Popagandhi

Some friends from Turkey came to visit this past weekend. I had a great time hanging out with Melissa and Emirhan in Antalya when I stopped by en route to Istanbul (from Damascus), so I naturally returned the favour and put them up at my place. After three dinners (not at the same time, albeit the same night), Emirhan gave up at the sight of three relatively small Asian girls chomping away at their 20th meal of the day and said it must be that we all have two stomachs, the other one being the one that leads straight to refuse.

Kuala Lumpur is a funny place. It contains no immediately obvious tourist attractions (not to me anyway) and the lay of the land is hard to grasp. It’s a sprawling mess of cities, townships, and everything in between; the lack of acceptable public transportation makes it hard to get around. In other words it’s a city not for tourists, but for visitors who have the time and ability to stay, sit around, drink teh tarik, and make new friends.

Unless you’re here to eat and have both the ability and desire to match us locals on our tremendous stamina for eating.

To say “eating” is a national pastime and obsession is not merely stating the obvious, it also woefully understates the true extent of the obsessive nature of this common indulgence which is the mark of a born-and-bred Malaysian (and to an extent, but less so, Singaporean). It is neither a task nor a hobby — it is a way of life. Every aspect connected to the act of eating is performed with loving care and preponderance; the final act of eating is nowhere near a climax, for there is no start, nor finish. Evidence: have an awesome lunch or dinner with a group of Malaysians (or Singaporeans), the ones who are passionate about food (almost everyone is, but there are some who are far long gone). Say nothing. Listen to them speak, and make a mental note of what their conversations are about.

I’d wager that 90% of the conversation is about food. Not about the food they’re eating at that very moment, no, not at all (beyond the expected “this is good”, “this is fucking amazing”, or “this is awful”, which pervades in the first five minutes or so) — it’s more likely to turn into a rare moment of Malaysian/Singaporean introspection and cultural analysis. “This is far better/worse/comparable to/cheaper than/better value for money compared to…”, the connoisseur declares, not with the pomp or authority of a food critic, but with a heart of tender love, “but I’m afraid to say the hawker in (insert any other part of town) is better.” He is bound to be accosted with fierce interjections, because everyone’s a passionate food critic in this part of the world, and sometime cultural and culinary commentator too.

If you’re truly lucky, and understand the local vernacular well enough, you might be witness to a display of shocking real-time food gossip, one that knows neither state nor national boundaries. We all do this to some extent — we know exactly how many of the famous hawkers got started, how their families fell apart from intra-family bickering, how the secret recipe diverged into dozens of different locations and took on their own styles, which one remains true to the original secret, right down to the very last minutiae such as “the chilli in the 4th brother’s version is inferior to the one made by hand daily by his 2nd brother. However the cousin’s newly revised version (open from 10am to 8pm at this other location), is by far the best.”

We even plan our holidays around food. I know my family does, and so do many of my friends. In fact it was no big deal to find that so-and-so’s family had just driven 8 hours northwards to spend a night in northern Malaysia, in order to eat wanton mee at that location, nor was it surprising that they would choose to drive back down not on the expressway, but through the trunk roads that would take them through certain other locations where they could, you guessed it, eat some more (hard-to-find versions of food we love).

From the time I was 15, I developed a strange habit of stealing my passport and bringing it to school with me. I had the good luck to have gone to school in a fine educational establishment. It gave me many wonderful things: it developed my writing abilities, and my school-time activities in those days taught me how to multi-task like crazy and how to play truant, but above all its location on Bukit Timah Road, Singapore, featured one untapped resource — bus 170 to Johor, Malaysia. I hopped on it frequently to lunch (alone, for I was an introvert — and still am) in my school uniform. Then turned back around and went home to a suburban estate in Singapore like it was the most normal thing.

Because it was. At least where I came from.

