Reading Memories pt. 1: Kyoto

The coffee is blistering, and outside, the din of the Oi River roars on. I’m in a glass cave of the Arabica cafe, by the pale rolling hills of the Arashiyama forest in Kyoto. It’s possibly the most charmingly modernist cafe I’ve ever been to – purely by chance – while trying to dodge a heavy drizzle misting the air.

When the air stills, I step outside and to a little bench built out of concrete, and sit watching the water with a book and a hot, foamy coffee. An hour later, I would follow the emerald river towards the first of two yuba kaiseki meals of my stay, this one an immense multi-course lunch at The Shoraian.The walk to the cottage was muddy and my shoes were soaked. The staff greeted us with much clucking and when I found my shoes later, they were wrapped in newspapers to dry them before I left. At the beautiful restaurant, a traditional Japanese cottage, we were served soft, tofu gratin and lightly seared beef blanketed in spring onions.

I think of my trip to Kyoto every now and then, especially when I get on a bike (nothing like the hilly terrain of Kyoto to teach one bicycle skills), and also when I look at the large bookshelves in my house. On one of the shelves, is Kazuo Ishiguro’s An Artist of the Floating World, a book I brought with me during my stay. The wandering narrative, full of lingering guilt, was a meditative read by the Oi. When I pick it up now, in breathes memories of walks by the Kamogawa (or the Duck River) where the Great Egrets frequent and an afternoon was spent gulping arrowroot mochi off toothpicks with my friends.

Uokatsu and Conversations

It’s been a hot, balmy sort of week in Malaysia, the first back in “real life” after Christmas and New Year’s. Morning commutes are back, as are conversations – frequent and excitable – with friends who have shed their holiday skins to return to daily drudgeries. Everyone is home smelling like wild travels, tales and rubbing sleep from their eyes. I pack up a jacket, still chilled from wintry Taipei.

We invariably talk about food. Travel food, breakfast resolutions (which I have made as well, but we’ll save that for another post), and dining plans for the year. I’ve started the new year with range, from a 5-course degustation meal, a home-roasted whole chicken with chorizo a la Gordon Ramsey, trying out a healthy delivery service, lok lok from a truck and Indomee at 1am – made more delicious if you’re in a mamak dressed in black tie. A wonderful start to a year of eating, except for the 5-courser at Bistro a Table which was drenched mostly in truffle oil. Truffle oil is like small talk to me – good in small doses but terrifying in an enclosed room for a full three hours.

The conversations I do like are the ones held over vats of simple food, loudly with an urge to spill guts, stories and more over cups of barley tea. And a place I love to have them is Uokatsu, a small nondescript restaurant in Hartamas, Kuala Lumpur, that is both a specialty seafood shop and kitchen.

Tucked into an unglamour block of office building, it’s garnered an unlikely following among Instagramers thanks to photogenic bowls of mentai rice and sashimi served on wooden platters. Mentai is the new crack of sushi-lovers in Malaysia: you see it on everything – heaped on nigiri of all sorts, drizzled across rolls and blanketing seared scallops and Shimeji mushrooms. It’s usually done in a similar fashion: mentaiko (pollock or cod roe) mixed with mayonnaise and then blowtorched. At Uokatsu, they’ve taken it a step further, because who wouldn’t want to eat a whole bowl of nothing but rice, tamagoyaki and mentai sauce?

I bring friends here in rotations because truly, I could eat here all year round. Had a bad day? Let’s go to Uokatsu! Got a promotion? Uokatsu for you! This week I was here again after a tumultuous couple of days, feeling slightly winded. There’s nothing like a good mentai rice, onsen tamago and sashimi platter to have a happy, languorous lunch over with great company and conversation. As per usual, the rice was on point, the sashimi platter (if you’re lucky you’ll get a dollop of uni, otherwise fish choices outside of salmon tend to be seasonal) faultless, the egg silkily swimming in a broth of dashi, mirin and soy sauce.

In a noisy room full of other happy eaters, there’s barely a chance that your own conversations, fortified by Japanese comfort food at its very best, could be anything but good ones.

