EatingAsia

Somtam on Steroids

We weren't wowed by the grub in central Siem Reap - too much of it has been blanded down for tourists, we suspect. (And, though we generally like to start our evenings off with a drink, heaven save us from the Disney-esque scene on Pub Street.) But for those willing to go a bit slack on hygiene standards (yes you read that right, and we'll be devoting a post to these kinds of concerns in the near future), there are treasures to be found in and around Psa Leur, a wonderfully messy jumble of a market about a 7 or 8-minute ride from the river.

Psa Leur is where we headed right after dropping our bags at our hotel. It was 3pm -- too late for a full-on lunch, but just the right time of day for mixing and matching a snack or three. We zeroed in on this vendor after spying the grated green papaya and shredded leaves and herbs in her cart.

She's whipping up Thai somtam, Khmer-ized via the exclusion of tomatoes and the addition of shredded morning glory (water spinach) stems, cabbage, and basil and polygonum leaves (daun kesom, for Malaysian readers). After pounding together palm sugar, lime wedges, chilies, long beans, dried shrimp, and peanuts - the classic Isaan-style somtam combo - she adds a fishy element. We passed on salted paddy crabs and opted instead for a healthy dose of paadek (super-fermented fish sauce similar to Vietnamese mam and Thai bplaa raa) mixed with chili sauce. Then, in goes the in the green papaya and finally, after a bit of pounding, the morning glory stem-herb mixture.

Once it's all mixed she dishes it up, but not before placing a small mound of unpounded herb mixture in the bottom of a dish, a nice crunchy touch.

The salad goes on top.

We adore Isaan-style somtam, but this jazzed up version takes it up a notch. The fragrant basil and peppery, astringent polygonum leaves lend a non-heaty spiciness to balance the chili, and the tightly coiled morning glory stems and strips of green cabbage add texture and just that much more crispiness. An exceptionally refreshing version of green papaya salad that we'll be recreating in our own kitchen.

Not to mention a telling intro to what would prove to be a surprisingly fine three days of eating.

On the Move

We're wrapping up three enjoyably hectic days in and around Siem Reap (not one minute spent at Angkor Wat) and are on our way to Saigon. Still lots to share from Jakarta but right now our brains are filled with images like the one above, captured in a village about a 45-minute tuk-tuk ride outside of town. More to come once we're settled in HCMC.

But in the meantime - what's going on here, anyway?

The Devil Made Me Do It

Actually, my editor did. Eat three versions of the  Malaccan Cristang dish devil's curry (debal) in less than 24 hours, that is, for a piece in today's Wall Street Journal Asia 'Weekend Journal'. (No link at the moment, unfortunately.)

This was our first encounter with debal, but it certainly won't be our last. For us this earliest of fusion (sorry! I hate the word too, but in this case it applies) dishes, a blend of Portuguese, Indian, and Chinese influences, hits all the right notes: spicy, tangy-sour, with a little kick from mustard seeds. It's a curry that tastes neither quite Malay, nor quite Indian. It's the addition of vinegar that makes the difference. If you like Goan vindaloo (which is probably curry debal's precursor), you'll love it (though it needn't be as wildly spicy as vindaloo usually is).

A week after we returned from Malacca I made a potful so that Dave could take photos. It's not that difficult a dish to cook - especially if you grind the paste with a blender or food processor instead of by hand - and it greatly improves upon standing, so it's good make-ahead fare. Crusty bread seems as appropriate an accompaniment as rice and a side of stir-fried veg. Readers in places where it's not quite curry weather might tuck this recipe away for a rainy (or snowy) day.

Debal (Devil Curry)
Adapted from Cuzinhia Cristang by Celine J. Marbeck (a great book on Cristang food - highly recommended!)

Like many curries and stews this dish really is better made at least one day ahead and it freezes very well. Debal was traditionally made for Boxing Day, with a mix of roast meats and sausages left over from Christmas. But the chicken version is tasty as well. One of the Cristang cooks that I interviewed for the article makes her debal with regular white vinegar. I'm not sure it matters much which type of vinegar you use but it's essential to keep tasting for sourness. The finished dish should have a pronounced - but not overwhelming - tang. Feel free to reduce the number of chilies. French beans are optional - I prefer my debal without them, though they do make for a colorful photo.

