EatingAsia

Gaeng Ki Lek: On the Trail of a Curry from Northern Thailand to Suburban KL

(In two parts)

About a year and a half ago Dave and I went road tripping in northern Thailand, and stopped for a night in quiet little Phrae.  It's an architectural treasure trove, the best place in the country to see old-style Thai buildings -- houses and temples -- made entirely of teak.

Beyond these wooden beauties, Phrae doesn't have much to offer the traveller.  Nonetheless, as is the case with most all Thai towns "upcountry" (any place not Bangkok -- whether north, south, east or west), Phrae's residents are laid-back and friendly, and its lodgings cheap, clean, and comfortable enough.  And like the rest of Thailand, in Phrae delicious food can be found on every corner, and at several spots in between as well.

The day after we arrived in Phrae we woke early to beat the heat that, by late morning during Thailand's hot-dry season, rises from the pavement in undulating waves that sear the nostrils (and to catch the best light for taking photos).  We toured a fairly well-preserved teak mansion in the center of the "old house district" and took another turn through the backstreets we'd walked the evening before, revisiting (and re-photographing) our favorite teak structures.  We made a pass through Phrae's small wet market, surprisingly quiet for a Sunday morning,

bought a big bunch of luscious lychees (another reason -- mangoes are the first -- to bear the heat and travel in Thailand in April and May) off the back of a truck parked on the main drag,

and suddenly realized we were famished.

Just up the street, a glass display case of curries beckoned.  Rich, mild green curries with tiny eggplant or bittermelon, fiery coconut milk-free "jungle" curries with fish or pork ... and a beige pork curry packed with olive-colored leaves: gaeng ki lek (ki lek leaf curry).  We'd run into gaeng ki lek only once before, at a touristy restaurant off of Bangkok's Silom Road that serves insipid, uninspired versions of Thai favorites (phad thai, green papaya salad, green curry with chicken) and exquisite renditions of lesser-known dishes (black peppercorn-fried pigeon and gaeng ki lek).  Ki lek leaves are unbelievably bitter, almost medicinally so; but in a spicy curry made slightly sweet with coconut milk their extreme bitterness becomes strangely alluring.

These leaves were a mystery to me.  I'd never encountered them in a market in Bangkok, and I'd never seen them uncooked.  So I couldn't determine their plant origin (and no one I asked knew).  Finding an English translation for the plant "ki lek" was stymied by the fact that the leaves and/or plant are named colloquially in Thai ("ki lek" literally translated is "iron shit"). 

Fast forward to last week, when Wan (our maid, fount of knowledge of Thai food esoterica, tutor in proper Thai behavior, and loving nanny to too many pets for going on four years) returned home from an evening walk with a grin on her round face, a twinkle in her brown eyes, and an armful of tree branches.

(to be continued...)

Catch of the Day

A few Sundays ago, after a vigorous workout aimed specifically at carving out a big space in our bellies for lunch, we followed a tip about dao shao mian (lit. "knife-cut noodles" -- thick, irregularly shaped soup noodles sliced with a cleaver off of a big hunk of dough into boiling water) downtown, to Changkat Thambi Dollah Street.  A few passes through the area, on both sides of the street, turned up no knife-cut noodles but did succeed in amplifying our appetites.  "I'm about to eat my fist," said Dave (translation: he was really very hungry); it seemed fortuitous indeed that at that very moment we were within spitting distance of Ah Koong Eating House.  We had no idea what Ah Koong served, but most of the outside tables were occupied -- and we felt it safe to assume that any place called an "eating house" might be able to assuage a ferocious hunger.

It turned out that Ah Koong specializes in things fishy -- fish porridge, fish balls with noodles, fish cakes, and fish paste-stuffed veggies and tofu (a.k.a. yung taufu). 

The growls emitting from our stomachs told us to "Go ahead, try it all!" and we did our best to oblige, ordering a big bowl of fish porridge to share, a fish cake, and, from the yung tauhu display below, red chilies and okra (bottom middle and left), eggplant (upper left), and firm tofu chunks.

Porridge -- it sounds unappetizing, doesn't it?  So 1800s British boys' orphanage (though I suppose that would have been wheat, rather than rice, porridge).  But truly, Asian rice porridge -- in all its national variations -- is a wonderful, soul-satisfying dish, the simplest of elements (rice, water or broth, and a few other ingredients) elevated to heavenly heights. 

   

Customers ordering fish porridge have a choice of three types of fish.  Unfortunately between the staff's Fujianese and my mangled Mandarin we weren't able to decipher what types of fish they were, so we simply ordered the middling one (10 ringit a bowl, to the others' 8 and 12 ringit price tags).  No matter.  Ah Koong's fish porridge did not disappoint.  Really more of a Shanghai-style fan tang (loose rice soup) than a Cantonese-style jook (thick and creamy rice porridge), this generously-sized bowl -- well more than enough for two -- held plenty of big, tender chunks of boneless fish (grouper, I think), seaweed, and lettuce, in an aggressively gingery fish broth seasoned with fried shallots, coriander sprigs, and lots of shredded ginger. 

