinated, lightly salted -- onto an upright "spit" set in the middle of the coconut husk embers (think beer can chicken with a rod replacing the can), the master griller drops a square cracker tin on top. As the fire rages around the can, creating enough heat to brown and crisp the chicken's skin, the coals beneath the chicken burn slow enough to cook its flesh without drying it out. Exces oil drips out of the chicken carcass during the cooking process. After just 20 minutes the bird is finished.

When the chickens are done the grill master passes them on to his colleague, who commands the chopping block. Before they're served he arranges the cleavered birds on a banana leaf round -- a nice touch that lends a bit of extra fragrance to the dish. 

These two gentleman have been working together at the restaurant for decades, they told us. (They're both also farmers.) Surprised at first to find themselves being photographed, they quickly relaxed and got into it.

Presumably everyone who eats at Restoran Kampung Kulim knows the story behind its spectacular grilled chicken, but I'm not sure how many diners make their way behind the scenes to thank these men for their brilliant work. After all they're just doing what they've been doing, day after day, for years.

For more from our time in Kota Bharu, visit Dave's photographic tour here.

On Hainanese Cuisine, Or How Chicken Chops Became Comfort Food in Malaysia

A classic Hainanese coffeeshop breakfast: coffee and charcoal-grilled toast with butter and kaya,usually accompanied by a soft-boiled egg

About eighteen months ago Dave and I were approached by the editor of a new Dutch food magazine called Sabor. Would we be interested in doing a feature story on the topic of our choice for the inaugural issue, he wondered? In fact, for years we'd wanted to write and photograph a story on Malaysia's curious culinary mish-mash known as "Hainanese food". So in late 2010 we spent some time in Kuala Lumpur and on Fraser's Hill researching the story for Sabor.

Sabor published its first issue last August. It's a beautiful, substantive food magazine the likes of which I wish there were more of: a great mix of stories high-brow and low-brow, on dining from the street to tables in starred restaurants, focusing on chefs and producers and cooks and eaters of all stripes. The photography is beautiful and the layout is gorgeous. Our Hainanese piece was given 20 pages; needless to say the photographer was pleased. If you're interested, have a peek at, or download, the story here.

The second issue of Sabor is out now. If you're in the Netherlands and read Dutch (or not, but enjoy looking at wonderful food photography) please pick up a copy and support this new venture.

Our next story for Sabor, on Hanoi, will appear later this year. In the meantime, now that Issue No 1 is off the newstands, we give you here the original English text and photos: Hainanese food and Hainanese cooks in Malaysia, with recipes.

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Just another busy day at Yut Kee

    Soon after I arrived in Kuala Lumpur a Malaysian friend invited me out for a Hainanese meal. Hainan is a Chinese island province in the South China Sea, about halfway between southern China and Vietnam, and in the mid-eighties I idled there for an entire August. I spent every day just like the one before it, hiking past cows grazing in coconut palm groves, swimming off pristine stretches of sand and gorging on whole snapper, plump prawns and lobsters with tails the diameter of my wrist, all steamed with garlic and ginger.

    After almost three decades I can still taste those simple yet stunning lunches and dinners. My chum’s invitation threw up the possibility of having those flavors close to hand once again, and I was thrilled.

     Imagine my surprise a few days later when I found myself staring down a chicken chop. My friend and I had just been served at Yut Kee, a Hainanese-owned stalwart of Kuala Lumpur’s dining scene for over 90 years. The corner coffee shop's chicken chop -- a mostly de-boned leg and thigh deep-fried, topped with peas, cubed carrots and corn kernels and bathed in glossy Worcestershire sauce-seasoned onion gravy -- is one of its signature dishes.

    This was my first taste of Malaysian Hainanese cuisine. It was as far from the dishes that I’d fallen for on Hainan as much of what passes for Cantonese food in America is from the food eaten served in Guangzhou. Once I got over my shock, however, I had to admit that chicken chop was a work of art in its own right. I soon became a Hainanese food devotee and Yut Kee regular.

    Chops are just one of the pantheon of dishes with origins variously Western, Chinese or a combination of the two recognized in Malaysia as “Hainanese”. In addition to chops, Malaysian Hainanese cooks are known for their breakfasts -- soft-boiled eggs served with steamed or charcoal-toasted soft white bread -- chicken pot pies, steaks, and Hailam mee, noodles cooked with prawns, pork and vegetables. They're credited with making some of the best kopi (coffee) -- thick, dark and usually mixed with sweetened condensed milk -- in Malaysia. And they poach whole chickens and serve the meat sliced, accompanied with oily chicken stock-enriched rice and dipping sauces made with ginger and fresh chilies, for a dish known as “Hainan chicken rice”.

    Malaysian Hainanese is a hodgepodge cuisine, a product of the country’s history as colony (the British controlled much of what is now Malaysia and Singapore from the mid-19^th century until 1946) and adopted home of waves of immigrants from Asia and beyond. Today ethnic Chinese make up a little over a quarter of Malaysia’s population. They arrived in stages, beginning in the 1700s with traders from the southeastern Chinese province of Fujian (who are known as Hokkien). Hakka, Cantonese and Teochew followed. They arrived early enough to have their pick of jobs in tin mining, rubber production, agriculture and other professions.

