Hail to the King of Fruits

October 28, 2009 | Location: Singapore | 4 Comments 

It’s been compared to rotting flesh, bad cheese and skunk urine. It’s often banned in hotels and public transport throughout Southeast Asia. Its flesh is fragrant enough to attract monkeys a mile away.

Yet after a few evenings spent with my friend Audran, getting to know the much-vilified fruit better, durian is fast becoming my favorite fruit.

Hail to the king!

An Ill-Deserved Reputation

There’s no denying durian has a strong smell. As soon as its shell cracks and it starts to ripen, the stench will fill the air faster than a fart. In a crowded elevator, things get downright hostile. The stink some North Americans associate with Chinatown is often due to the pungent fruit alone: you’d be hard-pressed to distinguish durian and rotten meat in a blind smell test.

But don’t let the olfactory assault detract you: some of the best things in life can give off quite a stench. There’s nothing quite like the dirty socks smell of an old, runny Camembert, yet the French express only love for their cheese. Likewise, we generally do not turn up our nose on a fine Sauerkraut, or the mature bitterness of a stout beer.

But introduce an unfamiliar food that stinks, and suddenly you hear “garbage”, “rotting meat” or “gym sock”; we reserve words such as “complex”, “pungent” and “commanding” only for the stinks we have grown with.

Leave your inhibitions behind! Embrace the stink!

The Art of Eating Durian

Native to Indonesia and Malaysia, “durian” is the name of the fruit of various tree species belonging to the genus durio. Of thirty durio tree species, six are known to produce edible durian. To further complicate matters, a great number of cultivars exist: cultivated varieties of durian, prized for certain variations in taste, smell, size or texture.

The durian fruit is a huge, oblong mass, covered in spikes hard enough to draw blood. A durio tree can grow as high as fifty meters; I feel for the guy who gets pummeled by a durian on its way down. The thing must hit like a morning star thrown from the back of a bus.

Most of the durian fruit is discarded; people eat the yellow stuff surrounding the seeds, accessed by splitting the husk with a large knife. Depending on the variety of durian, this yellow center can be fibrous or creamy. The Malays and Singaporeans prefer a rich, creamy, custard-like center; in some instances, the creamiest centers have had a chance to ripen enough that they hold a small amount of alcohol.

The Mountain Cat King

Over the course of two weeks, Audran and I had a chance to sample three cultivars of durian; from these, we glimpsed the immense variety of tastes on offer at the court of the king of fruits.

The durian in fashion right now in Singapore is the Cat Mountain King, or 猫山王 (Mao Shan Wang). Whereas a simple durian might set you back $1 USD, the best Mao Shan Wang can set you back $30 USD for two kilograms – weighed with the husk. We also tasted a variety called Tai Shang Wang (太上王), which we found creamier and sweeter, with a nice, bitter aftertaste.

When compared with a lesser cultivar such as D24, the Mao Shan Wang and the Tai Shang Wang deserve their higher price tags. There is not an ounce of fibrous fruit to be found here: everything is ripe, rich yellow, and the kind of creamy that avocados only dream of.

The taste, similarly, is incredibly complex: sweet, with a pleasantly bitter aftertaste and notes of almond and pineapple, and a thick, rich, creamy taste.

After eating durian, you realize how each fruit taste is a single, vibrant note. To eat a durian is to taste an orchestral movement.

Durian Dreams

After the few evenings I spent sharing durian with Helene and our friends Audran, Joëlle, Ben and Nadia, I no longer understand the vilification of durian in the West. When I now smell a durian on a bus or in a store, I long to taste the creaminess of the king of fruits.

If you’re in a country where durian is readily available, I strongly recommend you give it a try. Set aside your preconceptions, and approach durian as you would any refined, complex and mature food or drink.

Chances are, you too will look at strawberries and mangoes as mere subjects in the court of the Thorny One.

Where to Go

Durian is found in many places in Singapore, notably in Geylang, where street stalls line the curb for entire blocks, as well as around Little India. They are best enjoyed in season, between May and September.

You will find durian in a number of other countries around Southeast Asia; the best ones are said to come from Malaysian Borneo and Indonesia. China is the greatest importer of durian, followed by Singapore and Taiwan. The Thai grow a great number of durian cultivars, and Brunei, the Philippines and Indonesia each have their own varieties as well.

