EatingAsia

Will Travel For Food

That's my motto (well, one of my mottos). 

I've been hearing and reading alot these days about the food scene in Sydney, so Dave and I are heading to Oz, with lots of film and various cameras and attachments, tonite.  I'm assuming our transport will be a bit more up-to-date than this rattletrap we hitched a ride on (gritting our teeth) in China a couple of decades ago.

I'm not sure if I can stretch the definition of "Asia" far enough to post Australian food pics when I get back, though we do hope for some fantastic sushi and have been advised by friends here in KL that the dim sum there is well worth seeking out.  And I'd like to say that I've written up a few blog entries and programmed them to post while I'm gone, but, hmmmm... best laid plans, as they say.

See you back here in about a week and a half. 

Captivating Corner

As we were finishing up our bowls of mee bandung and laksa utara at Selaseh Cafe, the Malay gent seated next to us urged us to check out the laksa Johor being dished up at a little spot downstairs.  "Come on," he said, pushing back his chair, "I'll show you so you know to go to the right place."  (Is it any wonder I love Malaysia?). 

We finally made it back to Ampang Park a couple of Saturdays ago, to follow up on the recommendation and check out the laksa -- and other goodies -- at Deena's Corner.  After placing our order for 2 bowls of laksa Johor, we perused the seasonal items on offer for the Ramazan period.  We chose a tub of bubur lambuk (Indonesian savory rice porridge) -- in one of the lighter colored tubs above -- to start the meal.

I'm not including a photo of the bubur because try as one might it is very difficult to make a predominantly white food look interesting or appetizing.  I'm a real fan of savory rice porridge (sweet, less so) in any and all its national variations, but even I have to admit that it often resembles, well, vomit.  Appearance aside, Deena's bubur lambuk (fish) was perfection: not too soupy, thickened by the starch of rice grains cooked to near mush, beautifully seasoned with nutmeg, caramelized shallots, and an unidentified green leaf.  Very comforting, and just the thing to rev up our appetites in anticipation of the laksa.

Johor, Malaysia's southernmost state sitting right atop Singapore, may be home to some ill-behaved royals, but its laksa -- judging by Deena's version --  is divine.

Johor laksa's gravy -- like those of laksas assam, utara, and Kedah -- is fish-based (mackerel, in this case) but unique to the others, this laksa's includes a bit of coconut milk (just a bit -- this is no rich, creamy, seafood curry mee) and has a taste that veers to sweet, rather than sour.  The rice laksa noodles used here are thin, and there's plenty of veg in there: bean sprouts, sliced red onion and scallion, cucumber matchsticks, and little nubs of sliced cooked longbean.  This bowl of noodles is a spicy one, but I think it gets most of its heat from the generous blob of kalamansi-belacan (shrimp paste) sambal plopped on top.  The gravy itself, while spicy, is not overwhelmingly so.

I enjoyed this bowl of noodles immensely, especially all that veg crunch and the touch of coconut milk in the gravy that tempers the heat of the sambal without making the dish too heavy.  Deena's also offers laksa assam (Penang), a couple of rice dishes (nasi lemak and nasi goreng), and mee goreng (stir-fried noodles) that looked delicious (they are sitting in the wok below, covered by a banana leaf).

Until the end of Ramazan, Deena's is also selling a hard-to-find traditional sweet called jongkong.  Deena's mom (who we thought at first was Deena) urged us to try one, telling us that jongkong is a "real kampung (village) sweet." 

The opening picture in this post shows rows of jongkong, wrapped in their banana leaves, ready to sell.  Inside, a knob of green (colored with pandanus leaves), semi-soft rice flour custard swims in a pool of coconut milk swirled with melted gula melaka (palm sugar).  The banana leaf packets are cooked by steaming.

   

It would be difficult to exaggerate the deliciousness of this treat.  When we sampled them, the jongkong had not been long out of the steamer, and so were still warm.  The custard was smooth and substantial -- a bit cakey -- but completely yielding to the spoon.  Coconut milk and rich, complex palm sugar are an inspired duo on their own; but combined with the warm custard they entered a whole new realm of yum.

I'll go back for Deena's laksa, and will try her mee goreng as well.  But it saddens me to think I have to wait another year for another shot at her (yes, there really is a Deena -- Asdina, to be precise) jongkong.

Deena's Corner, KG-3 Ground Floor, Ampang Park Shopping Center (right next to the stairs).  Tel. 012-309-7572

Dum Dreams

"This is the real Hyderabad biryani, the real thing.  No one else in KL does it, not like this, steamed, the way it should be done," the gentleman below told me.  It wasn't a sales pitch.  I don't know my biryani from a hole in the ground (he didn't know that, of course) -- and anyway, we'd already eaten a plate of his product.

Last Sunday found Dave and I at the small Deepvali fair behind KL's Sentral train station.  We'd dropped by to pick up some more Almond Joy-like chocolate and coconut barfi at Jesal Sweethouse but decided to stay for lunch and sample the dishes and snacks on offer as well.  Quite a few tasty treats are being dished up here, but the belle of this ball by far is the Hyderabad biryani. 

Biryani is fragrant rice served with meat or fish or vegetables that are cooked separately; Hyderabad biryani combines the two in the same pot.  Hyderabad biryani is an example of dum, the Indian method of pot-roasting food.  Protein or vegetables are cut into large pieces and sauteed with spices in a large, heavy pan with lots of fat, usually ghee (that must be why it tastes so good!).  Parboiled rice is spooned over protein or veggies and left, once the pot is covered (traditionally, lid was sealed to pot with a strip of dough), to steam in the aromatic vapors that rise from the other ingredients as they are cooked slowly over a low heat.

The result is quite spectacular. I couldn't put it any better than Julie Sahni does in her Classic Indian Cooking (1980):  The dum process makes ..."the meat melt-in-your-mouth-tender."  During the slow, low cooking process "...meat, chicken, rice, and so on begin to relax in the vapor-filled pot.  The juices in the meat and chicken begin to settle, thus making them plump and moist.  The starch in the rice forms a permanent bond that enables the grains to expand without breaking or cracking."

Our Sentral biryani vendor offers chicken, mutton, and veggie Hyderabad biryani.  We ordered the chicken, and were presented with a plate of rice of beautiful golden hues, several large pieces of bone-in breast, a generous dribble of green chile curry, and a bit of zesty red onion and coriander raita.

The photo, unfortunately, cannot do justice to the chicken (at 3 o'clock), but I would not be exaggerating if I said this might well be the most moist, tender piece of white-meat bird I've ever eaten in my life.  The rice, glistening with fat, each grain distint, tasted of a riot of spices (cardamom, cinammon, cloves, black mustard seeds, and most likely some that I wasn't able to identify) combined with pure chicken essence.  Raita cut through the richness with a sharp sour note, and the green chile curry was chile-flavorful, but not spicy enough to burn. 

After observing our swoons (and probably overhearing our audible moans) as we ate his biryani, the vendor sent over to our table a few pieces of his "special" yogurt chicken, gratis.