1 kg chicken
1tsp dark (thick) soy sauce, or regular soy sauce mixed with 1/4 tsp brown sugar
3 Tbsp vinegar (red wine, white, rice, white wine, apple cider, even Sherry vinegar)

For the curry paste:
1 1/2 tsp mustard seeds
30 shallots, peeled
5 cloves garlic, peeled
6 candlenuts, peeled (substitute 12 blanched almonds)
bottom 7 cm of three stalks lemongrass, sliced
a thick coin of galangal, peeled and chopped roughly
1/4 tsp turmeric
50 dried chilies, soaked in hot water for 1/2 hour and drained, soaking water retained if you'll be making the paste in a blender or food processor

2 tbsp tamarind pulp (soaked in 1/2 cup hot water and strained to extract 1 Tbsp juice)
1/3 cup oil
2 thick coins young ginger, peeled and cut into matchsticks
2 large onions, peeled and quartered top to bottom
6 large fresh red chilies (mild), red stalks left on and cut in half lengthwise
2 tsp mustard seeds
6 potatoes, peeled and quartered

20 or so French beans, slit in half lengthwise (optional)

salt, sugar, and vinegar to taste

1. Mix the vinegar and soy sauce and marinate the chicken for 20-30 mins.
2. Blend or process paste ingredients till smooth, adding chili soaking water or plain water as necessary to facilitate grinding (if you're not doing it by hand).
3. Heat the oil in a large Dutch oven or other stew pan over medium-high heat. Add the ginger, fry till golden, and remove and set aside. Repeat with the onions, and then with the red chilies.
4. Lower the heat to medium, add the 2 tsp mustard seeds, and allow them to pop.
5. Add the paste and fry, stirring constantly, until it loses its raw smell and becomes dark and glossy, with an oily sheen.
6. Remove chicken from marinade and slowly add the liquid to the fried paste, stirring constantly.
7. Add chicken and potatoes and toss to coat well with paste. Add 1 Tbsp tamarind juice and enough water to cover the chicken.
8. Boil rapidly, uncovered, for 10 mins, then reduce heat to simmer and cook until the chicken is tender, about 30 minutes. (Top up water if necessary, but you do want the gravy to reduce.) Add French beans if using and continue to cook until tender.
9. Add salt to taste. Taste for sour and add more vinegar - or sugar - if necessary.
10. Serve hot, or allow to cool and then park the debal in the fridge for up to a week or the freezer for up to 3 months.

Don't Toss Those Bones!

                                       Pasar Glodok, Jakarta

They might come in handy. Especially if you're a smoker.

Chinatown, Again

                    Sup ayam at Kopi Es Tak Kie, Glodok Jakarta

Because by the time we land in Jakarta it's twilight, and the drive in from the airport is nothing but lumpy dark shapes - houses, shops, shanties - lining the road and, when we hit downtown, wide boulevards and tall showy buildings and shopping mall after shopping mall, just like Bangkok. Or Manila. Or Singapore or Kuala Lumpur. Because this is our first time in Indonesia's capital (not strictly Dave's first, but his first with time to wander) and in my rush to pack I forgot the guidebook. Because we're up at 5:30am and though there's work to be done on this trip our first appointment isn't for hours, so we've lots of time to kill. Because the place names on our city map - Tanah Abang, Menteng, Harmoni, Pasar Baru - are just meaningless words to us and even last night, though our journey in was a straight shot between airport and hotel we could sense that Jakarta is huger than huge, scary huge. Because we don't know where to start.

But we know there's a Chinatown. We'll get our bearings there.

We ask our taxi driver to take us to the pasar (market) in Glodok. It's 6:30 now and the streets are surprisingly light of traffic. Dawn comes an hour earlier to Indonesia's western islands than it does to the Malaysian peninsula but Jakartans seem to be late risers. Sumatrans too. We wonder, is this an Indonesian thing? By 7am Bangkok's Dalat Klong Toey is heaving, KL's Pasar Pudu packed.