In most countries, eating durian is a simple matter of selecting your fruit from a street stall, and asking the seller to split it open for you. You can scoop out the flesh with your fingers. Most importantly, enjoy, and don’t drop any on the sofa!

Drinking the Bones: Singapore’s Soup Tulang

October 23, 2009 | Location: Singapore | 7 Comments 

“Let’s take a dive in the deep end of the pool.” That’s what I told my friend Audran when he asked me how we should start my culinary exploration of Singapore.

Boy, did he ever take me to my word.

That night, our friends Audran and Joëlle, Canadian expats living in Singapore, take us to the Golden Mile Food Center, a legendary hawker center in Singapore’s Arab Quarter.

We find a Tamil Indian man wearing a kufi cap, stirring a cauldron filled with a blood-thick gravy, from which broken mutton bones poke out.

It’s time for soup tulang.

Tidy City, Messy Dish

Conceptually, soup tulang is an antidote to the clichés heard about Singapore. For such a tidy city, the dish, purportedly invented right here in the Arab Quarter, is spectacularly messy.

Let me stress that: don’t go to a soup tulang meal wearing white. Not unless you want to emulate the ending of Stephen King’s Carrie.

The bones we see protruding from the cook’s pot are mutton femurs, roughly broken off near the end. The tomato and chili gravy gives the dish the air of a gruesome Halloween display.

That soup tulang rose to become one of the city-state’s most revered dishes is a testament to Singapore’s cultural diversity. It was invented here, in the Arab Quarter, by Muslim Tamil Indians, also known as Mamaks. The Tamils are the third most numerous ethnic groups in Singapore, after Chinese and Malays.

We ask the hawker for soup tulang. He brings us a large dish covered in blood-red sauce and mutton bones, along with a plate of bread, and a plastic glove each.

Are You Gonna Suck That?

The plastic glove is recommended, although you should be warned that the thick red of the sauce will seep through the cheap plastic.

You eat soup tulang by picking up a femur, and chewing off the meat. The mutton, cooked at length in the broth, is tender and filled with subtle flavors; but the best pieces require persistence and a good set of teeth.

Next, you drink the marrow, which is the entire point of the meal. Some prefer to dunk them like shooters and suck the marrow out, but an easier way consists of sticking the straw in, and drinking it up, like a madman’s slurpee.

Lastly, you take a piece of bread, and soak in the thick, flavorful sauce.

If you’re wearing white, this is typically when you start to wonder how much the dry cleaner will cost you in the morning.

Savoring the Marrow of Life

Later, we emerge from the hawker center, slightly dazed. We might not have eaten the fanciest dish in Singapore’s repertoire, but we have tasted one of its most spectacular.

Underneath the modern metropolis’ glimmering surface, lies a city obsessed by its multicultural food, and willing to dirty its hands for a good meal. Singapore, I know, will be a good place for an adventurous foodie. As long as I stay in the deep end of the pool.

Where to Go

Singapore food lovers agree: the best place for soup tulang in Singapore is in the basement of the Golden Mile Food Center, at 505 Beach Road. The restaurant selling it is called Haji Kadir – M. Baharudeen. Just look for the large, blood-red cauldron with bones sticking out.

That stall has received numerous awards, and was featured, among others, on Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations.

Bali to Jakarta in Four Meals

October 15, 2009 | Location: Indonesia | Leave a Comment 

Babi Guling: Denpasar, Bali

After two weeks in Ubud, Denpasar was a homecoming. The sidewalks, once devastated and dangerous, were now a welcome challenge. Whereas we used to scrutinize the small food stalls, we now embraced the Balinese capital’s food scene with an enthusiasm borne of one too many tourist plates.

You’d think the largest Muslim country in the world would be the last place for decent pork, but on the Hindu island of Bali, they prepare the beast with fine abandon. The pig itself is roasted on a spit for hours, during which the cook rubs the skin with coconut water. This results in a golden-crisp skin that melts in your mouth. This is babi guling, roast suckling pig, and you’ll find plenty of Balinese to call it their favorite dish.

I knew right away that our guesthouse had steered us to the right place. There wouldn’t be any silverware on display here; heck, there weren’t any walls. When it runs out of pig for the day, the restaurant folds up and leaves only an empty sidewalk.

The stall is a museum display of pig anatomy that fell in the hands of a deranged chef: fragrant blood sausage, fried intestines, as well as crispy and curried organs line up from the tail to the golden-roasted head.

Every part is intriguing, surprising and delicious. Listen: bacon has nothing on babi guling.