As fond as I was of the porridge, I had mixed feelings about Ah Koong's fish cake.

This is a cake of well-pounded -- and thus quite springy -- fish paste, formed into a patty, deep-fried, and served with a tomato-based sweet-hot chili sauce.  Very tasty, if not especially distinctive, and very light on the grease, but ... really the sort of thing that one would gnaw on absentmindedly, rather than savor with full concentration.  After a couple of pleasant bites I ignored it in favor of the porridge and the luscious yung tauhu soup.

Big chunks of fresh-tasting bean curd and our chosen fish paste-stuffed veggies in an extremely garlicky, rich soup broth (did I detect Maggi seasoning? probably -- it's almost ubiquitous on this side of the globe), perked up with the usual (and always welcome) Malaysian garnish suspects of deep-fried shallots and garlic and sliced scallion.  Okra and chilies were tender but not at all overcooked and eggplant was meltingly soft; the fish paste stuffing (possibly the same paste that formed my spurned patty) a perfect protein foil to the veggies.  A delicious sour-spicy dipping sauce accompanied, but was hardly necessary.

In short, mission not accomplished (not that weekend anyway -- we did find the dao shao mian and I shall report on it in good time), but a memorably delicious fishy feast well enjoyed.  Not bad for a Sunday lunch.

Ah Koong Eating House, Jalan Changkat Thambi Dollah, behind Berjaya Times Square Mall.

Hit the Rojak II

About a month before moving to KL, we were in town for a few days to look for a place to live.  What a nightmare!  Ever viewed 20 potential homes in about 7 hours, all of them discouragingly lacking?  As the brain begins to fog and the eyes begin to goggle in the skull, details run together and each place, in memory, becomes indistinguishable from the other.  At one point, about midday, as we were speeding through entirely unfamiliar surroundings from one appointment to the next, our real estate agent waggled a thumb at a truck parked roadside.  "I reckon here's where you'll get the best Indian rojak in KL," he pronounced.  I immediately perked up -- and then deflated, as what might have been a welcome diversion from our mission faded in the rearview window.

Then a couple of weekends ago, fortune came our way:  entirely by accident, we came upon the very truck, parked in its spot next to a monstrous apartment/condo construction site on a busy side road in Bangsar.  There was no question that we'd have to stop and give the rojak a try.

Indian rojak is an entirely different animal from Penang rojak.  Different ingredients, different sauces.  In Indian rojak sauce you won't find petis -- the pungent black prawn paste pictured in my previous post -- but you will find toasted peanuts, chilies, gula melaka (palm sugar), tamarind, and sometimes mashed sweet potato.  And while the ingredients in Penang rojak sauce are mixed on the spot, Indian rojak sauce is cooked, and served lukewarm.  Like Penang rojak, Indian rojak's salad includes jicama, cucumber, and deep-fried tofu, but also bean sprouts, assorted deep-fried fritters, a hard-boiled egg and, if you wish, boiled sotong (squid) bathed in chili sauce.

Above, veggies ready to mix are laid out on bottom, while fritters -- prawn, coconut, and plain flour -- occupy the shelf up top.

Another view of veggies, with deep-fried tofu triangles tucked behind.  The tub holds chili squid and the tied bags rojak sauce, ready for takeaway.

My Indian rojak experience is limited enough that I can't speak to the "best in KL" assertion made about this version, but I can say that this fellow's pride in his product is justified.

Across the counter his partner uses an old-fashioned hand-cranked contraption to shave ice for chendol, a sweet dessert/drink of coconut milk, palm sugar, and short worm-like cooked "noodles" of pea flour flavored with pandan leaves (called "chendol" -- the dessert is named for this ingredient).  The chendol served out of this truck may also, if you request it, include corn, kidney beans, and a bit of coffee (in the green plastic tub). 

Chendol and Indian rojak seem a match made (or mandated) in heaven; most Indian rojak trucks offer the icy treat as well.

After the mixing and the shaving, the pouring and the plating, this is what we ended up with: a picturesque plate of Indian rojak, smothered in a smooth, coconut-y dressing punctuated by a zippy chili backbeat,

and a refreshing bowl of beans 'n corn 'n "worms".  I have to admit that I was not initially enamored of the sweet bean and corn concept, but it's quite grown on me since we moved to southeast Asia.