We start at the mouth of an alley off Jalan Pancoran. Not much activity here, certainly no market, just a few sleepy fruit and cake sellers. We head in, walking past shop after empty shop. Nothing's open. No coffee, no noodles. But a few shoppers toting bulging plastic bags and porters pushing carts of vegetables tell us we're on the right track.

We find our market at the end of another alley. It's not big - just a short stretch of narrow brick-paved street running along a stinky canal - but it'll do. There's lots of activity, vendors loudly hawking their produce, rolling carts of live chickens to dodge, motorbikes weaving between shoppers and sellers.

The faces here, unlike those in KL's Chinatown market off Petaling Street, aren't predominantly Chinese,

nor are the ingredients on sale. The only language we hear spoken is Indonesian.

                                  Dried salted fish and oncom

So what says 'Chinatown' here?

Pork sellers, for one. In Malaysian markets they're tucked behind a wall or partition so as not to offend, but in Glodok they're very much out in the open, mixed in amongst other shops and stalls, within arm's distance of Muslim shoppers who appear to pay them no notice.

Then there's foods like soft, fresh tofu (in most Southeast Asian cities head to Chinatown for the best tofu and coffee),

and mooncakes, even though they look nothing like the lovely imprinted mooncakes we associate with the Chinese Mid-Autumn festival. They do look like moons though, with their pale, floury wrappers. Fillings are hit-and-miss; cempedak - breadfruit - is a loser, but we highly recommend biji jambu, a sort of caramel flavored mix of nuts and seeds.

And, further down the lane where the market starts to peter out, there's the crowded Wihara Dharma Bakhti, a large Buddhist temple complex.

We backtrack in search of coffee. Kopi tarik ('pulled' coffee) is what we're after, the thick, strong stuff made by repeatedly pouring water over grounds suspended in cloth bag, the sort of coffee we've drunk at Chinese-run shops and stalls in Thailand and Malaysia.

Down an alley on the other side of Jalan Pancoran we find Kopi Es (iced coffee) Tak Kie. The shop's namesake beverage doesn't offer quite the jolt we're after, but we're happy to relax a while at one of its tables and take in the very KL-ish Chinese coffeeshop atmosphere. Tak Kie's patrons seem to consist mostly of retirees, or at least older folks with time on their hands; you just know they've been eating here for decades. There's congee and fried rice and noodles on offer, but the big seller here is the sup ayam (chicken soup) dished up at the front of the shop.

It looks fairly unspectacular, but the broth is hearty and flavorsome - perfect wake-up food. Big meaty chunks of white and black chicken share space with pre-laid eggs that consist of 100% yolk. On the side, a saucer of coriander leaves, spicy vinegar-chili sauce, Chinese crullers for dipping, and a bowl of rice. Extra seasoning comes from a squeeze bottle of huatiao jiu (Chinese sweet rice wine) - a nice touch.

Energized, we work our way up and down more Glodok alleys, discovering Batavia-era Chinese houses in various states of disrepair (only facades, in some cases).

The owner of this one invites us in for a look. It's more than 100 years old and has been in his family since it was built. We admire its soaring ceilings, thick plaster walls (this thing has withstood more than a few tremors), original Dutch floor tiles, and sturdy jati wood support beams. The two-story number next door is for sale, and for a few minutes we indulge in visions of a sweet little old Jakarta Chinese house - repaired and updated - as home.

As we leave he points us up the street, towards more historic buildings. Oriented, ready to take on more of Jakarta, we leave Glodok bound for Sunda Kelapa.

If They Sold the Holes We'd Eat Those Too

Heading out of Melaka, we stop for a big bag of one of our favorite palm sugar vehicles, kuih keria. As Dave waits in the car I order two cups of kelapa muda (young coconut juice) and, in anticipation of one and a half hours of joyful on-the-road piggery, 20 of the tasty palm sugar-coated sweet potato donuts to go.

Horrors! They won't be available till 2:30. It's 1:30 now and we need to get back in KL. Dejectedly sipping a kelapa muda, I walk back to the car and deliver the news. Dave is devastated. We've both been looking forward to this all weekend.

