My Top 5 Eats in Malaysia

It’s been a tough month on my waistline. Malaysia is packed with variety, in part down to a greater number of migrant settlers (as Malaysia Tourism put it, ‘the land of many faces and races’) bringing with them their recipes as well as their heirlooms. Here’s a list of the best things I ate in Malaysia.

1. Dim Sum, Malacca

They say Penang has great dim sum. I tried three different places in Penang and wasn’t won. The dim sum joint we found in Malacca however was one of the best discoveries of my life. I have forgotten the name, but as one of about three places open before 9am in the UNESCO core site it’s easy to find. The line waiting amongst stacks of bamboo steamer baskets is your cue. The dumplings are juicy, fresh, and packed with flavour. I’m a har gao enthusiast and I wasn’t disappointed. Glistening in the early morning light, the translucent, pliable skin gave away sneaky glimpses of the juicy prawn stuffing. But the highlight were the bao. Shredded barbecued pork, still moist and saucy, enveloped in a velvety soft steamed bread. Best char siu bao of my life so far. 

He didn't stand a chance

2. Chicken Rice, Aladdin’s Cafe, Kuching

I was a bit disappointed with the Chinese food in Penang, considering the reputation. I had been looking forward to chicken rice for weeks, but like the dim sum, it was sub-par. My faith was restored in Kuching. We left at 8am to visit the orang utan sanctuary, gone for a walk, gotten lost, been found, and were driven back in Kuching. We stumbled hungrily into the first open eatery and were rewarded greatly. Chicken Rice comprises steamed or roasted chicken served with soup, chilli sauce, and the highlight of any good chicken rice, rice cooked in fatty chicken stock. Aladdin’s cafe uses only chicken legs, and the resulting rice is all the better for it.

Roast chicken rice

3. Chilli crab, Pulau Ketam (Crab Island)

A couple of hours outside of Kuala Lumpur is the elegantly named Crab Island. My partner had been to Crab Island some 10 years ago and won me over with a story about fishing village on stilts, specialising in crab served with a hammer. The journey was tedious, 90 minutes of local train through urban jungle followed by a windowless boat shaped like a dildo. But the freshly cooked crab is worth it. Buttery white meat cased in a hard shell, coated in a dry chilli sauce. We paired ours with butter prawns and simple veggies and spent the rest of the afternoon cracking claws. 

It might not look like much but it was delish.

4. Lychee flavoured mochi with peanut crumb, Chinatown, Kuala Lumpur

There’s a stall which appears every day in Chinatown, sandwiched between the pork congee and the chestnuts baking over burnt coffee beans. Ma Chee is the name. Asian sweets are polarising. Our drinks are tooth shatteringly sweet, but our sweets are more subtle and have ‘odd’ textures. Ma Chee specialises in mochi, a sweet made from glutenous rice flour. You choose your flavour, lychee, Ribena, black sesame, pandan, original or a mix. The pieces are then sliced away from a larger brick, chopped, and tossed in peanut crumbs. The mochi is chewy like a marshmallow, vaguely sweet and complimented by the peanut crunch. 

Just try it, please, for me?

5. Thosai, Penang

I’ve already denounced many Chinese style foods you find in Penang but one thing they have right is Indian food. Home to one of the better Little India’s of Malaysia, Penang has a lot of Indian fare, making it a safe haven for the often neglected vegetarians. A simple breakfast of Roti Canai, a flakey buttery flat bread cooked on a griddle and served with curry sauce, is a brilliant way to start the day. But the real winner for me had to be thosai. I have had a few in the UK, (I think they’re romanised as dosa), but none like this. A light pancake made from lentil and rice, it arrived puffed up with hot air accompanied by a trio of curry sauces. 

(I'm sorry, I forgot my camera that day!)

