Popagandhi

A Malay Feast in the Jungle
Some of the best food I’ve had all year wasn’t in a restaurant, but at the jungle residence of a feisty elderly woman 45 minutes out of Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. I had been intending to eat at Aunty Rosna’s Sarang Murai (Magpie’s Nest) ever since reading about it, but it took some time to gather the requisite ten member lunch party (she only cooks if you have more than ten people) to drive a stupid Singaporean without a car and without driving abilities to Hulu Langat. So I ended up in a jungle in Malaysia with 9 Malaysian friends and acquaintances for the sole purpose of having lunch. Bookings have to be made a week in advance by phone, and that’s when she faxes you a copy of her menu, from which you pick several items and dessert. Other than the Malay feast, she’s also adept at other cuisines — she apparently also puts up a Moroccan or Middle Eastern feast. The cooking was inspired classical Malay home cooking with a light touch, with obvious influences from the chef’s extensive travelling — this woman studied in France, had a stunning career in the public service (I believe she was the secretary to the first Malaysian Prime Minister; there are photographs of her with Ferdinand Marcos, cigar in hand), is an ex-pilot who also ran a flying school, went to Lapland by herself thirty years ago, among other wonderful stories. Aunty Rosna has possibly done everything there is to do in life several times over. You’d want to sit at her feet after being fed a fabulous Malay feast with the freshest produce, listen to her stories, and then eat some more. I did. And can’t wait to go back.

Word of advice: don’t be late (she may scold you, like your grandmother will), be friendly (you may get to see her beautiful house, and you didn’t hear that from me), and if you absolutely must drive a Perodua Kancil there, have your passengers get out before you attempt to scale the climb to the house if you don’t want to roll downhill backwards!

Sarang Murai
Lot 2258, Batu 18 and a half, Jalan Pansun,
43100, Hulu Langat, Selangor, Malaysia
Phone: 03-9021 5173 Fax: 03-9021 7414
Lunch and dinner, reservations only. Bookings to be made a week in advance, minimum 10 adults per booking

Dou Jiang You Tiao Breakfast in a Chinese commune in northern Thailand
When Mao’s Chinese Communists kicked Chiang Kai Shek’s Kuomintang out of mainland China, Chiang and his soldiers and anti-Communist civilians set up base in Formosa, present day Taiwan, for what they believed would be temporary exile before they strengthened to fan fu hui guo (return to the motherland). Some divisions, particularly the ones in Yunnan (in the south, geographically and culturally closer to Southeast Asia than to Beijing) never made it to Taiwan, for various reasons, and pushed southwards instead. They spent a decade wandering in the wilderness in Burma’s jungles as unwelcome guests, fighting the Burmese military often (and trouncing them each time), before Burmese complaints to the United Nations led to diplomatic action to repatriate these lost Chinese soldiers to Taiwan. A sizable number did not go. Some married locals in those years in exile and saw no reason to go to Taiwan; others were encouraged to stay on so they could be mobilized whenever Chiang returned to reclaim China. As we all know, he never did. Fast forward 60 years, second and third generation Chinese now call Thailand their home, having exchanged their military expertise for citizenship by helping the Thais secure their northern borders in the heady days of the 60s and 70s. Mae Salong, in the beautiful hills of the province of Chiang Rai, is their base. Stroll through Mae Salong today and you will hear Mandarin Chinese and Yunnanese chatter, not Thai. The little food stalls that line the streets are more likely to sell Yunnanese soup noodles and dumplings, rather than tomyam soup or papaya salad. Young Yunnanese boys in Islamic dress go to the mosque each Friday; if you wave to them, they come up running to you speaking Mandarin to ask if you’re from Taiwan, where they are likely to end up for further education if they make it that far. It is so Chinese that breakfast at the Mae Salong market is likely to be a drink of hot soya beancurd and fritters (dou jiang and you tiao). Tea is big business in Mae Salong, but as you sit sipping your oolong cha remember that not 20 years ago, today’s tea plantations were poppy fields; the drugs of the infamous Golden Triangle used to be the primary source of funding for those divisions that were ‘left behind’, and their generals ran them as such. I tucked into my dou jiang you tiao breakfast, and contemplated yun nan mian tang for lunch.