Ten minutes up the road Dave makes a sudden U-turn. Schedule be damned - we're going back to wait it out. And are we ever glad we did. There is nothing, simply nothing in this world, like a freshly made kuih keria.

The donuts are made on-site in a tin-roofed, open-aired 'workshop' just behind the stall. There we find the owner of the operation, an intense, wiry man, overseeing two massive wood-fired woks, one filled with bubbling oil and dozens of bobbing donuts, and the other with reducing gula Melaka syrup.
While he's waiting for the first batch of kuih to finish frying he helps his daughter churn out more. They're both masterful donut makers, using only their hands to transform lumps of sweet potato dough into plump, even rings in seconds.

When the donuts have browned to the shade of cinnamon he scoops them from the oil and transfers them to a basket to drain and cool. The next batch goes into the oil.

By now we're in a cloud of aromas simultaneously wonderous and maddening. The smell of freshly fried dough intermingles with the sweet smokiness of gula Melaka, and it's nearly unbearable. Drop the donuts in the gula already! we want to scream.

But no. He returns to his lump of sweet potato dough and commences more donut shaping. Every so often he walks over to the pan of gula syrup, gives it a stir, lift the spatula high to gage its thickness, and then lightly touches one of the crisped donuts to test its temperature. We watch. And wait.

Finally it's time to add the donuts to the sugar. He puts them all in at once and begins turning the rings in the syrup, working quickly to coat them all before the sugar hardens. We now understand why he waited so long to add the kuih to the sugar - they must be cool enough to bring down the temperature of the gula so that it solidifies and clings.

Watching this process makes us appreciate kuih keria even more. It's a real art and timing is everything.

As soon as the donuts are coated the master and his daughter lift the pan from the fire

and then crouch beside it, tonging the donuts out to a platter one-by-one. Again, time is of the essence -the kuih must be pulled out of the pan quickly so they don't stick, either to it or to each other.

At long last the first batch of kuih keria is ready for streetside sale. We up our order from 20 to 25; as soon as our bag's been filled cars begin stopping in front of the stall, their occupants ordering kuih keria by the dozens. When we get to our car we each eat 3 right off (they're too hot to eat directly out of the bag, but a few seconds in front of an air-con vent takes care of that) and continue gobbling at regular intervals all the way back to KL.

While Malaysia is home to many divine deep-fried snacks, the majority become decreasingly delicious the longer they're out of the fryer. Kuih keria miraculously stand the test of time. To justify our piggery we engage in a bit of scientific observation.

From my notes:

2:35 Fresh, almost prohibitively hot. Inside soft and tender, almost melting and creamy. Nice flavor, can almost taste sweet potato. Intense gula flavor, with smokiness from wood fire and sugar. Outside firm but not at all crisp.

3:05 Inside still warm but not hot. Still very soft. Outside a bit firm, almost crackly, but gula clinging well.

3:50 Completely cooled. Inside firmer, chewy, more cakey. Creaminess almost gone but as flavor of dough has receded gula stronger, more smoky, with that lightly bitter and almost salty aftertaste that's the mark of a high quality palm sugar.

Kuih Keria Antarabangsa, Jalan Tengkera (follow Jalan Tun Tan Cheng Lock till it turns into Jalan Tengkera - as if you're heading to the old trunk road to Kuala Lumpur - the stall is on your right), Melaka. 130-730pm, closed Friday. Also selling goreng pisang (fried bananas), kuih bidaran (sesame seed-coated deep-fried balls filled with sweet mashed mung bean), and deep-fried ubi balls.

Eight Thirty AM

                                   Malacca-style curry laksa

The sun's warm but not yet scorching. There's still a bit of freshness to the air and, as far as the photographer is concerned, the light is still golden. We've already got an hour and a half of satisfying marketing (and a tasty Nyonya zong) under our belts. Everything seems possible.

Even another breakfast.

Heading up the street from Malacca's Eng Seng market we come upon a food court partially hidden under low eaves. The din issuing from within tells us it's popular. Inside we find spotless marble-topped tables, wooden chairs, and a bossy manager.