You might ask, where is the chicken curry, the rendang, the nasi lemak?! I actually really enjoy nasi lemak, especially served with ikan bilis (tiny fried anchovies). But oddly I never really found a nasi lemak to rival the one I have had at home. That may seem odd, but nasi lemak is such a cheap food here. I haven’t tasted a really awesome one, probably because there’s little profit in making it. 

Good... but not my fav

Other good eats worth a wee mention: 

This coffee, Kota Kinabalu (Cats make coffee)

Arabesque, KL (Cause sometimes KFC doesn't cut it for non Asian feeds)

Sarawak laksa, Kuching (tasty and vibrant, but not really my thing)

Racism, a lesson

So, what is racism? Let’s break that down into two very, very broad camps. You’ve got Actual Racism where a statement or action has an aggressive agenda. It’s a hate crime, and everyone boos and hisses afterwards because we are all lovely. Then you’ve got relative racism. Relative Racism is the grey buffer zone protected by freedom of speech in the western world. It isn’t intended to be offensive but someone might be offended. In terms of things you might say it will be something less universally agreeable than, let’s say, a bacon sandwich. 

I often make fun of myself or draw attention to the Asian-ness in the name of laughter because I have grown up in a society where humility is a credit to me, so my sense of humour follows. I make fun of me because it makes you laugh and you make fun of you because it makes me laugh. So what about when my friends make fun of me, more importantly, my Asian descent? Put it this way, what kind of person would I be if I took offence to a joke I crack myself but don’t allow my friends to? The thing is; I look different. But my friends don’t see colour in our relationship as anything more than fact. What we are laughing at is racial stereotype juxtaposed with me as an actual interactive human being. So don’t worry lads, you can keep up the good work. But that’s not to say that it’s always ok. Everyone’s different. It’s a bit like anal. If you don’t want to, don’t do it. If you feel pressured, don’t do it. If it hurts a little bit, it isn’t worth it. If there’s a grimace on the receiver’s face, apologise. A lot. And be sincere. If it didn’t hurt the first time but hurts this time, you are free to change your mind. If someone sticks their pee pee up your bum but you don’t want it there, feel free to stick your fingers in their eyes because that shit does not fly. It’s about trust. You meet. You build a relationship. You learn love.Then one day, after trust and security are built, they might suggest that thing. Race jokes are the same. You don’t dive in the deep end until you’ve tested the temperature. Yes, you can crack one about my skin, provided you are a well informed liberal with a good grasp on irony. That sounds specific, but it basically boils down to whether or not you intend on being a cunt. If you still aren’t sure, just don’t do it. Seems easy to me. But I’m not every Asian. I’m not every woman, or every anything. What applies to me and my sensibilities as one British born Chinese is not a rule for the rest of the world. I cannot account for anyone else’s racial sensitivity. Tread with caution.

Now, on the other hand, if I had a friend who was being racist or made a remark which was ignorant or challenging, then we’d have a problem. The first being we’re not friends. Ignorance is almost excusable, but propagating false or dangerous statements is not. Note that tolerance has a place, but I’m not interested in being merely tolerant of Indians or Armenians or Americans or anyone else. No one gets the extras when they only ask for the basic package

Let me give you an example of something that thoroughly rattled my cage. A few weeks ago some chick climbed some mountain and as a display of her mountain prowess stripped off at the top. Not long after I was reading some bullshit status that was being shared around Facebook. 

’30 days in prison for kissing in public in Dubai… Taking your clothes off on a mountain in Malaysia straight to jail… Because you should respect other countries cultures and beliefs… Come to the UK and burn our flag piss on our beliefs murder our soldiers scrounge and scam our system spread all your hatred towards us… And we won’t do shit incase you pull out the racist card… It’s fucked up! Share if you agree!’

