EatingAsia

As George Town Changes, One Thing Remains Constant

 

    George Town is changing fast. In the little over four years since we began visiting on a regular basis the city has sprouted  a dozen boutique hotels (with more on the way), a bakery turning out Paris-worthy rustic French baked goods and coq au vin, a cafe where the daily specials might include handmade tamales steamed in banana leaf or a perfectly dressed Caesar salad and a hole-in-the-wall serving delicate French pastries crafted by a Cordon Bleu-trained chef and siphon coffee from a menu with detailed tasting notes. There are new galleries and performance spaces. The George Town Festival, which takes place every summer, has grown from a nice little celebration of Penang culture to a month-long fest that attracts artists, musicians and performers from around the world.

    But make no mistake: George Town is no twee boutique town tarted up for tourists, with no real sense of its old self. For now at least this place that we'll soon call home -- after 20 months (!) of renovations --  is still real. Those new cafes and exist side-by-side with hawker stalls and coffee shops and restaurants that have been around for decades.

    From the latter category, one of our favorites is International Hotel's coffee shop and its famed nasi Padang/nasi Malay stall. This enterprise is decades old and family run. Its proprietors came to Penang from west Sumatra, Indonesia (home of nasi Padang) over 20 years ago. In the four or so years that we've been eating here the place hasn't changed a whit. Nor has the sky-high quality of its food, or the composition of its clientele. Few tourists seem to make it to Jalan Transfer, which sits just outside George Town's UNESCO conservation core. Fewer still make it to International Hotel which, given the dearth of choices when it comes to Malay cuisine in George Town, is a pity.

    Be forewarned: choice here can be overwhelming, especially if you know (and now you do, because we're telling you) that every dish is worthy of space on your plate. Eating at International Hotel as a couple is painful, the decision of what to eat almost too onerous. No matter how wisely you choose you'll walk away wishing you'd chosen differently, or eaten more, and vowing to return.

    If at all possible, come with a group.

    What you'll find, if you come for lunch around noon (and you shouldn't come much later, lest the most popular dishes be finished and the coffee shop too crowded to seat you), is a two-level glass-fronted display case at the coffee shop's entrance groaning under the weight of stainless steel trays holding dishes west Sumatran and Malay, and sometimes kind of Indian and sort of Chinese. Curries, stir-fries, sauteed vegetables, small rectangles of golden crispy deep-fried tempeh that will make you wonder why chips makers don't get hip to the possibilities of this fermented soybean cake. There are salad-y concoctions of morning glory (aka water spinach), bean sprouts, chilies and coconut and sometimes mango, and a lovely refreshing acar consisting of fresh pineapple, cucumber, and mild red chili rings in sweet-tangy vinegar dressing.There is fish stewed (look for the pot of lemon-yellow turmeric and coconut milk fish curry) and deep-fried and sauced. A glorious, truly truly gloriously warm spice and chili-laden beef rendang. Whole long Asian eggplants, cooked to impossible silkiness and slathered with fresh red chili sauce. An unctuous pineapple curry -- yes, you read that right, a richly aromatic, sunset hued cinnamon-heavy coconut curry sauce with no meat or chicken or fish, just thick rings of semi-firm, sweet-tart pineapple. And chicken cooked with kecap manis, its almost black sauce and slightly sweet stickiness countered by chunks of bright red fiery chili.

    There's more. A small table behind the display case holds milder dishes: greens stewed in coconut milk, rehydrated ropes of delightfully chewy dried bean curd with rice vermilli in soup, globe eggplants halved and floating in a delicious but unchallenging Indian-ish curry. This table is also home to what might be considered this family's piece de resistance: whole fish whose split bellies hold a stuffing of chili sauce-rubbed sliced onions. At a cooker just to the side of the coffee shop the fish are submerged in hot oil; they emerge crisp, the color of black coffee, their bellies spilling onions sweetened by the heat and gone to caramel, some crunchy and some still slightly soft. These fish go fast.

    And yet still more: nearby, a 2-tiered shelf displays cooked and fresh vegetables and a few sambal (chili sauces, made with belacan/shrimp paste or just fresh chilies and lime) with which to assemble your own ulam spread (think of it as the Malay version of a crudite plate) .Relatively recently the stall's proprietors introduced a new item: a platter holding the makings of gado-gado (tofu cubes, bean sprouts, chunks of cucumber, etc) and a bowl of chunky peanut sauce to spoon over your vegetable mix.

    This is a self-serve operation. Most diners opt for a plate of rice over which they spoon sauce from a curry or two, bits and pieces from 2 or 3 dishes, maybe a bit of sambal on the side. But to make the most of this stall's vast selection we recommend you accept a plate of rice, then use the empty bowls, plates and platters neatly stacked by the rice cooker to assemble a family-style feast at the center of your table.

    Don't be embarassed to make several trips to and from the display to your table; it's the only way to make sure you've covered all of this establishment's hits. Once you've mapped out your meal let the staff know. They'll come to your table and figure your bill, and even offer to cut some of the more unweildy dishes (those long eggplants smothered in chilies, for instance) into shareable portions with kitchen shears. Order a drink from the coffee shop's Chinese owners (and pay them directly), then pay for your lunch after you've finished.

    In the unlikely event that you're still hungry you're no more than a 5-minute walk from an exquisite walnut and salted caramel tart, and a good espresso is just ten minutes further by foot. All this, and International Hotel's nasi Padang too. Welcome to the new George Town.

Nasi Padang/nasi Malay stall at International Hotel, Jalan Transfer at the corner of Jalan Sekerat. Lunch is the best time to go, as early as 11/1130.