    Hainanese Chinese were among the last to make their way to British Malaya, beginning in the late 1800s and continuing into the early 20^th century. By that time Cantonese, Teochew, Hokkienese and  Hakka clan associations, which were established to help new arrivals find work and housing, had secured a lock on most employment opportunities. So many Hainanese ended up taking positions as cooks in British military camps and in the homes of British expatriates and wealthy Chinese, where they learned to turn out perfectly cooked roasts, make cream of mushroom soup, boil eggs just so, fry up crispy chops and knead dough for bread and pastries. Soon enough they put this experience to use in their own restaurants and coffee shops, where they cobbled together the elements of what came to be known in Malaysia as Hainanese cuisine.

    Yut Kee embodies the Hainanese gastronomic odyssey. “My dad was born in Hainan in 1887 and came to Malaysia when he was in his teens,” says Yut Kee’s son Jack Lee late one afternoon as his busy shops begins to quiet down. Sixty-six year-old Jack runs Yut Kee with his own son Mervyn, who will carry on the family business when Jack is ready to step down. 

    Yut Kee looks as if it has hardly changed since Jack’s father opened its doors in 1928. It occupies a typically long and narrow Malaysian Chinese shop house open across the front on the ground floor with a kitchen in the back and living quarters upstairs. Ceiling fans rotate lazily over the always-crowded dining room, where Malaysian regulars and tourists (Yut Kee’s reputation has spread well beyond Malaysia) sit in bent timber chairs at marble-topped tables arranged on a green and white tiled floor.

    Hainanese cooks mastered not only Western savories, but sweets as well. Displayed near the cash register, in a vintage wood and glass case, are Yut Kee’s desserts: marble cake and fat logs of ethereally light butter cake rolled around a filling of kaya, a rich caramel-ish coconut milk-and-egg “jam”. Yut Kee’s signature inky coffee is made the old-fashioned way -- by pouring boiling water over grounds in a cotton “sock” filter suspended from a metal ring -- in a cubby hole just off the rear of the dining room. Cloudy mirrors on opposite walls maintain good feng shui. Hanging on a wall near the middle of the shop is a large photograph of a young Yut Kee, the spitting image of Jack and Mervyn with his rounded cheeks and upturned nose.

Jack Lee during a rare quiet moment at Yut Kee

    Yut Kee died just three years after Jack was born, so “everything I know about Dad I heard from my mothers,” he says. Multiple wives wasn’t so unusual in Yut Kee’s day, and after he died his three wives ran the business, dividing duties amongst themselves: one took charge of the coffee area, another oversaw the cash register and the third, Jack’s birth mother, kept the kitchen humming. Today Yut Kee opens for breakfast at 7am and closes, after the last customer has taken his or her beer and chicken chop or cup of coffee and kaya roll, around 5 or 6 in the evening. In Yut Kee’s time the place operated as a full restaurant – the “in” place for night clubbers, Jack winks -- and didn’t close its doors till 3 or 4 in the morning.

    Jack grew up in the shop. “I worked a bit in the kitchen, but I wasn’t sure if I would keep with it,” he remembers. But in 1970, when his mothers were getting on and the day-to-day became a challenge for them, he took over. “They had put so much effort into the business, so I thought, ‘Let me continue with it.”

    Today much of what’s served at Yut Kee is true to the original menu. Though cutlets (prawn, crab, and pork) and Jack’s father’s signature steamed fish with cream sauce are no more, chicken curry -- tender bone-in pieces in a fiery sauce flecked with fresh curry leaves – spicy-sou asam fish, perfectly prepared chops, Hailam mee (noodles with prawns and pork), and toast served with kaya remain. When he took over Jack added a few items such as beef stew and rice stir-fried with belacan (Malaysian shrimp paste) to the menu.

    Yut Kee is perhaps best known for its roti babi (“pork bread” in Malay), an over-the-top, eat-with-your-hands snack consisting of a thick slab of white bread stuffed with pork and crabmeat, coated in egg, and shallow-fried. Visit Yut Kee anytime after 10am and you’ll find at least one order on every single table.

    Butter cake and chops, noodles and a mish-mash east-west dish like roti babi. What exactly is Hainanese food? A “fusion of confusion,” in Jack’s words. But as far as he’s concerned there’s no doubt which Chinese Malaysian cooks can lay claim to the chop:

    “You certainly won’t find any Hokkienese, Teochew, or Cantonese chicken chops!”

 ***

Arundel, on Fraser's Hill

    While many Hainanese cooks transported their skills from colonial-era homes to their own coffee shop, others stayed in private kitchens . The fruits of their culinary prowess can still be enjoyed in a few hotels and bungalows found in colonial hill stations dotted around peninsular Malaysia.

    With its polished plank floors, wood-paned windows, stuffed sofa and chairs, and clipped lawn bordered by temperate blooming flowers and shrubs, Arundel would be right at home in the English countryside. Instead the four-bedroom black-and-white bungalow sits at 1,500 meters two hours outside of Kuala Lumpur on Fraser’s Hill, a former tin-ore trading post turned British hill station in 1922. Set amidst pristine forest threaded with walking trails and often shrouded in fog or rain clouds, the former hill station is a popular weekend and school holiday getaway for Malaysians, who come to take in the clean, cool air and enjoy the green and quiet.

    But I’ve come to Arundel, one of two early 20^th-century houses sharing a prime spot of land at the end of a cul-de-sac, to experience Malaysian Hainanese cooking in situ. For almost 50 years the bungalow’s kitchen was the domain of Tan Kee Tain, a Hainanese cook who arrived in Malaysia in the 1920s. Four and a half years ago Tan died at the age of 82, but not before passing his culinary knowledge on to his daughter-in-law Lam Foong Ling.

