EatingAsia

Miracle Tea

    This tea works miracles. That's a strong assertion, I know. But hear me out.

    Cue last April: Dave and I were on a quick trip to Turkey, on assignment with a packed itinerary that would require a lot of driving, marketing, interviewing, and eating. There would be no down time, and not much sleep either.

    Around noon of our first day Dave felt a cold-foretelling tickle in the back of his throat. By six in the evening I was feeling it too, along with a headache. I had a 6am Skype appointment the next morning, and we were to be out the door by 7.

    So that night, when we got to our kitchenette-equipped room, I dug deep into our duffel bag and pulled out something we rarely travel without: fresh ginger and turmeric. I washed and sliced the roots, boiled them for 20 minutes with a green tea bag, strained 4 cups of orange liquid and poured it into two mugs. We drank every drop and went to bed. We woke up. No colds.

    It wasn't the first time, nor the last time, that we've relied on turmeric to steer us clear of illness. A few years back I began to hear of turmeric's good-for-you properties. (Read about turmeric's cancer-fighting, anti-inflammatory, and other health benefits here and here.) And five years ago we learned that in central Vietnam slices of candied turmeric are eaten to alleviate coughing and sore throat.

    Two years ago, while working on a Thailand food story, I interviewed an Australian medical doctor-Cambridge University professor-world authority on southeast Asian herbal remedies. He talked a lot about turmeric -- about how Indians especially know that it is so good for our bodies in so many ways.

    "You should be including plenty of turmeric in your diet. You're just crazy not to," he said.

    I told Dave, who had gotten hooked on green tea when we lived in China in the mid-eighties. (By now we should all be aware of green tea's anti-oxident properties.) Dave thought, why not combine these two natural powerhouses? And so he started experimenting with tea infusions.

    This recipe is the result: turmeric, ginger (also an anti-oxidant, with other benefits), lemongrass and black peppercorn-infused green tea. Black pepper is said to enhance the body's ability to absorb turmeric's good stuff. Lemongrass is for flavor (and can be omitted if you like), but it also has beneficial properties.

    This is our go-to drink during the day, when we're both sitting at our computers. Turmeric's mild astringency makes it refreshing; the ginger and black peppercorns give it a little zing. We like it iced, but you can drink it hot. Add a little sweetness if you like -- preferably with something other than processed cane sugar (palm or muscovado, honey or agave nectar would work). We each drink probably 2-3 glasses a day.

    There is a lot to be said for the power of the mind: if you believe you won't get sick you may not, and the opposite can hold true as well. But I don't think I've come down with a single cold since we started drinking Dave's miracle tea 1.5 or 2 years ago. If I feel something coming on I double up on my intake. And so far, I've pushed the yuckies back every single time.

    It's getting to be cold and flu season in the USA and surrounds. Boil up a batch. What have you got to lose?

Dave's Miracle Tea

These amounts are guidelines. If you love ginger, for instance, add more. But you need the turmeric. Both ginger and turmeric can be sliced, frozen and kept to use later.

The tea is strained, so you can substitue powdered ginger for fresh. Just make sure your powdered turmeric isn't too old (it shoud have a strong aroma). The general conversion formula for fresh to dried turmeric is 1 inch fresh root = 1/2 tsp. dried powdered.

In our experience this tea will keep for up to 3 weeks in the fridge. But since you should be drinking it every day, you won't have it around for that long.

1/3     cup loose green tea leaves (preferably Chinese)

1        teaspoon whole peppercorns

2-3     plump stalks lemongrass, smashed (optional)

4-6     inches each ginger and turmeric, washed and thinly sliced (you don't have to peel them)

3 to 3.5 liters/quarts boiling water

 

Place all ingredients in a large bowl and pour over water. Leave for at least 4 hours, or all day, to steep. Strain through a sieve and refrigerate.

 

Variation: Leave out the black pepper and add half a bunch of fresh mint, washed.

 

Why You Grill (or Roast) Eggplants

So that when, on a hot and sticky summer evening after a long work day, when you've little time or inclination to cook but don't want popcorn for dinner (again), you can pull a few out of the fridge -- having stowed those grilled eggplants away as leftovers in a covered container (a week or less ago) -- and lay them on a cutting board and slice them, peel and all, lengthwise and then rock your knife or cleaver crosswise through those wide strips for about a minute, back and forth back and forth -- slow and easy, it's a form of meditation, really -- until they're reduced to a rough puree, and put them in a bowl and stir in a few spoonfuls of thick Greek-style yogurt and a dab of garlic squashed and mashed under that same knife with salt until reduced to a paste, and squeeze over some lemon juice and of lemon juice and stir it healthily, briskly.

So that you can spread some ground lamb or a mix of ground lamb and beef on another cutting board, into a flattened rectangle, and sprinkle over half a minced onion and a fistful of chopped parsley and more salt and plenty of Turkish-style crushed red chili (or any crushed red chili, really) and maybe some fragrant dried mint and a few tablespoons of cooked bulgur and do that rocking-chopping thing again over the meat rectangle, east to west and north to south, and then fold the rectangle in on itself as if you were making layered pastry, top to botton and right to left and then rock-chop it all again, slowly, and fold it in again and rock-chop it again (all the while knowing that you're doing this because if you take the quick way out and zap it in a food processor the meat will become bouncy and anyway the processor isn't faster anyway because you won't have to assemble/deassemble/wash/reassemble the bowl and its parts) --but also because this is also a form of meditation, meditation over meat and cutting board -- and then divide the meat and spices it into squash balls or tennis balls (depending on how much patience you have for molding balls into fissure-free patties), and wet your hands and gently, ever so gently, pat the balls into discs.

So that you can heat a skillet (a non-stick skillet if you don't want to fiddle with stickiness or have a general fear of browing meat) and slick it with a little olive oil and heat the oil to sizzling and slide in the patties and listen to your stomach rumble as they pop and sputter and brown in the skillet and send up a meaty, slightly exotic-smelling (yes, exotic, there's no other word for it even if you do hate how the word is so often used) cloud and revel in the sense of accomplishment that a perfectly seared piece of meat can give almost any cook, and then lay them on the bed of eggplant-yogurt shmear that you've spread on a plate next to an unruly mound of salad greens and dribble the pan juices over the lot, forming a ruby red necklace that pops from the lightish green of the eggplant.

So that you can squeeze a piece of lemon over it all and alternate mouthfulls of the cool, silky eggplant with warm spicy meat, crispy greens (you prefer a touch of bitter from the addition of a leaf such as radicchio or arugala) and the fresh acidic bite of the lemon, and marvel at the tenderness of the kofte -- they are, in a way, kofte -- beneath their crispy golden exterior -- not to mention the fact that you've just thrown together what is honestly a pretty princely (darned impressive, even) -- meal in under 30 minutes.

[I usually roast, rather than grill my eggplants, a dozen or so at a time. Prick all over with a fork, rub with olive oil, bake in a 350/180 oven for 45 minutes to an hour, turning a few times, till they're absolutely soft. Works with small round Indian or long Asian eggplants. And sometimes I add a tablespoon -- not more, because then it all becomes too rich -- of tahini/sesame paste to the eggplant mix. Consider the dish a bastardized hünkar beğendi or ali nazik.]