Phở: Not (Just) A Noodle Soup

So sue me. I thought that phở referred to a Vietnamese street dish comprising rice noodles in a rich broth. It does, of course. But phở is much more, for the dish is actually named for the rice flour sheets from which its noodles are made.

So there I was, like an idiot, proclaiming myself to be unimpressed with phở -- it is true that I am not enamored of the dish, but I'm open to being converted -- when by doing so I was unwittingly writing off a whole host of foods made with phở or, to be more precise, bánh phở (those rice flour sheets).

But, before we go there, a quick diversion into the murky origins of Phở the Dish. By now pretty much every phởnatic knows its story: phở is the result of a marriage of French culinary prowess and Vietnamese adaption, an indiginized version of the classic pot au feu.

But not so fast. There is a contrarian take on phở's origins. I was glad to learn of it (thank you Mark of Stickyrice; the pot-au-feu-to-phở tale always struck me as a wee too neat and tidy.

In her book Aspirations and Appetites in Vietnam: Food and Drink in the Long Nineteenth Century Erica J. Peters tells us that phở first appeared on Hanoi streets (the creation of one single cook? or many cooks? the identity of the dish's inventor(s) are lost to the ages) after cows -- not traditionally eaten by Vietnamese but used as draft animals -- were imported into the country and raised for the colonial French table.

"Networks of Chinese and Vietnamese who butchered meat for the French or cooked their meals probably diverted beef remnants to street soup vendors," Peters elaborates in a paper titled "Defusing Phở: Soup Stories and Ethnic Erasures"

And to me at least, this take on phở's origins rings true. Wouldn't Vietnamese cooks, as enterprising as any cooks anywhere, have figured out what to do with meaty bones and scraps? Would they have needed -- or wanted -- to call upon a classic French dish for inspiration? For that matter, why should we assume that phở''s inventor(s) knew pot au feu firsthand? In her book, for which she drew on French writings from the colony, Peters describes French colonials who went to great pains to hold themselves apart from locals, right down to what they ate.

Yet there is still the question of name -- phở' must certainly be a Vietnamese transliteration of feu, right? But the word phở' could have come from fun -- Cantonese for phở'-like rice noodles -- which Vietnamese would have known from the noodle dishes that, Peters observes, were sold by southern Chinese on the streets of Saigon and Hanoi. It wouldn't be the last time Vietnamese street cooks adapted a noodle specialty from a neighboring Asian country (see hủ tiếu).

Whatever phở''s true origin story we know its evolution: from Hanoi street specialty to Vietnam's most iconic dish. Food-focused travelers to the country tend to obsess over it (often to the point of missing out on other, equally delicious Vietnamese noodle specialties) even in Saigon, which lies about 1,780 kilometers south of Phở' Central. (Phở' made its way to Saigon with migrants from Hanoi in the middle of the 20th century, and morphed into a whole other animal. Which version is better? I'm not sticking my toe into that debate.)

Lesser known to visitors is that Vietnam's beloved noodle soup now lends its name to other dishes made from banh phở', those rice flour sheets. A few weeks ago we sampled two, in a neighborhood near Truc Bach Lake that's home to a rash of shops spilling tables streetside and serving all things banh phở'. For reasons I know not of, most of these dishes include beef.

Phở cuốn are rice rice flour rectangles rolled around roughly chopped beef, cilantro and lettuce served with a nuoc mam floating thin slices of kohlrabi. Think Vietnamese fresh spring rolls with a thicker, slicker wrapper and a meatier, heavier filling. Whether it's made from wheat or rice flour I love a noodle or a dumpling wrapper that boasts a bit of heft and chew, but the phở cuốn didn't wow me. The beef was a bit chewy for the delicacy of the wrapper and I missed the in-your-face herbiness of a classic "salad roll". Tasty enough but I probably wouldn't go out of my way for a repeat nosh.

I would, however, travel many hours for another go at phở chiên phồng, a delectable saucy stir-fry of beef, tomato and choy sum or Chinese mustard (thanks Duy, for the correction) ladled over crispy golden rice flour pillows. The rice flour puffs are made by deep-frying squares cut from two banh phở' sheets that have been pressed together.

The puffs are slightly oily (difficult to avoid when you're deep-frying any dough made from rice flour) but boast the most lovely delicate crunch, which they manage to retain even after absorbing some of the dish's beefy juices. By no means a light dish (this meal was one of the few moments of our week in Hanoi during which I was actually thankful for the persistent bone-penetrating cold) this phở chiên phồng was utterly delicious.

The next day I asked Hanoi Cooking Centre's Tracey Lister, author of two cookbooks on Vietnam (Tracey's Vietnamese Street Food is out in the USA as of this week) about the dishes' origins. Almost all of the customers at Phở cuốn Hưng Bền, where we ate our phở cuốn and phở chiên phồng were young, university age or below, and this made me wonder if the dishes were relatively new. Was this a "kids' thing", a group of dishes that Hanoians middle-aged and beyond simply can't wrap their minds around? Tracey dates their appearance on Hanoi streets to fifteen or so years ago, give or take a few, and reminded me that this isn't the first "new take" on a dish made with banh phở: versions of the noodle soup made with chicken didn't appear until Vietnam suffered shortages of beef during wartime.

They're a reminder of the ever-evolving nature of street food, which we tend to think of in terms of Classics. Like phở cuốn and phở chiên phồng, beef phở itself must have once challenged notions of what one should, or would even want to, eat on the street.

Phở cuốn Hưng Bền, 26 Nguyen Khac Hieu, tel. 043-829-2040. Is this place the best of the dozen or so similar shops near Truc Bach Lake? No idea. But we did enjoy our lunch.

 

KL Quickie II: Pan Meen

A quick trip down to Kuala Lumpur by road, three and a half hours down and the same back, two nights.

