Bangkok Glutton

I have been to Goa before. I have even — when this blog was but a glimmer in my eye — traveled through northern India, on a train optimistically known as the “Palace On Wheels“. Every time I go, I am struck anew by how little I know, especially about the food.

Alas, our jaunt to Mumbai was but a blip in the schedule, taken up with the three (!) methods of commute — bus, boat and rickety, doddering old train –needed to get to the Elephanta Cave, which told the story of Shiva: his role as creator, his time as protector, and, inevitably, his evolution to destroyer, all in order to start up the cycle all over again.

As interesting as the story behind the cave was (first as a temple, then as a place used by the Portuguese to store their weaponry, then as a place destroyed by the Portuguese so that the succeeding British could not store their weaponry, now as a de facto monkey hotel), the only local bites managed were of a few bags of nuts offered streetside before hopping back onto the decrepit train. Happily Goa promised more: a trip to a spice farm with lunch.

Now, many of the spices grown in Goa are can be similarly found in Thailand (also arriving courtesy of the Portuguese): cashews, from which the apple-like fruit attached to the nut is used to make a brutally strong liquor called “feni”; nutmeg and its sister, the red, lacy webbing called mace; and bird’s-eye chilies, of which our guide said, to our amusement, that one would only use for oil — unless one had an enemy which one wished to dispose of, in which case one would serve these peppers fresh.

All the same, we learned things about the spices we ourselves use daily: that the different types of the “king of spices,” the peppercorn (green, black, white and red) are simply the same “berries” at different stages of aging, either peeled of their skin (white) or aged in the sun (black) to create different flavors. We knew lemongrass had mosquito repellant properties; we did not know this of saffron, the most valuable spice in the world (but then again, who would waste saffron by using it to chase away bugs?) We discovered that good cloves bear brown “buds”; when they go black, the cloves are old (a fact impossible to discern from the bud-less cloves on supermarket shelves). We were told ways in which to flavor our sugar with the world’s second most valuable spice, vanilla (halve your pods and stick them in your sugar for a week, and it will smell of vanilla for six months). And when it comes to cardamom, the “queen of spices” and the third most expensive spice in the world, you get health benefits up the wazoo, fighting everything from acne to depression to cancer.

So yes, it was a diverting morning spent rambling around the farm grounds, but it was of course all just a prelude for the real event: lunch. Once one of Portugal’s footholds in South Asia, Goa hosts a cuisine that features seafood, coconuts and rice prominently alongside pao (Portuguese bread), patoleo (rice pudding flavored with coconut steamed in turmeric leaves), caldo verde (the Portuguese love their soups) and the ever-present cashew.

A generous spread awaited us when we returned to the farm’s main building: pao and two kinds of rice, one scented with saffron; deep-fried and breaded prawns and dried, salted tranches of the local kingfish; a runny shrimp curry; a vegetable “gravy” that included pumpkin and beetroot; a watery yellow dal; stir-fried squash; a sort of “tempura” of cauliflower; spicy lime pickles; a fresh salad of mostly shredded cabbage; and my favorite, a chicken xacuti curry showcasing poppy seeds, coconut and dried red chilies.

To finish — besides the patoleo and shot glasses brimming with the farm’s own feni — was a savory drink made from kokkum, a plum-like fruit related to the mangosteen and said to aid in digestion after meals and to suppress hunger pangs before them.

Once again I had discovered something new. I relished the salty, slightly acidic flavor of the infusion, somewhat easing the sting of my cowardice in refusing the feni, made fresh on the premises by a man clad only in a turban and dhoti who squashes the fruit with his feet. My only regret is that this will surely necessitate yet another Goan trip in order to screw up the resolve to finally try the feni, as well as anything else that India seeks to throw my way.

If there is one thing that has been made clear during my world cruise so far, it is the noxious effect that colonization has had on every country it has touched. Some countries, like Papua New Guinea, have been left like empty husks sucked dry, shriveled shadows of what they might have been had they not met the likes of the Dutch; others, like Samoa, held onto simply as an accessory, divided up without its knowledge among strangers who wished to keep up with their neighbors.

Then there is Vietnam, once under the French, who were able to take back their independence after many bloody years. As much as the French claimed to have used colonization as a vehicle by which to spread their culture, quite a few of their subjects appear to have been unwilling to receive this particular gift — Northeast Thailand, full of Vietnamese communities who fled during French occupation, can testify to that.