Another astonishingly moist and tender white-meat chicken tour-de-force.  For this dish, the chicken is sauteed and cooked almost through before being coated in a yogurt, chili, and spice mixture.  The yogurt adheres, but stays "wet" and retains a bit of its tang, enough to counter the heavy dose of chili.  Served topped with crispy, caramel-y fried red onions, this chicken is right up there with the biryani on my list of memorable bites.

Much as we wanted to, there was just no way to make room to sample either the mutton or the vegetable biryani.  If I'm unable to make it back to Sentral to do so before the Deepvali fair finishes on November 1, there is some consolation: the vendor and his wife, working the fair for the third year in a row, assure me that they will be back in 2006.

Even if (in my opinion) the Hyderabad biryani is the hands-down winner here, there are still a couple of other items at the fair worth trying.  Aneka Rrasa (The Caterer) -- that's a quote from the stall's sign -- offers lemon rice and a variety of dishes to go with it.

We ordered carrot poriyal, sweet and sour brinjal (eggplant), cabbage perattal, and fried chicken.

The lemon rice, studded with mustard seeds and fried dhal and topped with fried fresh curry leaves, surprised me with it's very distinct -- lemonyness.  I've never encountered this dish on an Indian menu before and I have no idea of the origin; lemon is not something that usually comes to mind when I think "Indian food".  The slightly smoky eggplant, left in pleasingly large chunks and not overly sweet; soft cabbage seasoned heavily with turmeric and crunchy with fried cashews; and fragrant shredded carrot were all delightful.  The chicken's dry coating of chili and other spices had a slight tang (tamarind?). 

At the stall next to The Caterer's, thosai and chapati were being made to order.  Our thosa, right off the griddle, was something like an airy, puffy, crispy, super-thin pancake with a delicious filling of potato, sweet corn, and onion masala.  On the side, a spicy fresh "sauce" of coriander, garlic, and green chilies.

   

If I had to do it over again?  Mutton and chicken Hyderabad biryani, a couple of veggie dishes from Aneka Rrasa to accompany, and maybe -- maybe -- a thosa or chapati for dessert .... if I was in particularly gluttonous mode. 

Deepvali Fair, behind Sentral Station (in the arcade on the pathway to the monorail). To November 1.

Home-Style Noodles

Perhaps you've noticed: food looms large in my life.  And like all good food-obsessed folks, my conversations over meals shared with others are often dominated by talk of the next meal to come.  Sometimes I even get a couple of meals ahead of myself.

This was the case almost two months ago when Dave and I, having placed our orders for fish head noodles, were waiting outside Ampang Food House for a table.  In the middle of wondering what exactly our tastebuds would be nose-to-nose with (so to speak) in a few minutes, I noticed the cafe next door and the specials posted on its blackboard.  Mee bandung, laksa utara, sup tulang -- none of the dishes were familiar, but I was pretty sure they would be, within 24 hours.

We returned to Ampang Park the next day (hey, I never said this blog was in chronological order) and made a beeline for Cafe Selaseh.  It was doing a good business -- not as rip-roaring, packed-out as Ampang Food House (we waited just 2 minutes for a couple of seats), but steady enough to be encouraging.  Also encouraging, for a joint that serves Malay (as opposed to Chinese Malay) food, was the fact that the cafe's clientele was primarily Malay.

We ordered noodles -- mee bandung and laksa utara -- first, figuring that if we had the teeniest bit of room left when we were finished we could probably slide down some soup.  Laksa utara means, literally, "northern" laksa -- thick round rice noodles in a thin, fishy, coconut-free broth that can range in color from brown to brownish-purple. 

We'd encountered a laksa along these lines several times before, at a sweet little cafe in our neighborhood that closed only 6 weeks after we arrived in KL. <sob>  That place served laksa Kedah, Kedah being one of the northwestern Malaysian states bordering Thailand (Perlis is the other).  The Thai influence in laksa Kedah (and utara) is strong: tamarind sours a thick, pungent broth made with flaked eel or fish.  Cafe Selasah's laksa utara soup is thinner than that in the laksa Kedah served at our now-defunct local spot, and lacks the plentiful flakes of fish that gave the latter a good deal of body.  The taste is similar, though: pleasingly strong on piscene aroma-- yes, stinky even -- sour enough not to cry out for the bowl's kalamansi lime half, with a wee hint of chili.

In addition to kalamansi, the laksa is garnished with half a hard-boiled egg, cucumber and pineapple matchsticks, and chopped cilantro and mint.  A zippy bowlful ... but I'm afraid I still pine for the laksa Kedah down the street.

I pined for absolutely nothing (except a second bowl), however, after tucking into this serving of mee bandung.

Judging from the name, mee bandung is Indonesian in origin.  Bandung, capital of west Java, is Indonesia's third-largest city; the majority of its population are Sundanese who have historically had their own culture and, presumably, cuisine.  The question that I can't answer, never having travelled in West Java, is if mee bandung displays any of the characteristics of Sundanese food.

But back to the matter at hand.  Mee bandung has just about everything I'm looking for in a noodle dish: thick, chewy noodles (yellow mee) and a complex, spicy gravy (too thick to be called a broth) made from dried shrimp and chilies, garlic, shallots, tomato, and ground peanuts (which give it a lovely grainy mouthfeel) that's as wonderful to look at, in all its brick-red glory, as it is to eat. 

Prawns, squid pieces, and a just-runny-enough poached egg hiding beneath the noodles provide protein; chopped Chinese celery adds crunch, color, and a bit of bitterness to counter the natural sweetness of the gravy's tomato and peanuts.  Selaseh's version is on the fiery side; my mouth was still tingling several minutes after finishing the bowl.  And it's rich; much as I wanted to (and I really wanted to), I just couldn't contemplate a second bowl.

We never made it to the sup tulang (lit. "bone" soup -- but it's beef soup), but we have it on good word that it's worth a try.  After describing 10-year-old Selaseh's offerings as "real homestyle Malay food" the Malaysian gentleman seated next to us to us urged us to give the soup a try on our next visit.  He paid it perhaps the highest possible compliment: "It reminds me of my mother's."

In addition to the mee and laksa (and guaytiaow -- see the blackboard) Selaseh cafe offers nasi lemak daily.  It too -- along with the sup tulang -- appeared to be very popular.

284 Ampang Park (2nd Floor).  Take the LRT to Ampang Park, exit to your right, and head straight through Ampang Park shopping center to the stairs at back.  Climb a flight, turn to your left. Selaseh Cafe is down the row a bit.

Saigon Favorites: The Rest of My Bests

This post has been sitting on one of my back burners for a while, but the memories are fading and I think it's time to put this occasional series to bed, so ... herewith, a few more of my favorite food and/or drink-related spots in Saigon.