These jaunts are never initiated in the name of pleasure; there's something to do, an errand (or 50) to run, a bureaucratic formality to tend to. We pack our schedule tightly so as not to wear out our welcome at the homes of the friends who host us -- and, well, because we just really don't love KL anymore.

Meals aren't planned ahead, they're where and what we can squeeze in between stops but sometimes, as in the case of yesterday, geography and timing work out and we are able to revisit an old favorite.

Pan meen -- why oh why don't more foreigners, more visitors to Malaysia, know about this dish? If you order it "dry" -- the best way to eat it, I think -- it's a tangle of sturdy wide wheat noodles slicked with lightly sweet dark soy sauce and topped with chopped pork and slivered mushrooms and/or tree ear fungus. Daun manis, small sweet green leaves, too. The piece de resistance is deep-fried ikan bilis (tiny dried anchovies). A textural wonder that brings so much goodness to your mouth with each chopstick full -- all heightened by the green cilantro-lime-chili sambal that comes alongside.

Like most any "dry" Chinese Malaysian noodle  there's a corresponding soupy version. But we like the way the dry noodles maintain their bite and chew. We take our soup, floating a couple of pieces of tofu skin wrapped around fish paste and deep-fried, on the side.

If you find yourself in KL, seek out pan meen.And ask for extra sambal. There's a good version at the wonderful Imbi market. Our favorite -- because of the fish paste, the mushrooms sliced a bit wider than usual, and the larger ikan bilis which, after a bath in the oil, come out both crispy and chewy -- is in Section 17, a 15 or so minute taxi ride from KL Sentral Stesen. Details here.

More on Those Grilled Chapati

When I publicized our post on grilled chapati in George Town, Penang yesterday on Twitter one knowledgeable Indian food lover remarked that "if they tried that in India they'd be deported." (Loose quote.) But this morning on the EatingAsia Facebook page I found another Indian had weighed in: "In north India the chapati is commonly griddled and then grilled on the fire but without this contraption." (By "contraption" I assume he means the metal grill that's placed over the flames.)

This discussion inspired Dave to sift through photographs he made a few years ago in New Delhi, when he stopped over on his way to Malaysia from a photography workshop in Manali. (I, regrettably, did not join Dave on this trip. Judging by the photos here and his images and commentary here, he ate very well.)

What he found was this: proof that in New Delhi at least, chapati can be found grilled, sort of. Here we have a wood-fired portable stove with a small griddle pan on top. The guy on the right rolls out the chapati on a wooden board. They're cooked on the griddle and then removed with tongs and held directly to the flame. No "contraption" involved but, I imagine, the result is a lovely flatbrad infused with plenty of woody smokiness. (Just looking at those thick fresh chapati makes me hungry.)

Seems like the chapati makers in our previous George Town post brought a penchant for grilling flatbreads with them to Penang and adapted their method to a charcoal brazier.

All this talk of chapati has incited an unbearable craving so now, in honor of chapati makers in India, Malaysia and anywhere else, we're jettisoning all hopes of a productive afternoon and heading into George Town for lunch: chapati.

 

In Penang's George Town, Chapati Not Griddled but Grilled

    As we get tantalizingly close to finishing work on our old shop house in George Town, Penang, I'm beginning to allow myself to imagine what it might be like to actually live there. I imagine breaking up long stretches at the computer with a walk to a favorite kopitiam for a glass of iced caffeine, or a quick hawker stall lunch -- noodles in beef broth rich with Chinese medicinal herbs perhaps, or a spicy coconut milk-rich curry mee. I contemplate having Tek Sen a 10-minute walk away on evenings when I'm just too tired to cook. And I anticipate meandering George Town's endlessly fascinating lanes during the day's best hours, early in the morning while the air is still fresh and cool and as afternoon becomes evening, when the setting sun casts a beautiful hazy glow on the city's pastel building facades.

    I foresee a lot of evening strolls in Little India. There's always something going on there, always something worth seeing. On weekdays office workers congregate in the evenings at tables bunched around teh tarik stalls. Barber shops are busy, a male customer in the chair getting a trim and a shave while friends and onlookers watch and comment from chairs lined up beneath the shops' picture windows. CD shops engage in music wars, blaring Bollywood hits at top volume, drowning out the tap-tap of goldsmiths sitting out front of jewelry shops. Worshippers walk up and down China Street on their way to and from the Goddess of Mercy Temple and the small Ganesha shrine on the corner just opposite. Single devotees come to light a few sticks of incense and whole groups intent on performing a complex ceremony file in and out of Mariamman Temple on Queen Street.

    Of course, this being Penang there is also food being made, sold, eaten. Several vendors proffer samosa, deep-fried gram balls, warm spice-scented mashed lentil "doughnuts" and various other savory and sweet snacks from stainless steel trays displayed on plastic-topped trestle tables. On Penang Street, a vendor and his wife steam ground rice layered with butterscotch-y Indian jaggery in tubes and serve the finished cakes, called putu, on a piece of banana leaf with shredded coconut and more jaggery. (It's absolutely delicous, a must-try if you're in Little India after 4pm).

    Roti jala -- lacy griddled dough "nets" -- and curries can be found at a stall on Lebuh Pasar near Jalan Masjid Jamek (formerly Pitt Street, also known as the Walk of Harmony). I can't offer an appraisal though; the vendor's distinct unfriendliness has put me off all these years. On Queen Street there are freshly stretched, flipped, folded and griddled roti for sale, and chapati too.