No doubt about it, ground peanuts and coconut milk makes for an extremely rich salad dressing, so much so that we could easily have gotten by with one order between the two of us.  Nonetheless, this vendor has managed to tone down the goo's inherent sweetness a smidge, and that bit of chili cuts right through.  It's not too thick (I've had versions bordering on gloppy), although there is alot of it, so it's best to adhere to discipline and leave a little peanuty pool on one's plate at the end.  Prawn fritters are generously studded with crustaceans, the flour fritters have a pleasantly soft and spongy-doughy chew (perfect for sopping up sauce), and the deep-fried tofu is light and springy.  All combine with the cool fresh vegetables, smooth hard-boiled egg, and not unpleasantly toothsome squid in an inspired medley.

Indian rojak and chendol truck, next to the construction site on Jalan Penaga close to the Jalan Ara intersection, Bangsar.  Late mornings to late afternoons.

Hit the Rojak

I first became acquainted with rojak -- a fruit and vegetable "salad" served up in Singapore, Malaysia, and Indonesia -- last year on a trip to Penang that involved very little other than eating.  What I love about Penang rojak is its inherent element of surprise:  fruit and veggies are thickly cloaked in a shiny, sticky black sauce and topped with peanuts, leading the uninitiated to anticipate something along the lines of a dessert.  All expectations are blown out of the water with the first bite, however, with the aggressive punch of belacan (Malaysian shrimp paste).  Once the shock subsides, allowing taste buds to take over, rojak's disparate elements -- salty, sweet, sour, and powerfully fishy -- hang together in an unforgettable whole.  Much as with Vietnam's bun mam and Issan's Isaan's somtam ponlamai, the ingredients taken together really shouldn't make sense at all, yet they  deliciously do.

We spotted this Penang rojak vendor outside Nam Chuan coffee shop in Bangsar, and decided to make his version of one of my funky favorites appetizer to our main course of pan mee.

Penang rojak vendors use a variety of ingredients; I recall rose apple and guava in our Penang visit version.  This guy's list includes pineapple, green mango, papaya, cucumber, yam bean (jicama), deep-fried tofu, and cracker of an indeterminate nature.  He starts off by spooning black sauce (a mixture of belacan, sugar, and kalamansi juice -- I think) into his mixing bowl. 

He then adds fruit, vegetables, and scissor-cut tofu in one step.

The rojak is quickly mixed and ready in less than a minute -- topped with peanuts and cracker (it's also possible to have your cracker mixed in with the other ingredients).  Long toothpicks serve as utensils.

A fine version indeed, one that I'd certainly partake of again if I were idling hungrily in the vicinity of Nam Chuan, waiting for an order from one of the hawker stalls to arrive.  Yet -- is it me? is my memory exaggerating the fishy aftertaste of that first rojak experience in Penang? -- this Bangsar rojak lacks a certain pungency.  When I raised toothpick to mouth there was a distinct lack of belacan aroma, to the extent that if I hadn't know this was a fishy treat I wouldn't have known till it was in my mouth.  When it comes to Penang rojak I need more .... stink.  The search will continue.

This vendor parks days, right at the corner of Nam Chuan coffee shop, Lucky Garden, Lorong Ara Kiri, Bangsar.

 

Streetside Sweets: Putu Piring

I've developed quite a sweet tooth since moving to KL.  It's hard not to, when it seems that at any time of the day or night one is never far from a vendor pushing -- and, sometimes, making on the spot -- one or another tempting morsel that is as easy on the taste buds as it is lovely to look at.  And when most everything sweet on the street can be purchased by the piece, or a few pieces, for a song ... well, there's no use even trying to resist when "just a taste" is well within the realm of possibilities.

Two of my very favorite southeast Asian dessert ingredients -- sweet, smoky, almost undetectably bitter palm sugar and coconut in any of its forms (fresh grated, milk, cream) -- play a key role in quite a few Malaysian sweets.  Yet another strike against abstinence.

Last Sunday, after a big lunch (aren't they all?) followed by a quick stop at the grocery store, Dave and I came across two young ladies peddling freshly made putu piring: steamed rice flour cakes filled with -- yes! -- palm sugar and topped with -- you know it-- freshly grated coconut.  They were doing business in a spot on a Bangsar sidewalk usually occupied by a gent whom we've come to know as "the Bangsar bubur cha cha man".  Our attention was drawn by the play of late afternoon light off the conical lids of their stainless steel steamer.

In truth were were not at all hungry, but these ladies were doing a steady business and, as I've learned over the years in Asia, any product proffered by a vendor receiving a constant flow of customers demands investigation.

To make the putu piring, coarsely ground rice flour is patted into a round, flattish mold, and then topped with a rounded teaspoon or so of grated palm sugar. 

 

In the picture above, putu piring yet to receive their palm sugar filling can be seen to the right of the umbrella pole.