 

DIY: Dried Salt Fish

If you've been to an Asian wet market you know them -- dried and flattened whole fish that could pass for cardboard cut-outs, slabs of salted fish fillets so hard and stiff they could be used as a weapon. There's a reason westerners often wrinkle their nose at the mention of salt fish: too often the stuff available to the average consumer is, well, too salty, too dry and so leached of fish flavor that there's nothing left but the stink.

But small-batch, homemade dried salted fish is another food entirely. Umami rich, lightly salty and with -- yes -- the taste of real fish, it's a great addition to stir-fries (a personal favorite: stir-fried bean sprouts with salt fish), pasta dishes and southeast Asian-style salads. If the fish you salt are small, try deep-frying them whole and eating like potato chips, crackly crispy bones and all, on their own or with a dip (like guacamole! or this northern Thai "red-eye" dip) or crumbled over a refreshing somtam. Imagine frying small dried fish like smelt Lao-style, with chili peppers and lime leaves and garlic, for a fantastic beer snack along the lines of these addictive dried mushrooms we ate in Luang Prabang. Think of any dish to which you might add salted anchovies, or anchovies preserved in oil, or fish sauce or oyster sauce and contemplate using salt fish instead.

Summer is a great time to make your own dried salt fish. (You can do it in cold weather too, as long as you have good strong sun.) If you live in a dry climate so much the better, but we made our own (that's them, in the photo above!) this week here in Penang, where humidity levels regularly hover above seventy per cent. Our guide in this endeavor was our long-time Thai helper Wan (that's Wan of the Kuala Lumpur ant egg harvest). The process is so simple that she snickered when we asked for directions.

To make salt fish it's best to have, or construct, some sort of hanging apparatus outside where it catches sunlight. (You can also lay your fish on a rattan mat or other material, but the more of the fish that's exposed to air and sun all at once, the more evenly they'll dry and the quicker the whole process will go.) We stuck a broomstick in a hole in the wall that surrounds our property and suspended our skewered salted fish from it with plastic twine.

Preferably you will time this project to start the fish drying early in the morning. Note that they need to wallow in salt in the fridge overnight or up to 24 hours before you hang them outside to dry.

Here's the process:

1. Procure some fish. Any fish will do, really. Oily fish like sardines, anchovies, mackerel, smelt, ocean trout and salmon will result in the strongest flavor. If you're a salt fish newbie you might want to give it a go with a milder fish: trout, sea bass, john dory, flounder, halibut, cod etc.
2. Clean your fish well. If the fish are small (the ones in the photo above were about 6 inches long) you can leave them whole -- just cut off the head and, if you like, fins and tail. If you're using fillets slice them into manageable pieces. A slab of salmon, for instance, I might slice into 6 by 2-inch strips. Remove as many bones as you can, but if you plan to deep-fry the little buggers the bones will become crispy enough to eat.
3. Dry the fish, and then rub them with plenty of good quality salt -- sea salt, kosher salt, whatever. I'm convinced that the problem with alot of commercial dry salt fish is the salt that's used by the maker -- nasty heavily iodized salt makes for nasty salt fish. Put the fish in a bowl or a ceramic baking dish, cover with plastic wrap and place in the fridge -- or a very cool, dark place) overnight or for up to 24 hours.
4. Remove the fish and rinse them well to get rid of the salt, and pat them dry. Skewer the fish in a way that exposes as much surface area as possible to air and sun. For instance, if you're drying whole fish, pull the sides of the fish apart so that the gut area opens up (see photo).
5. Hang the fish in the sun. If you're concerned about flies and other insects (strangely, despite Penang's humid heat not a single insect bothered our fish when they were hanging outside) drape your fish with cheesecloth. You may want to adjust the position of the fish throughout the day, turning them front to back or whatnot, to get even sun exposure.
6. Bring the fish inside at the end of the day and give it a gentle squeeze. You're not looking for cardboard, but the fish should be relatively dry. If any moisture comes to your fingers they're not done -- place them, covered, back in the fridge overnight (or in a very cool, dark place) and repeat the drying process the next day. Two days should do it.
7. Use the fish right away, or store in the fridge.

Think about variations that bring dried seasonings into play -- you might rub your fish with chili flakes before hanging it out to dry, or with lemon zest or zatar.

 

Update 28 August 2012: See comments below for links to photos taken by Lynn Cook, an EA reader in Australia, who tried our recipe with excellent results!

On Hainanese Cuisine, Or How Chicken Chops Became Comfort Food in Malaysia

A classic Hainanese coffeeshop breakfast: coffee and charcoal-grilled toast with butter and kaya,usually accompanied by a soft-boiled egg

About eighteen months ago Dave and I were approached by the editor of a new Dutch food magazine called Sabor. Would we be interested in doing a feature story on the topic of our choice for the inaugural issue, he wondered? In fact, for years we'd wanted to write and photograph a story on Malaysia's curious culinary mish-mash known as "Hainanese food". So in late 2010 we spent some time in Kuala Lumpur and on Fraser's Hill researching the story for Sabor.

Sabor published its first issue last August. It's a beautiful, substantive food magazine the likes of which I wish there were more of: a great mix of stories high-brow and low-brow, on dining from the street to tables in starred restaurants, focusing on chefs and producers and cooks and eaters of all stripes. The photography is beautiful and the layout is gorgeous. Our Hainanese piece was given 20 pages; needless to say the photographer was pleased. If you're interested, have a peek at, or download, the story here.

The second issue of Sabor is out now. If you're in the Netherlands and read Dutch (or not, but enjoy looking at wonderful food photography) please pick up a copy and support this new venture.

Our next story for Sabor, on Hanoi, will appear later this year. In the meantime, now that Issue No 1 is off the newstands, we give you here the original English text and photos: Hainanese food and Hainanese cooks in Malaysia, with recipes.

--------------------------------------

Just another busy day at Yut Kee

    Soon after I arrived in Kuala Lumpur a Malaysian friend invited me out for a Hainanese meal. Hainan is a Chinese island province in the South China Sea, about halfway between southern China and Vietnam, and in the mid-eighties I idled there for an entire August. I spent every day just like the one before it, hiking past cows grazing in coconut palm groves, swimming off pristine stretches of sand and gorging on whole snapper, plump prawns and lobsters with tails the diameter of my wrist, all steamed with garlic and ginger.

    After almost three decades I can still taste those simple yet stunning lunches and dinners. My chum’s invitation threw up the possibility of having those flavors close to hand once again, and I was thrilled.

     Imagine my surprise a few days later when I found myself staring down a chicken chop. My friend and I had just been served at Yut Kee, a Hainanese-owned stalwart of Kuala Lumpur’s dining scene for over 90 years. The corner coffee shop's chicken chop -- a mostly de-boned leg and thigh deep-fried, topped with peas, cubed carrots and corn kernels and bathed in glossy Worcestershire sauce-seasoned onion gravy -- is one of its signature dishes.

    This was my first taste of Malaysian Hainanese cuisine. It was as far from the dishes that I’d fallen for on Hainan as much of what passes for Cantonese food in America is from the food eaten served in Guangzhou. Once I got over my shock, however, I had to admit that chicken chop was a work of art in its own right. I soon became a Hainanese food devotee and Yut Kee regular.