    Street side chapati are not so easily found in Kuala Lumpur, but in George Town's Little India are five or more five spots that make and serve the wholemeal flatbreads. On Queen Street between Lebuh Pasar and China Street an elderly woman and her husband offer a variety of curries to go with their chapati. Whether or not the chapati are fresh depends on when you arrive to their stall. If they make as if to serve you from a stack of pre-made chapati you can attempt to cajole the old woman into making you a fresh one; sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

    At any rate, their chicken curry is superb -- very spicy and laden with fresh curry leaves. If you're not up for a whole piece of chicken just ask for a bowl of gravy to eat with your flatbread.

    Up Queen Street towards Chulia and almost directly across from the entrance to Mariamman Temple is something different: chapati grilled rather than griddled. The stall sits in front of a shop which also does roti; you order from the two men patting out the chapati and cooking them over the coals and then eat in the shop. (The shop owner will expect you to order a drink.)

    

    I've no idea if BBQ'd chapati are done in India. But I'm glad they're done in George Town.

    The fire blisters the flatbreads something fierce, but somehow doesn't leave them with a burnt flavor, just a haunting smokiness from the charcoal. Pliable in some spots, mildly crispy in others, the chapati becomes a bread-chip perfectly suited to dipping. Served alongside is a not-too-fiery, warm spices-fragrant dal featuring plenty of fresh curry leaves and another nice change of pace: chickpeas rather than the usual lentils.

Evening stalls in Little India usually don't get going until around 4:30/5pm. The place is busiest Monday-Thursday, when workers from the office buildings near/on Beach Street and other 9-to-5ers wander over for a snack before heading home to dinner.

 

    

Samui's Saving Grace

So, Koh Samui. We've been living in southeast Asia for almost eleven years, and traveling in the region since 1994. In all that time we had not once stepped foot on Samui (or any of its neighboring islands). That changed last month, when we spent a week there for a couple of assignments.

Honestly? I don't love Samui. I can't name any one reason why we stayed away, but as soon as we left the island's airport I understood why some travelers do. Koh Samui is one big argument against uncontrolled tourism-driven development. It is tragically, despairingly ugly.

I felt this way when I landed on Malaysia's Langkawi island for the first time four years ago. I was on assignment there, too, and my heart sank as I steered my rust-bucket of a rental car away from the airport and towards the west coast. Ugly, ugly. How would I ever conjur a truthful travel story out of a place that, at first glance, appeared to have no redeeming qualities?

But over the course of five days on Langkawi I grew to like it, even to love it a little, and that travel piece was one of the easiest I've ever written. That didn't happen for me on Koh Samui, in spite of a fair bit of excellent food, wonderful company (Samui Thais may be the friendliest Thais anywhere) and some nights in lovely digs. Since that first trip to Langkawi I've gone back and taken Dave along -- we've flown in on assignment and also under our own steam, to relax here and eat here. Samui? I'd happily eat there again -- in fact I'd return just to eat. But not on my own nickel. (A major beef: the island is ridiculously expensive in comparison to the rest of Thailand. Looking for value for money? Samui is not where to find it.)

So am I arguing against Samui as a destination? Yes I am -- as a destination for me. But that doesn't mean that others don't, and won't, enjoy it.

One of my niggles about Samui is that it is so resort-ified. I hate being cooped up in a resort, and I especially hate having to make a Herculean effort to leave a resort to get something decent to eat. Vacations should be easy. But if you're a resort person and you have nothing on your agenda but relaxing and eating, then maybe making what I consider to be The Big Effort to get yourself to a good meal -- hiring a taxi and paying an outrageous sum to do so, or hiring a rental car and paying an outrageous sum to do so, or renting a motor bike and risking life and limb on overcrowded roads -- won't seem such a big effort to you.

There is some really, truly wonderful food on Samui. (There is also some -- lots and lots, actually -- really awful food on Samui.) And, as I've argued before, truly wonderful food can be a saving grace of even the most otherwise disappointing destinations. If you're planning a sojourn on Samui it would be a shame to miss out on what deliciousness the island has to offer.

So, without further ado:

Takho Bangpo

If you eat at one local restaurant on the island make it this one. Samui has a cuisine all its own, rooted in two plentiful ingredients -- seafood and coconuts -- and Takho Bangpo serves up some fine examples. On our second night on the island a chef on Samui took us on a bit of a food crawl; Takho Bangpo was the second-to-last stop in a string of many. (This Thailand-based food blogger had also recommended this restaurant before we left). Our meal was so good that Dave and I returned a few days later for another, bigger meal. And had we had time before we left the island, we would have returned again.

The restaurant is a family-owned open-air affair situated right on the beach. Tables are steps from the water. The atmosphere is wonderfully relaxed; this is the place to arrive a bit before sunset, dig your toes into the sand and kick back with a beer while ordering this and that a little bit at a time, so that your meal unfolds leisurely over a few hours.

Every meal begins with a complimetary appetizer: shrimp paste mixed with grated coconut meat, garlic and chilies that's smeared on a coconut shell and grilled over charcoal. The dip is pungently fishy, sweet and salty and goes brilliantly with fresh leaves and veggies served alongside.

The menu has a Local Dishes section -- range around there when you order. Some of the staff speak English, so feel free to ask for recommendations. You never know what might be in season --- like bplaa likun, anchovy-like fish that the kitchen fries to a fantastic crackly crisp. Dunked in lime soured gingery chili sauce, they make a wonderful beer snack. Also ask after bai ngiah, a delicious dark green leaf cooked with egg. (See the opening photo for these two dishes.)

Another appetite rouser: sliced sour green mango served with a hae koh-like sweetened shrimp paste with chunks of dried shrimp (another island-produced ingredient) and plenty of chilies. Lovers of dishes like Penang-style rojak and Filipino green mango with bagoong will especially enjoy this tart-sweet-spicy-salty flavor bomb of a combination.

