EatingAsia

A Dram in Malacca

It's only Wednesday and already it's been a long week. The kind of week that makes me wish I had a regular watering hole, a comfortable spot where they know me and I know them, where it's impossible to walk in for a pop without leaving whatever's weighing on me at the door, where a bit of idle conversation over a tipple carries erases the work day and carries me to dinner.

If I were in Malacca this is where I'd be this evening: at a beautiful eighty-over year-old timber bar burnished from years of spilled drink and water rings and rubbed smooth from hundreds, probably thousands of forearms. A bar with just few seats and one table, occupying the ground floor of a century-old shop house. A bar run by the great-grandson of its founder and his wife, a shy couple who never really open up unless you stop in a second, and third, time.

We discovered Sin Hiap Hin last May while in Malacca to report on its situation three years after being named a Unesco world heritage site. As I wrote in this post on finding old Malacca (it's not easy, but possible) the old town's prognosis isn't good. Everyone I interviewed for the story was frustrated, even despairing, of the public funds spent on new attractions while the city's historical architecture and living culture deteriorates, evaporates. As one of the local conservationists I spoke with said, "Malacca is overflowing with history and richness and culture. We don't have to create anything."

Sin Hiap Hin isn't in any of the brochures touting Malacca's viewing tower, its reconstructed fort or the shopping mall built on the padang where Malaysia declared independence from British rule. It's not in the "Where to Drink" sections of guidebooks that direct you instead to watering holes along Malacca's sanitized riverbanks or to the bars around Jonker's Walk.

Sin Haip Hin is just a nondescript little place on Java Lane, which in the early part of the 20th century was Malacca's entertainment center. Up the street is Tay Boon Wah barbershop, which also opened in the 1930s. Around the corner was the Chinese Theater. Surrounding Sin Hiap Hin were brothels and other bars and opium dens and cheap lodging houses.

Java Lane is dead quiet now, especially in the evenings. But if you sit in Sin Hiap Hin around sunset you can almost imagine the street outside teeming with life -- with new arrivals and hustlers and theater goers and men and women out on the town.

With a bit of coaxing Lian Suan and her husband will reminisce; they'll talk about the laborers who used to convene here for beers and stronger stuff when the Malacca River was still busy with boats ferrying goods from the big ships docked at its port to the warehouses just across what used to be known as the Iron Bridge. "Oh, it got noisy," she smiles wistfully. "We were open very late!" No longer. Come after 630pm or 7 and you'll likely find Sin Hiap Hin's doors shut tight.

On our last visit we admired the bar's fine vintage dram measures; Lian Suan's husband offered them to us as a gift. We couldn't accept. Family heirlooms they are, not something to be handed over to strangers. But later we wondered if we'd done the right thing. The bar's customers are dwindling, and Lian Suan told us they'll probably sell the house eventually. What will become of that beautiful timber bar? Will those dram measures be treasured by the couple's children or their children? Or will they be viewed as junk and tossed in the trash?

Sin Hiap Hin, 5 Java Lane. A wide range of Chinese liquors (try lychee-scented Boon Kwi Loh) sold by the bottle or by the shot, plus ice-cold beer and non-alcholic beverages from the fridge.

Finding Malacca

In April and May we spent some time in Malacca, for a story on the state of the city three years after its listing as a Unesco World Heritage Site. (In July 2008 Unesco jointly listed Malacca and George Town, Penang as Historic Cities of the Straits of Malacca.)

Read all about it (and view some mighty nice photos) in the August 2011 issue of Travel+Leisure Southeast Asia.

I began my reporting in Malacca feeling pretty disheartened. For one thing, I intensely dislike what is probably the city's most touted tourist attraction: Jonker Walk. Maybe that's because I have -- thanks to this wonderful book -- an idea of what the street was like before tourism officials decided that Malacca's old town needed a kitschy night market. Until the Jonker Walk scheme was hatched the street was home to a community of long-time (century-old, some!) businesses and family homes in which real Malaccans lived and worked.