The whole basis of the statement is based on ridiculous assumptions. Tourists are not immigrants, immigrants are not terrorists, and terrorists are not lurking behind every bush. If you learn one thing today folks, let it be that. The idea that tourists come to the UK to ‘burn flags’ and ‘scrounge’ is absolutely ludicrous. So let’s say that what he actually meant to say is that immigrants do those things. Logic nor grammar being the poster’s strong points, but I think we can agree that’s what he meant. I have never met a single immigrant who has ever murdered a soldier or pissed on the Union Jack. What he speaks of is extremism which can from from immigrants or, shit you not, white people too. Then we have the indirect claim to cultural tolerance. As it was so elegantly put, it’s all because you’re afraid of being called a racist. Well then sir, not only are you racist but also a coward. A racist in sheep clothing. He hates, but doesn’t want to see it as hate. The biggest danger of all. He makes broad claims about the non-white world (we out number you, remember that) with no evidence, predicated on a belief in Western Supremacy, and he shields himself with Western Law. Western Laws are the most ‘liberal’ and the ‘best’ and everyone else is an ape in comparison. No. You’ve clearly never been to Malaysia… or anywhere more exotic than Shagaluf. (Shit, is that me being racist now?) The laws here are fair and like most other countries, designed for protection. But this prick thinks he lives in the most ‘liberal’ of them all so he must be right. All visitors to the country are here to steal your jobs and rape your cousins. Apparently. 

I’m not saying we shouldn’t be proud to be British. In fact, I am all for patriotism. It harmonises and generally boosts the morale of communities. Who doesn’t love Sunday roasts and Tetley tea? What I worry about is the xenophobia generated by narcissism and far right nationalism. Upsettingly, more and more people seem to feel an affinity with this sort of dangerous thought, and it’s becoming easier to access, even if you don’t want to.

I’m on my way home. I haven’t seen the bonnie ‘burgh in over a year. But sometimes I worry I’m not going to like what I see.

Top 5 foods of Indonesia

Obviously I didn't eat everything. I made an effort, but backpackers can't afford to buy new clothes every time the buttons start to pop. Here’s a list of the best things I ate in Indonesia. 

Suckling pig Balinese style

I know that the internet is full of everyone’s two pennies over Iku Oba’s suckling pork. I’m not an expert. But of a possible 21 meals, two were spent at Iku Oba. The business has responded to the mounting queues by carving in advance, but the product is still delicious. Moist flakes of roast meat, perfect square wafers of crackling, and spicy veggie sides served with rice on a banana leaf. Nothing goes to waste as the blood and offal are transformed into a primitive black pudding. As spit roasted pig goes, you might not get your meat fix, but you’re here for the flavours. Easily my favourite meal in Bali. 

Eat first. Photo afterthought.

Barbecued fresh lake fish at Lake Toba, Sumatra

I am mad keen for fish, keep it simple, fresh, and whole, please. Lake Toba tapped into my heart when every menu offered fresh fish from the lake. The first fish we tried was at Jenny’s (couldn’t resist). It was steamed, stained neon yellow from a giant root of turmeric, and swimming in the juices of at least six more spices. Divine. On the second day however, our twelve year old chef cooked up their speciality of barbecued fish. A couple of beers later an enormous, crisp skinned, white fleshed, juicy fish arrived, accompanied by Batak ‘spesial sos’. Each restaurant makes their sauce differently, this one was vibrantly zesty. So good, we ate it every day. 

Don't let the teeth put you off.

Nasi campur, throughout Indonesia

This is a bit of a cop out. Nasi campur, or ‘champur’, is basically the house dish. You’re never sure of what you’re going to get; you only know it will be awesome. The first one we had was a complete accident. I was becoming hungry angry, and without a Snickers to chew on we had to stop at the first place we found. The server told us all we could have was nasi campur or nasi campur spesial. What arrived was pretty simple in essence, chicken with rice. But the accompanying sides make the dish. In Bali there might be stir fried Asian spinach with coconut. In Java there might be gudeg, a sweet young jackfruit curry. In Sumatera there was often a sort of cabbage pakora. Just relax and enjoy the surprise.

Nasi campur; rice, beansprouts, tempeh, mackerel fishcake, fried shredded chicken,
peanuts, anchovies, satay chicken, boiled egg, crackers and sambal, all on one plate.