 

Living in Kitchens

After a night of cold pizza and one too many paper cups of iced peach tea, I woke up on New Year’s Day determined to sit and exorcise the ghost of last year (night)’s bad eating, in the kitchen I grew up in.

Still warm, cocoa-coloured and washed in sunlight, my mother was already up and kneading dough with a fervour and stuffing puff pastries full of curry chicken and potatoes. She made raisin bread and a “curry puff” today, which we proceeded to offer to my two year-old niece only to have her first reject it, and then love with a zeal. A couple of hours of sitting with a bowl of curry laksa at the table surrounded by family and a toddler (who was by then hunting and brandishing raisins from the loaf) was sunshine enough.

I grew up in this kitchen, with its foldable chairs, laminated table top and old-school cabinets with button handles. Some of my favourite memories in this room involve pitting dates with my mother, cleaning tiny anchovies with family and learning to chop vegetables with the chai dao or cleaver, the only knife you really need in a Chinese kitchen. Growing up, my nanny, Che, would walk me home from the kindergarten down the street, and then straight to the kitchen for a drink. A steaming cup of Milo for me, and Nescafe from a 3-in-1 packet for her. We would both lean back on our chairs, the kitchen bathed in late afternoon light, Chinese watercress soup boiling on the stove, and sigh in contentment. Tan sai gai she would call it, or in English, to enjoy life. Years before I had even heard the Italian phrase la dolce vita, I was living it with my Che.

It sounds cliche and it probably is, but I’ve never had a bad day in the kitchen. Sure, there was the day my chai dao fell and our tiled floor saw specks of scarlet; tears that fall involuntarily when talking about old boyfriends over the table; or arguments that would make even the steamed tofu quiver – nevertheless the pieces get sweeped up again, some words of comfort dispensed, and soup ladled to soothe.

Today, after stuffing myself silly with chilled Bartlett pears, I made some tea but got distracted – smashing my favourite cup on the kitchen floor. It was my best cup from London and a constant companion through dreary winters and university essays, one which I wrapped lovingly in a throw and shipped home. Staring at the broken cup shards and its disfigured strawberry motif felt like a terribly omen for the year ahead. My mother came breezing in, ever resourceful with a broom and dustpan, sweeping it up:

“Lok dei hoi fa, fu guai weng wa”

“What does that mean?”, I asked, still picking up bits of porcelain.

“When it hits the ground, it blooms, and so will your prosperity!”

And that’s why nothing very bad can ever happen in the kitchen, even if you break things.

 

Taipei: Chicken Breakfast

It’s almost New Year’s Eve on a blistering morning in Taipei, somewhere by Hua Ting street, and steam is rising in clouds from a street vendor’s cart surrounded by down-jacketed uncles and a happy lunch crowd of well-heeled office workers. Noodles are being blanched in Hei Dian Ji Rou (黑點雞肉食堂) and cold chicken served, salty and refreshing, topped with a shower of cilantro.2015 is ending somewhat on a high – but a confusing one at that. It’s been a strange year full of uncomfortable goodbyes, hesitant hellos and bizarre new discoveries. I find myself today very much on my own (though surrounded by an uncommonly excellent troupe of friends), in a job that baffles those around me (think numbers and fluorescent lighting); in my weaker moments I would have preferred to hide in a blanket burrito and tell today to come tomorrow, but here I am in Taipei, chomping on chitterlings and oozy soft-boiled eggs, happy as a clam. If told me a year ago that this would be my year-end, I would have sent you straight to my mother’s kitchen for a bowl of steadying chicken broth.

Steadying is how I would describe eating in Taipei, with the cuisine often so subtlety flavoured but still robust, fulfilling in nature. I would eye the ma po tofu, aubergines cooked with minced pork and three-flavoured chicken in Ji Jia Zhuang (雞家莊) expecting a punchy mouthful of Cantonese saltiness, only to be surprised by delicately smoked skins and gently marinated soy-sauce chicken thighs. Similarly, the xiao long bao and fried chicken in Jin Ji Yuan (好公道金雞園) were deliciously rustic and comforting all at once, not too salty, and without the expected refinement of more popular xiao long bao chains.