'What you want?!' she demands, before we've even had a chance to take in the possibilities. Every stall seems to be doing a roaring business. We ponder the possibility of yong tauhu, Cantonese-style fried noodles, Hokkien mee, chee cheong fun, laksa ....

'Laksa!' she barks, not unpleasantly. It's not a question, it's an order, and we nod. 'Laksa!' she barks again, louder this time, at the laksa vendor on the other side of the room.

After a few minutes of small talk our order arrives. 'Here's your laksa. Carry on.'

Malaccan curry laksa is like KL curry laksa except, well, better. The version served at Tung Fang Food Court is fragrant with coconut milk but not too lemak (fatty rich) or sweet, and it's packed with slices of fish cake, shrimp, lots of crunchy pieces of deep-fried tofu skin, and plump cockles. The mound of finely slivered cucumber mixed with minced daun kesom (Vietnamese coriander) carefully arranged atop the laksa is a splendid touch. The gravy is lip-tinglingly spicy - always a plus for us - and the sambal served alongside, curiously devoid of belacan (as was the sambal we enjoyed with our Nyonya zong), adds another welcome hit of heat.

All morning we've been struck by the easy friendliness of the locals. We exchange smiles and share a table with three elderly ladies who, like everyone else around us, seem to be Tung Fang regulars. They're all eating chee cheong fun, with little saucers of pork dumplings on the side. The chatty-bossy manager is back, wondering if a bowl of laksa shared between the two of us really constitutes a proper breakfast (she doesn't know about the Nyonya zong). She's pushing the chee cheong fun. Now the elderly men at the next table get in on the act, raising their eyebrows at us in what we take to be a challenge:

Hey gwailo, you gonna walk out of here after one measly bowl of laksa, without even trying the chee cheong fun?

You already know how this story ends. We place an order, for chee cheong fun only, and then amend it to include some dumplings. The two women running the stall are probably the busiest of all of Tung Fang's vendors, the chee cheong fun maker in perpetual motion over her steamer trays and cutting board.

It can't possibly be as easy as she makes it look, spooning watery batter onto a cloth spread over the holes of a steamer, sprinkling its surface with shrimp, bits of char siew (barbecued pork), and chopped green onion, pulling the cloth from the steamer after it's spent a couple minutes under cover and then laying it onto an oiled stainless steel surface,

and lifting it up to reveal a rectangle of paper thin rice flour dough.

With a wide spatula and a few flicks of the wrist she maneuvers the rice flour sheet into a loose log,

slices it into chopstick-able chunks, and slides them onto a plate.

It's a wonderful Hong Kong-style chee cheong fun (the chili on the side and fried garlic on top are  Malaysian flourishes) with an impeccably smooth texture. The rustic dumplings are unevenly sized and filled with pork that boasts the nubby texture of hand-chopped meat, rather than the usual machine-processed paste.

The chatty-bossy manager's back, and she nods approvingly as we finish off the chee cheong fun. 'Do you get these in your Chinatown in America?' she asks.

'Not like this,' we say. 'Not made to order three steps from your table, pulled off the steamer, plated, and placed in front of you all in the space of a minute.'

(Malaysians, do you know how good you've got it here?)

Tung Fang Food Court, Egerton Road, Malacca. Mornings. Laksa RM3, chee cheong fun 3.40, 3 dumplings 1.20.

'Do you know how to eat it?'

... the owner of a Saigon bun oc (snail soup noodles) asks me as I start in on the steaming bowl she's just placed in front of me.

In Shanghai refrains of Ni hui chi ma? (Are you able to eat it? Can you eat it?) accompanied almost every meal we ate outside our home. It always struck me as so very Chinese, this tendency to question a foreigner's ability to eat Chinese food - or use chopsticks, or speak or read Chinese, or ride a bicycle, or know much of anything about Chinese history, culture, or society, for that matter. A local could be well aware that I had a long history with China, carry on an entire conversation with me in Mandarin, watch as I negotiated a menu and ordered on my own, and then still exclaim, when I picked up my chopsticks, 'Oh, you can use chopsticks!'

It exasperated me no end. (Not so when Sichuanese asked, 'Ni hui chi la ma?' - Can you eat spicy food? This seems an entirely reasonable inquiry.)

