EatingAsia

New Season, New Rice

We arrived in northern Thailand just as the rains ended.

Our first evening was still, with a bit of moisture in the air. By the next morning the clouds were gone from the sky, chased by a light breeze. The day started a touch on the cool side - for the first time in as long as I can remember I wished for a long-sleeved shirt - and then warmed up quickly. By mid-afternoon it was pleasant in the shade, only a touch too hot to linger in the sun, and dry, gloriously dry.

We've traveled in Thailand's north many times, but never at the end of October. It's the best time to be there. Better than January or February, when mornings are still comfortable (or downright chilly, in hilly spots like Pai) but the sweat starts to drip by 11. And a far sight better than May, when heat rises from the pavement in rippling waves and a motorbike ride down an unshaded strip of road around 2pm leaves your eyeballs feeling like they've been boiled in the sockets.

But the end of October is just fine. And not just comfortable, but gorgeous. A landscape monopolized not by the burnt gold of the height of naa rawn (the hot, dry season), but by the flourescent green of rice paddies backed by darker green hills.

Khao mai ('new' rice - top photo) seems emblematic of the new season. It's not a special variety of rice, just khao niaow (sticky rice) or khao hom malee (fragrant jasmine rice) that's sold soon after being harvested instead of dried and stored for up to a year, as is khao gao ('old' rice). Khao mai isn't really that lovely shady of grassy green above; some vendors use pandan or other means to tint the rice.

Khao mai has a wonderfully fresh, grain-y smell that brings to mind that of a stretch of field after a spring rain. When steamed it absorbs only about half the water of khao gao. It can also be eaten uncooked, as a snack - think of a very al dente risotto with a less sticky, starchy exterior.

Sometimes, if it's puffed up over a hot fire and then pounded flat, it ends up as khao mao, an ingredient in sweet khanom (snacks).

You don't have to live - or travel - upcountry (ie. to the countryside) to enjoy khao mai. When new rice hits the market this Bangkok lady adds it to her homemade krayasaat, sold from a table outside her beauty parlor tucked away behind Dalat Suan Pluu.

We've never been able to resist krayasaat. There are many variations on the theme, but most versions include at least puffed rice, peanuts, and sesame seeds. Ingredients are bound together in a sticky coconut cream and palm sugar candy. The delicate scent of khao mai made this krayasaat - already winning points for its generous helping of peanuts - especially delicious.

Yet another reason to travel Thailand at the end of the rainy season.

In Thailand, look for khao mai in wet markets. It's more likely to be offered by individual vendors than by rice specialty dealers. Krayasaat is so ubiquitous in Thailand it's easier to find than to miss. The version above can be found behind the lively Suan Pluu market (Soi Suan Pluu, off Sathorn Road) - head straight to the back of the market, turn left, and take a right up the first alley.

Himalayan Flavors in Pudu

An American culinary truism: Where there's a sizeable immigrant population there's bound to be eateries offering good, authentic international specialties.

The same holds true in Malaysia, where 'migrant workers' (use of the word 'migrant' is telling; holding Temporary Work Permits that must be renewed yearly, these men and women, however long they may stay, can't expect to be granted the right to settle here permanently) comprise a good percentage of the workforce. Females involved in domestic work - in private homes, restaurants, hotels - are perhaps the most visible segment of Malaysia's migrant worker population, but the majority of foreign workers (about 45%) hold manufacturing and plantation jobs.

Legal employment (estimates of the number of illegal foreign workers in Malaysia range from 300,000 to over 2 million, depending on who's doing the estimating) outside private homes usually means Sundays free (by law, maids are not guaranteed days off, and many never see a day free of work), and migrant workers - men, especially - within striking distance of Kuala Lumpur take advantage of the opportunity to bus into the city. Congregating in the blocks around the Pudu bus station, they meet friends, purchase calling cards, phone home, do a spot of shopping, and eat the foods that will transport them, at least for an afternoon, back to their place of birth. To hang out and drink beer with fellow countrymen is to feel, even if only for a few hours, not foreign. For many a migrant worker, anywhere, this Sunday, today, and next Sunday, 7 days away, make the days in between easier to bear.