And then there are the British. Although I personally have not experienced overt colonization, much less by the British, their way of doing things came back all too vividly after a rewatch of the movie “A Passage to India”, based on the anti-colonialist book of the same name by E.M. Forster, which was screened on, of all places, the television on our cruise ship. What I saw was that the British were particularly clever in enriching themselves on your resources, all the while convincing you that they were doing you a favor in doing so. It is a particular skill that, for example, persuades you to go to a garden party at a “whites only” club where you will not be allowed to sit, eat, or take shelter from the sun, and feeling thankful for the so-called privilege. That, in a nutshell, is being part of the British Empire. It made me better understand the prevailing attitudes around the current King Charles and his upcoming fancy hat party.

It made me better understand a lot of things, actually. Although the time for these types of empires is fading, colonialism lives on in a more modern, pertinent way, via capitalism. Like in the days of the British Raj, capitalism prescribes that some people are treated better than others, this time in accordance with how much they are perceived to be able to consume. This is usually dictated via the old rules of colonization, which tends to draw things along racial lines. Hence the old resentments about ancient jewels on crowns, and the toppling of statues, and the demand for old marbles. These are the only actions available to people who cannot protest the system that they live in.

But the most pernicious effect of colonization isn’t poverty. It’s that, when you are accustomed to being treated as “less than” by others, you persist in treating yourself (and others like yourself) as “less than”, even when the others are gone. Events like the ascendance of the Khmer Rouge and Idi Amin are pointed to as evidence of a people not being able to govern themselves, when really they are reactions: what does it matter what they do, when it’s just themselves after all?

This is a strange intro for a post ostensibly about food in Penang, but it feels like it can’t really be helped; colonization hangs like a ghost over every street.  Unlike Kuala Lumpur, which, as global as it is, still feels like a city made by Malaysians for Malaysians, Penang — with its shabby-chic shophouses and well-kept forts — hearkens back to another time. Many people enjoy that feeling; for whatever reason, Penang’s particular brand of charm left me cold.

What did not leave me cold, of course, was the food. Malaysians like their food like their durian: heavy-hitting and potent, intense almost to the point of bitter, just on this side of ponderous. Indeed, Malaysian food tastes like how dark soy sauce looks: glossy and inscrutable. We got our first helping of these flavors at Tek San, which was packed to the gills with the lunchtime crowd. Our generous hosts joked that our meal here would only be an appetizer, a threat that I, alas, did not take seriously. We ordered a dark, shiny stir-fry of lardons and another of pork with capsicum; black-flecked tiger prawns; three-layer pork with soft taro; chili-laced clams; and a stingray curry with okra. All packed enough of a flavor punch for three times as much food, but our hosts weren’t finished.

Instead of taking us back to our ship, they took us to see Uncle Tan, dubbed the “King of Noodles” in Malaysia by the BBC. Also known as the “Goggle Man” for the goggles that he wears while cooking, Tan Chooi Hong is famous for his char guay thiew, made with flat rice noodles charred by a supremely hot wok and topped with prawns. Accompanying him were vendors serving oyster omelets, lo bak (various types of tofu on skewers with a dipping sauce), assam laksa (a type of noodle special to Penang), and cendol (green rice flour squiggles with red beans, shaved ice, and coconut milk).

I’ve had oyster omelets before and the one here is generous, with lots of big, plump oysters on top; the char guay thiew, as well, was familiar yet delicious. What I was most taken by, however, was the assam laksa, which, after its first swampy sip, somehow ingratiates itself to your palate. If Thai food has a funk, this one has a whole symphony of it, a mix of nam prik gapi (shrimp paste chili dip), gang som (sour curry), and nam pla waan (sweet fish sauce) that is leavened by slices of fresh cucumber, pineapple chunks, and glass noodles. Against all my expectations, I ate it all, leaving only a little room for the lo bak and cendol.

Even with all the wonderful food, I must admit I was relieved to finally be deposited by our hosts back to the ship, having had as thorough of a taste of Penang as was humanly possible. I honestly don’t know if I will be back, but I do know that if I do return, it will be for the food.

In many respects, Bangkok is locked in a rivalry with Singapore, but it’s one that Singapore doesn’t really know about. It’s like the rivalry between the Cleveland Browns and the Cincinnati Bengals, or between me and Martha Stewart — one side constantly pushing, pushing, the other side going “who?”

So it makes sense to view Singapore with a little bit of trepidation, especially since it’s the one buzzword that every single official in Bangkok’s government chooses when asked about the “vision” for a future Bangkok. When Thais claim to want Bangkok to turn into Singapore, what they mean is “orderly streets”, “clean sidewalks”, “rule of law”, and an obliging, compliant populace. You and I both know that this is never going to happen in Thailand (the ban on online porn alone is impossible). Yet the officials continue to bang their Singapore drum, clearing out the low-hanging fruit, like mobile vendors…(uh, that’s it because no one wants to make the effort to fine litterers) on a quest to one day, some day, be like Big Sis SG, wildly divergent GDPs be damned.