Best Coffee on Saigon's Mean Streets

By now probably the whole world knows about the fantastic coffee that can be found streetside just about anyplace in Vietnam (in Saigon, there are also all sorts of glitzy new coffee houses and Paris-cafe wannabes but really, when it comes to enjoying an ice cold glass of joe in Vietnam, sitting a few inches off the ground in a tiny plastic chair that might any minute break beneath the weight of your un-Vietnamese big-butt weightiness is a good part of what it's all about ... so you'll never find me at a Highlands Cafe <sniff>). 

This spot -- literally a "spot" since the building that the coffee was served out of is now a hole next to a construction site --  I'm going to recommend is a bit of a sentimental favorite.  For our first year and a half in Saigon, Dave and I lived just a couple doors up the street in a house that is now a creperie (and an extremely short-lived Hue food "cafe" before that) and it was this lovely girl's smile that greeted us every morning when we left the house to walk our lazy mutt in the park across the street.

Soon enough we dispensed with our morning ritual of Melitta filter and paper and from then on our a.m. caffeine hit consisted of her thick, delicious brew delivered right our door.  Convenience wasn't the deciding factor here --- coffee quality does vary in this (that?) town and this gal offers some of the best.  Very rich, slightly chocolate-y, and of course mixed expertly (light on the sugar, on request).  If you're heading down Han Thuyen Street to the Liberation Palace after a walkabout in the vicinity of the "Notre Dame" cathedral, look for her and her sisters next to 3 Han Thuyen (the construction site) at just the place where the card sellers peter out.  Pull up a tiny chair, enjoy your brew, and watch the action (which often includes quite a bit of public urination, I'm afraid) across the street in the park.  Now that's a true Saigon experience (and one that won't make the pages of the travel glossies).

Best I'm-Hungry-But-I'm-Not-Exactly-Sure-What-I-Want-To-Eat Spot

Nhu Lan wraps around the corner of Ham Nghi and Ho Tung Mao streets, a 15-minute or so stroll from Le Loi Street in District 1's prime tourist area.  The great thing about this place is that they serve very good versions of quite a few noodle and rice snacks, so there's little likelihood that you find something that appeals on the menu.  I wouldn't go so far as to claim that Nhu Lan's version of everything is the very best example to be had in town .... of course you'll need to seek out specialty vendors for the best of anything.  But what they do churn out (and I mean churn -- this place is positively packed at lunchtime and does a steady business right through from early morning to late afternoon) they churn out well.  Our favorites include the bun rieu (rice noodles in sourish crab broth with tomato, and topped with a hefty cap of stir-fried crab roe, above), and the bun bo xao (usually, room temperature bun topped with stir-fried beef and peanuts, served with a dipping sauce of fish sauce, sugar, and chilies -- but here, peanuts are left out and the beef is stir-fried with scallions and an assortment of green veggies, below).

We've also been known to return again and again for the banh bao (Chinese-style steamed meat dumplings ... best with the chili-oil lajiao that adorns every table), bun mam, chao ga (rice porridge with chicken -- squeeze on plenty of lime, drop in lots of fresh chilies, and add a spurt of fish sauce and a good dab of chili sauce and you've practically got yourself a bowl of Thai khao tom), and goi cuon (fresh spring rolls).  The latter are actually one of Dave's favorites; I myself prefer my goi cuon without shredded pig skin. 

There's an extensive list of fruit and veggie blender drinks (like the avocado shake, pictured with the bun bo xao) and a huge deli counter where you can get anything from a banh mi (sandwich on baguette) to a package of perfect fresh strawberries, when they are in season.  Behind the deli  counter, restaurant-side, find fresh peanut butter (a wee bit sweet for my taste), assorted Vietnamese sweets, and jars of that chili oil. 

Stop in at Nhu Lan for a snack, a meal, some pig,

or a peck of pickles. 

Possibly the Best Dish -- Certainly the Best Chao Vit -- in Saigon

Chao vit -- duck and rice porridge.  It sounds far from spectacular, but it's really quite divine, at least as done at two well-known (to locals) holes-in-the-wall in Thanh Da district.  I've no pictures to share, so you'll have to trust me on this.  No, don't trust just me.  Read my 2003 review of Chao Vit Thanh Da here, then read this intrepid tourist's follow-up appraisal here.  Finally, see an enthusiastic egulleter's impression, after he and I visited one of the two outlets for lunch, here.  If I recall correctly he describes this dish as the best things he ate on a recent trip to Saigon.  He's not exaggerating.  Thanh Da is a bit of a haul from downtown Saigon, about a 15-minute taxi ride.  But, if you travel to eat as I do, I can almost guarantee you'll find the effort worthwhile. Addresses for the two outlets can be found in the linked reviews.

Best Saigon Market Not Selling Yellow-Star-On-Red-Background T-shirts

Van Thanh market is well off the tourist track and I suppose that unless one is really, really into food there's no reason to go there.  There's no kitsch for sale, no prepackaged coffee or cashews or peppercorns on offer.  No food vendor will grab your arm as you pass by, which in my book is really a good thing (does this sales pitch work? because the minute someone grabs my elbow they've just guaranteed my rear end will never land on a stool at their stall). 

Years ago Saigon municipal authorities built a big ugly building to house Van Thanh market; vendors refused to move inside and the hubbub continues as it always has, outside and behind the empty building (which means the market is not visible from the main street).

It's smallish, the aisles are muddy when it's been raining, and the action is pretty much over by noon.  But it's a great spot to take a few pictures and see how the majority of Saigonites do their shopping, which is not by perusing the aisles of Ben Thanh (nothing against Ben Thanh -- I shopped there often and it's the best place to find good fish).

Van Thanh's vendors are friendly and easy to smile, prices are lower than at Ben Thanh (and in some cases -- oyster mushrooms, for example -- quality is better), and there is a bun mam vendor in the middle of the market kicking out some wonderful smelling stuff (unfortunately we were never able to snag an empty stool at her place).  The banh cuon sold from a lean-to just outside the market (and still behind the building), however, are utterly forgettable.

Find the market on Van Thanh Street in Binh Thanh District.  Any taxi driver should know it; walk behind the dismal concrete hulk that was to house the new "upgraded" market -- that's where the it all happens.

Best Place to Pick Up a Bottle or Two

When the Warehouse opened a bit over two years ago, it offered little to impress the prospective wine purchaser -- other than a radical (for Saigon at the time) industrial chic interior.  The wine selection was slim and ridiculously weighted to the upper end of the price spectrum, and the manager was, quite frankly, a real wine snob -- the type that sniffed haughtily at us whenever we walked in the door in shorts and flip-flops (hey, I learned to love wine in the San Francisco Bay area, where one isn't expected to dress up to make a booze purchase). 

About a year ago, however, a new manager arrived on the scene and things began to change for the better.  Stock expanded greatly, and there was more attention paid to "value" wines -- not cheap necessarily, but good quality for the money.  There's still an emphasis on French wines (Chapoutier is a favorite of ours, and offers a nice red at 159,000 dong), but now plenty of decently priced Aussie and NZ bottles as well.  The selection of Italians is thin, but occasionally a bottle of good Piemontese barbera can be had for as little as $10.  My major complaint is that the staff is hopelessly clueless when it comes to wine (why doesn't managment train these people, some of whom have shown their staying power for over a year?), so unless the French manager is around you won't get much guidance.  But at least the Warehouse is now producing the occasional pamphlet with tasting notes.

