EatingAsia

Blue Moon Over Bidor

In Bidor for a spot of duck noodle soup, we decide to investigate the town's market.

It's not large and, by 10am on a Sunday, it's half-deserted. But we find spanking fresh fish, tiny clams of the sort that seem never to show up in Kuala Lumpur's markets, mounds of thick-stemmed paku (ferns) sporting tightly coiled fiddleheads, and lots of petai, or stink beans. Bidor is almost synonomous with this aptly named (but delicious) vegetable - bunches of whole pods are everywhere. (This photo was actually taken on the pavement in front of Pun Chun.)

Small though it is, this market's a good one, because in its aisles can be found new-to-us ingredients. Like this wild vegetable sold by each of two elderly Chinese ladies who've staked out squares of market floor directly across from each other. They call it - as near as we can understand - kong ji xin, and tell us it's added to curries.

The stiff green leaves remind us of lemongrass, as do the concentric layers of woody flesh revealed when one of the scarlet bulbs is sliced open crosswise. On the tongue, there's astringency reminiscent of torch ginger flower plus a bitter punch that brings to mind arugala gone to seed. It seems more a Malay than a Chinese ingredient, but none of the market's Malay vendors know its name.

This morning the market holds other treasures too.

We stop at a stall to inspect a particularly enticing bundle of paku and end up chatting with a motorcycle-helmeted customer. Where're you from? he asks, and we go through the usual sequence of answers and follow-up questions: we're from America (say 'US' and most people don't know what you're talking about - in Asia, the United States is 'America') but we live in Kuala Lumpur we've been here a little over two years how do we like Malaysia? well we love it.

I like American music, he says. I play trombone. My brother-in-law, he's from the Philippines but he's dead now, he played saxaphone. We had a band, played in Kuala Lumpur. Long, long time ago.

Do you know 'Blue Moon'?

He brings one hand - the hand not burdened by a bulging bag of vegetables - up in front of his face, cradling a trombone only he can see. And begins to play, moving his fingers up and down, manipulating the keys.

Dah.... dah dah dah dah dah.... dah dah dah...

Softly half-huming, half-dah dah dahing 'Blue Moon', he hits every note pitch perfect. He's on stage with his Filipino brother-in-law, in a smoky club in mid-twentieth century Kuala Lumpur.

He draws out the end of the song long and sweet.

Wonderful!! we say. And mean it.

He's a little bit nutty, the vendor seems to want to tell us. We're not so sure.

OK, gotta go! he says. Nice to meet you. And walks, purposefully, out to his motorbike.

We'll be looking for him, next time we're in Bidor.

Where There's Smoke...

Juggling orders of bak moi (pork porridge) outside Yi Garden Kafe, Jalan McCallister

...there's good eating - especially in Penang, where the art of cooking (not just grilling) over charcoal is alive and well.

Cooking over charcoal requires dodging leaping flames and live sparks

Our article on charcoal cooking in Penang appeared in yesterday's (November 22) South China Morning Post. If you're a subscriber you can check it out online.  If you're not, enjoy these photos that didn't make the final cut.

Ban chan koay (crispy rice flour and coconut milk 'pancakes' filled with peanuts and gula Melaka)

An old-fashioned charcoal-fired steamboat at Goh Huat Seng, Jalan Kimberley

Mee goreng, Jalan Market Cross (across from General Hospital)

Freeway Refresher

Heading northeast on highway 58, in the Malaysian state of Perak, we encounter a stretch of roadside stands hawking air nira nipah - nipa palm sap.

We know that palm nectar is drunk in southeast Asia, fermented and mildly alcoholic (sometimes called 'toddy'), and in a version distilled and much stronger. But fresh sap sold as a beverage is something new to us. The vendors along this stretch of highway are clearly Malay, so we know that what they're peddling will have about as much kick as a glass of water.

This cluster of air nira nipah stalls is explained by Sungai Dedap, the river we've just driven over. Brackish water-loving nipa palms grow on riverbanks and in mangroves. As we backtrack over the river later in the day we keep an eye out and, sure enough, both banks of the river are crowded with squat, multi-trunked nipas.