As the temperature dipped and Taipei warmed itself with more bowls of pork soup and soy milk, I find myself looking happily towards the new year, full of recipes to try and recreate, a kitchen table waiting to be laden with food, more writing to be done and finally, moving forward with life in general. There is something about wintry air that stills you, and brews a pleasant urge to make some stew, and for one’s food and self to be – steadying.

Happy New Year, readers. May your new year be as happy as a bao!

Nobu (Kuala Lumpur)

Few chain restaurants can arrive on any shore with the kind of pomp and circumstance Nobu dictates. With early whispers of its impending arrival in Kuala Lumpur, the blogosphere buzzed along with a flurry of geotags on Instagram the moment its large double doors opened on the 56^th floor of the Menara 3 Petronas. At the helm of the Kuala Lumpur chapter of this franchising juggernaut is Chef Philip Leong, himself already a familiar name to the London set who frequent the fashionable Nobu on Berkeley Street, returning to weave some local colour into Nobu’s already intriguing Japanese-South American cuisine.

I arrived on a wet Friday evening a few weeks after the opening and was ushered into a lift the moment I arrived at the building’s lobby. The service was alarmingly attentive and we were escorted through two separate elevator rides until we arrived at the right floor. There’s nothing like a bit of theatre as an aperitif. The interiors of Nobu Kuala Lumpur were as expected, beautiful with classic muted tones of timber, glass and cream. The entrance leads to a waiting room that I suspect doubles as a private dining room when called for, with the dining room centered by an imposing and dramatically lit bar. The restaurant has unrivalled views of the Kuala Lumpur skyline and from our table, a front row seat of the lit Twin Towers.

Now on to some personal disclaimers – my first experience of Nobu was at the very heart of the chain, a small and visually underwhelming eatery in New York City. The food blew me away. It was one of those perfect culinary experiences coupled with a perfect jazz evening that becomes mythical in one’s memory, the pinnacle of New York, New York. These were followed by lackluster meals at the Nobu in Park Lane, London in my earnest attempts to recapture the magic of New York. I’ve come to the simple realization that Nobu was not unlike what Mel Brooks thinks of pizza or sex – When it’s good, it’s really good. When it’s bad, it’s still pretty good.

On that evening in Kuala Lumpur, a quick glance through the menu informed that like other Nobu restaurants, Chef Lim had tweaked his offerings to suit local palates as well as ingredients. The Monkfish Pate with Caviar was missing, as was the incredibly addictive Snow Crab in Creamy and Spicy Sauce found in London. Nevertheless, many of Nobu’s greatest hits were there for the picking and I went first for the Tuna and Salmon Tacos, deliciously tangy with the accompanying salsa. The legendary Black Miso Cod was seared with a crispy edge and a melty center that was cooked just right; the sauce was well infused into the clear white flesh and it went down with a lingering, smoky aftertaste. The first true triumph of the night. After that, the shimmer of Nobu’s adventurous culinary offerings fade with several misteps –one of which I was particularly disappointed about: The Yellowtail Sashimi with Jalapeno. It’s my favourite dish at Nobu. A love affair that began in Manhattan – it flew with me to London where I would hunt down replicas including the similar (but far less expensive) yellowtail appetizer in Bone Daddies. The dish on this evening looked exactly the way it should: the yellowtail glistening with life and the yuzu dressing generous. The trouble is that the jalapenos, well, they tasted more like green chillies instead. It’s certainly a local twist, but a shocker. It felt like I bought seats to a Stones concert only to hear “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” hammed up by a cover band instead. When I asked my very friendly server if they used a local variation instead, he insisted that it was definitely jalapenos. Perhaps it is the Malaysian soil? What followed was a dull, overcooked Roasted Local Shrimp with Shiso Salsa, followed by a bland Chef’s Selection of Sushi with the fish falling off the pearls of rice, a sure sign of haphazard sushi construction. Needless to say, by the time the desserts were ready to be served my excitement had deflated substantially.