Sambal

It’s not a dish in itself. But all across Indonesia you will find your food comes crowned with a healthy serve of sambal, a chilli based condiment. This might not sound exciting, but each patch of Indonesia prepares theirs differently. In Bali they preferred a more raw product, usually chillies and shallots are marinaded and served raw. In Java, the preferred sambal is a sauce. Pulverised chillis and shallots, combined with vinegar, garlic, sugar, salt, and often fermented shrimp paste. Sambal in Lake Toba was similar, but tangier from the addition of citrus, usually calamansi.

Barbecued chicken with three types of sambal

Soto Ayam

Chicken soup, bit not as you know it. Again it is subject to regional variation. In Bali it was a clear broth served with root vegetables and shredded chicken. In Sumatra it became much more exciting. Sumatrans tend to serve their soto ayam as a slightly curried, coconut chicken broth. Both styles are warming and wholesome, though personally I preferred the simpler soto ayam in Bali, with plenty of sambal. Do it like the locals and dunk your rice in the soup. 

My right to eat fried chicken in Asia: A Defence

There we were again. Standing at that long intentionally yellowed plastic counter of KFC, staring at a pictograph depiction of the menu offering different multiples of fried chicken and combinations of sides.

‘I only eat street food’ like Dorothy’s mantra, is repeated over and over between the walls of hostel dorms. It’s a badge of authenticity, the only responsible eating when you travel they tell me. And yet I still find myself, about once a month, pushing through those familiar glass doors.

I used to prescribe to the same rhetoric. I once upon a time wore elasticated harem joggers in authentic batik style polyester too. I instinctively knew how to pose for photos so you couldn’t capture the authentic ‘I love Bali’ monogram on the ankle. I used to think that street food was the only way. I love the incongruous smells of Asia, where aromas are allowed to waft down the kerbs. The obnoxiously indefinably salty smell of umai united with an array of herbs and spices I can’t even pronounce. The vast mosaic of colour and shape complimented by the sounds of woks clattering on the gas stove, and cooks feverishly chopping everything with meat cleavers. The simplicity of presentation; small things skewered onto sticks, things served in bowls, or wrapped up in banana leaf pyramids, or happily slopped onto a plastic plate and served with a spoon. If I see a queue for food, I bound across the street to join it because I know that whatever treat awaits will be worth it. 

I love food. I still haven’t let go of my puppy fat. I hold onto my spare tyre with passion for my next fix. But here I am again, clutching a rectangular brown tray full of junky brown bits and a side of post-mix coke. Without doubt the stuff from the gun is absolute filth. I waddle ashamed into the darkest corner of a tube lit white room and scoff the takings with my fingers like some untamed beast. 

Back home I rarely find myself in the same position. In the year I spent living in Australia I can count on one hand the number of occasions where I ate at international fast food outlets. (Luckily for me, the walk of shame always led me somewhere independent and obviously less shameful) My attraction to fast food outlets in Asia is something else. Whenever I feel a little homesick, which isn’t often, the first thing I yearn for is comfort food. But there is nothing in Asia which even loosely resembles a roast. Roast potatoes, hot or cold, make me weak at the knees. But cooking them requires an oven, a double rainbow in wok-land. For similar reasons most of Asia recreates mediocre pizzas (by the way, those individual cheese slices are not, I repeat, not for pizzas) and pasta is generally served 12 minutes past al dente. So we finally come to the ubiquitous chip and its many many friends. And for consistency, nothing beats international standardisation, provided by the safety of the Golden Arches. My penchant for crispy fried chicken and dislike for clowns however, will always drive me to the Colonel. Even though at home I am an avid fruit-and-nuts-in-my-savoury-salad person who mainly cooks and eats Asian food, sometimes even I falter. Either way, the minute I place my hand on that glass door, I can be perfectly sure of what I am about to receive. A tiny piece of familiarity. 