Nira - which refers to the sap of any palm, not just the nipa variety - is collected from the tree's immature flower buds. It begins to ferment as soon as it leaves the bud for the collection vessel. Some collectors who plan to make sugar from the sap drop a tiny piece of kulit gelam (bark of the cengal tree) into the container to inhibit fermentation (other methods are used as well).

This vendor (like others, we assume) collects his sap at dawn and slows fermentation by getting it on ice straightaway. The cold nira is tasty and refreshing. We detect hints of coconut, perhaps a whiff of something vanilla-ish. It's sweet but not cloyingly so (sugarcane juice and fresh coconut juice are much sweeter), and much less sweet than the aren palm sap we tasted on Sumatra. (Sugar made from nipa sap is, likewise, the least sweet of all the palm sugars we've sampled.)

Ever on the palm sugar trail, we ask if any nipa sugar is being made in the area. The vendor looks at us like we're crazy. Sugar from air nipa nipah, he asks? Yes, we tell him - in Sarawak (on Malaysian Borneo) locals use the liquid to make semi-liquid gula apong. We'll have to deliver a sample to him next time we're up highway 58.

What, we wonder, does he do with his leftover nira? He points to the bottles of milky liquid in front of him (above and opening photo): cuka, or vinegar. Palm vinegar (made from both coconut and nira palms) is a Philippine kitchen staple but less commonly seen in Malaysia. Its smell is off-putting - strong enough to stink up the car, slightly alcoholic - but the taste is mild and intriguingly complex, like no Western vinegar we've ever tasted. He recommends sprinkling it over barbequed fish. Another nira and cuka vendor we speak with later in the day describes mixing the vinegar with chopped chilies, garlic, and shallots and sprinkling it over fish that's headed for the steamer. Her husband takes a spoonful a day, straight - good for high blood pressure, he says.

Air nira nipah, highway 58 just north of the Sungai Dedap, Perak, Malaysia.

Market Stall Nyonya

It is said that the best Nyonya food in Penang is found behind closed doors, made in private kitchens and served in private homes, ever out of the reach of tourists. This may well be true, but that doesn't mean that all of what's sold to the general public is mere second-rate slop.

This vendor has been pedddling her Nyonya dishes at Pulau Tikus market for some thirty-plus years. Her days are long (or her nights are short, depending on your perspective); she begins preparing the day's dishes at 1am. It's an amazing - and, for anyone not in possession of four stomachs - extremely frustrating assortment. How to choose between acar hu, chicken curry kapitan, nasi ulam, kerabu beehoon, otak-otak (steamed fish 'custard', similar to Thai haw mawk), tau eu bak (pork stewed in soy sauce), or any of the other other stews and braises on offer .... let alone the endless array of pickles and preserves and sambals precariously balanced on the cart's front edge?

Takeaway-in-a-plastic-bag is the standard modus operandi here, but she'd already teased us to near desperation with a sample spoonful of this and another of that. We wanted to eat now. Noting our fervent nods and happy grunts, she smilingly pulled a couple of styrofoam containers out from under her cart, borrowed a table from the vendor behind her, and, pointing at a couple of stools, told us to sit.

We proceeded to fight first over her nasi ulam - an exquisite mixture of dry rice, toasted coconut, salted fish, and slivered fragrant greens including lime leaves, daun kaduk (wild 'pepper' leaves), and daun ciku, the leaves of the sopadilla tree - and then, her acar, a spritely mixed 'pickle' made with pineapple, cucumbers, and peanuts. The kerabu beehoon fell a bit flat for us if only because we'd eaten what may be Penang's ultimate kerabu beehoon earlier that morning.  Less lime juice, chili heat, and fish flavor from belacan made this version a bit one-dimensional, we think, though it might appeal to those not quite as fond of spicy fishiness as we are.

Top to bottom: acar, kerabu beehoon, nasi ulam

Fish 'preserved' in vinegar is a dish found around the world - think sarde in soar (Venice), West Lake fish (Hangzhou), fish paksiw (Philippines). Acar hu, Penang's Nyonya version, comprises deep-fried whole fish (or fillets) doused with a turmeric-tinted sweet and sour dressing, and also includes onions and fiery whole chilies. A good acar hu derives not just coloring from turmeric, but a good bit of earthy flavor from it as well. We chose a fillet for ease of eating and loved the moist flesh enclosed in a still slightly crispy crust (opening photo), though given a choice we might have gone with a bit more vinegar.