Now here I am in Saigon experiencing a bit of deja vu. Look, I think to myself, I'm competently wielding chopsticks and spoon and leaning in so I don't splash soup on my shirt. Obviously I know what I'm doing. Obviously, I know how to eat bun oc.

'No,' my friend My clarifies. 'She sees you can eat it. What she means is, Do you know how to enjoy it?'

A different question entirely. And one that, I think, illustrates the Vietnamese passion for food and the act of eating. After I sip the soup, the shop owner spoons in a bit of rice wine lees vinegar. I taste and nod. She returns to her kitchen with a smile on her face, satisfied that now I know how to eat it.

Two days later we're wandering a market in a section of Saigon populated by transplants from central Vietnam. The area is dotted with small garment workshops; colorful bolts of fabric, cheap silks especially, spill out of doorways and every now and then the gentle whir of sewing machines drifts above our heads.

The market is compact but bursting with produce and jostling people, and the vendors - all women - are friendly. Skeins of pale rose and turmeric-hued noodles for my quang tell us that natives of central Vietnam shop here. So do the huge banh da (rice crackers) that are stacked,

hung,

and crisped over charcoal braziers.

I adore banh da, so I buy a couple and then head inside the market building. In its middle are tables filled with women gossiping and laughing and eating noodles and drinking coffee.

At my favorite coffee 'bar' I'm glad to run into Van and Vui, whom Dave and I have nicknamed Laverne and Shirley. Like the characters in the popular American sitcom Van and Vui, whom we met here the day before, are fast friends and work together in a (garment) factory. Short-haired, gravel-voiced Vui is loud, tomboyish, and jokey, and Van is pensive and shy. I nearly have to bring my ear to her mouth to hear her when she speaks.

When I sit down their eyes drop to the banh da in my hand.

'Do you know how to eat it?' Vui demands.

'Wait!Don't eat!' she commands. 'I'll be right back!' she calls as she disappears into one of the alleys outside.

After a few minutes Vui reappears lugging a banh chung (steamed glutinous rice cake). As she unwraps it the coffee seller pulls a plate, a few chilies, and a small saucer, which she fills with dark soy, from behind her bar. She hands a spoon to  Vui, who proceeds to carve thin slices from the banh chung. Van, who speaks more English than her friend, explains that this version is filled with mashed mung bean only. The pork's been omitted because today is the first or the fifteenth (I'm not sure which) of the Lunar month.

Vui places a piece of banh chung between two banh da shards and motions for me to dip it into the soy sauce, then take a small bite from a chili before placing it in my mouth. (Later, the coffee seller simplifies the procedure by using the side of a spoon to chop the chili into the soy.) The mung bean is smooth and almost buttery and its sticky rice wrapper toothsome, all in wonderful contrast to the cracker. The spicy soy perks up the whole package fantastically. It's awfully filling, but with Dave's and Van's and Vui's help, along with that of our fellow coffee drinkers, we finish off the entire rice cake.

I have never, until this day, liked banh chung, and banh da I only ever viewed as a light snack. Clearly I didn't know how to eat either of them.

It's not the last time on this trip that I'll be asked, 'Do you know how to eat it?' I'm still mulling over the phrase, because the question seems to entail more than a simple inquiry about my familiarity with appropriate condiments and accompaniments.

And I've been thinking about the food of my own country and wondering what American dishes - if any - would prompt me to ask the same question of a foreign visitor. Does the fact that I'm coming up blank say something about American food, or about me as an American?

Is there a food you know well that would prompt you to ask a newbie, before he or she took a bite, 'Do you know how to eat it?'

 

Friday Night Out

We met Judy at the end of our last day at Nang Leong Market. Emerging from one of the alleys that lead from the market onto Thanon Krung Kasem we noticed two small restaurants right across from each other. At their outdoor tables guys sat drinking beer and eating intriguing tidbits: small plates of unfamiliar stir-fried greens, crunchy beans mixed into a salad, tiny frogs browned and crispy and stacked on a stick.

Judy popped out the door of one of the shops. 'Want a beer?' she smilingly inquired. We were tired and sweaty and yes, we wanted a beer, but we were also dirty and smelly so, at that moment, we wanted a shower and a change of clothes more.