Another special-to-Samui ingredient is waay, small octopus that are eaten fresh in season and dried every season. September is not waay fishing season, but our chef friend told us that at certain times of the year the ocean view from Takho Bangpo's tables includes hundreds of waay strung to dry on lines suspended above the sea. Tom waay is a soup-stew of dried or fresh waay simmered with lemon grass in coconut milk. The coconut milk on Samui is incredibly creamy -- this was a filling but fantastic dish.

Our Spanish chef friend doesn't eat mussels on Samui -- they can't compare to what he gets at home, he says. We understand. But live in a fresh mussel desert, and so when Dave and I returned to Takho we ordered the local green lipped mussels simply steamed with basil and garlic. Lovely, lovely -- though maybe not to you if you are a regular eater of mussels in, say, Tasmania, northern California, or France.

Other notable dishes at Takho: bpuu phat kari, big chunks of shelled crab meat cooked with onions and Chinese chives in a light, light coconut-free curry sauce; sataw -- also known as petai or "stink beans" -- stir-fried with prawns and just a hint of coconut cream; and butterflied raw prawns on a bed of slivered fresh cabbage, thin slices of bitter melon and whole chilies. The latter dish, the raw prawns, are served with the same tart-gingery dipping sauce as the deep-fried tiny fish. Our chef friend showed us how to eat them: in a spoon, lay a bit of cabbage, then a slice of bitter melon, then a prawn and, if you dare, a chili. Dribble on a bit of dipping sauce and pop the whole thing in your mouth. Bitter, sour, crunchy, soft, the super-fresh raw prawn playing off the ginger and lime -- wonderful.

In Bang Po, on the sea side of the road, amongst a string of eateries and a little bit east of a cafe/bar called 4 Monkeys (also recommended, for a beer at sunset on its rear deck). Look for the faded portrait of the restaurant's founder above the door. Walk in, proceed past the kitchen and exit at the tables on the beach.

Tuna Burger

Our Takho Bangpo guide Alex is Head Chef at the Four Seasons. Resort restaurants aren't our usual hangouts, but we would gladly return again and again to Pla Pla restaurant for Alex's tuna burger. We are Americans, so perhaps burgers hold a special place in our hearts. This thick patty of coarsely hand-chopped fresh white tuna cooked medium-rare (still pink in the middle), smeared with a sort of mayo-tartar sauce and a sweet-spicy sambal-like caramelized onion-tomato-chili sauce on an absolutely *perfect* -- in texture, in flavor, in density -- bun filled a void that's existed in my soul since I ate my last proper hamburger a few years ago.

It is a seriously delicious sandwich, easily one of our best bites that week. That the hefty "fries" alongside are also spot-on is a bonus. 

Homemade kanom

This is tricky, because I don't have an address, or even a street name, for this tiny family-owned shop selling homemade kanom (sweets) from about 5:30 am until they run out, usually by 9am. It's in Nathon, Samui's capital. If you're heading south from Bang Po or Laem Yai, keep your eyes out for an old-style double-story weathered timber shop house with Chinese characters on the LEFT side of the road once you hit town. (There aren't many left, so you should be able to spot it if you watch carefully.) If you stand in front of that shop the side lane kitty corner that terminates at the water is the street you want. The shop will be on your left side, and you'll know it because the kanom are displayed on tables right out front. 

This is the place for coconut sticky rice -- yellow, black or white -- sai gong (with sweetened ground dried shrimp, here zesty with a healthy dose of black pepper), or with sankaya (egg and coconut milk custard), or mango or thick shreds of coconut meat that have been cooked with palm sugar. It's also the place for other sweet deliciousness, like these steamed double-layer dumplings of coconut and palm sugar encased in chewy palm sugar-flavored glutinous rice, which itself is encased in a soft shell of coconut cream,

or these dumplings of coconut-scented sticky rice wrapped around a variety of banana that goes pink and soft when steamed and tastes like a cross between a banana, pineapple and strawberry.

Finally, a couple spots for which we have no photos, but that deserve mention nonetheless:

Sweet Sisters

Opened by, well, Samui sisters not too long ago, this friendly restaurant on the south side of the island serves Thai home cooking and a few western specialties. The emphasis is on natural foods and superior ingredients and presentations are cleaned up in comparison to your average Thai restaurant. But the sister in the kitchen doesn't dumb down flavors, and if you ask for it spicy you will get it spicy. Flavors are intense here; everything tastes fresh and as if it were made with care. It is, because everything's made to order. There's a menu and daily specials on a blackboard.

We enjoyed a fish laab with a riot of fresh, fresh herbs and lots of crispy fried garlic, a turmeric, galangal and lemongrass chicken soup with an incredibly depth of flavor, and a southern Thai-specific wild green stir-fried with garlic. There were other dishes, but alas I was a bit peaked that night and took no notes. I do know that that soup got me back on my feet, and Dave was raving about his meal for days. I wish that we'd had an opportunity to return.

Just go. The restaurant is on the south side of the island, just about where route 4170 meets 4173, on the same side of the road (but opposite corner to) the 7-Eleven. 11am-9pm, off day is Wednesday. And the phone number is 66-864/708-631.

Haad Bang Pho

Our second night food crawl ended at this restaurant about 5 minutes south by car from Takho Bang Po. Like Takho, it's open-air and casual, tables on the sand, with a friendly staff headed by an impressively dreadlocked Thai dude.