The most surprising taste at this stall was the pickled lime that offered to us as an afterthought (bag on the right, above). The vendor dries regular limes in the sun until they turn white, steams the dried, shriveled fruits, and then puts them in a pickling solution. The result is as delightful as it is difficult to describe - sour, certainly, but not overpoweringly so; fruity, in a back-note, understated sort of way; pleasingly astringent. In short, the perfect to a Nyonya stewed meat or fish dish.

 

This stall is a Pulau Tikus treasure. The next time we're in Penang we'll head back on empty stomachs, armed with plates and proper, sturdy silverware, and dive into some in-depth grazing.

Nyonya stall, outside Pulau Tikus market building, 7am-12pm daily.

Eating 'Light' In Penang

A word of advice: If you're in Penang, and you're watching your weight, do not hook up with this woman. Don't let her petite frame fool you; she'll run you ragged and shoot your diet to hell (albeit deliciously so) all in the short space of one afternoon.

We met up with Bee after a full morning of research (read: eating) for an article on a local food tradition. We'd started the day with kerabu beehoon and moved on to all manner of snacks and small bites, starting slowly and picking up speed (and bulk) as noon approached. After a two-hour break we felt almost ourselves again. Then the whirlwind and font of local knowledge that is Bee arrived at our hotel. The next few hours would seriously challenge our commitment to culinary exploration.

After stopping at one of Bee's favorite shops for a snack that, at her behest, suddenly turned into a full, dinner-sized meal (and a fine one at that), we moved on in search of mee goreng (fried noodles). Mission accomplished, our bellies begged us to call it a day. Bee would hear none of it.

'You've got to try pasembur. I've been eating it everyday since I got home.'

Bee favors three spots for Chinese-style pasembur, a melange of fresh and cooked ingredients doused in a sweetish sauce that is rarely found outside of Penang. The first was closed. Respite! The second, too - shut tight. Our stomachs breathed a sigh of relief. The third, a stall at the hawker center opposite the Batu Lanchang wet market, was open. Groan.

Thankfully, the dish is, as Bee described, a relatively light one. The vendor - who was recently visited by a crew from Malaysia's 'Ho Chiak' food show - starts by piling on a plate strips of cucumber and jicama, chopped firm tofu, bean sprouts, crispy shrimp crackers, and squares of chewy fried fritters. On top go a couple of generous spoonfuls of a 'gravy' made from sweet potatoes and (we suspect) plum sauce, mixed with chili sauce, sesame seeds, and chopped peanuts. The lot is crowned with a few ruffled pieces of jellyfish.

The result is a winner, crispy and crunchy and fresh-tasting, with a just a little bit of dietary evil (in the form of those deep-fried prawn crackers) thrown in. We'd probably opt for more chili next time, to better balance the sweetness of the sauce. If you're going to go overboard - and really, in the gastronomic paradise that is Penang, is there any other way to eat? - this snack-sized dish heavy on the good-for-you ingredients is the one to do it with.

Pasembur stall, Batu Lanchang food court (opposite the afternoon wet market), Penang. Afternoons.

The Happiest Dog in the World

Pork shop near Chow Rasta Market, Penang

Beehoon Breakfast

It's a Saturday morning in Penang and we're on a mission.

Back in June we walked up to this Nyonya kuih vendor's stall two mornings in a row, only to be told 'sold out'. Today, taking no chances, we arrive well before eight and are rewarded with two servings of kerabu beehoon, a tangle of rice vermicelli tossed with sambal belacan, calamansi juice, and chopped herbs.

What's sold here isn't made by the vendor himself, but by an elderly Nyonya lady who learned to make the kerabu from her mother-in-law. The sweet kuih and bak chang (leaf-wrapped rice dumplings) also on offer here look tempting, but we know what we came for and we're sticking with it.

Kerabu beehoon appeals to many of our culinary personalities. The chili hounds in us adores its heat (this version's is unusually high on the Scoville scale), while our Thai food-loving side is taken by its sweet-sour-salty calamansi juice dressing. As noodle heads, we admire the springy, al dente texture of its beehoon. But perhaps more than anything else, it's this kerabu's pungently pervading sambal belacan-ness that makes the fan of fishy flavors in us swoon.