More rice flour is added -- enough to thinly cover the palm sugar -- and then firmly patted down.  The molds are then turned upside down over thin pieces of cotton cloth lining the steamer, and a lid placed on top of each cake.  After just a few minutes, the putu piring are steamed through.

Once the lid is off, a square of banana leaf placed on top of these delicate little cakes facilitates their removal from steamer bed to takeaway container  -- which, in this case, is a piece of thin plastic laid on top of a sheet of newspaper.  Grated coconut is heaped on top before the packet is sealed.

Verdict?  Perhaps my dream sweet -- lots and lots of coconut and palm sugar flavor with no interference from other ingredients.  Rice flour makes for a cake almost fluffy, and not at all sweet, a neutrality that allows the other two ingredients to take center stage.  Overall, sweet enough to satisfy but light enough to allow multiple servings -- a wonderful (and dangerous) combination.

Delight in these putu piring on Sunday afternoons only, right outside TMC grocery store (red and yellow sign), Jalan Ara, Bangsar. 

Meme: Best Bit O' Grape in the Last 30

Friend and fellow blogger Catherine at Food Musings has tagged me for a new meme created by Beau at Basic Juice.  My mission: name the best wine I've encountered in the past 30 days (and the best wine-friendly food, if food's my thing ... which of course it is).

This is quite a challenge, for a couple of reasons. First, I love wine, but I'm not a wine connoisseur.  I've been known to travel for wine (Piemonte 3 times in 3 years -- I favor reds), I read wine lit, love to browse at wine stores, and eagerly peruse the wine list when dining out.  But I'm too lazy to put much effort into refining or sharpening my palate, I've never taken notes (even if it's a great bottle), and when I'm imbibing the grape I rarely pay enough attention to anything other than what's in my mouth, when it's in my mouth, to remember a label.  I am the wine consumer version of the sort of ignorant art buyer whom artists, gallery owners, and art consultants (I know because I used to work for one) hate with a passion: I don't know wine, but I know what I like.

Second, I live in Malaysia.  This country has got it all over most everywhere else when it comes to food, but the wine selection is rather limited.  And how is it possible that a wine we used to enjoy in northern California -- or Saigon -- can cost 3 or 4 times as much, here in Kuala Lumpur?!  I know all about the ridiculous duties levied on alcohol by most Asian countries ... but it is discouraging to find a wine we enjoyed as a "daily drinker" in the Bay Area priced at splurge levels in KL.

So, Dave and I are drinking a bit less wine these days.

Luckily, I have a fallback that allows me give this meme a go.  That is, every memorable wine experience I've had has been influenced nearly as much by environment and company as by what was going on in the bottle.  To whit: I remember clearly the spritely Ceretto Blange Roero Arneis (year? forgot) by which Dave and I, on our first trip to Piemonte, were introduced to this ingenious bit of Italian by-the-glass etiquette: your glass is filled, the bottle is left on the table, and at the end of the meal you pay for what you drank.  And the crisp Pouilly-Fuisse (details? you gotta be kidding) that accompanied an unexpectedly delicious anniversary dinner in Siem Reap at the height of the SARS epidemic, when we had not only the restaurant, but the temples nearly to ourselves.

And so, in that spirit, my best in the last 30 would have to be a humble unwooded chardonnay from CV, western Australia (2003).  Adopting my best wine-speak, I would describe this light straw-colored wine as a sharp, crisp, delightfully uncomplicated fruit-forward chardonnay with nary a trace of vanilla and the dreaded (by me, when it comes to white wines) oak.

The CV made an appearance at our dinner table a couple of Saturdays ago.  Dave and I and a few friends journeyed down to Kuala Selangor, a nondescript one-horse-town sort of fishing village a couple of hours from KL, for the sole purpose of buying fish, and a lot of it. 

KS's fresh-from-the-boat seafood market opens around 2 or 3pm, and we gathered up as much seafood as we figured we could cook and eat that night.  We packed it all into 2 huge ice-filled coolers, raced back to KL, then split up to prep our respective catches.  Several hours later everyone regrouped at our house -- a few more willing mouths in tow -- and fired up the barbie and the ovens and the gas and electric burners.  When the smoke cleared we sat down to the sort of seafood feast I hope to repeat often.  A big snapper-ish monster rubbed with Indian spice paste and laid on a bed of coriander and tomato-curry mash, BBQ'd clams, mantis prawns cloaked in a luscious sweet and sour concoction, a "love fish" (leatherjacket) steamed Asian-style with ginger, a big mackerel with sambal and lime leaves over the coals ... side dishes and desserts as well.  Eight people around a table laden with way too much food makes for a festive evening, and -- for those of us imbibing -- the CV was an excellent and wholly appropriate (if not the most refined or prestigious) accompaniment.  It's a bottle I'm sure I'll remember for years to come.