Nepalese, at about 220,000, comprise Malaysia's second-largest population of migrant workers (after Indonesians, at well over 1 million), and tucked into the bus station area's shophouses are a few venues at which to sample their country's cuisine. The Khukri (named for the traditional Nepalese dagger) is the most 'upscale' of the lot. Tables bear cloths, lighting is low, service gracious and welcoming. Most notably, food is the focus (rather than a second-ran to beer), with many dishes prepared to order and flavors of reflecting much care and thought in the kitchen.

Our status as the only non-Nepalese in the crowded restaurant is, we think on a recent Sunday, a testimony to the the authenticity of its dishes.

Nepalese cuisine is a delicious blend of Chinese, Tibetan, Bhutanese, and Indian flavors and techniques. Unless you've travelled extensively in Nepal (we haven't), I'll bet that most of the dishes on the Khukri's a la carte and set meal menu will be new to you. Dining here is an adventure well worth embarking on.

Refreshed by tall glasses of cold mahi - similar to Indian salted lassi but made with buttermilk instead of yogurt - we start with momo, thin-skinned dumplings stuffed with a choice of pork, chicken, or lamb served with two dipping sauces, one tomato-based and spicy, the other chunky with peanuts and a bit sweet. Pork stuffing is moist and fragrant with dry spices, and wrappers successfully straddle the fine line between satisfyingly chewy and undercooked. The cloudy broth accompanying the dumplings is meaty and perfumed with cardamom.

Set meals comprise a number of components (except for the main and starch, components are the same for most set meals), served thali-style in beautiful Nepalese brass bowls placed around a tray. We opt for one rice set with mutton curry and the intriguingly unfamiliar dhedo set with sukuti rabhat. The mutton curry, thin with a slick of chili oil on the surface, is a lamb lover's dream - tender, aggressively meaty chunks of mutton a fine match for the spicy, fragrant liquid.

The dhedo, we find, is a rounded steamed cake of millet (dhedo can also be made of maize, wheat, and buckwheat) topped with a melted ghee-filled dimple. Reminiscent of firm polenta, it won't be to everyone's taste. But we're polenta (and grain porridge in general) fans, and find the dhedo's grain-y flavor and slightly gummy texture to be a fine bed for the meal's accompanying curry and vegetables, which include a fresh and 'green'-tasting bhuteko saag (lightly sauteed and pureed spinach), tama ko achar (a piquant, not-sour 'pickle' of fermented bamboo mixed with chilies and al dente mung beans), and gundruk, green leaves (radish, in this case) that have been fermented like sauerkraut and then dried in the sun. The resulting pickle, rather than being leached of flavor, is pleasantly crunchy, sour, and vegetal.

We're especially delighted with the jhaneko dal (above right and opening photo), a comfortingly creamy concoction of black lentils and barley. Coriander seeds and cardamom say 'India' but fresh coriander leaves sprinkled on top and another, unidentifiable flavor hint at southern China. Whatever the ingredient mix, it inspires a request for seconds.

Sukuti ra bhat is a surprise. Sukuti is dried buffalo meat, a sort of jerky eaten on its own or to accompany drinks. For this dish the jerky is grilled over charcoal or wood, and then mixed into a stew-ish 'curry' thick with tomatoes, caramlized onions, and lots of chopped cilantro leaves and stems. The buffalo is absolutely delicious, beefy and chewy (not unpleasantly so), with a heady, charred smokiness that infuses the whole dish, which is also characterized by a light, creeping spiciness. Another candidate for seconds, had we had room in our bellies.

The Khukri offers two desserts - halwa (helva, halva) and kheer (rice pudding). Both are made from scratch to order (expect a 10 or 15-minute wait) and are served in huge portions, each enough for two or three to share. Made with suji (semolina), halwa is toasty and buttery. Rising from the kheer, a steam cloud smelling of ghee and the richest, fattiest, whole-fat milk; rice, grains nearly distinct, are soft but not mushy. Sin in a bowl.

There's much more to explore at the Khukri, including thukpa (Nepalese noodle soup - popular with other customers) and a tempting fish curry (organ lovers might wish to try the poleko bangru ko mutu - whole roasted pork heart served with achar).

The place is, simply put, a gem. And, beyond Malaysia's Nepalese community, an apparently undiscovered one at that.