This is the place to stop for a BYO bottle if you're headed for one of Saigon's tonier restaurants, where wine lists are pretty anemic, or if -- like me -- you're an expat in a country with ridiculously high duties on alcohol and want to carry home a few.  If you're local, the Warehouse delivers.

178 Pasteur Street, District 1. Tel. 8-825-8826.

Best Place for a Cook to Get Inspired

Quite often, after I'd bought a lovely piece of fish --- a whole silvery pomfret, say, or a thick fillet of sea bass -- from this sweet and honest vendor at Ben Thanh market, and before I'd decided how I would prepare it, I'd head over to Veggy's to get my creative juices flowing.  I'd walk into the refrigerated storage rooms with a sense of anticipation ... what fantastic ingredient might be waiting for me?  Some rhubarb, just shipped in from Australia?  Load of rocket, globes of scarlet radicchio, plump bulbs of fragrant fennel, all grown in the mountains around Dalat?  Perhaps a new shipment of raw milk French cheeses for dessert?  While it's true that stocks can get discouragingly low during the summer (when most expats leave town for a few months, and incessant rains make Dalat's climate inhospitable to just about every kind of green vegetable), the Veggy's refrigerator rarely disappointed.

The Veggy's story is an interesting one.  Years ago an American man and his Vietnamese wife, tired of relocating every couple of years for his career, returned to Saigon -- where her family lives -- and decided to start a business.  Saigon's expat population was growing, and foreign foods were thin on the ground, so they bought some land in Dalat and started growing vegetables and herbs not often seen in Vietnam at the time: Italian basil, thyme and rosemary, a variety of lettuces, brussels sprouts and haricot verts.  Business was brisk -- they sold their produce to hotels, restaurants, and retailers under the bright green and yellow oval Golden Garden trademark. 

But almost immediately problems arose.  The stores where their products were sold, like Citimart, began copying the Golden Gardens trademark sticker and attaching it to every fruit and vegetable on their shelves.  Employees in Dalat walked off with seeds and seedlings and even produce, selling them on the black market.  Vegyy's' owner couple decided that the best way to get control of their product was to scale down production and gain a tighter rein on distribution, place emphasis on building a trustworthy team over increasing sales, and open their own retail outlet rather than selling through other retailers in Saigon.  For the most part, it's worked.

What I like about Veggy's -- besides the excellent products and the nice people who own and operate the business -- is that they don't take advantage.  Right now Veggy's is the only place in Saigon to nab a bit of rocket or a bulb of fennel, and, especially since they are selling primarily to expats and the hotel and restaurant trade, they could guage a bit.  But they don't; locally-grown produce, whether it's foreign-origin or Vietnamese, is priced accordingly.  Imported produce, from Australia and California primarily, is more expensive to cover shipping costs (for example, in July a pint of perfectly ripe black Mission figs from California will set you back $5 -- about double what they'd cost in San Francisco).  French cheeses are about what they'd cost in the States (a fresh goat cheese croton for $3), and American cheeses are, I'd imagine, about what they'd cost in France.

Regular customers can sign a bill at checkout and pay the balance at the end of the month.  If you're looking for something in particular, the Veggy's folks may be able to order it for you.  Saturdays is a good day to pop in at Veggy's --- new shipments usually arrive on Friday.  And Veggy's delivers as well.

I miss Veggy's a lot, and I wish these friendly, honest, hard-working folks all the best -- especially with their still-young Hanoi and Phnom Penh outlets.

18 Thai Van Lung, District 1, Saigon. Tel 8-823-8526; 99 Xuan Dieu, Quan Tay Ho, Hanoi. Tel 4-719-4630

Dongbei Delights

Belching (discreetly) our way down Changkat Thambi Dollah towards Jalan Pudu after a satisfyingly fiery lunch at Sze Chwan Village Restaurant, we happened upon the nondescript, completely bereft -of-activity Restoran Dong Bei.  The place was so sorry looking we would probably have passed right by without a glance, had I not spied a piece of orange posterboard taped haphazardly up front.  And there, right in front of us, were the magic characters we'd been searching for weeks earlier, before we gave up and dove into fish porridge up the street at Ah Koong Eating House: dao shao mian (knife cut noodles)!  And not just dao shao mian, but liang mian (cold noodles) and mala mian (noodles with chili and Sichuan peppercorns) and shui jiao (boiled dumplings)! 

Right then and there -- after debating the matter briefly and then finally admitting to ourselves that there was no way we could shove a second lunch down our throats, no matter how much we wanted to -- Dave and I vowed to return one day to sad little Dong Bei for lunch.  And so we did, less than 24 hours later.  And have returned again.  And are eagerly anticipate our next visit.

Dongbei is generally understood to refer to the northeastern Chinese provinces of Heilongjiang, Jilin, and Liaoning (sometimes Shandong province is thrown into the mix as well); the region is bordered by Russia, Korea, Mongolia, and (obviously) to the south, China.  The population of Dongbei is rather homogeneous.  It wasn't much settled before the 1700s, when Han Chinese arrived from the south; from the late 19th century until the end of WWII the region was occupied first by  Russia, and then by Japan (which named it "Manchuoko").  Descendents of both nationalities still live in Dongbei today, whiled refugees trickle over the region's border with North Korea. 

For Chinese from Dongbei -- in contrast to those from other parts of the country -- regional identity takes priority over provincial.  That identity includes recognition of a cuisine which transcends provincial boundaries, and is influenced by the nations which border the region.  Dongbei food makes frequent use of vinegar (Korean influence?) and features raw vegetables.  Pickles are not uncommon, especially cabbage (Korea again ... and Russia?).  Lamb is ubiquitous (Mongolia, perhaps) and chilies are used liberally.  Wasabi, mixed with vinegar and sesame oil, is used in Shandong (the "sometimes" Dongbei province) to dress salads.  Wheat, rather than rice, is the mainstay starch, so noodles, dumplings, and breads are a big part of the Dongbei diet.

Restoran Dong Bei has received our only repeat visit in the 2+ months we've lived in KL -- not necessarily because it is objectively "better" than any of the other spots I've yammered on about on this blog.  Because it is different.  Dongbei flavors make a radical and pleasant change of pace, now and again, from seafood curry mee or Ipoh chicken rice. 

In two visits we've managed to scarf a number of dishes, all expertly prepared by the female head of the Heilongjiang household that owns the place.  But before you go, know this about Dong Bei: it will probably be empty.  I don't know why, and I don't know how Dongbei has survived the 5 years that it has with such dismal lunch traffic.  Maybe it does all its business at dinnertime.  At any rate, one mustn't be put off by a lack of customers.