Most wine-friendly dish of the evening had to be the fish -- a sea bass and a some small mackerel --marinated in a Middle Eastern chermoula and cooked over the flames.  The marinade's garlic, parsley, coriander and lemon juice high notes were a perfect match for the CV's citrus bite.

Read more about, and have a gander at some fine pics of, the Kuala Selangor seafood market and our gluttonous get-together here, here, and here. 

Many thanks to Catherine for tagging me to participate in -- and to Beau for starting -- this great meme.  And now to pass the baton -- I'm tagging a couple of folks eating and blogging about it on this side of the globe.  Aun of Chubby Hubby  and Santos of Scent of Green Bananas, hope you're up for it!

Fern Fixation

I love living in KL, really I do, but .... where are all the darn fiddleheads??!!

Perhaps I should explain.   A few months ago, shortly after I learned that a relocation to KL was in our future, I came upon this thread on pucuk paku (fiddlehead ferns) in Malaysia on foodcentric site egullet.  "Eureka!" I thought to myself.  "Yet another reason to anticipate with growling stomach the upcoming move."

Dave and I had just returned from a stay in a small village in north-central Bali, where one morning we and our guide Nyoman scoured the forest around Lake Tamblingan for fiddleheads and wild mushrooms.  Though we came up emtpy on the fungi front, we (OK -- Nyoman, primarily) scored fairly fantastically in the fern department, and that evening we dined on pakis urab, a cool dish of fern tips in a spicy coconut dressing. 

   

That meal reminded me how much I adore the slightly asparagus-y, woodsy flavor of the tightly coiled, several-inch diameter fiddleheads available with the rains in northern California and parts of the American north and northeast.  With a few morels and a sturdy green like escarole they make for a lovely warm salad.  I devoured that egullet thread and rubbed my hands together with glee, visions of mounds and mounds of cheap (those babies go for approaching twenty dollars a pound in the States) green fiddlehead coils heaped upon my kitchen counter -- awaiting their inclusion in a warm salad with oyster mushrooms, or in a Balinese urab with coconut and turmeric, ginger and garlic and nutmeg, or maybe roasted with salmon and garlic in the oven -- dancing in my head.

Well, I have to say it's been a bit of a bust.

What I've found so far in KL are pucuk paku alright, but a slighter, more delicate variety than the thick-stemmed Balinese fiddleheads pictured above, no thick coiled tips in sight.  Don't get me wrong. They're delicious in their own right, leaves stripped from stem and tender tips snapped off, all to be lightly sauteed with a bit of olive oil and garlic or briefly stewed with coconut milk and spices. 

But where are the BIG FAT COILS?

It's not that I haven't looked: I've been to KL markets, scoured Carrefour (you never know -- there are some interesting and -- to an American -- exotic items in those aisles), asked and inquired, even put Dave to work interrogating his colleagues.  The other day a Malay taxi driver told me he was certain the big fat coils are around, somewhere (where?! he couldn't -- or wouldn't -- say).  Yesterday evening Dave and I hit the twice-weekly market in Kota Kemuning, where the resident population is heavily Malay (fiddleheads make more of an appearance in Malay, than Chinese-Malay, dishes).  Not a single coil, not even a slender fern stem.  I felt the slow, sinking feeling of defeat.

But I will press on.  Perhaps to Temerloh, a town a couple hours' drive from KL, and its legendary Sunday market where villagers come to sell foraged produce.  Closer to home, maybe to a small night (late night -- it doesn't get going till 1am) market in Chow Kit known for its kampung (village) veggies.  Those big fat coils are beckoning.

Saigon Favorites: Of Banh Canh and Cuon, and Bun Thit and Cua

Oh, I sense a long post coming on here.  But bear with me -- it's been nearly 2 months since I left Saigon and I feel the need to get my favorites to paper (er, blog) before the taste-memory brain cells start to go, so...

Bun Bo Thanh Noi Hue

There's a certain little place down a small alley near Ben Thanh market that serves a mean bowl of tasty bun cua (rice noodles and crab "paste" -- or crab ball -- soup).  But I'm not going to toot it's horn here.  Call me fussy, but if I grace a table at the same eatery every single Saturday and sometimes Sunday too, for 8 weeks straight, yet still can't elicit so much as a stone-faced nod, or even timely delivery of a packaged wet nap to wipe my grease-smeared mouth, then that's it -- I'm outta there!!  Deliciousness is a top consideration, of course ... but a smidge of welcome doesn't hurt. 

The gals waiting table at Bo Thanh Noi Hue deliver in the friendliness department, it's centrally located (a short stroll from Saigon's "Notre Dame" cathedral), and the bun cua is at least as tasty -- if not more so -- than the version served at that "other" place.