Practically speaking -as Westerners who have never really acclimated to Malaysia's sticky heat - we can't rate highly enough a noodle that packs a whollop of flavor without also delivering a faceful of steam. And let's not forget that we're in Penang, where limiting oneself to three meals a day is akin to heresy. Kerabu beehoon's light, almost salad-like nature makes for maximum enjoyment with limited impact upon the appetite.

This version is a fine one, miles ahead of another we sampled last June elsewhere in Penang, better even than the one served from an otherwise stellar Nyonya stall we'll contentedly graze from in just another hour or so. The noodles, though minimally dressed, are fragrant with belacan and calamansi lime and boast herbal notes of torch ginger flower and mint. The flavors dance on our tongues (and continue to do so even after we're finished, thanks to chilies), leaving us both sated and wishing for more.

Our moans of pleasured surprise inspire amusement among a few regulars at the next table. Behind the counter of the coffee shop that generously supplied us with chopsticks, the proprietor thoroughly enjoys us enjoying our beehoon.

Kerabu beehoon at Nyonya kuih stall, in front of Hup Guan Cafe, 46 Jalan Cantonment, Penang. 7a-noon or until sold out. Closed Monday.

Meet the Third Generation

Many of Kuching's decades-old shop houses accomodate decades-long residents. Chinatown (the clutch of guest houses at one end of Carpenter Street notwithstanding) is still chockabloc with small businesses (a tinsmith, a coffin maker), coffeeshops, and multi generation-run eateries. And though some of the colorful shop houses on Jalan Padungan, near the western end of the city's riverfront promenade, have been transformed into smart bars and cafes, others still house unassuming family-run food enterprises.

Worn wooden trays laden with irregularly shaped coils of golden noodles alerted us to the presence of one such business, Seng Ngee Foh. We'd walked past the shop's quietly anonymous Jalan Pandungan front with nary a second glance and then, turning into the parking lot behind, beheld this bounty drying in the sun.

We circled the block again and poked our heads through the small gap between Number 148's folding doors. Cellophane-packaged noodles sat in a pile on a table near the front of the long, narrow space; in the back, we spied noodle makings.

Egg noodles have been made here for forty years; the man who started the business still tends to the noodles with the help of his children and, now, theirs. Things get going at 8am; noodles are set out back to dry around 10 and brought inside and packaged at the end of the day. Every Monday through Saturday, mixing and processing and shaping and drying and packaging happen here, in (and out back of) one small shop.

Sundays are for rest.

Regular readers know we're suckers for a good artisinal food story, but in the end flavor is what matters. Seng Ngee Foh's noodles are as good as they look, substantial (each coil weighs about 4 ounces), smooth with a good bite, and richly eggy. After boiling up a couple of coils and hanging our heads in the yolky steam that rose from our bowls, we dressed them simply with a few drops of good quality toasted sesame oil, a drizzle of dark soy, and a splash of black vinegar. Next time we'll add ginger and garlic, chili oil and Sichuan peppercorns, bean sprouts and shredded chicken, or enjoy them with an anise-scented, red-cooked beef stew ladeled on top.

 

Here's to Seng Ngee Foh's third generation.

Seng Ngee Foh, No. 148 Padungan Road, Kuching. Tel. 241471.A two-pound package of noodles costs 3 ringgit.

Spicy and Vinegary Chicken Noodle 'Salad' (adapted from Asian Pasta by Linda Burum)

14 ounces fresh Chinese egg noodles or 10 ounces dried

2 tsp sesame oil

Dressing:

2 tsps Sichuan peppercorns, lightly toasted and crushed in a mortar or ground in a spice grinder

2 Tbs grated ginger (collect the juice)

1 Tbsp finely minced garlic

3 Tbsp light soy sauce

3 Tbsp dark soy sauce

4 Tbsp (or to taste) Chinese black vinegar (Chenkiang vinegar) - or substitute red rice vinegar

4 tsp sugar

3 Tbsp good quality toasted sesame oil

2 tsp chili oil (or to taste)

2 tsp chili oil 'sludge' (the chili grounds from the bottom of the jar) - OPTIONAL

4 scallions, shredded

a couple handfuls of bean sprouts - washed, drained in a colander, then doused (softened) with boiling water and allowed to drain again

1 medium cucumber, seeded and cut into matchsticks

half bunch of cilantro, tough ends of stems discarded, roughly chopped - OPTIONAL

Combine all dressing ingredients except the Sichuan peppercorns and chili oil sludge (if using), stir or whisk to dissolve the sugar. Add the sludge and peppercorns; taste for heat and sourness, adjusting with additional vinegar or sugar or chili oil if necessary. Set aside while you cook the noodles.