On our initial foray we went snack-heavy, figuring -- as we had at Sze Chwan Village -- that the best way to guage the place's sincerity was via its simpler foods: dao shao mian, shui jiao (a mixture of meat dumplings and veggie dumplings), liang mian, Dongbei dala pi (lit. Dongbei style big pulled skins -- in actuality, translucent noodles made of mung bean starch), and a coriander salad.

Dumplings were, in a word, excellent.  Skins a bit thinner than those at Sze Chwan village, but not too much so.  Expertly pleated, boiled to perfection (not mush), and stuffed with lots of garlicky greens (veggie variety, left below) and juicy ground pork mixed with wee nubs of spritely Chinese celery (meat variety, right).

On each table a proper, if not Sichuan-fragrant, la jiao you (chili oil/paste) and strong black vinegar are there for the mixing.

We ordered our knife cut  noodles "dry".

This, I believe, was a mistake.  Not that the noodles weren't tasty; thick and wheaty, topped with a blob of chili bean paste and a good pile of shredded cucumber, these were everything I'd hope for in a daoshao mian, especially when mixed with a bit of vinegar.

 

But dao shao mian belong in a soup (and in fact that's the only way I'd had them, until our visit to Dongbei).  They just do.  These are fat, hearty, hefty noodles that need to be floating around with greens and porky pieces in a rich broth.  They beg to be eaten hot, not at room temperature.  And they will be, by golly, as soon as we can get back to Dong Bei.

Dongbei's liangmian were a complete surprise.  Here, before us, was a tasty bit of Korea in a bowl.

Round, ultra-chewy potato starch noodles, cucumber shreds, thin slices of pressed beef, a generous helping of kimchee, a dab of red chili paste, all sprinkled with sesame seeds -- something like naeng myun (Korean cold noodles), with ice-cold rice vinegar substituting for broth.  Can't say I've ever had vinegar "soup" before, and I recognize that it doesn't sound appealing.  But this crunchy, chewy, beefy, spicy noodle in vinegar soup is just about the perfect aswer to KL's wet heat.

Another surprise of the meal was this simple salad of cilantro and Chinese celery leaves, red and green pepper strips, and scallion matchsticks, dressed with only salt and a whisper of sesame oil. 

I don't think I've ever eaten a better salad, even in northern California.  Leaves perky and crunchy, not a wilted one in the bunch; and just the barest smidge of sesame oil left on the plate when we finished.  A delightful palate cleanser. 

The chef delivered our Dongbei dala pi with a flourish; undressed noodles draped over shreds of cucumber and large chunks of raw garlic, with sauce on the side.

Once she had poured over the mixture of sesame paste, la jiao, and vinegar,  and mixed the lot up, we discovered the dala pi included chewy matchsticks of stir-fried pork as well.

 

This dish is a winner in every possible way.  Texturally speaking you've got slippery, crunchy, and chewy, and though the sour of the vinegar dominates, fire from the la jiao and sweet from the sesame paste and the pork don't hide in the background.  Not to mention the whallop of raw garlic.  These mung bean noodles (but don't describe them as "noodles" in front of Dongbei's owner -- she'll get quite irate) are one of my favorite new foods.

After this first meal we were eager to get back to Dongbei to try a few proper dishes.  On visit number two we couldn't resist another plate of shui jiao (all veggie, this time), and then followed that up with the intriguingly named jiachang liangcai ("home-style" cold vegetables).  Expecting something along the line of a pickle, we soon found ourselves oohing and ahhing over this tempting mound of shredded cabbage, carrots, and cucumber; bean sprouts; and coriander leaves, all entwined with the potato starch noodles that had figured largely in our liangmian.

Yet another variation on the salad theme, as delightful and refreshing as the dala pi and the coriander salad.  Except for the sprouts, which were lightly blanched, all vegetables were raw; the whole was dressed with black vinegar, a hint of la jiao, and a slick of sesame oil. 

Yuxiang rousi ("fish-flavor" pork shreds) was the first hot dish to arrive.  If I had not even tasted this dish I would still nod approval after having a gander at this photo.  Why?  The slick of red oil just visible in the plate.  Not goo or some kind of sauce -- just an exqusisite naturally occuring amalgamation of cooking oil and pork fat and vegetable juices and the essence of those big can't-miss-'em pieces of dried chili.

This dish, to me, says "China"; it's the way I remember food there being way back when, when oil was expensive and valued and not to be wasted.  Oil is a great carrier of flavors -- in excess inappropriate to, say, the finest and lightest Cantonese dishes, but wholly correct when the flavors in a dish are big and bold and assertive.  As they were in this dish, with its hit of vinegar and its extreme chili heat.  The pork was tender and moist, and the unevenly cut carrots retained plenty of crunch (and flavor).  Dried chilies had caught enough of the "breath of the wok" to have picked up a distinct -- and delicious -- charred taste.  I couldnt' resist eating them on their own, or paired only with the dish's thick slices of garlic.  As for that glistening pool of spicy grease, I was tempted to ask for a spoon so as to facilitate unimpeded delivery to my mouth.  A spectacular version of a common Chinese dish that, unfortunately, is served in many horrific variations around the world.

Xiangla xiaopai ("fragrant" and spicy small spareribs) was equally delightful.

The "fragrance" of the dish was courtesy of Sichuan peppercorns -- but just a few, just enough to perfume the meat and nowhere near enough to numb the mouth.  Ribs had been cut through the bone and deep-fried, then tossed with big garlic slices, crunchy coriander stems (a "clean" foil to the rich pork), and more dried chilies.  This dish had no sauce to speak of, and it wasn't missed at all.

Finally, the most basic dish that can be requested of a restaurant: stir-fried greens.  Readers of this blog will know that I take my greens seriously, and yet I must admit that I have yet to really and truly master this simplest of dishes (the shame!).  My stir-fried greens always end up too cooked, or too raw; too watery, or so dry that they stick to the wok.  Perhaps I should take lessons at the knee of the woman in charge of Dong Bei's kitchen, because she has really got the method down pat.

Observe: plenty of garlic, leaves well-cooked while stems -- devoid of tell-tale limpness -- still exhibit a bit of life, and a pool of neither clear nor thick and goopy juices.  A fine plate of qingchao youcai (fried mustard) if ever there was one. 

I would imagine that -- if you've made it to the end of this long post -- it is apparent that we hold Restoran Dong Bei in very high esteem.  We will be back (there are so many dishes yet to try, and we haven't even cracked to the lamb section of the menu yet).  If you're a fan of northeastern Chinese cuisine, watch this space.  Better yet, go eat at this place.

Dongbei Restoran, Jalan Changkat Thambi Dollah just a block up from Jalan Pudu. Tel 03-2148-7694. There is a very brief and incomplete picture menu; the complete menu is in Chinese.  House specials are posted on a sign just inside the entrance, and the daughter, if she is waitressing, speaks a bit of English.