The dessert however, was delightful. Chef Lim’s adaptation of a Malaysian favourite was particularly noteworthy in Ice Kacang Nobu Style, basically a deconstructed ice kacang with yuzu, shaved ice, coconut milk, mango, green tea mocha, roasted coconut and azuki beans. Alternatingly chewy and crunchy, the flavours were wonderfully paired. A clear winner. The Yoghurt Sub Zero was also done well, tangy and sweet. This time it came with a “Happy Birthday” written in chocolate sauce on the large plate it was served in, another testament to the attentiveness of the wait staff. The service at Nobu KL is truly faultless.

At the end of the day, Nobu KL came with a couple of hits and misses, but I won’t be writing it off just yet because of the sheer strength of the menu. Another question I’d like to have answered in time is how will Nobu’s expensive dishes hold up against the Malaysian spending propensity? Already the Omakase menu comes in at a pricey RM380++, a sum higher than that of other excellent Japanese restaurants in the city like Sushi Hinata and Kame Sushi. The Black Miso Cod is also an eye-watering RM160, and Nobu is not a restaurant you go to for no frills sashimi flown in from the Tsukiji market. You go for the theatrics – and that means ordering its greatest hits dressed in yuzu, miso and coconut, not the more affordably priced sushi platters. Nobu is not exactly value for money. You will laugh, and then tear slightly when contemplating the maddening prices on the menu, but you will come back for a special occasion for one more bite of that cod, or to at least try the first Nobu on this side of South East Asia.

When you’re hungry, read about food

On an afternoon of focused food-reading (it’s almost sadistic on an empty stomach), I stumbled upon Frank Bruni’s wonderful review of Per Se for the New York Times in 2004. A couple of articles and lots of salivating later, I dug out an old copy of his memoirs and have been happily flipping through his marvellously engaging prose, a skill that enables even the most distressing of his childhood memories to be read with something akin to liquid courage.

It’s a great read. Especially on a rainy day with one too many cups of espresso.

Mish Mash (Muntri Street, Penang)

Earlier this September, I found myself on Muntri Street in a quiet nook of a bar called Mish Mash. It was pushing midnight and on a Sunday; most of Penang’s responsible tourists have milled out of the city or retired for a long drive tomorrow. Less responsible tourists like S, P and I were just getting started.

So there I was muttering all night about how original and non-pretentious the bars in Penang were. I was charmed by my weekend of bar hopping, never once did I feel the urge to leave abruptly because I couldn’t stand another loop of Monsters and Men over the stereo. Mish Mash threaded dangerously close to hipster territory however (but thankfully sidesteps it), with its giant mural of Kirin Beer, strategic location amongst flashpacker hostels, jars of herbs parked merrily next to the Cointreau, and the reputation for creating the best “craft cocktails” this side of the island; this was negated by a menu of truly delicious drinks that were clearly designed to please and not to shock, a pleasant surprise after the horror of a bacon and Milo cocktail elsewhere the night before.

A standout was a stellar drink aptly named the Supernova. S read good reviews and was persuaded to part with her money for a nice glass of it despite it being advertised as non-alcoholic (shock, horror!). P was quickly dispatched to the bar to procure a glass; he came back announcing gleefully that the bartender offered to throw in a shot of vodka (he then changed his mind and decided to put gin it). He had obviously seen us putting our drinks away like famished school children after a hot day out and decided to give our alcoholic choo-choo train some extra wheels. The Supernova was now a real, grownup cocktail.

And it was wonderful.

A potion of gin, thyme, white peach puree, apple juice, with a garnish of Rozelle hibiscus and dried pineapple, it tasted round and warm with the thyme giving the drink a nice earthy kick. Visually it was appealing as well, with the liquid a subtle mauve speckled with green, suspended thyme bits – not unlike a glitter lamp.

“It tastes like a kitchen garden flooded with sweet liquor,” I said, trying to be lyrical.

“It tastes like pizza!” P responded excitedly.

Now if only more people like P and the good people of Mish Mash would open a craft cocktail joints in KL, the city would have its pick of Non-Pretentious bars that everyone (pizza lovers included) would be able to genuinely enjoy. I left feeling perfectly satisfied, even at home amidst the bar’s exuberant artwork and plumes of cigar smoke, and went in search of good oh chien, not because I needed to feel less pretentious, but because all that talk of kitchens made me hungry.