Cook the noodles until just al dente, drain and plunge into cold water to stop the cooking. Drain again and toss with sesame oil (use your hands to avoid mushing noodles).

Toss the noodles with the dressing and set aside for about 10 minutes. Add vegetables and scallions, toss again, and serve at room temperature.

Just Don't Call It Sarawak Laksa

Unless you want to come off as a tourist, that is (not that we'll ever be mistaken for locals).

Malaysia is the land of laksas. There's laksa assam and curry laksa, Johor laksa and laksa utara. And Sarawak laksa, which in Sarawak is known simply as 'laksa'. Local-style laksa rules in Kuching; cruising around the small city's streets, we didn't see a single hawker offering any kind of laksa other than, well, laksa.

That's fine with us, because in Kuching we can - and did - eat laksa day after day.

Coconut milk-based Sarawak-style laksa gravy incorporates a spice paste made from belacan, lemongrass, galangal, coriander, chile, and black pepper, among other things (Sarawak laksa recipes are hard to come by). Into the gravy go beehoon (rice vermicelli) and bean sprouts; shrimp, chicken, omelet strips, and fresh cilantro crown the bowl.

On a dull, rainy Saturday we found our laksa heaven at Min Heng, a small Chinese coffee shop just a couple of blocks from Min Joo. Laksa is breakfast fare in Sarawk (most vendors are closed before lunch) and, indeed, at 8am this stall owner and his wife were serving several tables of regulars and while fielding dozens of takeout orders. She told us that on Sundays their packing it up by 9:30am.

This couple's attention to detail comes  through in the final product. His soup, fully lemak (rich with coconut milk), is, at the same time, light. Black pepper comes through clear and strong on the palate, as does ground coriander and lemongrass, and chile takes a back seat - until, that is, the accompanying sambal is stirred in. With the addition of a squeeze of kalamansi the gravy assumes a perfect balance, coconut milk's sweetness playing off citrus tartness and acting as the perfect foil to the kick of black pepper and red chile.

This laksa cook doesn't prepare his chicken in advance but keeps it on the bone, poaching in a pan of stock on his cart, ready to be pulled out and chopped to order (note the whole chicken lower right, above). The result is juicy, flavorful pieces of bird rather than the rubbery bits of protein to be found in many a Sarawak-style laksa. His wide omelet strips taste fresh and eggy, and he's generous with shrimp as well.

Satisfied as we were with our this laksa at Min Heng, we felt compelled - for our readers - to sample the version served by an elderly hawker almost kitty corner, in an open food court across from the Carpenter Street Teochew temple. It boasted little of our previous laksa's subtlety and seemed heavy with coconut milk in comparison. Neither sambal nor kalamansi was served on the side; a polite inquiry ('Sambal?') earned us a grunt, a sneer, and a jerk of the vendor's thumb at our bowl.

Now, we can certainly appreciate that a proud cook may not wish a diner to mess with his creation. But in Malaysia, where some like it fiery, others like just a touch of tingle, and the rest prefer it blandish, heat on the side (in the form of sambal, chile sauce, and/or pickled/fresh chilies) is ubiquitous. This vendor's refusal to come up with a saucer of sambal seemed born more of orneriness than genuine insult.

The next morning we returned to Min Heng. And just in time, too. It was 9am and we were among the last customers of the day. 

Laksa stall at Min Heng Cafe, 6 Carpenter Street, Kuching, Sarawak. Mon-Sat 7-1030 or 11a, Sun 7-9 or 930a. No set off day. (This shop serves a nice cup of kopi too.) 3 RM per bowl.