 

Punjabi Sugar Fix

KL's train system, while impressively extensive, has a few glitches.  Major glitch: all the lines are owned and operated by separate companies.  Apparently companies in question did not coordinate when planning stations.  As a result, there are woefully few spots in the system where one can transfer from one line to the other (say, from monorail to LRT); even at transfer points, one may have to exit a train station and walk a bit to get to the other.  A minor quibble, really, given the quality of the grub here (you can see where I place my priorities).  And given that it was on the long, hot, open-to-tropical-downpours haul from monorail to LRT at the Sentral transfer point that I discovered Jesal Sweethouse, I'm even more inclined to be forgiving.

Jesal has a website and a proper store in Ampang, so I suspect it's been around a while and has a slew of steady customers.  Their operation right at the entrance of the covered arcade leading from the monorail at Sentral to KL Sentral Station is more makeshift, just a banner and a couple of tables loaded with Punjabi sweets, fronting a slapdash-ish open prep area.  It does a steady business, not all of which, I suspect, can be attributed to its commuter-friendly location.

Craving sugar after a spicy lunch on Sunday, we went in search of Jesal and were devastated by the presence of another shop in its spot in the arcade.  Not to worry ; as we soon discovered, Jesal has merely moved temporarily to a larger spot in the sprawling Deepvali (Indian festival of lights) bazaar behind the arcade.  And, happily, for the period leading up to Deepvali its offerings at the Sentral spot are greatly expanded.

This lady is running the show, no doubt about it.

Tasting is very much encouraged, even expected.  "Try this, darling, it's very good," she says, handing me a piece of cashew sweet topped with silver leaf.  "One hundred percent cashews, nothing else save for a bit of sugar."  It is very good, and I say so.  She's unsurprised and proceeds to fill a container for me.

"Now this."  Very nice, these lentil balls, spiced with a bit of cardamom -- but I'm in the mood for something richer.  Lentils are so wholesome; if I'm going to be bad I want to be really bad.

Ah, now this I haven't seen before at an Indian sweets shop: chocolate and coconut "bars".  As a kid I loved Almond Joy and Mounds bars; in my book a coco-choco combo is beaten only (and barely) by a coco-palm sugar combo.  These are wonderful -- not a fudge bomb,  nor a death by chocolate ... just lots and lots of shredded coconut, moistly bound by unassertive but true chocolate flavor.  The kind of wan (but good) chocolate flavor that means there'll be no need to stop at 1, or 5, or 8.  Load 'em up, please, and while you're at it how about a few of those other chocolate things, the ones with the nuts instead of coconut.  And throw in a few of those milky nut sweets (Jesal offers a second version, topped with pistachios) for a healthy balance.

On the ride home, I wondered what the heck we were going to do with three tubs of Indian sweets.  But they didn't last 24 hours. 

And I haven't even begun to explore Jesal's savory offerings.

[I'd welcome any and all help identifying the sweets in this post's pictures.]

Jesal Sweethouse, at the Sentral Station arcade Deepvali bazaar until November 1.  After a two-week hiatus, find Jesal in its old spot at the entrance to the arcade, or visit the store at No. 45-2 Ground Floor, Leboh Ampang. Pssst ... Jesal takes special orders for kulfi <swoon>, paneer, khoya, and rasmalai.  Tel. 03-2031-6773.

All Fired Up

Some time ago I came across an article claiming that the best seafood curry noodle in KL is to be found at a place called Restoran Yu Ai (Chinese for "friendly affection" or "fraternal love").  I've long forgotten the source of this assertion, and, as a relative newcomer to this land of hardheld opinions on what's good and what sucks, I've no basis on which to judge its verity.  Nonetheless, thanks to a quick scribble in my "eat here now" notebook Dave and I found ourselves at this unpreposessing shop around 2pm on a recent weekend day.

 

Our first glance inside was not encouraging -- only one table was occupied, a certain sign to hightail it on out of there if ever there was one.  One step inside, however, and it became clear why diners were scarce.  Despite the heroic efforts of those ceiling-mounted industrial fans, the place was hot as Death Valley on a summer's day.  We were waved upstairs, to a long, narrow room of flourescent-lit, air-conditioned cacaphony.  Every single table was filled with clearly satisfied customers slurping, smacking, demurely belching behind hankies, and tossing all manner of seafood refuse onto their tabletops (there is also seating out back, under a couple of trees).  In a matter of moments a table turned and was wiped clean, and we were seated and placing our orders for two seafood curry mee and grass jelly herbal drinks.

Five minutes passed, then ten minutes ... when it appeared we'd have a bit more of a wait we ventured back downstairs to the inferno to have a look at our curry noodles in the making.

It's quite an operation, really.  Prep and cooking take place around an inverted "L".  The display case at the front of the shop, at the bottom of the "L", holds a selection of rice and wheat noodles: kuay tiaow, loh see fun ("rat tail" noodles) mai fun (thin rice noodles), yellow mee, and a thicker round wheat noodle that's dried in flattish cakes.  Next to the display case, at the joint of the "L", a cauldron split in half holds broth and boiling water to soften the noodles.  Moving away from the joint of the "L" and up (or down) its long side, three large pots hold Yu Ai's no-doubt-secret recipe noodle soup bases.

Up top and, unfortunately, hardly visible, is qingtang -- literally "clear soup".  Though anything but clear (it's actually tannish), this soup base is Yu Ai's non-spicy offering.  The wicked looking brick red broth on the lower left is tomyam.  Not to be confused with Thai tomyam soup, which is clear and sour and may be spiced with whole chilies, this Malaysian-style tomyam is thick with chili paste and fiery.  In the pot to the right is the base for the dish that drew us to Yu Ai, a bright red chili-coconut curry studded with cubes of deep-fried tofu.

The real action takes place next to the pots of soup base, at the grease coated, gas-fired eight burner stove.

It's here that a couple of noodle jockeys prepare seafood curry, tomyam, and qingtang noodles, one order to a pot. 

When the orders are coming fast and furious, these guys display a range of almost balletic movements, first dipping broth into pots, then adding base, monitoring the boil and moving pots onto and off of and back onto burners, and finally sloshing finished curry or qingtang or tomyam over bowl after bowl of noodles (dried noodles are added directly to the broth as it cooks, as above).  Dancing around and behind and in front of each other with lightning speed, they -- miraculously -- never collide.

Yu Ai's noodle jockey support cast includes the man in yellow to the right of the stove (a few pics up, above), who portions out seafood and adds it to the individual pots at just the right moment; and a lad behind the front display case who prepares bowls of parboiled noodles, adding a dollop of chili paste to some -- for customers who have requested theirs "extra spicy".

Once plated (or, more accurately, "bowl"ed) and garnished, noodles are ready to be ferried outside and upstairs to loud crowds of hungry customers.

Our filled-to-the-brim bowls of curry with yellow mee noodles boasted a good variety of seafood: thick sticks of brown squid, juicy mussels, lots of tiny clam shells loath to let go of their meat (at Yu Ai, one cannot be afraid of getting one's hands dirty), and 4 or 5 head and tail-on prawns.  Along with the seafood, nubs of white meat chicken, those chunks of fried tofu, and a dense garnish of chopped Chinese celery added up to rather a large pile of food. 

