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
Awsome. Ma-La was big in Xi'an too -- and the most initially off-putting, longterm addictive taste combination I've ever tried. Stranded in Ireland, where the spiciest thing on tap is Coleman's English Mustard, I'm now longing for a bowl of Pork+X.
Posted by: Will Thomson | 2005.10.13 at 20:45
Um, sorry you (and a lot of other folks) saw the post before it was finished, Will. The vagaries of blogging -- or of blogging in spite of general computer illiteracy!
Posted by: Robyn | 2005.10.14 at 08:53
Oooh...that chicken looks tongue-burning! o_O In Hong Kong, we were told that "la jiu yao" (Sichuan type chilli oil) were all they had. If we wanted cut fresh chillies, it was chargeable! Interesting how practices differ country to country!
Posted by: Sue | 2005.10.14 at 22:02
Hi Sue, there are a lot more immigrants from northern China in Hong Kong than in Malaysia (and they have a longer history in HK) -- I think that explains the ready availability of lajiao you in Chinese restaurants there. We frequented a hole-in-the-wall shuijiao place when we lived in HK back in the early 90s ... lajiao you, the real thing, on every table! (they were good shuijiao, too!)
Cheers!
Posted by: Robyn | 2005.10.15 at 09:57
For a long time have been trying grow some
chines vegetables/flowers etc. My problem is that I cannot find any advice on growing.
A book by Geri Harrington 1978 Garden Way
Publ.Pownal, Vermont is out of print. I live in Maine its. cold in the winter. Biggest problem I cannot translate the names into a compatible latin or english variety, nor can I find a place to order seeds, plants, bulbs etc Any advice most welcome
Posted by: Eunice Pikuzinski | 2007.03.24 at 02:38
My nose beaded with sweat just looking at the pics.
Posted by: Steamy Kitchen | 2007.07.26 at 13:02
may i know the price range of the food? will it be expensive?
Posted by: Lee | 2008.07.11 at 20:43
Lee - it's been a couple years so I don't remember exactly but I don't think it was expensive. However, if you're looking for these kind of northern Chinese-Sichuanese dishes there are better versions at a resto across the street called Dong Bei. Not expensive at all.
Posted by: Robyn | 2008.07.12 at 09:48
hey eunice!
sorry i don't have any chinese vegetable advise, but this is your childhood buddy elizabeth.
what's up?
Posted by: elizabeth | 2008.12.23 at 21:33