We are all brothers when we eat
We immerses herself in the culinary melting pot of Borneo for a deeper sense of the place
In a not-so-literal sense, Malaysians are what they eat. As a result of diverse historical factors, they are a mixture of races and cultures. Workers from India, China, Thailand, Arabia and Indonesia arrived here in colonial times to sustain the tin mines and rubber plantations. They brought not just their labour and families but also their foods and customs, creating a distinctive cultural legacy. Colonisers from Britain and Portugal followed suit, introducing a culinary influence along with their desire for trade. To add to this gastronomic complexity is the primordial food pattern of the myriad ethnic groups of Sabah and Sarawak.
And so, like many intrepid gourmandizers before me, I visit Kota Kinabalu in Sabah in Borneo in Malaysia, to test the reputation of a place that was acclaimed for being the rainbow's end of complex and delicious flavours. That I land in the middle of Ramadan when, after the day's mandatory fast, culinary delights can be found everywhere in the food markets that spring up and in the extravagant buffets offered by five-star hotels, only adds to my amazement. Confronted with the mecca of all things edible, it's easy to sense that Malay food, no matter its roots, is characterised by a generous use of spices and the frequent appearance of coconut milk.
In a fuzzy good mood from the all the food I've eaten, I notice that differences of religion dissolve miraculously, as various fingers appear ready to wipe what's left of the redang or spiced curry, and the piquant peanut dip of the chicken and beef satay. Several curry mee (bowl of yellow noodes) and popiah (deep fried spring rolls) later, I glance at my watch and am in for a shock. Two hours have flown past, but my new brothers-in-food won't let me go. "You can't leave without your ABC," they say. ABC? I repeat nonplussed, half suspecting that the quantities of food I've imbibed have gone directly to my head.
Ais Kacang or Air Batau Campur as it turns out, is the queen of Malaysian desserts. Upon a mound of shaved ice, is drizzled any of the following — sweet red beans, grass jelly, cream corn, ground peanuts, palm sugar, sweet syrup and evaporated milk.
I ask to see the chef — because I know that much as I enjoy sitting here, relishing the ice cream and screw-pine coloured glutinous cakes, the best way to get a fuller culinary understanding of this place is to travel in the opposite direction to the pack. The chef tells me to go in pursuit of "the protein-rich sago grub" at a Tamu or open air-market. On my way to find this delicacy of the largest ethnic community — the Kadazandusan people, who consume every part of the sago tree, including the grubs living in them — I discover many idiosyncrasies.
For instance, food here lives without hierarchy. Favourite foods can be found in the most lavish restaurants, as equally as in the food court, as in the humble roadside stall. Just about everywhere I find an abundance of nasi lemak — fat rice cooked in creamy coconut milk, flavoured with pandanus leaf, ginger and lemon grass for fragrance. This is typically served with fried or roasted peanuts and anchovies, hard-boiled eggs, slices of cucumber and a dollop of sambal — a shrimp paste mixed with chillies, onion and garlic that is essential to Malaysians — for whom life without adequate spice would be just a little less bearable. The die-hard fans of the dish swear it tastes better when eaten, not just with some exotic fish, but with one's fingers.
When is the best time to have lemak? I probe. Anytime, they say and sure enough nasi lemak turns up as part of the breakfast next morning. I am delighted at this sign of creative life at a breakfast buffet, beyond the static continental fare dished out at most hotels , that include the standard croissants, ham, cheese, salmon and bacon.
But to truly let Sabah in, the locals say with a subversive wink, you can't leave without a taste of the uniquely red-fleshed durian fruit. I resist at first, put off by the reeking odour that I know would live with me long after I swallowed the morsel. But the minute I renounce my title of gustatory sissy and place a slice of the smelliest fruit in the world on my tongue, the locals welcome me in. I have come of age in Sabah, passed the rite de passage, let the locals in along with the fruit and they in return are ready to spur me on in my pursuit of those elusive but protein-rich grubs.