Or maybe I was discouraged because Malacca's charms aren't as obvious as those of George Town, an achingly nostalgic city with a certain low-key urban buzz ... and one that we've come to love over the last 5 or so years.

Those charms are all but invisible every weekend when masses -- I mean masses -- of visitors (and their cars) descend on old Malacca's narrow streets. "We basically go inside at noon on Friday and don't come out until Sunday evening," a conservation zone resident told me.

I'm not optimistic about the future of Malacca's historic core. The Hard Rock Cafe being built on one bank of the Malacca River (among other things) fairly sums up official Malacca's views regarding the non-importance of conserving and preserving the city's historic assets.

But after spending time with native Malaccans and newcomers, people who love their town and are fighting against grim odds for its future, I was able to see its beauty and its uniqueness.

Go on a weekday and stay the night, wander the old town's lanes and tiny alleyways early in the morning and in the hours approaching sunset, and you'll see them too. Skirt Jonker Walk, skip the chicken rice balls (yes, I wrote about them years ago, but I wouldn't spend a meal chit on them now) and seek out the old-style nosh holes that, for lack of flash and/or signage, fly under the radar of visitors.

Here is Malacca as it's always been, Malacca for Malaccans, undisturbed and unperturbed by expensive 1.6-kilometer monorails to nowhere, water wheels claiming a questionable pedigree, and revolving towers with a bird's-eye view of landfill over the point at which the Malacca River meets the Straits of Malacca, the former site of one of the most important ports on southeast Asia's spice route.

Long Fatt's business card says it all: Traditional Teochew Porridge.

This small family-owned and run restaurant was established over eighty years ago by an immigrant from Shantou (aka Swatow), Guangdong. It sits near the western end of warehouse and wholesale thoroughfare Kampung Pantai, next to dimunitive Aw Hai Tien Buddhist temple. Imagine this: when Long Fatt started up the back doors of warehouses across the street opened right onto the Malacca River; deliveries were made by boats ferrying goods from the big ships anchored at Malacca port.

At half past ten Long Fatt's accordion doors are folded open wide enough for the good smells of long stewing to escape into the street. Inside the restaurant all is quiet save for the thwack and sizzle of chopping and frying, the swish-swish of shuffling feet as the family's oldest working member ferries dishes from kitchen to display counter, and the chirps of songbirds flitting about cages hung over the kitchen.

One of Long Fatt's specialties, found on nearly every table at lunchtime, is a neither aggressively sour nor especially spicy version of asam (sour) fish, made with forefinger-length specimens cooked over a low flame for twelve hours. The fish's bones become appealingly gelatinous, soft enough to eat. Even if you avoid anything piscene at the table it's a dish you can't help but admire at the display counter: a spiral of silvery head-on fish prettily layered in an old-fashioned enamel bowl and submerged in thin orange gravy.

Long Fatt's stewed pumpkin is notable for an almost nutty richness balanced by the pungency of scallion leaves, and its mustard is reduced to southern American-style velvety sweetness. Whitebait caramelized with shallots is an irresistible relish that cries for main dish status. Vinegary taucu (fermented yellow bean paste)-based chili sauce is the condiment of choice.

By 1pm Long Fatt's morning hush is forgotten, its narrow dining room hums with conversation, and the dishes on display at the front counter are greatly diminished.

Go early.

[Dave shot a number of portraits of some of the wonderful people we met in Malacca. Have a look on his photo blog Sky Blue Sky, here.]

Long Fatt, No. 15 Kampong Pantai, Malacca. 06/283-0129.

Malacca: Voices From the Street can be purchased at Malaqa House on Jalan Tun Tan Cheng Lock.