Moving to Malaysia made this even more unavoidable. I am surrounded 24/7 by fantastic local food, much of it towering heads and shoulders above the Singaporean versions which, despite sharing the same characteristics, are now mostly inedible from a combination of neglect, lack of innovation and tradition (at the same time), rapid development killing our long heritage of ’street’ food, and other things like that. Say what you will about how the food is better here because it’s ‘unhealthier’ or ‘dirtier’ — I don’t care. (The free use of pork lard is a Malaysian Chinese habit I fully endorse, and begrudge our Singaporean hawkers for not indulging in.) I wake up most mornings in Malaysia thinking about eating noodles. I have travelled far and wide but I care for little in the world (with the sole exception of jamon iberico) than a good bowl of southern Chinese Southeast Asian noodles. bakchormee in Singapore; pork noodles, soup or kon lo in KL. And wanton mee, the northern Malaysian version of which I find far superior by far to our chilli and tomato-addled sickly versions down south. When I am not thinking of noodles, I am thinking of nasi lemak. The very idea of eating noodles and rice for breakfast is alien to many. No scene is more striking than one onboard any airline leaving or entering Malaysia or Singapore on a long-haul flight, when breakfast is served at 5.30am. Stewardesses, onboard Emirates, Malaysian Airlines, or Singapore Airlines flights, come by patting passengers on the shoulder with breakfast options, having to explain the only local option, nasi lemak, to those who don’t know. “Rice steamed in coconut milk… served with chicken curry… fried bits of little fish.. and… a big dollop of spicy sambal.” Of course, all the locals happily tuck into our spicy chicken curry coconut rice at 5.30 in the morning, while most other passengers think us insane.

So while we didn’t have very much time to re-educate Melissa and Emirhan on the wonders of local food, we tried our best. Since there are few pleasures greater than the delights of a superb Ramly burger, the sort that can only be found in Malaysia, we headed straight for one. Followed by satay Kajang. Followed by two rounds of lok-lok. (A lok-lok truck is a contraption of a truck that’s been pimped up to allow for the display and storage of fresh sticks of meat and seafood, to be dipped into communal vats on the rims of these trucks, each filled with boiling hot soup, into which one cooks your sticks of food in a DIY fashion. It went out of fashion (or was outlawed) in Singapore even before I was born, so I eat at one every other day in Malaysia and find great pleasure in it.)

By this time Melissa had already given up on the idea of eating anymore, but Emirhan tried his best. We had one round of lok-lok, rested for beer, and returned an hour later for more.

That’s when I realized how much of a stereotype we had all become. Scurrying to the truck at 2am, we noticed most of the sticks of food had been packed away for the night. Anxious, we all did a spontaneous mini-sprint to the steamboat — separately. In another moment of unplanned synchronized gluttony, we immediately took out our phones from our pocket… and laughed. We knew precisely why the other person was doing it.

We had to check the time the lok-lok truck stopped selling food… because… we just had to.

And then we ate. And ate some more. And went home and planned what to eat in 5 hours’ time.

That’s when I knew I am indeed native to this land. A gluttonous, perpetually hungry native.

(I’m going to Penang this weekend to, well, eat even more. Hokkien mee with pork knuckle? Crabs in Tanjung Tokong? Living in Malaysia should come with a weight-gain advisory warning!)

When M. and I both got the chance to move abroad and start new, but separate (if temporary) lives, we started Fortylove.tv to make the best out of two exciting but disparate cities: London, Dubai. Both are cosmopolitan cities. One had a long history, remarkable culture, and was a major world city. Another was desert until 20 years ago, yet rose convincingly from the sand to try to be a major world city. Both, quite notably, had made it simple — and cheap — to gain access to the countries in their respective regions through their low cost carriers. We saw in this an opportunity to go, as my father would say, gallivanting around Europe, the Middle East and India; sometimes together, mostly on our own. We’re talking about US$10 return tickets to Barcelona, US$100 tickets to Istanbul and Sana’a, and that’s after picking from the very difficult list of places like Paris, Valencia, Fez, Marseille, Brussels (for her); Athens, Casablanca, Beirut, Damascus, Cairo, and more, for me.

Ryanair, Easyjet, flydubai, AirArabia, and the like, really did for us in those parts of the world what AirAsia did for us here.