Singapore is often the brunt of jokes from other Southeast Asians. “Disneyland,” sniff some, and “sheep,” decry others; “They stole all our dishes,” claim the Malaysians, who have a case. Yet the evidence is clear — Singapore is a beautiful city, run very well, even if wealth and power are all centralized and the whole system vulnerable to a Singaporean Trump who can ruin everything. The restaurants are good, the parks are lovely, and the hawker centers are well located and clean. It’s little wonder that visitors who view the chaos and arbitrary nature of Thailand and Cambodia as frightening find refuge in the logic inherent in a place like Singapore…even if the service still, even now, kind of sucks.

I can say this because my husband, once again, was miffed after a server bearing a tray laden with soups shouted at him to get out of the way. This was at Ng Ah Sio Bak Kuh Teh, a longtime favorite of the family and much looked-forward-to by a person who professes bak kuh teh, pork ribs stewed in a peppery broth with rice, one of his favorite dishes in the world. Our server was nicer after, with typical Chinese straightforwardness, he noted, “Oh, you ordered a lot.”And we did: there was also three kinds of tofu, and pickled cabbage, beef liver, boiled peanuts, deep-fried crullers, and a smattering of greens. “It’s very light,” he reassured us, noting my stricken face on seeing the crowded tabletop.

The verdict? Honestly, meh. The meat clung to the bones like Bangkok officials to a Singapore map, victim to too few hours in the soup pot. I told my mother-in-law that she made a better bowl, and I meant it!

That evening, when everyone else was celebrating the end of yet another leg of the cruise at a beautiful venue with too little food, my husband and I met our friends Khim and Galen at Chin Chin Eating House, famous for its Hainanese chicken rice, which is one of Singapore’s national dishes (even though it’s from Hainan?) We got there at 7pm during a torrential downpour, and no chickens were hanging in the window, prompting a mini-panic attack from my husband. “Quick, reserve one!” he said, prodding at my arm, but I was adamant that we would be fine, since the flood of people seated after us would have seriously revolted if left without chicken on their tables.

Because Galen and Khim might have felt bad for being a bit late, they ordered EVERYTHING: half a chicken, four bowls of fatty rice, sambal-laced morning glory, dou miao (a kind of Taiwanese sprout, seen on every table), a smoky char guay thiew, a mountain of prawn mee, and most intriguingly a “pork chop” with gravy and peas resembling the dish found at Thai cook shops, first started by Hainanese chefs in Bangkok many decades ago.

Unlike in Thailand, the pork chop is served with the tomatoey gravy on the side, so that the pork retains its tonkatsu-like crispness. I have to say, it’s a great idea.

As for the chicken rice, well, both Malaysians and Singaporeans make a much bigger deal over the taste of the chicken and the quality of the rice than we Thais do. Yes, indeed: chicken rice is made by steaming the chicken and cooking the rice in the fat that drips off the flesh, yadayadayadayada. Thais only care about the sauces, and here at Chin Chin? You mix your own. I’m not sure whether to be outraged or elated. My only real criticism is that they do not give you enough fresh garlic or chilies, for when you really want to go Thai on a chicken rice’s ass.

The next day, we walked through Tiong Bahru Market, which hosts a fairly famous food center with not one, but TWO Michelin-starred vendors. There were no Jay Fai-level lines, and no hysteria about getting your food before everyone else, unlike at popular food places in Bangkok. It’s sedate enough that I might even be able to take my mother — that’s how orderly I think it is.

It would make sense to sit down and enjoy a meal there, but the real objective of our trip was just down the road, at De Golden Spoon Seafood. Famous for its crab bee hoon, this restaurant sits right in my sweet spot: old, mostly empty, delicious.

But crab bee hoon (crab with rice vermicelli in a gravy) isn’t the only thing you should order here. There’s also black pepper crab, thick enough to stay under your finger nails, and crab swimming in a lake of tomatoey curry, roe-studded crab parts barely visible above the murk. There are razor clams stuffed with glass vermicelli and garlic, and Chinese kale, stems shaved and served in a thin hoisin sauce. And there is chicken fried rice, for your son who eats nothing.

What transpired was my favorite meal in Singapore, in a fairly rundown restaurant resembling the eateries you find next to the gas station on the highway in Southern Thailand. Cooks were wildly generous with the crab roe, the crabs themselves enormous enough for us to suspect they hailed from Australia instead of Sri Lanka. My only complaint is that I did not have enough space in my stomach to eat it all.