So the next time you see me sweating, tired, and a little lost, standing in a queue at KFC, leave the food shaming at the door. 

I’ll meet you at the night market later.

A New Beginning

Hoping for a quick smoke, I peeled the lighter from my partner’s sweaty palm, moments before we were pounced on by throngs of hawkers. 

‘Danau-toba danau-toba?’ They greeted. I shook my head. 

‘DANAU-TOBA DANAU-TOBA!!’ they pursued. As I lifted my hand to light my cigarette, the connecting elbow was dragged toward the side of a moving bus. The back door flew open. My 15 kilo rucksack and I were pulled onto the moving vehicle. As promptly as we had arrived at Medan’s decaying bus station, we left. 

They were right to fling us on board. They weren’t hawkers trying to sell me dud anythings but incredibly keen station attendants. On spotting our oversized rucksacks they had correctly anticipated our intended destination. The bus pulled out of the station and gently pushed us into seats. The dreaded strip along the back row. Sweating already from the humidity I  nestled into my stovetop prison, ready for the journey. The cheeky chap that had pulled us on board sat on my knee and put out his hand. 

’40. Each, each’ he said. 

The bus was a dump. It consisted of little more than a tin shell and four wheels. (I didn’t count, I can never be sure.) It juddered on roads, slipped round bends, and bungled over potholes. Cigarette butts were embedded in the floor like a map of the night sky. A limp cloud reeking of cinnamon and tar skulked over and under the seats. The seats, once floral and dainty, were cancerous from second hand smoke. There were two guys guarding the two exits of the bus. Whenever the bus slowed they unlatched the doors and jumped out, threw more people or boxes or unattended canisters of petrol onto the bus, hoisted themselves back on, whistled, and off we went again. During the 5 hour journey the bus slowed at least a hundred times, yet was only stationary twice. (The latter of those occasions of course being when the clumsy foreigners needed to get off the bus) As we moved, the two attendants hung out the windows, whistling at everything that moved, and occasionally banged a screwdriver on the metal handrail. The rest of us, in silence, breathed our hot tarry smoke. 

We left the raw sewers of Medan. We drifted through fields of palm and rubber, past the site where Bridgestone obtain their raw material. It was soon after that we came to the first full stop. An entire band of bongos were thrust into the chaotic holding space behind my head. The boy swung round and sat on my lap again. 

‘Do you like music?’ he asked, knocking on the drums. I winced yes. His face grinned like the Cheshire cat. Suddenly the bus erupted with a screechy rendition of my least favourite ABBA track. Better than no ABBA, I guess. 

As we drove south, the previously sunless sky began to puff its gunmetal chest. Each window clicked shut simultaneously. The skies were gratuitously dark. The clouds burst. Thunder blundered over the cheesy pop. Water drenched the dusty roads, within minutes they were submerged. The bus doggy paddled along the river roads. Gusts of wind rocked the bus. Droplets of rain snuck through every crevice and panel. A thousand tiny waterfalls emerged from the ceiling. Luckily for us, our stovetop prison happened to be the only dry seats on the bus. We giggled as everyone else scrambled, shading their shoulders under scarves and plastic bags. People alighting from the non stop bus were thrown into the newborn rivers with their belongings. We waded further south. 

We turned sharp around a bend in the road. Just as effortlessly as the storm began, it died. Like Truman, we had driven over the edge. The muddy roads were cracking, as though rain hadn’t fallen in fifty years let alone so recently just over the ridge. Dust coated the bus like an ink wheel, tracing our path. We clambered up the bumpy slopes, a meter or three higher at a time. The foliage became more primitive as we gained height, Trees shortened and leaned hard, clutching its last roots on the incline. As we drove higher even the tarmac began to crumble over the hillside precipice. We passed a bus in the alternating direction, stopped by the cliffside. A crowd of teenage boys stood in the grass, crouched over one other. An unlucky victim of the winding road. 