Gone Catfishing in Krabi Town
Picture a grilled catfish on a skewer, roasting beautifully over an open pit. I can tell it’s expertly marinated, by the lemongrass tied in a bunch and sitting in the fish’s stomach. Catfish has such a great texture, particularly when it’s grilled and marinated so well — it isn’t light and fluffy like a good cod, nor heavy and fleshy like a good garoupa, but somewhere in between. This one was pretty damn near perfect, as perfect as a good fish can get; so good it possibly enters my books as Best Fish Dish of 2007. The best part? This was no fancy seafood restaurant, not set by the sea with barefoot guitarists singing love songs for dimes the way it so frequently is in Bali or other seafood places, but a stall at the far end of the daily night market in Krabi Town. The price? A whole fish costs 35 baht, or S$1.68 (US$1.17). Have as many as you can (three, for me), wash down with two bottles of Singha. Tales of British-style boarding school in Darjeeling indiscretions, funny Bangkok university stories, the company of people I care about. Stuffed with catfish and beer, we doubled back to our rented scooters and began the ride back to Haad Nopphara Thara in the dark. Jamiel was telling me a funny story about transvestites in Kanchanaburi, and I — responsible for leading the way — laughed so hard, wind in my face, that we missed a turn and found ourselves on the road to Phuket or Trang. It rarely gets better than this.

Holy Coconuts at the Festival of Chariots
Everyone thinks “Kumbh Mela” when they think of a great Hindu festival, but there’s another spectacular one involving millions of pilgrims — the Ratha Yatra, festival of chariots, held anywhere there is a Jagannath (a Krishna incarnate) temple, even in Barcelona, San Francisco, London, Singapore (at Toa Payoh stadium!!), even in the middle of the Nevada desert at this year’s Burning Man festival. The original and grandest one is held in Puri, a seaside town in the Indian state of Orissa, also one of the four holiest places in Hinduism, and the greatest centre of Jagannatha worship. Three chariots at the height of 13 to 15 metres each, are built by hand by expert temple chariot makers, elaborately carved, and given a splash of colour by temple artists and painters. Every chariot is not a mere vehicle, but an intricate Hindu tableau. There’s the seat of the gods and their bodyguards, servants, and charioteers, every single one of them named and built according to the scriptures. The festival sees the three large chariots placed at the Jagannath temple’s Lion’s Gate, and the point of the whole afternoon (and next one, if they don’t finish in time) is to drag these huge ratha to another temple some three kilometres away — through the million strong crowd on Grand Road, every one of them in the height of religious fervour and clamoring to touch the ropes and the chariots. I spent days in Puri soaking in the increasingly intense atmosphere, but nothing prepared me for the real thing: I was ecstatic, angry, light headed, hot headed, dehydrated by the heat and and nourished by the ladoo some lovely temple folks fed me, all at the same time; I also seemed to be the only photographer on assignment, allowing the mysteriously powerful chants of Jai Jagannath to get to my head a bit too much. When it was nearly over, I moved to the edge of the rooftop I was on. I sat there dangling my feet out of the building, exhausted, my dupatta doubling as a towel. And when I opened my eyes I saw Jagannath’s yellow and red impressively imposing chariot on the road right in front of me. One of the pujari winked, pointed to something in his hand, and before I knew it a husky young coconut landed on my lap. He made signs telling me I should attempt to crack this open and eat it, demonstrating by opening another coconut on the chariot railings. I acquiesced. “This holy coconut will bring you luck,” an old sadhu whispered into my ear, before tying a piece of red string on my wrist. “This string. More luck. Ten rupees please.” For the first time, I laughed, slapped him on the back, thanked him for his time, and shoved a ten rupee note into his hands, and thought this is why I’m here, this is why I do what I do.

Sabudana, Chai and Vada Pav en-route to Alibag
I love Bombay — it’s one of my favourite places in the world for its diversity and heritage, and I leave a part of my heart behind every time I leave it. Whether it’s the rooftop lassi and hookah at Koyla (top of Gulf Hotel, and don’t tell anyone else), discussing “marriage proposals” in a corner of charming Basilico, tucking into a veal sandwich at Theobrama’s, enjoying my ‘foreign tourist beer discount’ over too much Kingfisher at Leopold’s, or eating apple pie and oatmeal cookies at Yazdani the Parsi bakery I adore, I simply love Bombay to bits and suspect I always will. One of the great things about Bombay (and India) is how there’s never a shortage of things to do or see. You can have a short adventure every weekend for next to nothing, if you like: a train out of the city into Matheran, a lovely colonial era hill station where vehicles are banned and horse carriages or rickshaws and your feet are the primary modes of transport; or to Alibag on the Konkan coast, where the amazing Konkani food I love is the order of the day. When driving to Alibag, or Pune, most clued in locals will stop by a particular dhaba on the Pune highway for some of the best vada pav and sabudana. Forget the insipid vada pavs so commonly found in Indian restaurants in Singapore — the one here is always piping hot, always fresh out of the fryer, and so tasty it will change what you think of vada pav forever. It changed mine, and possibly even changed my world. Now I have to go back to Bombay for more of Yazdani’s apple pie, more of vada pav on the highway, the Bombay I love the more it frustrates me.

I hope you’ve all had a good 2007 in travel and eating, and I’m looking forward to what 2008 holds on these counts: because hold me now, I’m going to El Bulli in exactly five months and 2 days!