Yu Ai's tawny curry is deep and complex, with layers of warm spices like cinammon and cloves and ground coriander, a hint of sweetness from the coconut milk, and a hit of chili that sneaks up from the back of your tongue after about the fifth spoonful.  Tofu chunks act as little sponges, soaking up fragrant curry.

Along with lots of kleenex, each table stocks a stainless steel container of chili bean paste and a plastic tub of a gutsy, garlicky, fresh-chili-and-kalamansi-juice sauce. 

I've noticed on more than one occasion that when it comes to noodle soup/gravies, Malaysians tend to portion out chili sauce etc. to the tiny saucers provided, and then pluck individual ingredients from their bowl to dip.  My more crude habit -- developed, I suppose, in China and ingrained in Thailand -- is to dump sauce into bowl and stir.  I found Yu Ai's tart kalamansi-based sauce to be a nice foil to the curry's sweetness.

Still, no matter how you dip it, dunk it, or dump it, this shop's noodle jockeys turn out a supremely fine bowl of seafood curry noodle.  A return visit -- to sample Yu Ai's tom yam -- is, I think, a must.

Restoran Yu Ai, 42J Jalan Segambut Utara. Open 8am to 5pm.

La Jiao Love

Malaysian food, while delicious, isn't really very spicy.  It's spice-full but it rarely induces the sort of BIG BURN that screams, "Bring on the fire engines!!"  So since we moved to KL I've been experiencing the occasional fierce hankering for a mouth sear will brings tears to my eyes, sweat to my brow, a snuffle to my schnoz, and a smile to my face.  More often than not these kind of cravings lead me to seek out Sichuan food.

It was in Sichuan that I cut my culinary teeth, so to speak.  Dave and I happened to be teaching English in Chengdu just as Deng Xiaoping was kicking off his experiment with with "market socialism".  Free fruit and vegetable markets -- as opposed to the state-owned stores stocked with rotting heads of cabbage and limp carrots -- where farmers could sell their produce directly to the public, were a new thing.  As China's fruit and vegetable bowl, Sichuan was an incredibly lucky place for us to land.  The tables at the few markets in Chengdu groaned with an abundance of absolutely gorgeous produce all year long.  While folks in Beijing suffered through winter with little but green cabbage to satisfy vegetable needs, we had big red beefeater-type tomatoes, vividly hued scarlet carrots, green beans the length of small eels, blood oranges that bled pink, and all manner of greens; when spring came there were fresh peas and sweet corn.

But wealth, even basic comforts, were still more the exception than the rule in those early years of reform.  Cars were thin on the ground; there were exactly two taxis in Chengdu, both owned by the Jinjiang hotel.  Households with TVs were the most popular in the neighborhood; any family that owned a bicycle for each member was considered comfortable, and those with a washing machine were positively well-off.  Ration tickets were still needed to buy rice and wheat products.

And food was very simple.  The only real restaurant in town was at the hotel; otherwise 3 or 4-table, literally hole-in-the-walls were where one went for rice and dishes, and there weren't enough of those places to count on both hands.  We had a favorite shop by the university, run by two guys with a single wok.  Their specialties were dou hua (soft tofu simmered in chili "broth"), pork with cucumber, pork with tomato, pork with eggplant, pork with ... well, you get the picture.  But what pork-with-X it was!  I was, essentially, eating California cuisine before I had an inkling of what California cuisine was -- the absolute freshest, peak-of-the-season produce prepared to maximize its flavor.  Add to that Chengdu's xiaochi ("little eats).  The towns little alleys and sidestreets hid lots of anonymous storefronts peddling "peasant food" -- snacks like shuijiao (boiled dumplings filled with a bit of pork and lots of garlic chives), dao shao mian (thick, knife-cut noodles served in a spicy broth with pork and pea greens); hongyou chaoshou (thin-wrappered, boiled pork dumplings bathed in soy, chili oil, sesame oil, and sugar); griddled flat breads; and big, fat baozi (steamed dumplings) oozing pork grease from their topknots.

It seemed that we were constantly eating and, to top it off, losing weight at the same time.  Attribute it to the metabolism of twenty-somethings, or to the constant shivering in unheated classrooms and apartments and time spent in the saddles of our bicycles, but it was exhilerating.  A few baozi for breakfast, another couple at mid-morning, two big bowls of noodles or jiaozi -- ordered by the jin (about 1/2 a kilo) -- for lunch, 3 dishes for dinner with 2 or 3 jin of rice to accompany, and plenty of beer.  (I'll never see those days again, that's for sure.)

For a girl raised on typically unspicy midwestern fare I took to Sichuan food with a surprising gusto, and lajiao you (ground roasted chilies "cooked" in oil) and huajiao (Sichuan peppercorns) became my new best friends.  How I pined for that Sichuan ma-la (the flavor of huajiao and lajiao) burn when I returned to the US!  It's still the first flavor that comes to mind when I think "hot and spicy".   

Which leads me to Sze Chuan Village Restaurant, a stone's throw up Changkat Thambi Dollah Street from the fine fish porridge offered at Ah Koong Eating House.  We'd noticed SV's sign the day we landed at Ah Koong, and a friend claimed the food was "hot hot!"  "If there's a decent Sichuan restaurant in this town," I thought, "then KL could claim to have it all."

 

My first visit to a Sichuan restaurant is usually devoted to testing the simple basics: dumplings, dan dan noodles, a cold dish, a standard entree.  If the la jiao you is the real thing; if the dumplings are plump and thick-skinned and boiled not fried; if there's no holding back on the ma and la in an entree that should feature plenty of both --- then I'll be happy to return.

Our lunch at Sze Chuan Village started ominously.  Paging through the menu, we stopped at the "noodles" section and found ... seafood dandan noodles!  Seafood?!  We hadn't noticed the fine print on the sign out front that decried Sze Chuan Village's specialty as "seafood hotpot".  Arrrgh -- let's just say Sichuan province is not known for its seafood.  "Can the chef make dandan noodles with pork?" we inquired.  We were told he could.  Ah, boiled dumplings were on the menu.  An order of those, please.  Mala liangban huanggua -- a cold dish of cucumber, garlic and sesame oil done Sichuan-style with chilies and Sichuan peppercorn.  For the entree?  Lazi jiding -- chicken stir-fried with copious amounts of dried chili peppers.

Cucumber salad arrived first, and it was pleasing.  Rough-cut cucumber slices, enough garlic to guarantee us a good bit of personal space on the train after lunch, enough chili and Sichuan peppercorn to bite but not burn, or overwhelm the cucumber.  And a nice little flourish of chopped coriander.

Then our moods took a slide with the arrival of the dandan mian.

What we had before us was a perfectly fine bowl of pork noodle soup -- rich broth, plenty of greens, chopped scallion, thinly sliced pork (with a bizarrely gelatinous texture, actually ... too much tenderizer?) -- but nothing even remotely resembling a dandan mian.  What a disappointment.  It did not bode well for the remaining dishes.