    Chops are just one of the pantheon of dishes with origins variously Western, Chinese or a combination of the two recognized in Malaysia as “Hainanese”. In addition to chops, Malaysian Hainanese cooks are known for their breakfasts -- soft-boiled eggs served with steamed or charcoal-toasted soft white bread -- chicken pot pies, steaks, and Hailam mee, noodles cooked with prawns, pork and vegetables. They're credited with making some of the best kopi (coffee) -- thick, dark and usually mixed with sweetened condensed milk -- in Malaysia. And they poach whole chickens and serve the meat sliced, accompanied with oily chicken stock-enriched rice and dipping sauces made with ginger and fresh chilies, for a dish known as “Hainan chicken rice”.

    Malaysian Hainanese is a hodgepodge cuisine, a product of the country’s history as colony (the British controlled much of what is now Malaysia and Singapore from the mid-19^th century until 1946) and adopted home of waves of immigrants from Asia and beyond. Today ethnic Chinese make up a little over a quarter of Malaysia’s population. They arrived in stages, beginning in the 1700s with traders from the southeastern Chinese province of Fujian (who are known as Hokkien). Hakka, Cantonese and Teochew followed. They arrived early enough to have their pick of jobs in tin mining, rubber production, agriculture and other professions.

    Hainanese Chinese were among the last to make their way to British Malaya, beginning in the late 1800s and continuing into the early 20^th century. By that time Cantonese, Teochew, Hokkienese and  Hakka clan associations, which were established to help new arrivals find work and housing, had secured a lock on most employment opportunities. So many Hainanese ended up taking positions as cooks in British military camps and in the homes of British expatriates and wealthy Chinese, where they learned to turn out perfectly cooked roasts, make cream of mushroom soup, boil eggs just so, fry up crispy chops and knead dough for bread and pastries. Soon enough they put this experience to use in their own restaurants and coffee shops, where they cobbled together the elements of what came to be known in Malaysia as Hainanese cuisine.

    Yut Kee embodies the Hainanese gastronomic odyssey. “My dad was born in Hainan in 1887 and came to Malaysia when he was in his teens,” says Yut Kee’s son Jack Lee late one afternoon as his busy shops begins to quiet down. Sixty-six year-old Jack runs Yut Kee with his own son Mervyn, who will carry on the family business when Jack is ready to step down. 

    Yut Kee looks as if it has hardly changed since Jack’s father opened its doors in 1928. It occupies a typically long and narrow Malaysian Chinese shop house open across the front on the ground floor with a kitchen in the back and living quarters upstairs. Ceiling fans rotate lazily over the always-crowded dining room, where Malaysian regulars and tourists (Yut Kee’s reputation has spread well beyond Malaysia) sit in bent timber chairs at marble-topped tables arranged on a green and white tiled floor.

    Hainanese cooks mastered not only Western savories, but sweets as well. Displayed near the cash register, in a vintage wood and glass case, are Yut Kee’s desserts: marble cake and fat logs of ethereally light butter cake rolled around a filling of kaya, a rich caramel-ish coconut milk-and-egg “jam”. Yut Kee’s signature inky coffee is made the old-fashioned way -- by pouring boiling water over grounds in a cotton “sock” filter suspended from a metal ring -- in a cubby hole just off the rear of the dining room. Cloudy mirrors on opposite walls maintain good feng shui. Hanging on a wall near the middle of the shop is a large photograph of a young Yut Kee, the spitting image of Jack and Mervyn with his rounded cheeks and upturned nose.

Jack Lee during a rare quiet moment at Yut Kee

    Yut Kee died just three years after Jack was born, so “everything I know about Dad I heard from my mothers,” he says. Multiple wives wasn’t so unusual in Yut Kee’s day, and after he died his three wives ran the business, dividing duties amongst themselves: one took charge of the coffee area, another oversaw the cash register and the third, Jack’s birth mother, kept the kitchen humming. Today Yut Kee opens for breakfast at 7am and closes, after the last customer has taken his or her beer and chicken chop or cup of coffee and kaya roll, around 5 or 6 in the evening. In Yut Kee’s time the place operated as a full restaurant – the “in” place for night clubbers, Jack winks -- and didn’t close its doors till 3 or 4 in the morning.

    Jack grew up in the shop. “I worked a bit in the kitchen, but I wasn’t sure if I would keep with it,” he remembers. But in 1970, when his mothers were getting on and the day-to-day became a challenge for them, he took over. “They had put so much effort into the business, so I thought, ‘Let me continue with it.”

    Today much of what’s served at Yut Kee is true to the original menu. Though cutlets (prawn, crab, and pork) and Jack’s father’s signature steamed fish with cream sauce are no more, chicken curry -- tender bone-in pieces in a fiery sauce flecked with fresh curry leaves – spicy-sou asam fish, perfectly prepared chops, Hailam mee (noodles with prawns and pork), and toast served with kaya remain. When he took over Jack added a few items such as beef stew and rice stir-fried with belacan (Malaysian shrimp paste) to the menu.

    Yut Kee is perhaps best known for its roti babi (“pork bread” in Malay), an over-the-top, eat-with-your-hands snack consisting of a thick slab of white bread stuffed with pork and crabmeat, coated in egg, and shallow-fried. Visit Yut Kee anytime after 10am and you’ll find at least one order on every single table.

    Butter cake and chops, noodles and a mish-mash east-west dish like roti babi. What exactly is Hainanese food? A “fusion of confusion,” in Jack’s words. But as far as he’s concerned there’s no doubt which Chinese Malaysian cooks can lay claim to the chop:

    “You certainly won’t find any Hokkienese, Teochew, or Cantonese chicken chops!”

 ***

Arundel, on Fraser's Hill

    While many Hainanese cooks transported their skills from colonial-era homes to their own coffee shop, others stayed in private kitchens . The fruits of their culinary prowess can still be enjoyed in a few hotels and bungalows found in colonial hill stations dotted around peninsular Malaysia.

    With its polished plank floors, wood-paned windows, stuffed sofa and chairs, and clipped lawn bordered by temperate blooming flowers and shrubs, Arundel would be right at home in the English countryside. Instead the four-bedroom black-and-white bungalow sits at 1,500 meters two hours outside of Kuala Lumpur on Fraser’s Hill, a former tin-ore trading post turned British hill station in 1922. Set amidst pristine forest threaded with walking trails and often shrouded in fog or rain clouds, the former hill station is a popular weekend and school holiday getaway for Malaysians, who come to take in the clean, cool air and enjoy the green and quiet.

    But I’ve come to Arundel, one of two early 20^th-century houses sharing a prime spot of land at the end of a cul-de-sac, to experience Malaysian Hainanese cooking in situ. For almost 50 years the bungalow’s kitchen was the domain of Tan Kee Tain, a Hainanese cook who arrived in Malaysia in the 1920s. Four and a half years ago Tan died at the age of 82, but not before passing his culinary knowledge on to his daughter-in-law Lam Foong Ling.

Teatime at Arundel: freshly baked scones and a photograph of a young Mr. Tan

    Over tea, homemade scones, and jam in Arundel’s sitting room Mr. Tan’s daughter Nancy Yap, who supervises the bungalow, shares memories of her father. “He didn’t come to cooking naturally – at first it was just a job,” she tells me. Nancy’s father held a number of jobs around British Malaya before making his way to Fraser’s Hill, where some of his relatives worked in other bungalow kitchens.