Soto Ayam: Probolinggo, East Java

We had stepped off the tourist path in Denpasar; now it was time to go get lost in the wilderness outside. Helene and I caught a local bus to Gilimanuk, and during the four hour ride through the hills of West Bali, a poor woman in front of us lost her stomach to the many bumps in the road. Helene gave her some tiger balm to help with nausea, and as rice vomit still sloshed about our feet, we shook her hand as she got off the bus. From Gilimanuk, we took the ferry across the Straight of Bali, then rode a crowded bemo (local minibus) south to Banyuwangi. The next morning, five hours of train took us to the small town of Probolinggo.

Most tourists only see Probolinggo’s train or bus station; but when we explained to a tour operator who tried to corner us into a package deal that we were not particularly interested in the nearby volcanoes, he stared at us as if we had professed a taste for barbecued babies. Yet once we stepped into the city’s traffic-choked streets, we knew we were somewhere special. Smiles and waves soon left us dizzy, as the entire town seemed to cheer our presence. A teenager, his face split in half by a grin, shook my hand, exclaiming, “Welcome to ProboLINGgo!” Everywhere we went, we found simple, wholesome, amazing food, and amazing people cooking it.

We found a small restaurant painted in blue, with an antique vise-like ice shaver in front. It belonged to a pencil-mustached old man, who welcomed us with a gentle smile. Verses of the Qur’an hung on his walls, complementing the man’s quiet, knowing pride. Helene ordered soto ayam: a chicken broth served over rice and bean sprouts, with pieces of chicken and a healthy dose of lime. This was no industrial bird: the flesh was darker from oxygen and exercise. Like the roosters that woke us up in Indonesia, this bird had once serenaded the sunrise.

The next day, we met the man’s three grandchildren, who waved us over from across the street. A small army of excited girls soon crowded Helene, eager to practice their English, and fascinated by the snow on Helene’s postcards of Canada. S-, a neighbor girl, wearing an orange dress and a white hijab, stared at us with wide, piercing eyes. When her face exploded in a smile, she exposed her missing front teeth.

Later, on the way back from an Internet café, the girls waved at Helene across the street. Encouraged by Helene’s response, they were soon cheering at her in riotous enthusiasm. In Probolinggo, I was the partner of a pop star.

On our last morning in town, enjoying the powerful sweetness of kopi (coffee, always served with cane sugar), Helene taught the owner’s two granddaughters and their now hijab-less neighbor how to fold origami frogs. T-, the youngest of the three, showed incredible skill despite her age. S- became braver, and fired off sentences in Indonesian at us, prefaced by the English words ‘My name is’. She figured we would automatically understand anything that came after these three words.

Nasi Goreng: Yogyakarta, Central Java

Two hours to Surabaya, and we crashed for the night. The next morning, we caught an early train to the Central Java city of Yogyakarta, five hours away.

Yogyakarta was everything I expected Ubud to be. Touristy enough to afford us a clean room and a broadband connection, yet far enough away from the tourist circuit that the people we met were gentle, smiling and warm. Here, we slowed down our pace, and decided to wait out the remainder of our stay in Indonesia, sitting on our balcony, watching life go by, only telling the time by the calls to prayer.

At dinner, we followed our nose. One such trail took us down a side street, to the stall of an old woman and her daughter. We stood watching them chop vegetables, then cook them over coals in a thick wok. We sat down and enjoyed an amazing bakmi ayam (noodle soup with chicken). The older woman was so happy to hear me compliment her dish with my rudimentary Indonesian that she soon patted my shoulders every time she came by. She laughed heartily, and I felt I had found an Indonesian aunt I never knew I had.

“Bakmi enak!” she laughed, repeating my words over and over.

The next evening, we came back, but my Indonesian aunt was gone. Instead, her daughter was manning the stall with her twelve year-old girl, who expertly cleaned the wok and tended the coals. Together, they cooked us the best nasi goreng (fried rice) I ever had, and cap cay ayam (sautéed vegetables and chicken) for Helene. We ate slowly, watching the sparks fly from the coals, my adopted niece standing close, fearless, a fire priestess in training.

Java Joss: Yogyakarta, Central Java

Java had provided me an amazing selection of coffee so far, but there was one more cup of java I had to try.

After the mosques announced nightfall, we made our way north of the train station. We found the street: narrow, with low tables strewn across the broad sidewalk to the right, and mobile stalls on the left. A heady smell of roasted coffee welcomed us: it was time for java joss.