We ordered raw shrimp dressed with garlic and fish sauce and chilies and "cooked" in lime juice (superb), bplaa kapong ng manaow -- black snapper (I think) steamed with lime (excellent) and green curry with chicken which, though a bit sweet for my taste, was rich and fragrant with lemongrass. There was also gai nam prik pao, chicken stir-fried in sweet-hot chili paste which, while very good, paled in comparison to all of the lovely seafood we ate that night.

 

Gat Luang Diaries V: Crispy Crullers and Deep-Fried Dragons

A well-made cruller is a thing of beauty. Which is why, should you find yourself in Chiang Mai, you should make your way to a lane alongside Don Lam Yai market called Soi Udompon, in the city's old Gat Luang neighborhood, where Ko Ning and his wife Daeng have been frying up some of the city's best for more than a decade. On busy days daughter Kwan helps out behind the fryer.

Everyday from 6am the pair, sometimes with the help of their daughter Kwan, roll and cut dough for bpa tong ko -- crispy and lightly salty double-sided "chromosome" crullers (so-called for their shape, by our English-speaking Chiang Mai friends) -- and sarapao tawt, slightly sweet puffs studded with black sesame seeds. Both make for a brilliant breakfast, taken alongside a glass of cold soy milk (warm soy milk is served in a small bowl), or a bowl of song kryang, warm soy milk with strips of fresh bean curd skin, barley and red beans. For sweet tooths, there's sankayaa, a lurid green pandan-and-coconut milk and egg spread that Malaysians know as kaya.

It's a busy spot, this stretch of pavement fronting weathered timber-doored shop houses next to Chiang Mai's oldest market.

In recent years it's become even busier, as word has spread -- by mouth, newspaper, and local TV -- of Ko Ning's cruller variation: the deep-fried dragon.

The dragon and Ko Ning's other animal shapes are actually themselves variations on his first deep-fried animal.

"Eight years ago I took my son to the zoo. He liked the crocodile so much that when we went home I made one from clay for him," he told us. "Then I wondered if I could do that with dough. My first try wasn't good. It wasn't a crocodile. It was more like a gecko."

Ko Ning's deep-fried crocodiles, dragons and dinosaurs are, predictably, popular with kids. Even big kids.

And they're big sellers. Ko Ning holds a Master's degree in managment and teaches at a vocational college in Nong Khai. That job is "for respect," he says, patting the rectangle of dough on his work table.  "This is the real income!"

Like any born innovator Ko Ning isn't resting on his laurels. When we were last in Chiang Mai he was experimenting with deep-fried dough-swaddled hot dogs.

Early reception for the dough weenies was looking positive, and Ko Ning was posed to add his newest creation to the menu. All he needed a catchy name. Our suggestion: Twisty Dogs.

The man looked doubtful. "I'll have to think about it," he said.

For more images -- some food, some not -- of Don Lamyai Market and the rest of Gat Luang, visit Dave's recently uploaded gallery, here.

Find what is surely one of Chiang Mai's tastiest, least greasy cruller -- and deep-fried animals -- every morning from 6am to about 10am, on the alley alongside Don Lam Yai market.

On Street Food and Those Who Love (and Deride) It, and Where to Eat it in Siem Reap

What is street food?

I found myself mildly debating this question with a chef in Siem Reap, after his recommendation led us to these wonderful skewers of BBQ'd beef on the quiet side of the river. That particular specialty isn't one that he'd call "street food", he said, because the beef (and its accompanying green papaya pickle) are prepped off-site and are cooked off the street at a stationary location, a shop (of sorts). 

For me the definition of street food is less about a dish being prepared and eaten literally in the street (or in an alley or on a sidewalk) than it is about immediacy, proximity and specialization. If it's not prepared or at least plated pretty much to order, in plain view of the diner, it's not street food. And most street foods are served by vendors (not restaurateurs, not cafe operators) who specialize in one, two or a few dishes. (That's why I feel comfortable talking about "street food" in Malaysia even though much of it is no longer served from carts that are literally on the street, but from carts parked inside or just on the edge of kopitiam / coffee shops.) 

It's these elements that make street food so special and, so often, delicious. They're why street food doesn't translate well to a restaurant setting and why, contrary to the assertions of some that Asian street food isn't all that great, it often really and truly is. I don't doubt that you can find char koay teow, asam laksa, banh da and Thai-style grilled pork neck in a restaurant. But I'd bet my last dollar that the restaurant versions won't be half as tasty as the best version prepared and served "on the street", because they would be missing those elements of immediacy, proximity and -- especially -- specialization.

I got to thinking about this after the post I wrote about those Siem Reap beef skewers elicited comments on Twitter to the effect that street food in Cambodia is disgusting. Wow, I thought, that's a pretty broad generalization to make about any food, anywhere. Then it occurred to me that maybe those comments came from folks who define the term "street food" as narrowly as our chef friend. To be sure, Cambodia isn't an easy place to do the street food thing. It's a poor country and hygiene is lax. Often, as I wrote a few years ago, the general environment in Cambodia is just not street food eating-friendly.

Yet Bangkok is sometimes touted as a comparative street food paradise by Cambodian street food naysayers -- because in Bangkok street food is everywhere, all the time. In fact a good portion of the food served on Bangkok's streets has declined in quality over the decade that's passed since I lived there. What's served on the city's streets does not generally dazzle, and you really have to pick and choose carefully; I think many Thais and farang familiar with Bangkok's street food scene would agree. And yet Bangkok is often held up as the gold standard (and Cambodia compared unfavorably to it). Just because it's on the street and looks good doesn't mean that it is good.

There is often a sort of tendency among street food enthusiasts to give food a pass just because it is street food, and it's cheap -- along the lines of "Wow, I'm loving this experience of eating on the street, and even cooler is the fact that my amazing bowl of noodles costs less than a dollar! So this is a great bowl of noodles! And street food is great!"