    “But once he began cooking, he really enjoyed it.” As if to illustrate her point she shows me photos: a lean, young Mr. Tan sitting with a big grin on a curb outside the bungalow and another of a middle-aged Mr. Tan showing off a chicken pot pie with a mile-high puff pastry crust. Then there's a snapshot of white-haired, septuagenarian Mr. Tan in Arundel’s kitchen, demonstrating the art of bread-making to a half-circle of enraptured Malaysian housewives.

    Madam Foong, Mr. Tan’s daughter-in-law, mimics her teacher’s savvy with dough and sweet breads; our scones are rich and buttery, golden outside, a light crumb within. She began to study with Mr. Tan a decade ago. “My kids had left home and I had nothing to do. I always liked to cook. He said, ‘Why don’t you come and work in the kitchen?’ And I thought, ‘Why not give it a try?’”

Hailam mee at Arundel

    Over two days at Arundel I dine on a parade of exquisitely prepared Hainanese classics: crispy pork cutlets bathed in a Chinese sweet rice wine and soy sauce-spiked gravy, Hailam noodles with sliced pork and briny shrimp, garnished with crispy caramelized sliced shallot and perfectly poached Hainan chicken made with a free-range bird and served with zesty fresh ginger and chili sauces. Every meal is accompanied by green vegetables – slender string beans, perky leaf lettuce, crispy baby bok choy – plucked fresh from Arundel’s kitchen garden and stir-fried with Madam Foong’s expert touch. Teatime brings baked goods -- scones of course, and one of Mr. Tan’s specialties: tender, chewy twists of potato-enriched dough sprinkled with sugar and grated orange rind.

    Asked what she most enjoys about cooking, Madam Foong smiles wide and answers quickly: “Roast lamb. I love cooking Western dishes.” Mr. Tan's Hainanese culinary legacy is alive and well on Fraser's Hill.

***

In the kitchen at Yut Kee

    Back at Yut Kee, Jack has promised to show me how to make the shop’s iconic dish: roti babi. But when I arrive after lunch on a Thursday he’s had a change of heart. “Let Mervyn do it,” Jack says, with a nod to his son, who’s standing behind the cash register adding up receipts. “Mervyn’s coming up now. He’s the new generation.”

    Like his father, 30-year-old Mervyn grew up in Yut Kee. After earning a university degree in the United States he returned to Malaysia and joined the business. Putting his knack for systems management to use, Mervyn is adding polish to Yut Kee’s inner operations. But his attachment to the place comes from the heart, all but guaranteeing that the spirit of Yut Kee won't change.

    Mervyn also knows his way around Yut Kee’s well-worn, sometimes bordering-on-chaotic kitchen. I watch as he minces pork by hand and carefully cuts pockets into two thick slices of bread. After stir-frying sliced onion, Chinese sausage and pork with Worcestershire sauce for the roti babi filling he adds jicama, instructing “The jicama goes in last because I like to keep it a little bit crispy.”

    Then the secret of Yut Kee’s version of roti babi is revealed: instead of beating whole eggs for dipping the bread Mervyn separates yolks and whites, beats the latter to stiff peaks and then gently folds them into the beaten yolks. When the stuffed bread is dipped into the mixture it emerges with an impossibly thick layer of egg that browns beautifully, flawlessly, in the oiled skillet.

    What emerges from the pan is an almost oil-free fluffy bread pocket spilling tender pork and a touch of crab meat. The Worcestershire is a barely detectable back note, a hint of sweetness and salt that plays off the richness of the pork and shellfish. While the onions are soft and caramelized the jicama retains a bit of bite, offering a welcome bit of textural contrast.

    After plating his roti babi Mervyn heads back out to the cash register. Jack sits at his usual spot, near a table at the entrance, gabbing with regulars and wishing passers-by a pleasant evening. In downtown Kuala Lumpur, as on Fraser’s Hill, Hainanese cuisine is alive and well.

***

Lunch at Arundel: Hainan Chicken Rice w/two dipping sauces and Hailam mee

HAINAN CHICKEN RICE

According to Mr. Tan’s daughter Nancy this is one of the few Malaysian Hainanese dishes that can also be found on Hainan, in her father’s home of Wenchang. This simple preparation demands the best ingredients, so if you can, use a free-range bird. The mark of a good Hainan chicken is flesh that is just barely cooked; you don’t want the meat to get tough.

The chicken, rice, and dipping sauces can comprise an entire meal, but you might also serve a light soup of green leaves (bok choy perhaps, or choi sum) cooked  in diluted chicken broth with a slice or two of ginger.

FOR THE CHICKEN:

And approximately 2-kilo chicken, preferably free range

2-inch piece old ginger

Salt

1. Bring a pot of water (large enough to accommodate the whole chicken) to the boil.Wash and dry the chicken. Drop a few pinches of salt into the body cavity, along with the ginger.
2. Place the chicken into the pot, laying it breast up. Bring the water back to the boil, then lower to a slow simmer and place a lid on the pot. After 20 minutes turn the chicken over. Continue to simmer for another 20 minutes. In the meantime, fill another pot (or large bowl) – also large enough to accommodate the whole chicken – with cold water.
3. After about 40 minutes remove the chicken from the pot, reserving the broth, and plunge it into the cold water. Leave for 20 minutes. Remove and gently pat dry with paper towels. Set aside, propping the chicken up so that any water in the body cavity can drain out.

FOR THE GINGER SAUCE:

2 inches old ginger

2 green onions, white part only

Reserved chicken stock

Salt to taste

Sesame oil – scant 1/4 tsp (optional)

1. Chop and pound in mortar (or whir in blender or food processor) the ginger and the onions. The result should be a barely lumpy puree.
2. Remove to a small bowl and stir in approximately a tablespoon of stock from boiling the chicken (try to include some of the chicken fat as well) and salt to taste. If you like, add just a couple drops of sesame oil.

FOR THE CHILI SAUCE:

2 cloves garlic

2 small fresh hot red chilis

2 large mild fresh red chilis

½ inch old ginger

Chicken fat skimmed from stock

2 kalamansi or ½-1 whole lime

Salt to taste

1. Chop and pound in a mortar (or whir in blender or food processor) the garlic, chilies, and ginger. The result should be a barely lumpy puree.
2. Remove to a small bowl and stir in a bit of chicken fat from the boiling stock, and the juice of 2 kalamansi or ½ whole lime. Taste and adjust for salt and kalamansi/lime juice. The dipping sauce should be hot and tart, but not overwhelmingly sour. It’s meant to balance the richness of the chicken meat and rice.

FOR THE RICE:

2 red shallots

2 cloves garlic

2 1/2 cups rice 

3 3/4-4 cups stock from boiling chicken

2 pinches salt

black soy sauce

1 pandan leaf (if available)

1. Finely mince shallots and garlic, and quickly fry in a dry wok or pan just until they begin to color. Remove from the pan and place in a rice cooker, along with the rice, chicken stock, salt, soy sauce, and pandan leaf. Turn the rice cooker on cook as usual.