In Kuching, Noodles for the Anti-Vegan

Should you find yourself in Kuching, get to know this man. And be nice to him, because he stands between you and what may well be the most sublime bowl of noodles in all of Malaysia.

Arrive at Min Joo, in Kuching's Chinatown, expecting a wait.

This half century-old tiny corner shop, with only two tables outside and three or four within, heaves with customers opening to closing. Would-be diners hover at its edges, jealously eyeing the progress of those already eating while silently laying claim to their chairs. Seating is China-style - no queue, in other words - so when a chair is vacated move it or lose it. A politely uttered 'I think I was here first' may prompt an impatient interloper to hand over the space that should, by all rights, have been yours.

But don't bet on it.

The draw here is mee kolok, a Kuching specialty of flat-and-wide or round-and-thin noodles tossed with soy and lard and topped with pork three ways: charred (char siew), chopped, and stewed-and-sliced. Jin Moo's version features top-notch fresh pasta and is especially fragrant with the fat of the pig.

During peak hours (mid-morning, especially on weekends), as the orders pile up and customers and would-be customers jostle for space with servers, things can get a little crazy. That's where Mr. X comes in. Taking and giving orders with the staccato bark of a drill seargent, all the while maintaining an at-the-ready supply of soy and chile-filled condiment saucers, he keeps chaos at bay.

At Min Joo it's important to observe protocol.

First, don't expect to be seated. Mr. X is likely aware that your presence well preceded that of the barrel-shaped, sharp-elbowed aunty, but he'll not intervene when she pole-vaults across two tables to plant her rear in the chair you've been staking out for half an hour. At Min Joo the rule of the jungle prevails; you gotta fight (in a polite, understated sort of way) for your right to eat.

Second - do not, in your eagerness to place an order, raise a hand - or even an eyebrow - at Mr. X or anyone else. Min Joo is a bit like elementary school: you may speak when called upon.

This is no cause for vexation, for Mr. X's eagle eye has registered the moment at which you sat down and you'll be asked what you'd like to eat in proper order, relative to other diners. Though you may keel over from hunger or torment, or both, as you wait your turn while watching others blissfully shovel in Min Joo's sinfully lard-coated noodles, never fear, for once Mr. X has heard your wishes vittles will arrive shortly.

Pass idle moments by observing the action at the shop's front prep area. Here, a gentleman with permanently hunched shoulders - Mr. X Sr., perhaps - and a woman with an ever serious mien, both seemingly glued to their spots behind the glass, seamlessly and without pause pull together order after order after order.

Into a bowl go a splash of soy, a glug of dark vinegar, and - dished up from a large pot at the center of the work area - an extremely generous amount of lard.

Noodles fresh from the boiler are piled on top and the lot is deftly mixed and tossed with a ladle almost as large as the bowl.

The elastic noodles are then apportioned, with the help of scissors, into awaiting serving vessels.

There are several options here. A request for kolok mee with wide noodles will net you a mound of  pasta topped with three-ways pork (plus a pork ball), sliced fish cake, a piece of innnard or two, and chopped scallions (seven photos up, green background). The fettucine-like noodles are beyond reproach - eggy and chewy, cooked al dente - and the array of pork toppings flavorful to a one.

But most of Min Joo's customers order their thin kolok mee kosong (plain), and it must be said that these strands of pasta bare of solid pork serve well to focus attention on their fantastic springiness larded almost, but not quite, to excess.

Kolok mee kosong are best accompanied by Min Joo's 'vegetable soup'. Vegetarians, or anyone looking for a healthy dose of fiber, be forewarned: the only sign of produce in this bowl is a murky green blob of pleasantly briney seaweed and a few slivers of preserved salted vegetable.

In our book pork balls, belly, kidney, liver, stomach and intestine (as well a small prawn or two) don't qualify as produce. Neither is there a trace of veggie flavor in the full-on meat broth.

But Min Joo's noodles are so fine, and their 'vegetable soup' so slurp- (and chew-) worthy, that we're willing to cut the place some slack.

Anyway, haven't you heard? Offal is the new bok choy.

Min Joo, Carpenter Street (look for the packed out corner shop across from Bollywood Cafe), Kuching, Sarawak. 730a-3p. No phone, no fixed off days.