Teatime at Arundel: freshly baked scones and a photograph of a young Mr. Tan

    Over tea, homemade scones, and jam in Arundel’s sitting room Mr. Tan’s daughter Nancy Yap, who supervises the bungalow, shares memories of her father. “He didn’t come to cooking naturally – at first it was just a job,” she tells me. Nancy’s father held a number of jobs around British Malaya before making his way to Fraser’s Hill, where some of his relatives worked in other bungalow kitchens.

    “But once he began cooking, he really enjoyed it.” As if to illustrate her point she shows me photos: a lean, young Mr. Tan sitting with a big grin on a curb outside the bungalow and another of a middle-aged Mr. Tan showing off a chicken pot pie with a mile-high puff pastry crust. Then there's a snapshot of white-haired, septuagenarian Mr. Tan in Arundel’s kitchen, demonstrating the art of bread-making to a half-circle of enraptured Malaysian housewives.

    Madam Foong, Mr. Tan’s daughter-in-law, mimics her teacher’s savvy with dough and sweet breads; our scones are rich and buttery, golden outside, a light crumb within. She began to study with Mr. Tan a decade ago. “My kids had left home and I had nothing to do. I always liked to cook. He said, ‘Why don’t you come and work in the kitchen?’ And I thought, ‘Why not give it a try?’”

Hailam mee at Arundel

    Over two days at Arundel I dine on a parade of exquisitely prepared Hainanese classics: crispy pork cutlets bathed in a Chinese sweet rice wine and soy sauce-spiked gravy, Hailam noodles with sliced pork and briny shrimp, garnished with crispy caramelized sliced shallot and perfectly poached Hainan chicken made with a free-range bird and served with zesty fresh ginger and chili sauces. Every meal is accompanied by green vegetables – slender string beans, perky leaf lettuce, crispy baby bok choy – plucked fresh from Arundel’s kitchen garden and stir-fried with Madam Foong’s expert touch. Teatime brings baked goods -- scones of course, and one of Mr. Tan’s specialties: tender, chewy twists of potato-enriched dough sprinkled with sugar and grated orange rind.

    Asked what she most enjoys about cooking, Madam Foong smiles wide and answers quickly: “Roast lamb. I love cooking Western dishes.” Mr. Tan's Hainanese culinary legacy is alive and well on Fraser's Hill.

***

In the kitchen at Yut Kee

    Back at Yut Kee, Jack has promised to show me how to make the shop’s iconic dish: roti babi. But when I arrive after lunch on a Thursday he’s had a change of heart. “Let Mervyn do it,” Jack says, with a nod to his son, who’s standing behind the cash register adding up receipts. “Mervyn’s coming up now. He’s the new generation.”

    Like his father, 30-year-old Mervyn grew up in Yut Kee. After earning a university degree in the United States he returned to Malaysia and joined the business. Putting his knack for systems management to use, Mervyn is adding polish to Yut Kee’s inner operations. But his attachment to the place comes from the heart, all but guaranteeing that the spirit of Yut Kee won't change.

    Mervyn also knows his way around Yut Kee’s well-worn, sometimes bordering-on-chaotic kitchen. I watch as he minces pork by hand and carefully cuts pockets into two thick slices of bread. After stir-frying sliced onion, Chinese sausage and pork with Worcestershire sauce for the roti babi filling he adds jicama, instructing “The jicama goes in last because I like to keep it a little bit crispy.”

    Then the secret of Yut Kee’s version of roti babi is revealed: instead of beating whole eggs for dipping the bread Mervyn separates yolks and whites, beats the latter to stiff peaks and then gently folds them into the beaten yolks. When the stuffed bread is dipped into the mixture it emerges with an impossibly thick layer of egg that browns beautifully, flawlessly, in the oiled skillet.

    What emerges from the pan is an almost oil-free fluffy bread pocket spilling tender pork and a touch of crab meat. The Worcestershire is a barely detectable back note, a hint of sweetness and salt that plays off the richness of the pork and shellfish. While the onions are soft and caramelized the jicama retains a bit of bite, offering a welcome bit of textural contrast.

    After plating his roti babi Mervyn heads back out to the cash register. Jack sits at his usual spot, near a table at the entrance, gabbing with regulars and wishing passers-by a pleasant evening. In downtown Kuala Lumpur, as on Fraser’s Hill, Hainanese cuisine is alive and well.

***

Lunch at Arundel: Hainan Chicken Rice w/two dipping sauces and Hailam mee

HAINAN CHICKEN RICE

According to Mr. Tan’s daughter Nancy this is one of the few Malaysian Hainanese dishes that can also be found on Hainan, in her father’s home of Wenchang. This simple preparation demands the best ingredients, so if you can, use a free-range bird. The mark of a good Hainan chicken is flesh that is just barely cooked; you don’t want the meat to get tough.

The chicken, rice, and dipping sauces can comprise an entire meal, but you might also serve a light soup of green leaves (bok choy perhaps, or choi sum) cooked  in diluted chicken broth with a slice or two of ginger.

FOR THE CHICKEN:

And approximately 2-kilo chicken, preferably free range

2-inch piece old ginger

Salt

1. Bring a pot of water (large enough to accommodate the whole chicken) to the boil.Wash and dry the chicken. Drop a few pinches of salt into the body cavity, along with the ginger.
2. Place the chicken into the pot, laying it breast up. Bring the water back to the boil, then lower to a slow simmer and place a lid on the pot. After 20 minutes turn the chicken over. Continue to simmer for another 20 minutes. In the meantime, fill another pot (or large bowl) – also large enough to accommodate the whole chicken – with cold water.
3. After about 40 minutes remove the chicken from the pot, reserving the broth, and plunge it into the cold water. Leave for 20 minutes. Remove and gently pat dry with paper towels. Set aside, propping the chicken up so that any water in the body cavity can drain out.