'What's that dish?' I asked her, pointing at one of the tables. 'Gap klaem,' she replied. Oh, gap klaem, Thai drinking food. We'd eaten gap klaem, many types of which, such as grilled beef tossed with lime juice, chili, and fish sauce and various chopped meat pat bai grapao (stir-fried with basil) preparations, are also served in restaurants. But we'd never dined at a place that specialized in them. We told Judy we were heading to our hotel, but that we'd be back in a few hours.

We're not big on beer, but there are times - such at the end of a long day that started before dawn, followed by an hour spent in the back seat of a taxi caught in traffic and then a hike down a busy Bangkok street - when it really hits the spot. We arrived at Judy's, parked ourselves at an outdoor table, and ordered a couple of Singhas and a big bucket of ice.  I took a gulp, looked around, and noticed that all of Judy's other customers were male, and that her large staff consisted entirely of young, very made-up, mini-skirted women.

Dave and I looked at each other. Oh, right. Duh. We'd come to a hostess bar for dinner.

They are as much a part of Bangkok's urban landscape as streetside food vendors, if perhaps not as widely or evenly distributed. Patpong and the seedier stretches of Sukhumvit attract most of the press, foreign customers, and gawkers, but every neighborhood has its own 'men's clubs'. What is there to say about these places that hasn't already been said elsewhere? They are simply a fact of life in this metropolis that attracts hordes of economic migrants. Many of them - young, poorly educated, unskilled women, most from from Isaan - end up working in joints like Judy's.

The beer was cold the food around us looked incredible. Judy came out to say 'hi'. We decided to stay.

In the US drinking food means something small, preferably unsauced, maybe easy to eat with your fingers. Gap klaem, by contrast (like Philippine pulutan) includes everything from grilled chicken to curries. Gap klaem are meant to line the stomach. They're highly spiced and rarely eaten with rice. At the tables around us, occupied by customers who were obviously settling in for a long evening with a bottle or two,

plates arrived at a measured one-by-one pace. Our fellow patrons took their food leisurely, between sips of alcohol. We'd arrived with an altogether different agenda and paid little heed to gap klaem protocol. Judy is from Isaan, so are her girls, and so her is her cook. We love Isaan food. She recommended a raft of specialties and we ordered all at once.

The kitchen had run out of frogs so we went with deep-fried duck tongues. They arrived stuck on a stick and super crispy, accompanied by the tart dried chili sauce that's often associated with grilled chicken. A nice snacky sort of starter, if a bit tough.

As we were waiting for our next dish an ambulatory vendor bearing a basket of deep-fried pulses and beans and a number of chopped fresh ingredients sidled up to our table. We pointed at his bag of fava beans and in no time at all he whipped up a tasty cocktail mix

that included chopped Chinese celery and green onions, chilies, a liberal sprinkling of salt, and a wee bit of lime juice. What a memorable flavor-texture combo; we found ourselves talking about his humble paper plateful weeks later. More vendors - all of them Bangladeshi or, perhaps, Burmese men - bearing similar assemblages of ingredients drifted past the restaurant as the evening wore on.

When dark enveloped Judy's joint's outdoor tables someone fired up the karaoke machine. Invited to warble a tune we declined, pointing to our laden table. Several customers nodded, seeming to understand that we were there not for the girls or the karaoke, but for the food.

Soon we were eating the most fiery muu pat bai grapao (minced pork stir-fried with basil and chilies) that I have ever had the pleasure of placing on my tongue. On its heels came a dish of naem (cured pork) mixed with Chinese celery, scallions, shallots, both fresh and pickled chilies, deep-fried dried shrimp, ginger matchsticks, and peanuts tossed in a bright, limey dressing. How many ways can you say sour (pickled chilies, naem, lime juice), spicy (pickled and fresh chilies, shallots and scallions), and crunchy (peanuts and deep-fried deep shrimp)? Each bite was oral fireworks: bright, bold, incendiary, dazzling. It practically left us gasping for air.