About an hour of incline later, we navigated one final bend and emerged over a giant lip. Only the azure sky lay above us while a triumphant cobalt blue lake winked beneath us. The bus teetered over the crater rim and began the descent. 

Lake Toba is the largest lake in South East Asia, something you will hear repeatedly even after you have comprehensively researched the place and subsequently arrived. More interestingly however, it is the Earth’s memory of a catastrophic event which changed the course of our little planet. Approximately 70 000 years ago a super volcano erupted, erasing everything in its path and plunging the world into a temporary ice age. The explosion left this enormous crater in Sumatra which eventually filled with fresh water. The tiny corner of the Earth which this vast volcanic lake colonised is more than double the size of Singapore. 

Many hotels and guesthouses line the narrow track to Parapat town on the mainland lake edge. Some perspired under the intense sun, cracking in the heat. Some more elaborate ones, blithely shut out the sun with parasols and surplus roofing. Parapat is a strange place. It has all of the trappings of a tourist resort, but the empty accommodation, empty buses and empty restaurants, smack of neglect which sinks deep into the heart of this great lake. Parapat seems to have forgotten what it was doing before the hoards arrived for full moon extravaganzas which have long since relocated to trendier Asian neighbours.

The centre of Lake Toba is occupied by a massive cluster of trees and hills which jut out of the crater lake. Samosir island is the world’s largest island within an island, although personally I would consider the accolade of the world’s largest (and perhaps only inhabited) island on a lake in the crater of a volcano a touch more impressive for the guides… We caught the ferry from Parapat to Samosir and landed at Tuk Tuk. Tuk Tuk village consists of one road which hugs the coast of a tiny wedge shaped peninsula, which protrudes from the much larger wedge shaped Samosir. The island is a benevolent, fertile provider, supplying inhabitants with every essential; coconuts, bananas, avocados, papayas, mangos, corn, rice, chilis, aubergines. Almost anything can be spotted growing on a stroll around Tuk Tuk. 

The natural beauty of this place is undeniably spectacular, but the true highlight is the Batak culture. As you cruise down to Parapat and across the water on Samosir you encounter the most incredible architecture. Little wooden houses with a stunted ladder which leads to a Wonderland style rabbit hole, covered by an enormous concave roof, not unlike the horns of a bull, pointed toward the sky. As you wander the unpaved streets you will find evidence of this previously animist society. Stone and wood sculptures still litter the countryside, particularly as elaborate graves. The faint strums of guitars are audible from valleys half a kilometre away. Even the food takes a step to the right from usual Sumatran fare, the fresh barbecued lake fish is ubiquitous and more importantly, delicious. Best of all is the cultural personality. A feeling of ease caresses the streets, hand in hand with the Batak's sense of humour. (On nearly hitting half a dozen of his neighbour’s hens with his motorbike my guide told me ‘It’s ok, it’s ok! Chicken is cheap’.) 

Despite this, I can see why the masses came and left. The temperatures may be cooler at this altitude but the intensity of the sun burnt even me to a crisp, when it didn't rain that is. A lack of beaches make the idle life difficult for hungover beach bums. Litter is endemic, and, let’s not forget the crazy insects… 

It’s no Bali, no Koi Samui, but Lake Toba shouldn’t be. Though some of its former visitors have been stolen by SE Asian resorts, there is no reason for the lake to reflect nostalgically on the moonlit socials. It is a different place, with a soul of its own worth seeking. Just remember to make time for it. I don’t think we ate a single meal in Tuk Tuk where the cook didn’t prepare everything from scratch. But that is a part of the charm. The a slowness, the disconnectedness from the wider world, and the gentleness in the community. The lake's tourist economy is beginning to see signs of recovery as a new generation rediscover this forgotten island. But the Batak should stick to their guns this time. The tourist economy can be rebuilt without the booze and the... other stuff. It is time for Lake Toba to delve deep into the vast lake and uncover its heart.