FOR THE GINGER SAUCE:

2 inches old ginger

2 green onions, white part only

Reserved chicken stock

Salt to taste

Sesame oil – scant 1/4 tsp (optional)

1. Chop and pound in mortar (or whir in blender or food processor) the ginger and the onions. The result should be a barely lumpy puree.
2. Remove to a small bowl and stir in approximately a tablespoon of stock from boiling the chicken (try to include some of the chicken fat as well) and salt to taste. If you like, add just a couple drops of sesame oil.

FOR THE CHILI SAUCE:

2 cloves garlic

2 small fresh hot red chilis

2 large mild fresh red chilis

½ inch old ginger

Chicken fat skimmed from stock

2 kalamansi or ½-1 whole lime

Salt to taste

1. Chop and pound in a mortar (or whir in blender or food processor) the garlic, chilies, and ginger. The result should be a barely lumpy puree.
2. Remove to a small bowl and stir in a bit of chicken fat from the boiling stock, and the juice of 2 kalamansi or ½ whole lime. Taste and adjust for salt and kalamansi/lime juice. The dipping sauce should be hot and tart, but not overwhelmingly sour. It’s meant to balance the richness of the chicken meat and rice.

FOR THE RICE:

2 red shallots

2 cloves garlic

2 1/2 cups rice 

3 3/4-4 cups stock from boiling chicken

2 pinches salt

black soy sauce

1 pandan leaf (if available)

1. Finely mince shallots and garlic, and quickly fry in a dry wok or pan just until they begin to color. Remove from the pan and place in a rice cooker, along with the rice, chicken stock, salt, soy sauce, and pandan leaf. Turn the rice cooker on cook as usual.

TO SERVE:

1 cucumber, peeled and thinly sliced crosswise

2 green onions (scallion), white and green part, thinly sliced lengthwise

fresh cilantro sprigs

1. Arrange the cucumber slices on a platter in a single layer
2. Prepare the chicken: If you prefer, remove the skin from the breasts and legs and thighs. Separate legs and thighs and cut each of the four pieces in half with a cleaver or sharp knife. Carefully remove the breast meat from the bone and cut into 1 ½-inch thick slices.
3. Arrange the breasts and legs/thighs neatly on top of the cucumber. Lightly toss the shallot slivers and cilantro sprigs together with your fingers and place them on top of the chicken.
4. Serve the chicken with the two sauces, the rice and any leftover broth, reheated (or a light soup of green leaves parboiled in diluted broth).

Mr. Tan's -- and now Madam Foong's -- orange twists

ORANGE TWISTS

These light, not-too-sweet orange-fragrant rolls are frequent accompaniments to afternoon tea at Arundel and Bunge. Fresh milk was hard to come by on Fraser's Hill, thus the use of powdered milk..

According to Nancy Tan her father learned this recipe from an American who stayed at Arundel many decades ago. After experimenting with the dough he began to use it for other baked goods as well. Madam Foong advises that the finished dough can be halved, with one half used the same day for these orange twists and the other refrigerated and used within three days for fried donuts, cinnamon buns, or dinner rolls. (If you go this route be sure to use only half the amounts specified when you make the filling)

Makes approximately 34 twists

FOR THE DOUGH:

2 scant Tbsp dry yeast

6 oz. warm water

¼ tsp sugar

2 cups hot water

3 Tbsp milk powder

1 ½ cups vegetable shortening

1 cup white sugar

½ Tbsp salt

1 cup mashed potato

2 eggs

8 – 8 ½ cups plain flour

Flour for kneading

 

FOR THE FILLING:

 

8 Tbsp butter, softened

4 Tbsp sugar

Grated zest of 3 oranges

 

1. Dissolve yeast and sugar in warm water. Set aside for yeast to rise, about 15 mins. Dissolve milk powder in hot water. Set aside to cool slightly.
2. Cream shortening with white sugar. Stir in salt. Pass mashed potato through fine sieve into dough. Stir to combine.
3. Beat the eggs and stir them into the water/milk powder mixture. Add to dough and stir to combine thoroughly. Sift flour into dough and stir to combine. Start with 8 cups and add more if necessary – the dough should be smooth and no longer sticky. Place dough in bowl and cover with a damp towel. Place in refrigerator for one hour.
4. Remove dough from refrigerator and turn it out onto smooth surface lightly dusted with flour. Flatten and knead lightly for several minutes. Return to bowl and place back into refrigerator for at least 1 and not more than 6 hours.
5. Grease two large cookie sheets. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and divide in two. Set one piece aside and cover with a damp cloth. Knead the other lightly for several minutes and then use a rolling pin to flatten it into an approximately 24-inch by 12 inch rectangle.
6. Spread the rectangle of dough with 4 Tbsp soft butter and sprinkle evenly with 2 Tbsp sugar and half the orange zest. Slide a floured knife underneath the dough’s perimeter to loosen it from the rolling surface.
7. Bring one long side of the dough up and fold it over, so that its edge lays at the rectangle’s center. Repeat with the opposite side. The two sides should barely overlap in the center of the. Lightly pat the surface of the new, narrower rectangle, then use a knife to divide it crosswise into 16 1 1/2-inch strips. Twist each strip into a loose ‘rope’ and lay the ropes side-by-side on a cookie sheet. Cover with a damp hot towel and set aside. Repeat with the other piece of dough. Leave the twists aside, under a damp cloth, to rise for 1 hour.
8. Preheat the oven to 180C/350F/Gas Mark 4 and bake the twists on racks set at the oven’s center. Check after 15 minutes – if they’re not finished reverse the trays and bake for an additional 5 minutes, until golden brown.
9. While the twists are baking prepare the icing, if using: stir icing sugar, starting with 1 Tbsp, into orange juice until you have a liquid the consistency of pouring cream.
10. Drizzle the hot twists with the icing (don’t overdo it) as soon as they come out of the oven.