Served with a cute little straw basket of shredded lettuce, herbs, sprouts, and banana blossom, this bun cua features thick rice noodles, a notably shellfish-y broth, and a generous number of handformed crab meat balls -- tender and flavorful, not a rubbery puck among the bunch.

Other menu items worth sampling are the cha gio cua (crispy, admirably grease-free spring rolls packed with crab meat),served with the same dainty basket of greens 'n herbs, rice vermicelli, and a dipping sauce of fish sauce, sugar, and daikon radish).

The idea here is to alternately dip spring roll, bun, and greens.  Or dip greens and bun together.  Or pile it all into a bowl and add your dipping sauce.  Essentially, this is a make-it-up-as-you-go-along affair.

BBTNH also offers a lovely plate of Hue-style banh (steamed rice flour "pancakes" with assorted -- usually fresh or dried shrimp-based -- fillings or toppings), meant to be lightly sprinkled with fish sauce.

Hue's most famous noodle soup export, bun bo Hue (rice noodle soup with beef bone) is also on the menu, and appeared to be a popular choice with other diners.  Can't rate it though, as I was never able to tear myself away from the place's crustracean-centric dishes.

Find this long, narrow shack of an eatery at 47A Tran Cao Van, steps from the traffic circle.  Early morning till about 1p, reopening in the late afternoon for the dinner hour.

Hong Hahn

If I'm basing a rating on customer service, Hong Hahn is tops.  At least, it's the only place in Saigon where I've been thanked with a kiss on the cheek after just my second visit (probably a good thing, actually).

Luckily, smiles aren't the only worthwhile thing being dished up here.  At 1pm on any given afternoon Hong Hanh is crowded and noisy, a crew of color-coordinated waitstaff (Saturday is black day, if I remember correcty) -- none of whom appear to be over the age of twelve -- bustling back and forth between tables and service counter.

What to order here?  Judging from experience and observation, most everything.  Unfortunately we were never able to plumb the depths of the menu, being unable to get past our obsession with Hong Hanh's banh cuon nong thit nuong (thin rolls of rice flour batter filled with herbs and pork), bun thit nuong (cool rice vermicelli topped with pork, peanuts, and assorted shredded veggies and herbs), and bahn canh cua (thick rice noodle soup with crab).

A nibble of Hong Hahn's homemade nem (sour pork sausage) helps stave off the hungries while awaiting a lunch order.

I'm a huge fan of banh cuon in any guise, but Hong Hanh's "grilled" pork version is simply exceptional.  Each order is prepared to order, rather than being plucked from a pre-made pile.

The pork inside this rice roll isn't grilled at all, but rather roasted off-premises.  With a heady aroma of cinammon and star anise, or maybe five-spice powder, this pig is lightly charred in spots, adding to its overall wonderful chew.  It's encased in lettuce or basil leaves, depending on the day, before being rolled in its rice flour wrapper, and topped off with a few bean sprouts, daikon-carrot pickle, and fried shallot bits.  The piece de resistance of this banh cuon is its dipping sauce:  it's reddish brown, a bit sour (tamarind?), somewhat spicy, and chunky with little nubs of ground pork.

Our love affair with Hong Hanh's grilled/roasted pork banh cuon led us to the eatery's version of bun thit nuong, which is topped with the same smoky-spicy pig.  The meat takes center stage here, but the pile of bean sprouts and shredded basil and lettuce at the bottom of this bowl of noodles, and the side of carrot-daikon pickle, are especially generously sized.  Beware -- the chopped fresh red chilies gracing Hong Hanh's tables are incendiary.

A couple of weeks into our status as regulars, we were seduced -- by the fragrant clouds of steam wafting over from a neighboring table -- into giving Hong Hahn's banh cahn cua a try. 

How can a broth be so distinctly porky, yet speak strongly of shellfish at the same time?  It's a trick Hong Hahn's cook has mastered.  In the beautiful bowl topside we have chopped pig (about 11 to 3 o'clock) and whole crab claws (6-10 o'clock).  In between and around, there's thick, chewy rice noodles, chopped scallion green, fried shallots, and lots of Vietnam's prized black pepper.  To add, youtiaow (deep-fried dough sticks) and lime juice -- along with, of course, fresh chilies from the table.  It's an inspired combination.  Youtiaow become broth-soaked sponges of lusciousness, noodles catch pork pieces en route to mouth, crab claws bob at the surface waiting to be plucked with a pair of chopsticks. 

The downside: speaking from experience, it is impossible for one person to finish an order each of bun thit nuong, banh cahn, and banh cuon in one sitting.

We may have spent our last evening in Saigon at K Cafe -- but we ate our last Saigon lunch, a few hours before boarding the plane to KL, at Hong Hahn.