TO SERVE:

1 cucumber, peeled and thinly sliced crosswise

2 green onions (scallion), white and green part, thinly sliced lengthwise

fresh cilantro sprigs

1. Arrange the cucumber slices on a platter in a single layer
2. Prepare the chicken: If you prefer, remove the skin from the breasts and legs and thighs. Separate legs and thighs and cut each of the four pieces in half with a cleaver or sharp knife. Carefully remove the breast meat from the bone and cut into 1 ½-inch thick slices.
3. Arrange the breasts and legs/thighs neatly on top of the cucumber. Lightly toss the shallot slivers and cilantro sprigs together with your fingers and place them on top of the chicken.
4. Serve the chicken with the two sauces, the rice and any leftover broth, reheated (or a light soup of green leaves parboiled in diluted broth).

Mr. Tan's -- and now Madam Foong's -- orange twists

ORANGE TWISTS

These light, not-too-sweet orange-fragrant rolls are frequent accompaniments to afternoon tea at Arundel and Bunge. Fresh milk was hard to come by on Fraser's Hill, thus the use of powdered milk..

According to Nancy Tan her father learned this recipe from an American who stayed at Arundel many decades ago. After experimenting with the dough he began to use it for other baked goods as well. Madam Foong advises that the finished dough can be halved, with one half used the same day for these orange twists and the other refrigerated and used within three days for fried donuts, cinnamon buns, or dinner rolls. (If you go this route be sure to use only half the amounts specified when you make the filling)

Makes approximately 34 twists

FOR THE DOUGH:

2 scant Tbsp dry yeast

6 oz. warm water

¼ tsp sugar

2 cups hot water

3 Tbsp milk powder

1 ½ cups vegetable shortening

1 cup white sugar

½ Tbsp salt

1 cup mashed potato

2 eggs

8 – 8 ½ cups plain flour

Flour for kneading

 

FOR THE FILLING:

 

8 Tbsp butter, softened

4 Tbsp sugar

Grated zest of 3 oranges

 

1. Dissolve yeast and sugar in warm water. Set aside for yeast to rise, about 15 mins. Dissolve milk powder in hot water. Set aside to cool slightly.
2. Cream shortening with white sugar. Stir in salt. Pass mashed potato through fine sieve into dough. Stir to combine.
3. Beat the eggs and stir them into the water/milk powder mixture. Add to dough and stir to combine thoroughly. Sift flour into dough and stir to combine. Start with 8 cups and add more if necessary – the dough should be smooth and no longer sticky. Place dough in bowl and cover with a damp towel. Place in refrigerator for one hour.
4. Remove dough from refrigerator and turn it out onto smooth surface lightly dusted with flour. Flatten and knead lightly for several minutes. Return to bowl and place back into refrigerator for at least 1 and not more than 6 hours.
5. Grease two large cookie sheets. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and divide in two. Set one piece aside and cover with a damp cloth. Knead the other lightly for several minutes and then use a rolling pin to flatten it into an approximately 24-inch by 12 inch rectangle.
6. Spread the rectangle of dough with 4 Tbsp soft butter and sprinkle evenly with 2 Tbsp sugar and half the orange zest. Slide a floured knife underneath the dough’s perimeter to loosen it from the rolling surface.
7. Bring one long side of the dough up and fold it over, so that its edge lays at the rectangle’s center. Repeat with the opposite side. The two sides should barely overlap in the center of the. Lightly pat the surface of the new, narrower rectangle, then use a knife to divide it crosswise into 16 1 1/2-inch strips. Twist each strip into a loose ‘rope’ and lay the ropes side-by-side on a cookie sheet. Cover with a damp hot towel and set aside. Repeat with the other piece of dough. Leave the twists aside, under a damp cloth, to rise for 1 hour.
8. Preheat the oven to 180C/350F/Gas Mark 4 and bake the twists on racks set at the oven’s center. Check after 15 minutes – if they’re not finished reverse the trays and bake for an additional 5 minutes, until golden brown.
9. While the twists are baking prepare the icing, if using: stir icing sugar, starting with 1 Tbsp, into orange juice until you have a liquid the consistency of pouring cream.
10. Drizzle the hot twists with the icing (don’t overdo it) as soon as they come out of the oven.

Dusk on Fraser's Hill  

In the Philippines, Yemas for Christmas

A few years ago we spent Christmas in a small rural town in Pampanga, Philippines for Saveur magazine. It was one of most memorable, Christmas-y Christmases ever with lots of good cheer and heaps of good eats. Let's just say that that those Filipinos who celebrate the holiday really know how to do Christmas.

One of the many things I learned to make that Christmas week was yemas, milky candies scented with lime rind. They require few ingredients and are a fun diversion from Christmas cookies. And look at that photo -- don't they look festive in their cellophane wraps? A yemas recipe and how-to slideshow are our latest contribution to food and wine website Zester Daily -- find them here.

You can read our Saveur Philippines Christmas feature, with recipes, here. And over the last few years I've posted a couple more recipes from that trip on this blog: over-the-top giant prawns simmered in coconut milk and green papaya fritters with black pepper vinegar.

 

A Taste of Penang

We are settled in, kind of. I've unpacked the kitchen, and the rest of the house too -- sort of. My office is nearly together, and we now have internet at home, which means I can get back to spending time in this little space.

But it's late Friday afternoon and unlike in Kuala Lumpur, where we regularly worked until 8 or so, in Penang we make a point of enjoying our evenings. So I plan to close this computer while there is still light in the sky, take the dogs for a walk, and then kick back and contemplate dinner.

But first, one of the many reasons Penang agrees with us: ingredients. From fresh fruit to fish, they're on the whole spectacular here. We bought these fish 5 minutes by car from our house, at a roadside stall just 2 blocks from the little fishing boats that brought them in. Every day at 2pm the stall sets up, with some of the most beautiful, freshest seafood we've ever seen.

Did I mention that six of these beauties set us back the equivalent of only three-and-a-half US dollars?

We haven't bought charcoal for the grill yet, so after Dave cleaned the fish -- which taste something like mackerel, strong and oily and able to take assertive flavors, our favorite kind of fish -- I rubbed them, inside and out, with a fiery sambal made by a favorite Nyonya market vendor. I layed the chili-fied fish on a bed of cilantro leaves and stems and shredded green scallions spread over a lightly oiled piece of foil, squeezed over lime juice, and then tucked the spent lime quarters between them.

I placed a piece of foil over the top and secured the sides, leaving enough air for it to puff. And I cooked the fish for about 15 minutes. (This has become my fish preparation technique of choice lately, when I'm too lazy to get the bamboo steamer out of the cupboard.)

They turned out brilliantly, the sambal perfuming the fish's flesh and a nice little pool of fishy sambal juices under the wilted cilantro and scallions. And they're easy, something that would work well with shell-on prawns or squid or tuna or even salmon.

Making your own sambal is as simple as pounding (in a mortar) or blender-izing or food processor-izing: a handful of fresh small chilies, a bit of toasted (in the oven or on the stove-top, in a piece of foil) belacan or shrimp paste, garlic, salt and a bit of lime juice. It'll keep in the fridge for a couple weeks and is lovely stirred into wok-fried greens or just a mound of steaming plain rice.