Dusk on Fraser's Hill  

A Dram in Malacca

It's only Wednesday and already it's been a long week. The kind of week that makes me wish I had a regular watering hole, a comfortable spot where they know me and I know them, where it's impossible to walk in for a pop without leaving whatever's weighing on me at the door, where a bit of idle conversation over a tipple carries erases the work day and carries me to dinner.

If I were in Malacca this is where I'd be this evening: at a beautiful eighty-over year-old timber bar burnished from years of spilled drink and water rings and rubbed smooth from hundreds, probably thousands of forearms. A bar with just few seats and one table, occupying the ground floor of a century-old shop house. A bar run by the great-grandson of its founder and his wife, a shy couple who never really open up unless you stop in a second, and third, time.

We discovered Sin Hiap Hin last May while in Malacca to report on its situation three years after being named a Unesco world heritage site. As I wrote in this post on finding old Malacca (it's not easy, but possible) the old town's prognosis isn't good. Everyone I interviewed for the story was frustrated, even despairing, of the public funds spent on new attractions while the city's historical architecture and living culture deteriorates, evaporates. As one of the local conservationists I spoke with said, "Malacca is overflowing with history and richness and culture. We don't have to create anything."

Sin Hiap Hin isn't in any of the brochures touting Malacca's viewing tower, its reconstructed fort or the shopping mall built on the padang where Malaysia declared independence from British rule. It's not in the "Where to Drink" sections of guidebooks that direct you instead to watering holes along Malacca's sanitized riverbanks or to the bars around Jonker's Walk.

Sin Haip Hin is just a nondescript little place on Java Lane, which in the early part of the 20th century was Malacca's entertainment center. Up the street is Tay Boon Wah barbershop, which also opened in the 1930s. Around the corner was the Chinese Theater. Surrounding Sin Hiap Hin were brothels and other bars and opium dens and cheap lodging houses.

Java Lane is dead quiet now, especially in the evenings. But if you sit in Sin Hiap Hin around sunset you can almost imagine the street outside teeming with life -- with new arrivals and hustlers and theater goers and men and women out on the town.

With a bit of coaxing Lian Suan and her husband will reminisce; they'll talk about the laborers who used to convene here for beers and stronger stuff when the Malacca River was still busy with boats ferrying goods from the big ships docked at its port to the warehouses just across what used to be known as the Iron Bridge. "Oh, it got noisy," she smiles wistfully. "We were open very late!" No longer. Come after 630pm or 7 and you'll likely find Sin Hiap Hin's doors shut tight.

On our last visit we admired the bar's fine vintage dram measures; Lian Suan's husband offered them to us as a gift. We couldn't accept. Family heirlooms they are, not something to be handed over to strangers. But later we wondered if we'd done the right thing. The bar's customers are dwindling, and Lian Suan told us they'll probably sell the house eventually. What will become of that beautiful timber bar? Will those dram measures be treasured by the couple's children or their children? Or will they be viewed as junk and tossed in the trash?

Sin Hiap Hin, 5 Java Lane. A wide range of Chinese liquors (try lychee-scented Boon Kwi Loh) sold by the bottle or by the shot, plus ice-cold beer and non-alcholic beverages from the fridge.

Bone Soup and Kelantan Cuisine for T+L SEA

 

As some of you may already know, in early July we spent some time working in Kota Bharu, the capital of Malaysia's Kelantan state. Situated in the northeastern corner of peninsular Malaysia, Kelantan abuts southern Thailand. Its fusioninst cuisine shows Thai, Chinese (Hokkien/Fujianese, especially), and Indian influences. Most travelers breeze right through Kota Bharu on their way to and from the Perhentian Islands, completely unaware that they are missing out on one of the most interesting gastronomic scenes in Malaysia.

The fruits of our labor are now on the newstand, in the form of a feature article on Kelantan's wonderful (often overlooked by those heading to or coming from the Perhentians) cuisine for the September issue of Travel+Leisure Southeast Asia. (It's the annual Food Issue, and you can buy a digital copy here.View Dave's out-takes from 5 days of shooting on his photo blog Sky Blue Sky, here.)

After 5 days and nights of pretty solid eating we came away with so much more material than I could ever pack into 2,000 words. Deciding which dishes, eateries and experiences to include in the article, and what to leave out, was a laborious and somewhat painful process. On the bright side, we have this little space in which to share what didn't make it onto T+L's pages.

On our last full morning in Kota Bharu, on full stomachs but with our time in what had turned out to be a very delicious town coming to an end, we ate sup tulang (bone soup, literally) and grilled beef beneath a big plastic canopy near the river at a place called Lido Corner.