In Malacca, Spring Puffs and Malaysia on a Plate

We spent the last afternoon of our last visit to Malacca with a resident of Kampung Chitty. The Chitty village is home to a dwindling community of descendents of long-ago marriages between male southern Indian immigrants to Malacca and mostly Malay women. Also known as Malaccan Peranakan Indians, the Chitty are unique group within Malaysia's larger Indian community: they speak not Tamil but Malay (with a sprinkling of Tamil words) yet their religion is Hinduism. Chitty cuisine is heavily Malay-influenced, and unlike fellow southern Indian Malaysians, Chitty are not vegetarian.

There are, unfortunately, no Chitty restaurants in Malacca. But the village is worth a visit for its lovely old wooden kampung houses, few temples (notably unadorned when compared with other Indian temples in Malaysia), small but informative museum, and friendly residents. Sadly,we were told that the place rarely receives visitors.

We'd skipped lunch that day and began the drive back to our hotel with growling stomachs. A simply rendered sign beckoned: MEE KARI. Wee expected more of the Nyonya-style curry noodles we'd enjoyed a couple weeks before.

Instead we discovered a take on curry mee that paired a soupy Indian-ish curry with yellow noodles and ingredients found in Indian-style rojak or pasembur: spongy deep-fried fritters, bean sprouts cubed potatoes, firm tofu batons and hard-boiled eggs halves. And there were Malay touches as well (it was, after all, a Malay-run stall); the sliced green cayenne chilies and kalamansi half that garnish southern Malaysian noodle specialty mee rebus.

What we were eating was Malaysia-on-a-plate: disparate Chinese, Indian and Malay ingredients melding into a perfect, scrumptious whole. Kalamansi juice cut the subtle sweetness of the warm spice-fragrant curry soup, potatoes and egg added heft to what was essentially a meatless dish, and chilies made it all pop.

The fritters were among the best we've ever had: threaded with caramelized scallion slivers, they held their crunch even after sitting in the soup for ten minutes. They were so delicious, in fact, that after we finished our noodles we ordered more fritters to sop up the rest of our soup.

The mee kari wasn't the only surprise at this stall.

There were also fabulous filled pastries which, though called "curry puffs" by ladies running the shop, tasted not at all curry-ish. We think they're more appropriately called "spring puffs": crispy curry puff-like wrappers enclosing ingredients more often associated with Chinese spring rolls: carrots, bean sprouts, mushroom shreds, and tofu.

Our spring puffs were served chopped into thirds and doused with a light sweet-hot chili sauce. Others ordered a mixed plate of spring puffs and fritters (the same ones that starred in our curry mee) dressed with a sauce heavier on chilies than sugar.

This stall also does a brisk business in your basic nasi lemak (pandan-fragrant coconut rice, sambal, fried egg). As we ate we watched the friendly proprietors working double-time to fill multiple carry-out orders of a dozen or more.

Kari Mee, Spring Puffs, and Nasi Lemak Stall, Jalan Tun Tan Cheng Lock just past the Shell station on your left if you are heading away from Malacca's old town (walkable from the end of Hereen Street), Malacca. 11am-5pm, closed Sundays.

Update: Word of warning -- according to a comment (see below) to this post left on July 12 2012, this stall may be closed. <sob>

In Malacca - Laksa, Pickles, and Pai Tee

We're just back from a few days in Malacca. My notebook is full of scribblings, few of which concern food. Dave and I were there (and will be again soon) to work on a heritage story -- which means that, for a change, eating was not our primary concern.

But the beauty of working with a photographer is that while I'm busy with interviews he's out and about, walking the streets looking for great shots. Being Dave, he can't help also being on the lookout for delicious food -- even if that's not the storyline he's shooting to.

So kudos to The Photographer for rediscovering a great little food court on Temenggong Road, just outside of the old city. (A review of the archives reveals that we actually ate at this bustling spot three years ago.) It's home to a stall serving up some pretty exemplary Nyonya specialties.

 

This 75-year-old gentleman swears by Nancy's laksa

Like curry laksa. Nancy does a spare, almost spartan version, more broth than tofu puffs, cockles, and sprouts. Attention to detail is evident in the ever so thinly shaved cucumber and daun kesom (laksa leaf, aka Vietnamese coriander) garnish that she meticulously arranges with small tongs.