We immerses herself in the culinary melting pot of Borneo for a deeper sense of the place
In a not-so-literal sense, Malaysians are what they eat. As a result of diverse historical factors, they are a mixture of races and cultures. Workers from India, China, Thailand, Arabia and Indonesia arrived here in colonial times to sustain the tin mines and rubber plantations. They brought not just their labour and families but also their foods and customs, creating a distinctive cultural legacy. Colonisers from Britain and Portugal followed suit, introducing a culinary influence along with their desire for trade. To add to this gastronomic complexity is the primordial food pattern of the myriad ethnic groups of Sabah and Sarawak.
And so, like many intrepid gourmandizers before me, I visit Kota Kinabalu in Sabah in Borneo in Malaysia, to test the reputation of a place that was acclaimed for being the rainbow's end of complex and delicious flavours. That I land in the middle of Ramadan when, after the day's mandatory fast, culinary delights can be found everywhere in the food markets that spring up and in the extravagant buffets offered by five-star hotels, only adds to my amazement. Confronted with the mecca of all things edible, it's easy to sense that Malay food, no matter its roots, is characterised by a generous use of spices and the frequent appearance of coconut milk.
In a fuzzy good mood from the all the food I've eaten, I notice that differences of religion dissolve miraculously, as various fingers appear ready to wipe what's left of the redang or spiced curry, and the piquant peanut dip of the chicken and beef satay. Several curry mee (bowl of yellow noodes) and popiah (deep fried spring rolls) later, I glance at my watch and am in for a shock. Two hours have flown past, but my new brothers-in-food won't let me go. "You can't leave without your ABC," they say. ABC? I repeat nonplussed, half suspecting that the quantities of food I've imbibed have gone directly to my head.
Ais Kacang or Air Batau Campur as it turns out, is the queen of Malaysian desserts. Upon a mound of shaved ice, is drizzled any of the following — sweet red beans, grass jelly, cream corn, ground peanuts, palm sugar, sweet syrup and evaporated milk.
I ask to see the chef — because I know that much as I enjoy sitting here, relishing the ice cream and screw-pine coloured glutinous cakes, the best way to get a fuller culinary understanding of this place is to travel in the opposite direction to the pack. The chef tells me to go in pursuit of "the protein-rich sago grub" at a Tamu or open air-market. On my way to find this delicacy of the largest ethnic community — the Kadazandusan people, who consume every part of the sago tree, including the grubs living in them — I discover many idiosyncrasies.
For instance, food here lives without hierarchy. Favourite foods can be found in the most lavish restaurants, as equally as in the food court, as in the humble roadside stall. Just about everywhere I find an abundance of nasi lemak — fat rice cooked in creamy coconut milk, flavoured with pandanus leaf, ginger and lemon grass for fragrance. This is typically served with fried or roasted peanuts and anchovies, hard-boiled eggs, slices of cucumber and a dollop of sambal — a shrimp paste mixed with chillies, onion and garlic that is essential to Malaysians — for whom life without adequate spice would be just a little less bearable. The die-hard fans of the dish swear it tastes better when eaten, not just with some exotic fish, but with one's fingers.
When is the best time to have lemak? I probe. Anytime, they say and sure enough nasi lemak turns up as part of the breakfast next morning. I am delighted at this sign of creative life at a breakfast buffet, beyond the static continental fare dished out at most hotels , that include the standard croissants, ham, cheese, salmon and bacon.
But to truly let Sabah in, the locals say with a subversive wink, you can't leave without a taste of the uniquely red-fleshed durian fruit. I resist at first, put off by the reeking odour that I know would live with me long after I swallowed the morsel. But the minute I renounce my title of gustatory sissy and place a slice of the smelliest fruit in the world on my tongue, the locals welcome me in. I have come of age in Sabah, passed the rite de passage, let the locals in along with the fruit and they in return are ready to spur me on in my pursuit of those elusive but protein-rich grubs.
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