Sup tulang is one of those humble Malay dishes that visitors tend to overlook. It's not as visually seductive as a lovely hibiscus-colored curry or as intriquing as blue rice tossed with dry-fried coconut, chili, and a riot of herbs. Meat soup is what sup tulang is, basically. It has no noodles and boasts no textural bits, such as bean sprouts or cubes of deep-fried tofu. But this everyday dish can be a real stunner, a comforting yet exciting combination of warm spices and the depth of flavor that can be coaxed from tough Malaysian beef.

Lido Corner does sup tulang right. The broth is golden from turmeric and thin but every so slightly viscous from all those long-stewed bones. It hints at nutmeg, star anise, cloves, cardamom and no doubt several other spices that I wasn't able to pinpoint. Each bowl contains a hunk of chewy beef on the bone and a more tender boneless piece that, if you're lucky, will be attached to a silky length of tendon. Chinese celery floating on the surface of the soup lightens it up with a shot of freshness.

At Lido Corner we also made acquaintance with something new to us: daging bakar or Malay-style grilled beef. I'm not great at identifying cuts but this reminded me of flank steak -- distinctly striated to the point of being almost ropy, cut relatively thin. Tough Malaysian beef again, but tough beef that goes astonishingly tender over the coals. Charred and smoky, sliced into thin strips and eaten with a sweet-spicy chili sauce with enough fire to really balance its sugar, this daging bakar was an unexpectedly delicious find. It's something I'd return to Lido Corner for even if the sup tulang wasn't on offer.

As with most every place we ate at in Kelantan Lido Corner is an extremely friendly spot. Walk in, line up and place your order (there's ayam bakar, or grilled chicken, too), and carry your own plates to one of the egg yolk yellow tables. The drink of choice is sugar cane juice. Bean sprouts, served on the side of your plate of rice, are the only vegetable on offer. Think of it as a meal devoted to protein.

Lido Corner, a stone's throw from the Grand Riverview Hotel right on the river, downtown Kelantan. Open 12-6 every day. The grills are going non-stop -- follow your nose.

 

 

Finding Malacca

In April and May we spent some time in Malacca, for a story on the state of the city three years after its listing as a Unesco World Heritage Site. (In July 2008 Unesco jointly listed Malacca and George Town, Penang as Historic Cities of the Straits of Malacca.)

Read all about it (and view some mighty nice photos) in the August 2011 issue of Travel+Leisure Southeast Asia.

I began my reporting in Malacca feeling pretty disheartened. For one thing, I intensely dislike what is probably the city's most touted tourist attraction: Jonker Walk. Maybe that's because I have -- thanks to this wonderful book -- an idea of what the street was like before tourism officials decided that Malacca's old town needed a kitschy night market. Until the Jonker Walk scheme was hatched the street was home to a community of long-time (century-old, some!) businesses and family homes in which real Malaccans lived and worked.

Or maybe I was discouraged because Malacca's charms aren't as obvious as those of George Town, an achingly nostalgic city with a certain low-key urban buzz ... and one that we've come to love over the last 5 or so years.

Those charms are all but invisible every weekend when masses -- I mean masses -- of visitors (and their cars) descend on old Malacca's narrow streets. "We basically go inside at noon on Friday and don't come out until Sunday evening," a conservation zone resident told me.

I'm not optimistic about the future of Malacca's historic core. The Hard Rock Cafe being built on one bank of the Malacca River (among other things) fairly sums up official Malacca's views regarding the non-importance of conserving and preserving the city's historic assets.

But after spending time with native Malaccans and newcomers, people who love their town and are fighting against grim odds for its future, I was able to see its beauty and its uniqueness.

Go on a weekday and stay the night, wander the old town's lanes and tiny alleyways early in the morning and in the hours approaching sunset, and you'll see them too. Skirt Jonker Walk, skip the chicken rice balls (yes, I wrote about them years ago, but I wouldn't spend a meal chit on them now) and seek out the old-style nosh holes that, for lack of flash and/or signage, fly under the radar of visitors.

Here is Malacca as it's always been, Malacca for Malaccans, undisturbed and unperturbed by expensive 1.6-kilometer monorails to nowhere, water wheels claiming a questionable pedigree, and revolving towers with a bird's-eye view of landfill over the point at which the Malacca River meets the Straits of Malacca, the former site of one of the most important ports on southeast Asia's spice route.

Long Fatt's business card says it all: Traditional Teochew Porridge.

This small family-owned and run restaurant was established over eighty years ago by an immigrant from Shantou (aka Swatow), Guangdong. It sits near the western end of warehouse and wholesale thoroughfare Kampung Pantai, next to dimunitive Aw Hai Tien Buddhist temple. Imagine this: when Long Fatt started up the back doors of warehouses across the street opened right onto the Malacca River; deliveries were made by boats ferrying goods from the big ships anchored at Malacca port.

At half past ten Long Fatt's accordion doors are folded open wide enough for the good smells of long stewing to escape into the street. Inside the restaurant all is quiet save for the thwack and sizzle of chopping and frying, the swish-swish of shuffling feet as the family's oldest working member ferries dishes from kitchen to display counter, and the chirps of songbirds flitting about cages hung over the kitchen.

One of Long Fatt's specialties, found on nearly every table at lunchtime, is a neither aggressively sour nor especially spicy version of asam (sour) fish, made with forefinger-length specimens cooked over a low flame for twelve hours. The fish's bones become appealingly gelatinous, soft enough to eat. Even if you avoid anything piscene at the table it's a dish you can't help but admire at the display counter: a spiral of silvery head-on fish prettily layered in an old-fashioned enamel bowl and submerged in thin orange gravy.