Seeking to salvage the situation, we asked for lajiao.  And were presented with chopped bird chilies in soy sauce, which I guess could be considered Malaysia's national lajiao but is never seen in Sichuan.  We persisted, asking for "the red stuff", and struck gold.

Now, here was the real thing.  Lots of roasted chili chunks in oil.  Chunks of not just any chilies, but -- I suspected -- Sichuan chilies.  The taste of Sichuan chili oil is distinctive, distinctively wonderful.  And just like sugar, a spoonful of this goo can make the medicine, or anything at all, go down easily --even not-dandan noodles.

Working our way through our saucer of lajiao you, and asking for another, we felt that things were looking up.  Dumplings, though a wee bit overcooked, did not disappoint.

It's a matter of taste, really -- I know many folks do not like a thick wrapper on this type of dumpling.  But I do.  Harking back to those early days in Chengdu (again), it's what defined -- along with the predominance of garlic chives over pork in the filling -- the boiled dumplings served in big round tin trays that we ate by the jin, with nothing but la jiao to dip them in (raw garlic cloves were provided, as a chaser).  The skin should be sturdy, it should have a definate chew.  A shuijiao is not a wonton, and it should not have a thin, silky skin like one.  If it does, it's just not a shuijiao, period.  These passed muster.  Served with good, strong black vinegar (not the red stuff you often get in Hong Kong) flavored with plenty of ginger shreds (not visible in this photo, unfortunately) that, when mixed with big oily spoonfuls of lajiao -- "Another saucer, please!" -- makes the perfect bath for a green-y, garlick-y, plump little dumpling.

By now -- having finished our doctored noodles (but leaving aside most of that weird pork), the cucumber salad, and all but a couple dumplings -- we were bordering on bloated.  Then the lazi jiding arrived and we knew we had to soldier on, if for no other reason than that the blog demanded it.

This scored about 8-9 out of a possible ten.  All the elements were there -- plenty of dried chilies stir-fried to a smoky crisp, chunks of not-overcooked scallion, heaps of exceptionally fragrant Sichuan peppercorns that, during the stir-fry process, had fused with chopped garlic to create tasty little lip-numbing clumps.  My only complaint here is that the bone-in chicken chunks were deep-fried before being added to the dish, creating a barrier between bird flesh and spices.  I'd never before had the dish prepared this way and I much prefer it without the chicken immersed in a bubbling oil bath.

All in all not a perfect meal, but the basic elements are there and we will return to mine a bit more of the menu. 

After lunch we wandered to the back of the restaurant where the chef was wrapping jiaozi.  Wei Zhimin is a Chongqing native who spent a bit of time cooking in Chengdu before arriving in KL two years ago.  He confirmed that the restaurant's lajiaoyou, chili peppers, and huajiao are brought in from Sichuan, explaining  "You can't find the fengwei (special local flavor) products in KL, and Malaysian chili peppers aren't right for Sichuan food."  Wei's enthusiastic about Sichuan food --"the best in China", he claims -- and I think he's a guy one could work with.  I'd even wager that he's got a true-taste dandan mian in him yet.  If nothing else I'm hoping to convince him to sell me some of his fengwei huajiao and lajiao stash.

Sze Chuan Village Restaurant, No 144&146 Changkat Thambi Dollah (off Jalan Pudu, behind Berjaya Times Square). Tel 03-21442623

Street of Temptation (Part 2: Dinner)

We left the Bangsar Ramadan bazaar dripping sweat and toting a load of prepared food (well, I was toting a load of prepared food -- Dave has his photo equipment to look after).  That said, the load would have been much larger if we hadn't only a couple of hours before polished off large bowls of exquisite seafood curry noodles.  But that's for another post.

Back at home we got things rolling with a couple of pulut pangang udang (sticky rice roll filled with dried shrimp, wrapped in a banana leaf, and grilled) and otak-otak (right).  The latter I described in my last post as little fish sausage-y nubbins -- perfectly delicious with an evening cocktail.  The pulut panggang .... well, all I can say is that while it was tasty enough, my heart still belongs to the zippier, more assertively flavored version I fell in love with in Kuala Selangor.

Piece de resistance of our evening feed was the ikan terubuk bakar (grilled tilapia, Sarawak-style).

A delicious specimen that, even at room temperature and a couple of hours off the barbecue, evinced deep smoky flavor skin through to flesh, complemented by an aromatic (and greasy) turmeric rub; this fish just might be another reason to catch the next flight to Kuching.  A dipping sauce so fiery and belacan (Malaysian shrimp paste) fishy it nearly blew my head off accompanied.  The downside: this is one bony fish.  I'm not talking large, distinct bones that you can locate and remove from the fish before it reaches your mouth, or even medium, thinner bones that will find their way to the front of your tongue for easy ejection.  I'm talking lots and lots and lots of skinny, tiny bones that elude all attempts at capture.  Despite its wonderful flavor I'm not sure that I would have this fish to dinner again.

To go with the fish, a green mango salad quite similar in taste to the classic Thai somtam (green papaya salad).  The vendor we bought this salad from had nearly sold out of this one item; recognizing that as a good sign, we nabbed the last plastic bagful.

This homely dish consists of unripe and slightly ripe (read: sour and crunchy and sweet/sour and a bit soft) mangos cut into thick and uneven matchsticks, plenty of red onion and chile, kalamansi juice and a big hit of belacan.  Right up there on the heat scale to match the hottest somtam I've ever sampled in Thailand, it offered no respite from the dipping sauce accompanying the ikan bakar.  But it was delicious, and we polished off the bowl with little effort.

Wing beans with coconut were a cooling counterpoint to the mango salad.

I dont' know the name of this dish in Malaysian, but in Balinese it's known as urab -- vegetables (usually cooked, though these wing beans weren't) mixed with grated fresh coconut, palm sugar, and spices such as turmeric and galangal.  This item proved to be deliciously crunchy and surprisingly -- for a primarily vegetable dish -- rich, something akin to drinking half a glass of coconut milk straight up.  I'm ashamed to admit we couldn't finish it, despite its high yum factor.

Urab of various kind were were gracing the tables of almost every Bangsar bazaar vendor selling rice and dishes.  The one below is made with cooked water spinach instead of wing beans.

 

To finish our feast of Ramadan bazaar carry-out delights, a plate of sweet and savory treats.

Clockwise from top left, a rice cake rolled in fish floss, kole kole (a coconut-based sweet with nuts), cheras cara berlauk (cuminy cooked jicama-filleed puffy flour roll), and a pao (steamed dumpling) filled with grated coconut and palm sugar.  The latter was my favorite -- soft, supple dough and a rich, sweet filling of my two favorite dessert ingredients.

All in all, quite a good score.  The Bangsar Ramadan bazaar is behind Bangsar Village Shopping Center, and some items are on sale as early as 3:30pm.