Experience the deliciousness at 17A Nguyen Thi Minh Khai Street (second floor -- watch your head). Early morning to 1:30p (you might be pushing it if you arrive after 1), 3:30p till 9 or so.

Peranakan Pleasures

While I'm sticking pretty close to home, Dave's been exploring the gustatory offerings in and around Kota Kemuning, a youngish planned town about 30 minutes from KL.  With a bevvy of chowish colleagues eager to introduce him to their favorites, he needn't worry about going hungry at lunchtime.  One evening he returned home raving about the fare at a small Nyonya restaurant.  And repeated the raves later in the week after another visit.  Tired of hearing high praise of what I wasn't eating, I corralled him into a Sunday afternoon visit.

Kota Kemuning is reminiscent of American planned communities -- wide, quiet streets; green, open space; color-coordinated, cookie-cutter apartment buildings, condo developments, and stand-alone houses; and a walkable commercial area with a sort of "village" feel where residents can eat, buy groceries, and satisfy various other daily needs.  (We've been told it's also the location of a fine wet market on Wednesdays and Saturdays -- a visit is in the works.)  It may be devoid of anything of touristic interest, but for a leisurely weekend lunch KK makes a nice break from big-city, sometimes gritty KL.

The restaurant previously occupying Padi Prada's space offered Thai fusion.  Sharon and her co-owner sister kept the name and the decor: sleekly Thai contemporary, from brushed concrete floor to dark wood tables and chairs and the celadon green-gray  walls.  Outside tables catch a bit of breeze.

Nyonya dishes are the culinary expression of Peranakan (Straits Chinese) culture, which can be traced to the 15th century, when traveling merchants from southern China arrived in Melaka (in southwestern Malaysia) and married Malay women.  Peranakan communities were also established in eastern Malaysia and, in the 1700s, in Singapore and Penang.  The term "Nyonya" refers to the women in these communities; men were known as "Babas".  (See this excellent blog to learn more about all aspects of Nyonya culture.)

Penang's proximity to Thailand (many of the Chinese merchants settling in Penang in the 17th century arrived via Phuket) is evidenced in its style of Nyonya cuisine, distinct from that of Melaka.  While Melakan (southern) Nyonya food shows traces of Portugese and Indian influence, Penang's northern Nyonya dishes make liberal use of chilies and souring agents like lime juice and tamarind pulp.  Other common ingredients are pungent roots like galangal, lemongrass, turmeric (the leaf is used as well) and aromatic leaves like pandan, wild pepper/betel, and laksa leaf/Vietnamese mint.  Sambals (pounded chili pastes) and acars (pickles) are cornerstones of both southern and northern styles.

After enjoying a few sips of Padi Prada's avocado-green "special" juice -- squeezed from the refreshingly tart ambarella fruit -- and despairing that the two of us would be able to make only the smallest dent in Padi Prada's menu, we asked Sharon to recommend a few representative Penang Nyonya dishes.  First up was jiu hoo char, a mixture of cooked, shredded vegetables (jicama, carrot, cabbage, black mushrooms) and stir-fried dried cuttlefish. 

The soft, mildly seasoned mixture is eaten wrapped in a lettuce leaf with a bit (or a blob, if you're a chili fan) of Sharon's exceptionally aromatic (and burning) sambal belacan -- making for a pleasing combination of flavors, textures, and temperatures.

We followed with lor bak, chopped lean pork combined with onion, garlic, and five-spice powder, wrapped in bean curd skin, deep-fried to a browned crisp, and served with a sweet dipping sauce.

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These nuggets were exceptional, simply heads and shoulders above versions I sampled on a trip to Penang a couple of years ago -- the filling porky and aromatically spicy, the thin, crinkly bean curd skin shatteringly crisp.

Otak-otak, a steamed white fish "custard", arrived next.  Mixed with eggs, coconut milk, turmeric, galangal, and lemongrass, the fish is cradled in betel leaf before being wrapped in banana leaf and gently steamed. 

Otak-otak is similar to Thai haw mawk -- a thicker, richer fish custard heavy on coconut cream and chilies and steamed in a banana leaf cup -- and Cambodian amok, which is similar to the Thai presentation but less custardy and more like a chunky fish stew.  As is evident, this version is firm enough to hold its shape once it's unwrapped.  Coconut milk is a presence, but not an overpowering one; this fragrant fishy morsel was surprisingly light and the betel leaves add an intriguing vegetal flavor.