The Khukri, 26 Jalan Tun Tan Siew Sin (Jalan Silang), First Floor, Pudu, Kuala Lumpur. Tel. 60-3-2072-0663. Lunch and dinner daily. Our much-too-huge lunch for two, including momo, two full set meals, two desserts, two glasses of mahi, and two cups of hot Nepalese tea, came to around 50 RM. More expensive than your average noodle joint but given the genteel atmoshphere and the high quality of the food, a bargain.

Morning in Maninjau

As light begins to seep in around the edges of the curtains I'm roused by the soft 'click' of the door. Dave, camera in hand, heading out to capture another sunrise.

I want to follow - sort of. Mornings on the shore of Lake Maninjau are damply cool, and the bed is dry and warm. I stay put and try to doze, but the insistent slosh of waves outside our room and the occasional roar of a bus barreling down the Maninjau's main road keep me awake. Finally I'm lured from bed by the rattling of dishes as our guest house's owner places a pot of strong Sumatran coffee outside the door.

One cup downed, quickly. I meet Dave outside on the road, just as the last of the night's black leaches from the sky

'Nasi pisang, nasi pisang!'

The high cry of a young boy selling a hearty breakfast to go: a mound of black sticy rice cooked in coconut water, topped with shredded coconut and a still-warm butterflied, deep-fried banana, the lot wrapped in a banana leaf.

Banana and rice quiet our bellies and we walk, as the town wakes up.

It's our last morning. In another couple of hours we'll taxi to chaotic, noisy Padang, and we want to take in the quiet. We pass tumbledown traditional houses, the occasional thatched-roofed shack on stilts, come-hither signs advertising 'internet' and 'lakeside bungalows' from a time before Maninjau's tourist industry collapsed in the wake of the Bali bombing. A beautiful, timeworn wooden mosque, and the town's meeting hall with its winged Minangkabau roof. On the signboard above the hall's window a poem, penned by former Indonesian leader Sukharno:

If you eat pinang (areca nut)

Eat it with green sirih (betel nut).

If you come to Minang,

Don't forget to go to Maninjau.**

Across the street, a small eatery is already open for business.

Another dose of Sumatran coffee offers an excuse to sit awhile and watch the town come to life.

We spy a curry pot and lontong - rice cakes - in the display case. The shop owner smiles and nods as Dave raises his camera. Yes, the curry is her handiwork. She made it this morning.

It's barely 7am but suddenly a plate of lontong with nangka muda (young jackfruit) curry sounds like the best breakfast in the world.

And it is - smooth, coconuty, and tongue-tinglingly spicy, tender chunks of artichoke-ish nangka muda supplemented by short pieces of long bean and bitter rimbang, tiny pea eggplant said to be good for the eyes when eaten in odd numbers. On top, a tangle of chewy bean starch noodles, a flourish of fried shallots, and a shower of crumbled rice crackers that match the table's pink plastic covering make the dish almost too pretty to eat. Almost.

As we spoon up jackfruit and rice cakes, we contemplate a plate in the middle of the table heaped with tofu isi - stuffed tofu.

Our host urges us to try a piece, and then emerges from behind her display case with a freshly fried batch.

We can't resist her smile, and then we're glad we don't. Stuffed with a savory mix of bean thread noodles and finely diced mushrooms and shallots, then dipped in a thin batter and deep-fried, the tofu isi is a perfect combination of chewy and shatteringly crispy, the hot tofu a foil for a cool, flavorsome stuffing.

One piece, two pieces, three pieces. We worry we won't have room for lunch. We pay our miniscule bill, bid good-bye to the shopkeeper, her husband, her mother, her son, and her neighbor, and wander back to our room to pack.

**Many thanks to EatingAsia reader CW for transcribing, and translating, the poem.

In Maninjau, we stayed at the Tan Dirih Guesthouse. The Tan Dirih's four rooms are simple but immaculately clean, with fairly comfortable beds and private hot-water baths (a pleasure when the rain sets in and the temperature dips). Each room faces the lake and has a small sitting area outside. The price - about U$12 - includes a pot of coffee or tea, delivered to your room in the morning. Find contact details in the Rough Guide or Lonely Planet guides to Indonesia.

Lontong with jackfruit curry is served across the street and just up the road, in the direction of Pariaman.