But that's an approach that's as off-the-mark as the reverse-reverse snobbery of the street food naysayers, the ones who imply that writers and travelers who espouse eating street food are living in a La-La Land not occupied by the the majority of Asians, and are willfully ignorant of the way the majority of Asians would really prefer to eat: in an air-conditioned restaurant, not at curbside. (My answer: come to Penang, observe the diners at hawker stalls, and then tell me how many are eating street food because it's the only food they can afford to eat. And the same might be said of Hanoi.)

I am a big fan of street food for a number of reasons, but I'm as particular about my street food as I am about other food. I don't like -- and I won't tout -- a mediocre dish prepared with sub-par ingredients by a cook who doesn't care, whether it costs $100 and is served in a 5-star setting, or whether it costs 50 cents and requires my sitting on a tiny stool inches above the sidewalk to eat it. For me the worthy by-products of eating street food -- mingling with locals, being part of a lively dining scene, seeing facets of unfamiliar cultures you'd never otherwise see and, in some cases, having the opportunity to try a dish that just isn't available elsewhere, off the street -- should be the bonus of a great street snack or meal, not its raison d'etre.

What am I getting at? First, that the definition of "street food" should be broad. Second, that just because it's cheap and on the street doesn't mean it's worth the calories. Third, that street food eaters don't enjoy any kind of superiority over non-street food eaters -- eat street food or don't, I make no judgement either way -- but that they may gain insights that non-street food eaters don't. Street food eaters are privvy to experiences -- and sometimes dishes -- that simply aren't had off the street.

And fourth ... Cambodia's got some great, tasty street food, even if it isn't always served in the most appetizing of settings.

To whit, in Siem Reap: Psar Chas, the old market in the center of town. It's hot, it's untidy, it's a wet wet market. Psar Chas can be uncomfortably crowded. You may not find the odors that waft about its aisles -- a heady combination of dried and fermented fish and fresh meat, wet herbs, sliced lemongrass and pounded garlic and shallots, chopped fresh turmeric and grated coconut -- as appetizing as I do. But, especially in the early mornings and again in the mid-late afternoons it's central food stall area features some excellent eats.

(As an aside, I've always found morning markets to be a great source of good street eats, often better than night markets. As I wrote in this post from Taiwan, night markets are about the scene, while non tourist-oriented morning food markets are about, well, food.)

Like the pork-rice, chicken-rice and congee/noodle stall at one corner -- always packed, usually selling out of pork by 8am or so. Like every other stall in the market it's stationery but make no mistake, this is the definition of street food. Behind the counter pots of thick rice porridge and water for boiling noodles are kept warm over braziers, and the ingredients for each dish are lined up on the counter. Foods are assembled -- and cooked, to varying degrees -- to order. Every step, except the long cooking of the porridge and the roasting of the bird and pig, is done in front of you.

This lady serves a congee fine enough to convert the most diehard anti-rice porridge-ist (you're out there, I know, and I'm betting most of you have never eaten a properly made rice porridge), thick and creamy and meaty tasting. There's bean sprouts in there, and lots of Cambodian black pepper, and before it's served the congee is drizzled with a little oil flavored with scallion greens.There's taucu (fermented bean paste) and prahok, a super odiferous fermented fish condiment, on the counter with which to season your porridge as you wish. Don't forget the fresh pounded chili sauce.

Then there's the pork rice -- sliced pork over rice, essentially -- which on this morning became chicken rice because by the time we arrived the pork was sold out (Dave, who spent many early mornings in Psar Chas and became a pork rice regular here, gives it a thumbs-up). No matter though, because the chicken is moist and flavorful, it's drizzled with that not-overpoweringly garlic-oniony scallion oil and the lot is served witha delicious sweet-sour quick pickle of carrots and cucumber and a sweet-hot-tangy dipping sauce.

Behind this stall is a vendor of sweet treats. Look for a steamer full of pale yellow cakes in banana leaf cups. Made with palmyra palm fruits and coconut milk, they're moist and spongy with a lovely hint of banana-ish tartness.

Where else for street food in Siem Reap? A row of shops on a side street way down the river; you might need to hire a tuk-tuk or ride a bike to get there (or be willing to walk 15 to 20 minutes from the center of town). All serve various incarnations of the chicken-noodle combo.

Our favorite was the dish in the opening photo, a bowl of cool rice vermicelli topped with chunks of crispy chicken-filled spring rolls and shredded chicken meat. Reminiscent of Vietnamese bun thit nuong, each bowl holds a bit of pickle and fish sauce-y sweetish dressing at the bottom. Add a dab of Cambodia's ubiquitous chili sauce, mix and eat. These places also serve fresh rice paper-wrapped salad rolls, light on meat and heavy on crunchy lettuce and herbs.

No, Cambodia isn't a street food bonanza. It's streets offer a lot of frankly funky stuff. But there's good street eats too. They are there (but not everywhere) -- if you want to look for them.

The pork/chicken rice/congee lady is at the very corner of Psar Chas prepared food section, right in the center of the market. Which corner? I couldn't tell you. But you'll know her when you see her. If you get there past 9am you might not see her at all.

The cool rice vermicelli stalls is on a street perpendicular to the river north of the center of town. I drew it on a map, which you can see here.

 

A Saving Grace in Sri Em

I hate wasting time, money, and especially, a meal. And that's how I felt about our brief sojourn earlier this week in Sri Em, a pretty near nothingball town in northern Cambodia whose claim to fame is its proximity to the mountaintop temple complex of Preah Vihear.