Make your sambal strong and hot, because it will lose potency as it cooks into and over the fish.

Happy weekend!

 

Dumpling Knots (麵疙瘩)

Dumpling knots (mian geda in Mandarin) are a staple in this house, a dish I've been cooking and adapting for almost a quarter of a century (!!).

This version of the dish is basically a Sichuanese pork and dumpling stew. As a recipe it's near perfect.There are few ingredients (Sichuan peppercorns and crushed dried red chili being the most "exotic"), it requires minimal prep time, and the result delivers big, satisfying flavors with a high comfort quotient.

I first encountered dumpling knots on a wiltingly humid afternoon in August 1984, shortly after I moved to Chengdu. On my second or third day in town a grad student friend from the history department took me to a shed with two rickety wooden tables and a big cauldron of soup set over a charcoal-fired brazier by the entrance. We were served large bowls of broth packed with bits of pork, lengths of pea vine and uneven knots of dough about half the size of my thumb. At the table we added spoonfuls of chili oil and sprinklings of ground Sichuan peppercorn. The pasta was rough-textured and chewy, manna to a noodle lover.

Though that meal made a big impression I never went back. I was in a fog in those early days, everything new and confusing and overwhelming. I had no idea where the shop was, and I didn't remember to ask. Each day in Chengdu brought scads of unfamiliar, delicious dishes, outrageously good meals. Dumpling knots receded to the back of my mind.

It was 18 months before I ate them again -- in Michigan -- when I prepared the dish from a recipe in a Sichuan cookbook my mother-in-law-to-be gave me. I fell right back in love with dumpling knots all over again. I've been making the dish, often, ever since.

In the intervening years I've adapted this recipe so much -- subsituting one ingredient for another, adding Sichuan peppercorns and dried chilies in at the beginning, increasing the amount of cabbage so that it resembles more a stew than a thick dumpling soup -- that it bears scant resemblance to its original form. But I have to give credit and high praise to Ellen Schrecker, the author of Mrs. Chiang's Szechwan Cookbook. Dumpling knots are not the only gem in that volume, which is worth seeking out for its home-style dishes that always remind me of those early years of simple eating and big flavors in Chengdu.

Dumpling Knots -- Mian Geda (Adapted from Mrs. Chiang's Szechwan Cookbook by Ellen Schrecker)

Makes about 4 servings (when it's just the two of us I halve the dumpling recipe)

Think of this dish as pork, cabbage, and dumpling stew with Sichuan flavors. The original recipe calls for much less cabbage, cloud ear mushrooms instead of oyster mushroom, and boneless pork. I like the way the additional extra cabbage thickens the soup and the oyster mushrooms and bone-in pork (I use short ribs) flavor the broth. You could certainly go with more meat, or less, or use a different mushroom (or add some slivers of dried shiitake) or skip the mushrooms altogether. What is essential is the chili oil and ground Sichuan peppercorns to add punch at the end -- and black vinegar, for those who like a bit of sourness.

The dumpling technique is super simple and will be at least somewhat familiar to anyone who's made spaetzle. Just be sure not to overwork the dough and to keep the dumplings small, certainly no bigger than the first third of your forefinger.

This stew-soup keeps well and the flavors really intensify with an overnight in the fridge.

2 Tbsp peanut oil or other cooking oil

Optional: about 5 dried red chilies, snipped in half  and 1 tsp of Sichuan peppercorns

8 scallions (white plus a couple inches green part), cut into 1-inch lengths

.3 kilos (about 9-10 ounces) pork ribs, preferably cut into short lengths (substitute boneless pork if you prefer)

2 Tbsp soy sauce

1 large head cabbage, shredded

2 handfuls of fresh oyster mushrooms, cleaned and torn into largish pieces (or left whole if small) -- leave the stems on if you like

For Dumplings:

2 cups all-purpose flour

1/4 tsp salt

3/4 cup water (approximately)

For serving:

4 scallions, white part only, thinly sliced

4 tsp sesame oil

To place on the table, for diners to add as they wish:

sandy chili oil (see "recipe" below), ground Sichuan peppercorns, black vinegar, and soy sauce

1. Heat a wok or large heavy Dutch oven, Le Creuset, etc over high heat. Add the oil and swirl it around the pan, then throw in the Sichuan peppercorns and dried chilies, if using. Stir-fry for 20 seconds or until the chilies start to color. Do not let them burn. Add the scallions and stir-fry another 30 seconds.
2. Add the pork ribs and stir-fry until the pink color disappears, then add the soy sauce and stir-fry for another minute.
3. Add the cabbage and mushrooms and stir-fry until the cabbage is wilted, 4-5 minutes. Add water to just barely cover the meat and vegetables and bring to a boil. Partially cover the pan, reduce the heat to a medium simmer, and cook until the meat is tender, about 45 minutes, stirring occasionally. (At this point you could turn the stew off and leave it for a couple hours, or refrigerate it overnight and reheat it, before adding the dumplings.)
4. In the meantime, prepare the dumpling dough: in a medium bowl mix the flour, salt, and water together with a fork until the dough is blended and as free of lumps as possible. The dough should be very sticky with a tiny touch of liquidity; it should barely move, slowly and sludgily, when the bowl is tipped.
5. When the meat is done add the dough to the simmering liquid, either by tipping the bowl and "grabbing" a bit of dough at the edge with two chopsticks or even a fork and dunking it in the bubbling liquid to dislodge it -- or by dipping up some dough with a spoon and using another spoon to dislodge it directly into the liquid. Be sure not to make the dumplings too big (though they needn't all be exactly the same size) -- no more than the first joint of your forefinger. Do not try to push the dumplings into the liquid right away --- let them float on top until you're finished with the batter, then replace the lid and let them cook for a minute or two. At that point, gently stir them under and into the stew. Let the dumplings cook for at least ten minutes.
6. In the meantime, divide the chopped scallions between four bowls and drizzle each with a teaspoon of sesame oil.
7. When the stew is ready ladle it into the bowls, on top of the scallions and oil. Serve and let diners add chili oil, ground Sichuan peppercorn, black vinegar, and soy sauce to taste.

Sichuan-style Sandy Chili Oil -- La Jiao

A Sichuan pantry essential, this chili sauce/oil takes many forms. This is the simplest. Make a heap -- it keeps forever (in Malaysia's humidity I keep mine in the fridge) and if you're a chili hound you may soon find yourself drizzling it on scrambled eggs and adding it to salad dressings. The heat of your chilies will determine the potency of the oil. 

1/2 cup ground dried chilies, preferably Sichuanese

1 cup peanut oil (preferred) or other chili oil

1. Place a small pan over low heat and add the oil. Slowly heat the oil. Meanwhile, have the dried chilies ready in a jar, measuring cup, or other heatproof container that will hold both them and the oil.
2. Watch for the surface of the oil to begin to shift -- not boil! Test its readiness my dropping in a flake or two of chili -- it should sizzle, move about, and give off a little red color. If it blackens the oil is too hot -- turn off the heat and let it cool down.
3. When the oil is ready pour it over the chilies. Stir with a chopstick to make sure all the chilies are exposed to the oil. Leave aside, uncovered, to cool completely. Then cover and store in a cool dark cupboard or in the fridge (if storing in the fridge let the oil come to room temperature before using).