The next dish was a surprise: a tomato-based, sweet-sour, coconut-milk free chicken "curry" (curry merah) that, strangely enough, took me back to my childhood and my mother's special oven "BBQ" sauce for chicken.  Like mom's sauce, this curry includes chilies, lots of chopped onions, and -- confirmed by Sharon -- a good dose of white vinegar, and upon presentation a bit of reddish oil floats on the surface.  Unlike mom's, it does not include a bottle of Heinz chili sauce and a quarter cup of extra virgin olive oil.  Still, I'm intrigued tby he similarities between the two dishes; just might pull out mom's recipe, use it as a guide, and have a crack at recreating Sharon's curry merah.

Spooning up the last bits of curry gravy, we were full enough to be glad at having stopped at four dishes.  We could, after all, return anytime to work our way through the rest of the menu.  But we were also impressed enough with Sharon's skill behind the stove -- and, yes, just plain glutton enough -- to order one *just* *one* *more*.

For the (revised) finale we chose tau eu bak, succulent slices of "3-story" pork belly and halved hard-boiled eggs "red-cooked" in dark soy sauce with cloves, cinnamon, and star anise.

Perhaps not the best choice if one wishes to end an already overindulgent meal on a "light" note -- those whitish squares on the left of the plate are nothing but pure pork fat -- but an absolute triumph nonetheless.  Slow-- and, it seemed, lovingly -- cooked, this dish of succulent pork and eggs imbued with rich, sweet spice flavors proved too much to resist. 

Padi Prada's is home style fare, the kind that visitors to Penang rarely come across.  Sharon traces her Fujianese ancestry on Penang back four generations, and relies on her granny's recipes.  Key ingredients, like spice mixes, betel leaf, kuay teow, and bean curd skin, are flown in from Penang; Sharon attributes the remarkable crispiness of her lor bak to the latter, which is thinner and less salty than the bean curd skin available around KL.

I'm both sad and relieved -- how many too-much-food meals can a person handle in the course of one week? -- that Padi Prada is not my neighborhood joint.  But the menu is fairly extensive, and I hear that lor bak calling .... a return visit is not too far in the future.

Padi Prada, 4 Jalan Anggerik Vanilla Y/31Y, Kota Kemuning, Shah Alam. Tel 03-5121-0167. 8am - 2:30pm (Penang breakfasts served until 12:30) and 5:30-9:30pm. Closed on Mondays. 

Not Chef Boyardee's Meatballs

Meatball Noodles.  For just about anyone who passed their formative years in 1970s American midwestern suburbia, the words conjure up visions of limp pasta and bizarrely squishy nubs of indeterminate origin (are they really meat?) in a sweet, dayglo orange-red sauce.  (Lest my mother read this post, I must note that this canned product with the chef on the label was rarely allowed at our table, and only after much whining and begging in the supermarket aisle on my part.)

The meatball and noodle product -- more precisely, meatball noodle soup -- on offer at Chun Heong Coffee Shop in Bangsar couldn't be further from that pseudo-food of my misguided (culinarily, at least) pre-teen years.  According to Sandy at the kueh stall across the aisle, this vendor has been in business for more than twenty years; judging by the unlined face of the guy currently slinging noodles and meatballs, he's taken over for an older relative.

As usual, I order my noodles dry, with soup on the side.  As my order is prepared, these chilies await their anointing with soy to make a zippy dipping sauce.

Meanwhile my guay teow (wide rice noodles) are softened in boiling water (one half of the pot below is devoted to bobbing meatballs while the other is used to prep noodles) before being tossed into a bowl,

and then sauced with two types of "black sauce" (dark soy and, perhaps, kecap manis?), a bit of oil, and a good-sized spoonful of stir-fried chopped pork.

The result is two thirds of a pork triumvirate: satisfyingly slippery noodles topped with green and white scallion slices, nubbins of chewy, crispy pork (do I detect a hint of star anise in the pork? Sandy says no and the noodle guy's not saying) and a couple of thick slices of succulent, mildly spiced Chinese sausage. 

The triumvirate's other third -- the pork meat balls for which this vendor is justly famous -- arrive alongside, floating in a cloudy broth featuring more scallion bits.

Before being formed into balls, the pork is pounded to produce a smooth, somewhat elastic paste.  Some makers of meat and fish balls add ingredients to heighten the elasticity of their product and help the balls hold their shape under the duress of a swim in boiling liquid.  I'm not enough of a connoisseur at this point to say whether or not our Bangsar vendor does the same, but I will say that these are some of the nicest Asian-style meatballs I've encountered.  Springy and somewhat resistant to the bite but not at all rubbery, they evince the flavor of pig and nothing else, and the weak broth lets them take center stage in all their porky glory.  Forget the dipping sauce -- these went straight from bowl to mouth with nary an adornment.

Find this Meat Ball Soup vendor at Chun Heong Coffee Shop, Lucky Garden on Lorong Ara Kiri, Bangsar.  Early morning to mid-afternoon.