Long Fatt's stewed pumpkin is notable for an almost nutty richness balanced by the pungency of scallion leaves, and its mustard is reduced to southern American-style velvety sweetness. Whitebait caramelized with shallots is an irresistible relish that cries for main dish status. Vinegary taucu (fermented yellow bean paste)-based chili sauce is the condiment of choice.

By 1pm Long Fatt's morning hush is forgotten, its narrow dining room hums with conversation, and the dishes on display at the front counter are greatly diminished.

Go early.

[Dave shot a number of portraits of some of the wonderful people we met in Malacca. Have a look on his photo blog Sky Blue Sky, here.]

Long Fatt, No. 15 Kampong Pantai, Malacca. 06/283-0129.

Malacca: Voices From the Street can be purchased at Malaqa House on Jalan Tun Tan Cheng Lock.

Kind of Blue

In Kelantan rice is all the time everywhere, in every imaginable form: pressed into squares, formed into logs and stuffed with fish, loose and coconut milk-scented, sweetened with smoky palm or white sugar and folded into banana leaves, steamed in tins, brightened with turmeric or sunset-hued curries, ground and made into thick wide noodles for the local version of laksa.

Our favorite Kelantanese rice dish by far is nasi kerabu, a salad-y concoction of purple-blue rice (tinted with a liquid made with the petals of the pea flower preferably, but often with food coloring) topped with kerisik (grated coconut, dry-fried), sambal (chili sauce), sweetened ground fish, budu (a super-fermented fish condiment that's a kitchen staple of southern Thailand, and is reminiscent of Thai bplaa raa) and a mixture of bean sprouts and fresh herbs sliced thin.

Nasi kerabu topped with kerepok (fish crackers) and accompanied by salted egg and fried fish

Dave and I have been enamored of nasi kerabu since we moved to Kuala Lumpur six years ago, where we made its acquaintance at a grotty street stall in front of the Chow Kit post office. So it was no hardship to find ourselves scouring Kota Bharu last week for superior versions.

We found one on our second-to-last morning in town -- and revisited it the next day -- at the lively wholesale morning market that sprawls over a pot-holed parking lot in the center of town, home also to the city's night market. There, mostly women vendors squat behind mounds of produce displayed in plastic bags or loose on tarps spread on the concrete.

At one edge of the market in front of a row of drinks shops, young studs preen as they work an enormous smoking grill covered with halved chickens; at the opposite side of the parking lot a fresh chicken seller singsongs come-ons into a megaphone. Porters push metal carts laden with tree trunk-sized bunches of petai (stink beans), hedge rows of water spinach (morning glory), and kilos upon kilos of lada hijau, the long pale green chilies that Kelantanese love to stuff with a sweet-savory mixture of ground fish and coconut.

In the midst of all this chaos two lively ladies serve a very fine nasi kerabu (pictured above), and an equally delicious nasi dagang (steamed unpolished rice enriched with coconut milk, eaten with fish or chicken curry), both cooked in their home kitchens while most of the city sleeps.

nasi dagang with hard-boiled egg and mackerel curry

From before dawn until they pack up around 10am the crowd around their stall is steady to bordering on overwhelming. It's a mix of housewives and office laborers, shoppers at the market and those passing through on the way to work. There's a wee bit of jostling -- especially when someone places an order for a dozen packets -- but it's all done in a good-natured Kelantanese sort of way.

We'd love to send you to their stall, and to Kota Baru's wonderfully lively wholesale market. But today was its last day. The market is being moved several kilometers outside of town to an "agro bazaar" on the side of a highway.

The relocation is no doubt a boon for the individuals contracted to construct the building and charged with collecting rent from the vendors. But as is so often the case, it's a hardship for the people for whom this conveniently located market is been central to daily life -- both as a source of income and a place to find good-quality produce at reasonable prices.

Should you be up for a trek outside of town, you can find these ladies' excellent nasi kerabu and nasi dagang at Taman Agro Business Negara, Highway Pasir Mas Salo. We think you'll find it well worth the effort.

In Malacca, Spring Puffs and Malaysia on a Plate

We spent the last afternoon of our last visit to Malacca with a resident of Kampung Chitty. The Chitty village is home to a dwindling community of descendents of long-ago marriages between male southern Indian immigrants to Malacca and mostly Malay women. Also known as Malaccan Peranakan Indians, the Chitty are unique group within Malaysia's larger Indian community: they speak not Tamil but Malay (with a sprinkling of Tamil words) yet their religion is Hinduism. Chitty cuisine is heavily Malay-influenced, and unlike fellow southern Indian Malaysians, Chitty are not vegetarian.

There are, unfortunately, no Chitty restaurants in Malacca. But the village is worth a visit for its lovely old wooden kampung houses, few temples (notably unadorned when compared with other Indian temples in Malaysia), small but informative museum, and friendly residents. Sadly,we were told that the place rarely receives visitors.

We'd skipped lunch that day and began the drive back to our hotel with growling stomachs. A simply rendered sign beckoned: MEE KARI. Wee expected more of the Nyonya-style curry noodles we'd enjoyed a couple weeks before.

Instead we discovered a take on curry mee that paired a soupy Indian-ish curry with yellow noodles and ingredients found in Indian-style rojak or pasembur: spongy deep-fried fritters, bean sprouts cubed potatoes, firm tofu batons and hard-boiled eggs halves. And there were Malay touches as well (it was, after all, a Malay-run stall); the sliced green cayenne chilies and kalamansi half that garnish southern Malaysian noodle specialty mee rebus.