It also shows itself in her belacan-free sambal, which is bright with chili flavor (not just heat) and a hint of lime leaf.

Nancy's laksa gravy is superb. It smells and tastes of the freshest coconut milk, yet isn't so over-the-top rich as to weigh you down.

Which is a good thing, because you'd be crazy to walk away without tasting her version of pai tee, a Nyonya specialty rarely (if ever) seen on the street.

To be honest, I had never encountered a "top hat" -- little pastry cups filled with shrimp or pork, cucumber, stewed jicama and egg -- that I would willingly meet again. The versions I've sampled have always been more style than substance, cute but utlimately disappointing, with too-thick and/or too-oily shells and a lackluster filling.

Nancy's pai tee turned me. Assembled to order (like the laksa garnish, using those tiny tweezer-like tongs), they start with the barest possible fluted pastry shells, and finish with feathers of omelette and a dusting of caramelized sliced shallots. Nancy serves her delicious homemade sweet-hot chili sauce on the side rather than squirting a dab inside each pai tee, to preserve the crunch as long as possible.

Biting into one of her top hats, I finally "got" the point of this dish --- the shatteringly crisp shell, the warm and soft dark soy sauce-stewed jicama, the fresh crunchy cucumber, and the chewy egg strips together in one bite made for a lovely marriage of warm and cool, salty and sweet and a little bitter.

Incredible to encounter such a lovingly made version of such an intricate and delicate dish at a hawker stall. (Once again -- the unexpected delights of street food!)

Bonus: Dave re-stumbled upon Nancy's stall just as her mango tree is fruiting. Which means that we were able to pack home some fantastic mango pickle. On the tart side, somewhat crisp, and really tasting of the fruit, it'll make a perfect side for curry and shine equally as brightly on a sandwich. Also available: a lovely mango jam (fruit, a wee bit of sugar, and nothing else) and mango-dragonfruit jam (slightly less tart than straight mango).

Get 'em while you can.

Nancy's Nyonya Laksa, Pai Tee, etc.Tong Fang Coffeeshop/Food Court, 124 Jalan Temenggong, Melaka. Early morning to noonish, closed Wednesday.

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.

Melaka Mix-Up

The words 'Chinese' and 'curry' rarely appear in the same thought bubble. But here in Malaysia, a country whose cuisine is a glorious mish-mash of influences Indian, Indonesian, Malay, European and Chinese, Malay cooks fry halal char kuey teow, a noodle dish of Chinese origin, Indian nasi kandar vendors cook up duck, a fowl not often associated with Indian cuisine, and, as we found in Melaka, Chinese cooks prepare a mean pot of curry.

Ji Chang Jie Curry Rice has been in business for around fifty years. A decade ago you would have found it on Jonker Street, right in the midst of Melaka's historic center. That was before the lifting of rent control and city-sponsored 'beautification', in the form of a project dubbed 'Jonker Walk', drove it and most of the street's other old occupants out. Now the establishment sits well beyond the reach of tourists on foot, but original customers and their offspring still crowd its tables at lunchtime. We were lucky enough to be introduced to the place by S, his wife S, and their daughter S. S remembers driving into Melaka every Saturday with his father to indulge in Ji Chang Jie's pork curry and go-withs.

Fatt, the current owner-operator, told us that the restaurant was started by his father, who'd labored in various eateries before starting his own. His father's curry recipe is Malay-, rather than Indian-influenced, and includes plenty of lemongrass and chilies and only a bit of coconut milk.

Two big pots greet arriving customers - one for the curry, and one for the black soy and star anise-stewed eggs, tofu, and pork bits that accompany it. All the meal's components - curry, tofu, eggs, and braised napa cabbage - are served in separate dishes (along with an extra bowl of curry sauce), to be mixed to taste with rice on the diner's plate. The compatability of red curry and sweet, herby soy sauce might not be immediately apparent, but here at Ji Chang Jie the Malay and Chinese flavors blend seamlessly, and lusciously. This is Malaysia, after all.