We sat on the wooden bench of the smallest stall we could find. The owner put two scoops of coarse coffee grounds in a glass, added unrefined cane sugar, then topped it off with hot water. When the glass was warm enough, he picked up a piece of glowing coal.

The glowing coal went into the glass. Steam hissed, and the smell of caramelized sugar filled the air. Java joss was born before our eyes.

I didn’t sleep that night from the caffeine rush. It was worth it.

Epilogue: Jakarta, West Java

Eight hours after leaving Yogyakarta, we are sitting in an air-conditioned restaurant in Jakarta, lapping up its meager wifi. We have fled the smog and the noise, and are celebrating the end of our 1,000 km trip.

Urged by Ubud to step off the beaten path, we have traveled Indonesia and met its people and food. I think back on Probolinggo and the man who shook my hand. I think of my aunt in Yogyakarta.

I think of all the other meals, too: the Chinese Indonesian woman in Denpasar, and her sweet and spicy fruit. The Muslim woman who served us rice and vegetables. The rice we bought from a street stall in Ubud, our first glimpse of real Indonesian food. The gado gado on a Probolinggo sidewalk. The girls who cooked an amazing nasi goreng near our Denpasar guesthouse. Professor Ayi’s chicken satay (sate ayam) in Probolinggo. The sweet and spicy sate babi – pork skewers – in a dusty Denpasar stall. A fresh durian juice, with tones of onion and Brie cheese.

This is how I was meant to travel: by slowing down, and enjoying people and culture, one meal at a time.

Where to Go

Denpasar has too many amazing street stalls to single them out – brave the sidewalks, and try one out for yourself! For babi guling, you’ll spot them around lunchtime, and they’re usually gone by dinner; ask your guesthouse or hotel for a street stall nearby.

Probolinggo was an amazing experience, but I wouldn’t describe it as ‘beautiful’ or ‘calming’. Your experience may vary, depending on your resilience to busy Asian cities. I strongly recommend Professor Ayi’s sate ayam; you’ll find him with a street cart marked ‘P. Ali’, across from the clock on Probolinggo’s main street. He’s the cart with the lines waiting for take-out.

Yogyakarta offers an incredible dearth of cheap local grub, including the delicious nasi gudeg (rice with young jackfruit and coconut), which you’ll find east of the kraton (Sultan’s Palace). For java joss, you need to go after dark: follow Jalan Malioboro north past the train tracks, and turn left on the first street past the station.

Wherever you go in Java, take the time to stop in the cities not listed in your Lonely Planet. Smile at people, and sit on a dirty sidewalk filled with manual workers or taxi drivers. You’ll be in for a fantastic experience.

All the Way Over There

October 7, 2009 | Location: Indonesia | 2 Comments 

Pain jolts down my back, yet I make it down the next tree root. We passed three groups of tourists so far, and they’ve all turned around. Not us.

A young Australian couple greets us as we near the next bend of the footpath through the jungle.

“Are you coming from Yeh Pulu?” I ask, smiling through my exhaustion.

“Yeah,” says the young guy. “It’s really small, not worth it at all.”

They pass us, and we set about descending a steep path. Helene keeps an eye out for critters and bugs.

A lesser man would have turned around. Me, I’m on a vision quest.

The Vision

It started a long, long time ago, in a country far, far away.

In February 2009, I still had a steady job, an apartment with plenty of stuff in it, and a growing disquiet at the back of my mind. When my good friend John suggested we participate in a Lakota sweat lodge ceremony together, I jumped on the first plane from Edmonton to Vancouver.

I went to the ceremony out of intellectual curiosity, but I got a genuine epiphany out of it. On that day, I admitted to myself that I had already decided to quit my job and travel. In the steam and darkness, I saw spirits dance at the edge of my vision.

I saw something else: a relief carving of the Buddha reclining.

A long, long time ago, in a country far, far away, I set about fulfilling my vision. Eight months, a job, and an apartment full of stuff later, I might just accomplish that task, if I don’t stumble down a cliff to my death.

Ubud Out of the Rain

Ubud has grown on Helene and I. It came at us with nonstop rain and an earthquake, so left us no choice but to relax a little. We still resent the yoga crowd and the uninterrupted flow of pariwisata (Indonesian for tourists.) But we’re learning to relax, and sure enough, days turn into two weeks. We watch the rain fall, and wonder if the sun will ever return. Explained a tour operator, “In the rainy season, not even the holy men of Bali can keep the rain away.”