Another little known reason why we started Fortylove.tv: it was our excuse to travel more, do more silly things, meet (and befriend) interesting people. I was particularly interested in making the effort to get the most out of my Dubai experience. That sounds simple enough, but in reality it was quite difficult. In a city like that it was too easy to be immersed in working, partying, and… more working and partying. Many people move to Dubai with the idea that they will see more of the Middle East. Many of them never get around to doing it; it’s too easy to just stay put in the city of fast cars, bright lights, gleaming towers. The fast cars, gaudy architecture and bright lights did nothing for me except make me feel sick. I did not like Dubai very much; I still don’t. I needed to discover the real, gritty bits of a city that wasn’t trying to be something else. I found that in the back streets of Deira and Bur Dubai, in neighbouring Abu Dhabi; in the Friday khushti wrestling matches at the fish market and the freshly baked Afghan breads, in the camel races on weekends. And in the haunting strains of Middle Eastern hiphop.

I went in search of Middle Eastern hiphop but came away wanting to know more about the deeper issues behind their music. It was political, yes, but intense, raw, and ultimately touching. It was very, very good (check out DAM Palestine and The Narcicyst for a start, if you’re interested). The pressing issues weren’t about sex, women, guns or bling, but about ideas such as identity, ‘homelessness’, displacement, exile, war, oppression. Whether or not you agree with their message (a pertinent one that cannot be ignored any longer), it’s still good music.

While seeking out Dubai-based group Diligent Thought, I came across one of their sisters, a Sudan-born, Dubai-raised poet and musician who performs by the alias of Miss Lyrikal Nuisance. That we worked in the same media hub area meant we became fast friends and I learned a lot about life, the world, and that particular region, from her. I took her to the historic conservation area of Bastakiyah (a must, if you’re ever in Dubai) and got her to perform for me. There’s music by The Narcicyst, the Iraqi-Candian Dubai-based performer, as well. You can read more about it here (as well as watch the video), or just watch the video:

If you’d rather watch the YouTube version, it’s here.

A surprising thing about Singapore that few people know about, other than those of us who live/lived here, is how much great ice cream there is. Or to be more specific: how much great ice cream there is that isn’t international chain ice cream. Those can be lovely too, but you get the same stuff all over the world. Something happened in the last 5-7 years when the ‘homemade local premium ice cream’ trend took off and really came into its own. I’m proud to say that we have great local ice cream wizards doing great things with local flavours and ingredients. Some of it is highly innovative. Most of it is just tasty and… a hell lot cheaper than the inferior stuff produced by ice cream chains. They’re usually free from additives and preservatives (for that reason, they don’t last more than 3 days when you take them home) too. Some are even egg or gluten-free.

The local flavours available are tremendous: these days, Horlicks and Teh Tarik flavours are regular ice cream flavours Singaporeans know and love, largely (I think) due to the efforts of the pioneering stores like Island Creamery and Tom’s Palette. They’re two of my absolute favourites.

Our latest craze: we’ve been trying to replicate some of these flavours at home with our cheapo Cuisinart home ice cream machines. Next week we’re driving 400 kilometres back to Singapore to attend an ice cream class run by the ice cream genius maniacs at Tom’s Palette. To help the Malaysian ice cream making entourage I’m heading south with, I’ve put together a little ice cream map.

Did I miss anything?

Note: I’m only adding local and homemade ice cream shops here so don’t ask why I left out Ben and Jerry’s. None of us are fans of the “Coldstone-style” of ice cream: the icky super sweet kinds that get all kinds of rubbish mixed into them. Not big on gelato either unless they’re done very very well, which very few Singapore places manage to (are there any!?).., so I’ve left out one or two obvious places because of this… peculiar ice cream preference.

Have fun, go nuts, eat more ice cream, and remember to use GoThere to figure out how to get to these places by public transport.