Not really hungry, yet unwilling to call an end to an evening of unexpectedly fantastic eating, we flagged Judy down and asked her to recommend just one more dish, her kitchen's best. We ended up with a  curry of muu bpaa ('forest' pig - wild boar). A stunning sauce thick with lemongrass, basil, lime leaves, chilies, ginger shreds, and fresh green peppercorns thickly coated tender pieces of gamey, skin-on wild boar. We spooned up every last bit.

And then it was time to go, even though it was only 9pm and the party at Judy's was just getting started.

But not before one of the girls showed us her tattoos.

Judy's place is at the corner of Thanon Krung Kasem and an alley called Trok Nang Leong 1 (look for the blue alley signage), within spitting distance of the bridge. There are two hostess bars here. If you want to find Judy's place ask for, well, Judy.

Nyonya Eye Opener

We popped down to Malacca over the weekend, to research a local specialty for an article. The place is starting to grow on us. Every time we go (this was only our third visit in almost three years) we like it just a little bit more. Malacca is not as full-on charming as Penang; its historic center is smaller than Georgetown and it's certainly not hawker food central. But there is something about it...

We don't go to Malacca for Jonker's Walk, and we certainly don't go for the shopping mall that's been erected on the square where Malaysia's independence from British rule was declared (what were city officials thinking?!). We go to admire the old Peranakan houses, steal glimpses of what remains of  old Malacca in the historic center, and - of course - eat.

The best time to wander Malacca is early in the morning, when there's no traffic clogging the old streets (less of a concern if you're there on a weekday) and life goes on pretty much as it has for decades: here a long-time resident selling steamed spice bread from a stool set up outside the front door of her lovely old house, there a grandad doddering down an alley on the way to dim sum. A pork seller begins to set up shop on a side street, a popiah seller makes popiah skins in a shop on its fourth generation, tinny Chinese pop music wafts out of the second-story window of a row house, a housewife slowly sweeps her stoop.

We walk Kampung Pantai Road across the river, where it turns into old Mill Road, and then into Egerton Road. At the confluence of the two roads stands Eng Seng Market, the last in Malacca's old center. The market dates back to the early 1900s, though the structure itself wasn't erected until 1953 (notice the Art Deco elements in the building, above), the donation of a wealthy Chinese Malaccan named Gan Hong Hoe. We wonder if it isn't his portrait that hangs high on the market's front wall.

Eng Seng isn't large, and though it's fantastically frantic early in the a.m. and boasts a fair selection of tasty prepared goodies, sold outside next to the building, I suppose there's nothing particularly special about it. But Eng Seng has hung on in a town that's seen quite a lot of beautiful and historic structures razed since the late 1980s, and that makes us partial to it. A vendor tells us that ten years ago the city government planned to demolish Eng Seng and replace it with a ten-story building. The plan was protested and eventually scrapped and for now, at least, Eng Seng is safe.

Behind the market is a food court of sorts where we like to grab our first, second, and sometimes third coffees of the morning.  There are battered plastic tables, stools, and a number of stalls selling foods like char yoke (roast pork -  meant for takeaway, but one of these mornings we'll give in, purchase a couple hundred grams and eat the burnished, crackly-skinned meat with our fingers, as sort of a sans egg variation on bacon and eggs), noodles, and fish balls (very popular with the locals).

While working on my second coffee I notice a flurry of transactions taking place at a stall selling banana fritters and zong, leaf-wrapped rice dumplings. The banana fritters are spoken for before they even emerge from the fryer, and the queue is long. The vendor's Nyonya zong are going fast but somehow I manage to scoop one up. I'll soon wish I'd purchased the rest to take away.

Nyonya zong are tinted blue with the same flower (bunga telaga) that colors the Kelantanese specialty nasi kerabu. Her version contains a savory beef filling extravagantly seasoned with five-spice; the Sichuan peppercorn in the spice mixture is prevalent enough to just ever-so-lightly set my tongue to tingling. The sambal served alongside contains no belacan (a phenomenon we'll encounter several times in Malacca, belacan-free sambal), is extremely spicy in a good way, but in the end distracts attention that should be firmly focused on that filling.

Our Nyonya wake-up call. And it won't be the only breakfast of the morning.