Note: A commenter on the EatingAsia Facebook page says his family makes another version, also with pork, mushrooms and cabbage but in a tomato-based broth. Makes me wonder how many types of mian geda are out there. Does your family make it? Leave a comment!

Steam the Bean

A year or two before its demise Gourmet magazine introduced a "meatless meal" page. "Just try one meal meatless!" -- or something to that effect -- Ruth Reichl encouraged readers when she introduced the column in her editor's intro.

Great idea, I thought. Just please no bean curd-as-meat concoctions.

But several month later, there it was -- a recipe for marinated and grilled tofu. That column summed up everthing that's wrong with how bean curd is perceived by much of the Western world: as a meat substitute absent any of redeeming that must be doctored as if it were meat to be rendered edible. And barely edible at that.

Twenty-five years ago I too eschewed tofu, and it's only living in Asia for over a decade that has altered my view of the food. When it's bad, it's so bad. But when it's made well and prepared appropriately bean curd can make you question everything you believed about the superiority of meat.

(Note: I'm not now, nor have I ever been, nor will I ever be, probably, a vegetarian.)

By now the Japanese prowess with the soy bean is well known. But high-quality, entirely luscious bean curd is also easily found on Taiwan, in parts of China, and in Malaysia (and probably elsewhere). Since moving to Kuala Lumpur, especially, I've become a Bean Curd Freaks.

In this house there is no time of the day that is not tofu appropriate.

Taufu fah (dou hua in Mandarin) -- steaming hot scoopable soft fresh bean curd drizzled with palm sugar syrup -- is a breakfast of champions. Substitute chili oil, black vinegar, soy sauce, and chopped Sichuan pickles for the sugar syrup, and it's an unbeatable lunch. We eat tofu for dinner several times a week -- the soft stuff in a Chinese-style light soup with tomato, ginger, and leafy greens (accompanied by chopped chili-and-soy dipping sauce), the firm stuff in mapo tofu, stir-fried with oyster mushrooms and scallions, or "steamed with all manner of condiments. A big jar of fermented bean curd, aka Chinese cheese", has a permanent spot in the door of our refrigerator. We spread it on rye crackers, slather it over chicken before putting the bird in a bamboo steamer, stir fry it with spinach, spoon it up straight.

Writing that paragraph has made me hungry. That's how much I love bean curd. I revere it as much as I revere a nicely grilled T-bone or pork chop. I eat more bean curd than I do beef, chicken or pork, not for political, moral or dietary reasons, but simply because after going a day without I crave the stuff.

Now -- if you don't live in Asia, finding good bean curd can be difficult. I'd never eaten tofu before I met Dave. He added it to the spaghetti he served me on one of our first dates. (In those days Dave also volunteered at the food co-op and baked his own wheat bread). While I appreciated the effort that went into the meal, I found the rubbery batons in my spaghetti sauce rather vile.

But times are changing. Good bean curd is becoming a bit easier to find in the USA. Googling "artisan tofu" brought up a number of makers in the San Francisco Bay Area, Portland, Vermont and southern California. I'm sure there are others.

So what I want to say here folks is: give bean curd a chance! If you enjoy Asian food and have access to some decent tofu it's a natural addition to your menus. Don't grill it, don't saute it and add to pasta sauce, don't try to make ice cream with it because you're going for a "healthy" alternative to dairy products. Love the bean for what it is. Treat it properly in the kitchen, and it will love you back.

I like steaming bean curd. Firm bean curd, when most of its moisture has been lost by one means or another (I'll get to that), is a fantstic sponge. I love soft tofu but I prefer firm tofu. I like the dense-yet-creamy texture, and the slightly fermented, almost one-quarter-way-to-tempeh that you get with really good specimens. The stronger flavor stands up well to seasonings -- including chili which, if you are a regular reader, you know by now I'm addicted to.

So, how do you maximize the flavor-sucking sponginess of your bean curd? First, start with the firmest you can find. Then, wrap the cakes in towels and place a good heavy weight on it. (I use a cookie sheet topped with any canned products in my pantry.) And just leave it there, the longer the better. A lot of recipes recommend a half hour or an hour but several hours, if you have them to spare, is preferable.

Even better: press your tofu for a couple hours and then, if you live somewhere with fairly clean air and a good strong sun, set it out to sunbathe (protected with cheesecloth or a not-so-fine strainer, if you like) for up to half a day. This is how our host in Mae Salong, northern Thailand prepared her tofu before she stirred it into a wonderful ginger-tomato-yellow bean paste sauce. Time in the sun might set the tofu to "fermenting" just a wee bit, which will amplify the soy bean taste (don't worry, you won't end up with Chinese cheese) -- a good thing if you're going heavy with the chilies.

I can't deny that the recipe below results in a pretty healthy main dish. But don't hold that against poor, misunderstood tofu.

Spicy and Salty Steamed Bean Curd

Another not-quite recipe, malleable to your palate. Stir together the amounts of ingredients I suggest below, then sample it and add more of anything to taste. I like mine quite winey and very heavy on the chilies. What you add or don't add will also depend on the quality of your black beans (old, not-so-great ones will taste saltier) and your chili paste (some are much saltier than others). Remember that steaming will bring out whatever moisture remains in the bean curd, and add more, so the sauce should taste too strong when the tofu is added.

A variation to this recipe: make the sauce and toss short pork ribs in it. Arrange tofu on a plate and then mound the pork ribs on top. Steam the whole thing together.

Note: this recipe also work quite nicely with fish fillets/steaks -- something strong, like mackerel, tuna or salmon.

4 cakes tofu, pressed of as much water as possible and (optional) sun-dried for up to 4 hours

1.5 Tbsp Chinese rice wine (hua tiao jiu or the clear stuff) or dry sherry, white wine in a pinch

1 Tbsp soy sauce (not dark)

1.5 tsp sesame oil

pinch of sugar

1 Tbsp chili paste (preferably Sichuan Pixian chili bean paste)

1/2 Tbsp ground dry chilies (optional, for chili hounds)

1/2 Tbsp (heaped) roughly chopped fermented black beans (if yours are kind of shrivelled and very salty, give them a rinse and pat them dry.

1/2 Tbsp chopped garlic

1/2-1 Tbsp chopped ginger

2 scallions, green and white part

A handful of cilantro leaves/stem

1. Cut each cake of  tofu into 4 or 6 squares.
2. In a bowl large enough to hold the bean curd mix together the rice wine, soy sauce, sesame oil, sugar, chili paste, ground chilies (if using), black beans, garlic, and ginger. Taste the mixture and add whatever you like -- more wine, more chilies, more beans. Remember that the sauce will be diluted during steaming, so it should be just a little bit too spicy, too salty, too winey. But not too sesame oily.
3. Place the bean curd cubes in the sauce, gently stir to coat, and leave to marinate for at least 30 minutes and up to 1.5 hours.
4. Mound the bean curd on a plate sized to fit your steamer -- or in a bowl -- and pour any leftover sauce on top.
5. Steam for an hour. While the bean curd is steaming roughly chop together the scallions and cilantro.
6. Serve the tofu sprinkled with scallions/tofu and serve with a light Chinese greens-ginger-tomato soup (recipe here) or some stir-fried greens (recipe here).