29 Jalan Berangan, Kuala Lumpur

I wanted to like this place. It opened some time ago in KL to as much hype as any new venture of Paolo Guiati’s, ex-Neroteca, would be expected to have. We genuinely liked Neroteca back then; it was a chilled out space at the ground floor of Somerset Apartments in Jalan Ceylon, away from the madding crowd, had free wifi, lots of Italian wine and beer, decent Italian food (for KL anyway), and real pig. Bar Italia seemed to be taking a page out of that book. At first glance, the swanky but understated shophouse lot on Jalan Berangan (a stone’s throw from Changkat Bukit Bintang) appeared promising.

To cut to the chase, not only do I dislike this place now, I dislike it so vehemently that I am breaking one unsaid rule of Popagandhi.com: to use my site as a platform to complain at length about it. The quick verdict: the food sucked. Bad food is not criteria enough for me to devote such a long space to this. I guess you can put it down to this: Bar Italia had horrible food AND the worst service I’ve ever had in my entire, entire life. Period.

I won’t spend much time dwelling on the food. There were plenty of huh? moments. The menu was as insipid as the wine, but with a table of 8 we ordered, I suppose, a sampling of just about everything. Pastas, lasagnas, fish and meat mains. The food was an absolute let-down — nothing one would expect of ex-Neroteca talent. My fish main gave me the impression that I was better off eating fish and chips from a Malaysianized Western stall. Their pastas tasted of not very much. Fine.

[Reading some forums and blogs, and comments left by Bar Italia defenders (who sound suspiciously like each other), it seems like anybody who complained about the food was told, "you just don't know what Italian food really is!" I write and photograph food for a living; I'm supposed to. But if only the food was my primary complaint!]

Bar Italia has the worst service in KL, which is not an easy throne to ascend to so quickly in several months. You essentially have to out-suck the inattentive, impatient, incompetent and aggressive service levels at all the other restaurants in Malaysia, which is a fair number of them. But that was the one thing Bar Italia did very well.

How well? We weren’t sure anybody spoke English in that place. For an upmarket establishment, that is unacceptable. It wasn’t even like anybody spoke Malay. Service staff chattered to each other in Cantonese, mostly ignoring customers. The Italian dude (was it Paolo?) spoke English, but was more or less incoherent — it wasn’t the accent, it was just how he flitted from table to table mid-sentence without completing any, and went off without properly understanding what anybody was saying.

Since the menu was so badly put together, most of us came away not properly understanding what our options were, and needed assistance. Assistance that wasn’t rendered. Simple questions like “so which pasta has which sauces, tomato or cream?” were greeted with blank stares by the waitress. Did she speak English? Did she speak Malay? Maybe she’s was Burmese? Nepali? Maybe she really just didn’t understand English? Who didn’t even know how to say “I don’t know, I’ll ask,” so we had to ask for her. “Can you get someone who knows to serve us?” Another long, blank stare. It was the same with every other waiter, including Italian dude. Questions were cut short, requests (even for water, or the bill) either never arrived or took half an hour to, nobody was interested in doing business. Dumb (and I mean this in a literal, not-talking sense) waitress went back to chattering in a corner in Cantonese, probably complaining about all her customers. Great — if only she knew we all understand Cantonese too.

Just as we thought the nightmare was over, the bill came and had an additional entry for 80 ringgit for 3 glasses of wine we never drank. A simple “can you look through this again” request was pointedly rejected by Italian dude, for no good reason other than him saying “no”, flatly. We’d tried to take the bad food and terrible service in our stride all night, but this was too much. Only when 8 angry people glared at him did he abruptly throw a hundred ringgit back at us… literally.

No matter how bad food was anywhere, I don’t think I’ve ever felt “I’ll never come back here ever again and you don’t deserve to call this a restaurant”. Well, I’ve found that place, and Bar Italia — 29 Jalan Berangan — is it.

Enough said. Never again.

Or if you prefer, the YouTube version.

If you’ve enjoyed this, please think about heading over to watch more episodes of the DIY travel show that I do for fun and absolutely no profit. Whenever I update, it’s a video about the Middle East/India. Whenever May does, it’s about London or other European cities. Simple as that.