What we were eating was Malaysia-on-a-plate: disparate Chinese, Indian and Malay ingredients melding into a perfect, scrumptious whole. Kalamansi juice cut the subtle sweetness of the warm spice-fragrant curry soup, potatoes and egg added heft to what was essentially a meatless dish, and chilies made it all pop.

The fritters were among the best we've ever had: threaded with caramelized scallion slivers, they held their crunch even after sitting in the soup for ten minutes. They were so delicious, in fact, that after we finished our noodles we ordered more fritters to sop up the rest of our soup.

The mee kari wasn't the only surprise at this stall.

There were also fabulous filled pastries which, though called "curry puffs" by ladies running the shop, tasted not at all curry-ish. We think they're more appropriately called "spring puffs": crispy curry puff-like wrappers enclosing ingredients more often associated with Chinese spring rolls: carrots, bean sprouts, mushroom shreds, and tofu.

Our spring puffs were served chopped into thirds and doused with a light sweet-hot chili sauce. Others ordered a mixed plate of spring puffs and fritters (the same ones that starred in our curry mee) dressed with a sauce heavier on chilies than sugar.

This stall also does a brisk business in your basic nasi lemak (pandan-fragrant coconut rice, sambal, fried egg). As we ate we watched the friendly proprietors working double-time to fill multiple carry-out orders of a dozen or more.

Kari Mee, Spring Puffs, and Nasi Lemak Stall, Jalan Tun Tan Cheng Lock just past the Shell station on your left if you are heading away from Malacca's old town (walkable from the end of Hereen Street), Malacca. 11am-5pm, closed Sundays.

In Malacca - Laksa, Pickles, and Pai Tee

We're just back from a few days in Malacca. My notebook is full of scribblings, few of which concern food. Dave and I were there (and will be again soon) to work on a heritage story -- which means that, for a change, eating was not our primary concern.

But the beauty of working with a photographer is that while I'm busy with interviews he's out and about, walking the streets looking for great shots. Being Dave, he can't help also being on the lookout for delicious food -- even if that's not the storyline he's shooting to.

So kudos to The Photographer for rediscovering a great little food court on Temenggong Road, just outside of the old city. (A review of the archives reveals that we actually ate at this bustling spot three years ago.) It's home to a stall serving up some pretty exemplary Nyonya specialties.

 

This 75-year-old gentleman swears by Nancy's laksa

Like curry laksa. Nancy does a spare, almost spartan version, more broth than tofu puffs, cockles, and sprouts. Attention to detail is evident in the ever so thinly shaved cucumber and daun kesom (laksa leaf, aka Vietnamese coriander) garnish that she meticulously arranges with small tongs.

It also shows itself in her belacan-free sambal, which is bright with chili flavor (not just heat) and a hint of lime leaf.

Nancy's laksa gravy is superb. It smells and tastes of the freshest coconut milk, yet isn't so over-the-top rich as to weigh you down.

Which is a good thing, because you'd be crazy to walk away without tasting her version of pai tee, a Nyonya specialty rarely (if ever) seen on the street.

To be honest, I had never encountered a "top hat" -- little pastry cups filled with shrimp or pork, cucumber, stewed jicama and egg -- that I would willingly meet again. The versions I've sampled have always been more style than substance, cute but utlimately disappointing, with too-thick and/or too-oily shells and a lackluster filling.

Nancy's pai tee turned me. Assembled to order (like the laksa garnish, using those tiny tweezer-like tongs), they start with the barest possible fluted pastry shells, and finish with feathers of omelette and a dusting of caramelized sliced shallots. Nancy serves her delicious homemade sweet-hot chili sauce on the side rather than squirting a dab inside each pai tee, to preserve the crunch as long as possible.

Biting into one of her top hats, I finally "got" the point of this dish --- the shatteringly crisp shell, the warm and soft dark soy sauce-stewed jicama, the fresh crunchy cucumber, and the chewy egg strips together in one bite made for a lovely marriage of warm and cool, salty and sweet and a little bitter.

Incredible to encounter such a lovingly made version of such an intricate and delicate dish at a hawker stall. (Once again -- the unexpected delights of street food!)

Bonus: Dave re-stumbled upon Nancy's stall just as her mango tree is fruiting. Which means that we were able to pack home some fantastic mango pickle. On the tart side, somewhat crisp, and really tasting of the fruit, it'll make a perfect side for curry and shine equally as brightly on a sandwich. Also available: a lovely mango jam (fruit, a wee bit of sugar, and nothing else) and mango-dragonfruit jam (slightly less tart than straight mango).

Get 'em while you can.

Nancy's Nyonya Laksa, Pai Tee, etc.Tong Fang Coffeeshop/Food Court, 124 Jalan Temenggong, Melaka. Early morning to noonish, closed Wednesday.

Why We Love George Town

Dogs in pedicabs and delicious street eats.

The latter, in this case, being 'dry' wonton mee tossed with dark soy sauce, lard oil and a few stems of choy sum (Chinese mustard). Topped with Hong Kong-style barbecued pork and a fluff of shredded chicken breast and served with a deep-fried wonton and a spoonful of sambal belacan soured with kalamansi juice, the nearly translucent noodles display a good amount of 'Q' (springy chewiness). Accompanying wonton is suitably porky.

This version can be found at the coffeeshop on Malay Street (corner of Beach), across from a fruit stand. Mornings and afternoons. George Town, Penang.

The dogs and their driver can be found idling on Jalan Penang and cruising the heritage zone.