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another Thing Mr. Zhang Taught Me

No Garlic. Not as in, "Never ever cook with garlic, ever," but as in "When stir-frying greens skip the stinking rose."

(If you're wondering who Mr. Zhang is and what else he's taught me, go to our first post in this very sporadic series, here. And while we're at it, here's an article on Mr. Zhang's place, and other Chengdu eateries like his, that we did a while back for the South China Morning Post: Page 1 and Page 2)

Common knowledge says when you're stir-frying green leafy veggies in the Chinese manner you want to throw in some chopped garlic. But beginning wok jockeys -- heck, even myself on occasion -- often find that the garlic browns too quickly, or burns as it's being tossed with the greens once they're in the pan. One way to deal with this occasional issue is to fry the garlic, remove it from the wok, fry the greens, and then add the garlic back in.

But like many Sichuanese cooks Mr. Zhang has a better, easier way of adding in flavor to those stir-fried veggies: skip the garlic in favor of suan miao.

Suan miao, or leeks, show up in many Sichuanese dishes. A properly made mapo dofu gets its jade-green accents from the green part of suan miao. They're stir-fried with la rou (Sichuanese bacon), pork slivers and black beans, eggplant, pressed and dried tofu, and all sort of other ingredients. They're heaped in mounds in Chengdu markets, tucked into shopping bags, and bundled home under arms.

And, in Mr. Zhang's kitchen at least, the greenest part of suan miao substitute for chopped garlic when he stir-fries rape, mustard and other green leafy vegetables.

We can't find suan miao here in Kuala Lumpur, so I substitute scallion greens. And since returning from our last trip to Chengdu I have been turning out some pretty fantastic chao qing cai (fried green veggies). These stir-fried greens (choy sum/flowering mustard, usually) find their way to our table two or three times a week. For our Sichuan-leaning palates, they're best with a few Sichuan peppercorns and dried chilies thrown into the mix, a la Chez Zhang.

Thanks Mr. Zhang!

Mr. Zhang's Stir-fried Leafy Greens (A Recipe of Sorts)

I understand there is a raging debate among Asian cookbook authors whether or not one should dry one's greens before stir-frying. If I had a flame like Mr. Zhang's (see above) I never would dry my greens. But all I've got is a regular gas burner with a pretty unimpressive BTU. I find that spinning my greens dry a few times after washing makes for a much more successful stir-fry. Experiment or, to err on the safe side, dry those greens.

Cooking oil (rapeseed oil gives that Sichuan flavor; if that's unavailable, peanut oil is preferred)

OPTIONAL but authentically Sichuanese: a heaping tsp or two of Sichuan peppercorns, whole and unroasted AND a heaping tbsp. or two of dried red chilies, snipped in half crosswise

About 1 lb. / one half kilo sturdy greens (Sichuanese rape, mustard greens/choy sum, gai lan leaves, bok choy, etc) -- sliced into 1-inch/3-cm shredds, washed and if you prefer, spun dry

a good handful of scallion greens, washed and snipped into 2-inch/4-cm lengths

salt

a Tbsp or two of stock or water

1. Set a wok or big frypan over high heat, and add a good glug or two of oil. Swirl the oil over the surface of the wok/pan and heat till not quite smoking.
2. Toss in chilies and Sichuan peppercorns, give a good stir but don't let the chilies blacken.
3. Start adding greens by the handful, stirring and tossing as you go. When the last of the greens are in add a few pinches of salt (less if you're using salted stock). Stir-fry for a minute or two, tossing to expose all green to the heat.
4. Add just a bit of stock or water (you don't want a pool in the bottom of your wok/pan, you just want to moisten the greens a bit to create a little steam) -- this may not be necessary if you haven't dried your veggies, toss, and cover the pan.
5. Check after a minute or two. The veg stems should still be fairly crunchy. Now, throw in your scallion / leek greens, toss for a minute or so, and turn the lot onto a plate.

 

Gat Luang Diaries: Cooking for the New Year

 

This week we're hopping around Thailand's far north (Fang the last two days, Mae Salong for the next two, and then ... ??), taking a break from the research we began last week in Chiang Mai's Gat Luang neighborhood.

If you read our Happy Year of the Rabbit post, you know that this year we're collaborating with several Chiang Mai residents on a book that will be published in commemoration of Warorot Market's 100th year. Warorot (and its sister market Don Lam Yai) anchor the neighborhood of Gat Luang. Though Chiang Mai's "old city" (located within the crumbling city walls) is in fact the city's oldest section, it is Gat Luang -- which is located right on the Ping River -- that has long been its commercial heart.

While our Thai colleagues pull together a "History" section for the book, Dave and I will be collecting "snapshots" of daily life in Gat Luang. After our first week "on the job" it's really begun to hit home what a complex area Gat Luang is -- a neighborhood of multiple ethnicities and religions, diverse businesses and commercial interests that date back decades, of long-timers and newcomers and sojourners just passing through.

While it was Gat Luang's food markets which initially drew us there seven years ago our interest in the area is widening with each day spent in the 'hood. So many people to meet, so many stories to tell, places and personalities of significance not usually noticed by the visitor.

For the purposes of Gat Luang Diaries -- a new EatingAsia series highlighting our experiences in the neighborhood, which we intend to update every few weeks or so throughout 2011 (look for a sidebar banner soon that will link to all Diary posts) -- we'll start with last week's "big event": Chinese New Year.

The majority of Gat Luang's residents trace some family ancestry back to China -- Chaozhou to be exact. The neighborhood has two Chinese temples. And last week, in the lead-up to the first day of the Year of the Rabbit, home kitchens were active with the preparation of food for merit-making in the home and at the temples.

Offerings may vary house to house, but only to some extent. Several items must be included, such as fruit, kanom (sweets), and proteins -- duck, chicken, and pork. For those who choose to prepare the latter themselves (as opposed to ordering out or accepting items prepared by friends or relatives) this means almost a half to a full day of cooking, depending on how many pieces are to be cooked.

As part of our research we sat in on the preparation of "the three proteins" (that's my own term, not an official Chinese New Year term) in one Gat Luang household. The lady of the house is a graceful and gifted cook, and with the help of her daughter-in-law she turned out gorgeously glossy five spice-cooked chickens, ducks, and slabs of pork belly.

This type of Chinese stewing is fairly standard (and not at all limited to the new year): chickens, duck, pork belly are cooked till very tender in water combined with sugar, soy sauce, dark soy sauce, five spice, cinammon, star anise and perhaps a few other items. In this household the Thai touch takes the form of galangal stuffed into the duck, and unrefined local brown sugar and a thick bundle of cilantro roots and stems added to wok.

What most struck me as I watched this woman patiently, and with evident love, teach her new daughter-in-law (married less than a year) how to prepare these all-important foods was her concern with appearance. Of course -- when you're offering something to the spirits, gods, and your ancestors it must look its best!

And so, before the raw ducks were cooked their feet and heads were carefully arranged (feet crossed over breasts, heads tucked in and beaks down). Then they were carefully slid -- breast down to fix their positions -- into the simmering scented bath. And after a couple of hours they emerged from the wok tidy and peaceful-looking, a beautiful addition to the New Year offerings tray.