Ji Chang Jie's tofu is memorable, so fresh that a pronounced soy bean flavor steams right over the top of the hearty soy sauce braise, its texture firm and substantial but wonderfully, sauce-soppingly porous.

Fatt grinds the curry paste himself.

Its bright spices and subtle heat are complemented by deliciously fatty and perfectly falling-apart pork pieces and mashable potato chunks.

Having survived its move to less central premises with patronage intact, and growing, Ji Chang Jie looks set to stick around for a while. Fatt tells us he's teaching his daughter's boyfriend, a computer science graduate, to cook. Someday, he might want to take over the business.

Good reason to hope for a long-term downturn in the IT industry.

Ji Chang Jie Curry Rice, G-11 Malim Jaya, Melaka (look for the row of shophouses on your left if you're heading in from Melaka center), 8a-2p. Closed Monday.

Two-Hour Fried Noodles

Two hours - that's not how long these particular mee goreng (fried noodles) take to prepare, but the amount of time you'll need to spend in the car (assuming you're starting from Kuala Lumpur) to sample a plateful. Drive all the way to Malacca just for a [yawn] been-there-done-that dish like mee goreng? If the dish in question is Hassan's, I'd consider it.

Hassan's shack sits about a kilometer outside of Malacca's 'old town', kitty corner to the decaying Pacific Inn Hotel. Business is ripping early on a Sunday morning. We're forced to wait good and long for a seat, with nothing to do but take in the scent wafting from the 'kitchen' and hungrily eye the plates of noodles that top every table in multiples.

What's the draw here? Nothing special, just yellow noodles and bean sprouts fried together in an arm's-width sized wok. Hassan literally throws himself into his work, weilding spatulas in both hands and calling into play every shoulder muscle to dig in deep, lift, and toss.

When you arrive at Hassan's head straight for the egg queue. It's long, but moves at a brisk pace. Hassan's eggs are fried one or two at a time, in redder-than-red chili oil.

As you arrive at the front of the line a plate is sent sliding across the counter in your direction. Now it's time to customize, albeit within fairly narrow parameters. Tong up a smidge or a pile of thick-cut cucumber sticks and fork up two blobs of sambal. On second thought, better make that five blobs - Hassan is known far and wide for his robust sambal.

Now, head for your seat and wait for the main to arrive. Try not to dig right into the egg before your noodles even hit the table. When they do, take a second to admire their pristine nature - find no sauce, no meat or prawns or other extraneous bits of this or that, only fire-kissed noodles and surprisingly perky sprouts.

Now, grab your egg plate and tilt, allowing the whole chili grease-slicked lot, cucumbers and sambal and all, to slide onto its noodle bed. Break the yoke (unless you've specified otherwise your egg will be sunny-side up, boasting a lovely, runny middle) and mix in sambal to create the beautiful mess-on-a-plate that opens this post. Dig in. Note that the egg's edges have gone paper-thin and lusciously crispy, and that Hassan's sambal is belacan free, all smoky chili heat that starts slow but builds to a wonderfully tongue-throbbing inferno.

The noodles are sublime, the chili-oil lashed egg even more so. But it's mostly about the sambal. The chili-phobic will find no joy at Hassan's.

Nudge the last morsels onto your spoon, and follow with a cooling hit of beverage. Then, reluctantly, relinquish your seat and walk away, harboring more than a bit of uncharitable envy towards those who took your place. The high point of your day is over, while they still have a plate (or two) of Hassan's mee goreng to look forward to.

Hassan's Mee Goreng, Jalan Tengkera (kitty-corner to Pacific Inn Hotel), Malacca. 8am-11ish, or until supplies run out. Closed on Friday. Hassan also sells nasi lemak (with the infamous sambal) but we just can't imagine ever getting past the mee goreng.