We hired a taxi for the 3-hour drive from Siem Reap and left at 11:30am, figuring that this would give us an afternoon and a morning at Preah Vihear. But by the time we'd checked into our clean but down-and-out guesthouse in Sri Em -- 45 minutes to an hour from the top of the mountain -- it was 3:30 or so. No point heading up now, our driver told us, since the complex closes at 5. So there we were in Sri Em with nothing to do but find a way to pass the time until morning.

So we walked, up the characterless stretch of highway connecting our guesthouse to the crossroads that comprises Sri Em town. There's a huge military presence around and at Preah Vihear, and Sri Em has the feel of a town built to service soldiers. We found karaoke restaurants, questionable "hotels", mobile phone stores. We found a market. As market lovers we do not judge markets harshly, but Sri Em's market was dismal.

We walked in, stepping over squishy mud puddles and past shallow rattan baskets filled with fly-covered lurid pink sausages, past uncovered tubs of prahok and fruit vendors with absolutely nothing of interest to offer. We wandered down one aisle and up another, and ended up in front of a charcoal-fired barbecue tended by a grandmother and her granddaughter, its grill covered with blackening banana leaf parcels.

There was nothing -- not a thing -- in that market to stir the appetite. Quite the opposite, in fact. By the time we smelled the charcoal smoke I felt my stomach on the verge of churning. But whatever was in those banana leaves smelled good, really good. We bought a few and unwrapped them then and there.

They held a typical southeast Asian snack: coconut rice wrapped around a banana. But oh, what a version of this unremarkable snack so easily found all over the region! The rice logs were especially rich with coconut milk. They'd been left on the grill long enough to form a slightly sweet crusty, crispy-chewy exterior. Inside, the rice was still soft, and it enclosed a sweet-tart banana that the heat of the grill had reduced to the silky texture of grilled eggplant. We ate them up, and swooned, and bought more.

The next morning, at fog-shrouded Preah Vihear, we found Sri Em's other saving grace. Our overnight there gave us two hours alone at the site. By the time other visitors began arriving in noisy droves we were heading back down the mountain.

For more photographs from Preah Vihear visit Dave's photography blog, here.

In Sri Em, we stayed at Som Rak guesthouse. The food at the attached restaurant isn't bad, but it isn't particularly good either -- and it's stupid expensive, especially in comparison with the deliciousness served up at this Cambodian restaurant in Siem Reap. If you go, plan to arrive in Sri Em by noon (it's 3-3.5 hours from Siem Reap by taxi) so you can visit Preah Vihear twice (U$5 per person per visit if you go up the mountain by motorbike). Arrange to arrive at PV in the morning before it officially opens (this can be done for a small price -- consult your taxi or moto driver). We were at the ticket office at 7am and if I had it to do over again I would aim for 6:30.

Skewered in Siem Reap

The ultimate skewer of barbecued beef? Perhaps.

    Around five in the afternoon charcoal smoke begins to rise from dozens of grills, scenting the air all over Siem Reap. Cambodians love a barbecue, it seems -- there's an entire street devoted to restaurants serving up charred protein (chicken, beef, offal, seafood), sides and beer. Locals call it "Khmer Pub Street", after Pub Street, an infamous downtown strip of dance clubs and bars in which young foreign travellers pass their evenings.

    A couple evenings ago we dipped our toe into the local BBQ scene at a corner joint on the non-Pub Street side of the river. Picture it: a middle-aged woman seated on a stool behind a long low grill crowded with skewers of red meat. A packed house every single night, from five-thirty onward. An intoxicating scent -- smoky, sweet, meaty -- that begins to tickle your nose when you're still half a block away.

    The meat on those skewers is local beef and beef liver, marinated in beef stock and perhaps Cambodian palm sugar. The strips of beef are alternated with bits of pork fat to keep the meat moist, and both it and the liver are skewered in such a way that they form waves along the wooden stick rather than lying flat. The result, for the beef at least (we passed on the liver) is that while some parts of the meat become black and charred and crispy-crusty, others cook no further than medium or medium-rare. Each piece of beef is a bit like a bite of a thick char-grilled steak, a mix of textures and donenesses. It's brilliant.

    That's not all. After the skewers come off the grill they're annointed with a mixture of (I'm guessing here) soy sauce and with palm sugar -- a little salt, a little sweet (and I do mean "a little" -- palm sugar isn't as sweet as cane sugar), a little extra smoky caramel flavor to further play up the sweet smokiness the grill gives the meat.

For liver lovers only

    All well and delicious, but what truly qualifies this barbecued beef as The Bomb is its accompaniment: a sweet-sour pickle-salad of thick cucumber slices, finely shredded green papaya and ginger. There's all kinds of ways to eat the two together, but we like to mix a spoonful of fresh red chili sauce in with our salad-pickle and alternate mouthfuls: smoky-meaty, tangy-sweet-spicy. Another option: snag a mini baguette hot off the grill -- be sure to wave off the smear of rank margarine -- and stuff it with meat and pickle for the ultimate grilled beef sandwich.

    This isn't the only BBQ beef skewer place in town, but it's certainly one of the busiest. Already heaving at five, it was still doing the business on our first visit around 7:30. Go early; unlike the full-service barbecue restaurants these places tend to close up shop by 9 or so.

Beef (and beef liver) skewers, a ten-minute walk from Psar Chas / Old Market: cross the bridge in front of the market and veer right (south) at the circle, past the Hip Hop Club. It's on your left, a corner place directly opposite the sign for the Golden Banana Guest House and Boutique Resort (which, by the way, is a great place to stay). To see the place on a google map go here. Order skewers in multiples of 5. On our first visit 15 skewers (beef), 5 or 6 plates of pickle-salad and two orders of bread cost us less than U$5. On our next visit 2 pickles and 5 skewers (no bread) cost 5,000 riel.