Yet one of the holy men must have worked overtime. One morning, the sun comes back, and we’re stunned with the possibility of actually doing stuff. Helene mentions Goa Gajah and nearby Yeh Pulu, and says the words ‘buddhist relief carvings’. The quest is on.

Getting to Goa Gajah is a matter of chartering one of the many drivers looking for work along any major street in Ubud. We recruit a guy with a pleasant smile and ear piercings the size of espresso cup saucers. When Helene walked past him the first time, he asked her the usual “Transport?” Then he added, with a touch of desperation, “Please?!” Helene was charmed.

Elephant Cave

Without an expensive guide to make it worth our while, Goa Gajah, the Elephant Cave, is over in a few minutes. We see the cave, take a few pictures, and linger around the stall of a middle-aged woman selling fresh coconuts. When we finish ours she opens it in half, then chops a piece of the shell to scoop the flesh. We exchange a few words, then set about finding Yeh Pulu. Helene read it can be reached from Goa Gajah, so we circumvent the place searching for a footpath.

We find the path lingering along a rice field. We ask a few souvenir merchants: “Yeh Pulu?” They point onward.

When we come across a young French couple and their Balinese guide, we ask again. The guide has a different answer for us.

“You want to go to Yeh Pulu?” he answers in flawless French. “You should go back up to the main road. You can reach Yeh Pulu this way, but it’s two kilometers through the jungle.”

I don’t know why we didn’t turn around right then.

The Path

Our first encounter along the path is with an old man wearing Bali religious garb. We ask him about Yeh Pulu, but he insists that we approach a small altar.

“Bali gods, elsewhere, all the same,” he tells us, his hands joined in prayer above his head. He burns a little incense, then splashes our faces with holy water. I can barely see through my glasses now. Then he points to a 20,000 Rupiahs note ($2 USD) on the altar, and his intent becomes clear. Yet his act is so simple and fresh, we don’t have the heart to shoot down his scam. Helene puts 5,000 Rupiahs on the altar. The old man hides his disappointment. He pockets the note hastily, lest the next group gets the same idea to leave the equivalent of fifty cents. He motions vaguely. “Yeh Pulu.” He readjusts his smile, and turns to the next tourists.

We have passed the guardian of the treshold; Joseph Campbell would be proud.

The path cuts through a beautiful landscape of lush jungle, filled with giant bamboo, coconut trees, and species of fruits we can barely recognize. We even spot a pineapple growing in the wild. The flora comes with a hearty side of fauna, and Helene soon becomes suspicious of omnipresent giant red spiders.

As I put down my hand on a tree trunk for support, it occurs to me I should check where I lay my fingers first. Sure enough, when I finally look, there’s a giant red scarab lying dead next to my fingertips, and he’s being torn to shreds by an army of ants. Lesson learned.

The further we go, the more perilous the path becomes, and the more determined we are not to turn around and face again all that we’ve already overcome. Soon, I’m sweating and aching, and wondering if my next step will take me down the cliff to the dirty water below.

Three groups of tourists have turned around, and warned us against going further. But we press on. I feel like a wushu student being turned away at the monastery to test my resolve. The sun is setting over the jungle. I try not to imagine myself tumbling down in the darkness, rolling over all those red spiders.

Over There

Yet somehow we make it.

We soon come upon a small Hindu temple rising from the jungle. A dark man as thin as his bones, is collecting bamboo rods. He smiles at us broadly.

“Yeh Pulu?” I ask, hopeful.

“Five minutes this way,” he answers in English. He waves at us and shoulders his burden.

As we climb the final steps out of the jungle, we feel we’ve just surfaced in another world. Gone are the tourists, the touts and the organic cafés of Ubud; the tourist buses only make it here by getting hopelessly lost. An old man, watching time crawl by, kindly chases away two growling dogs, then smiles at us. In the distance, we hear the loudspeaker chants of a local temple, accompanied by a clucking choir of chicken. Children beam at us on the streets, proud to practice their English with us. Each time, it goes something like this:

“Where are you going?” they ask with a smile.

“Yeh Pulu?”

“Over there.”

Yet Yeh Pulu still eludes us, and we walk another fifteen minutes. I’m starting to ponder whether “Yeh Pulu” means ‘Over there’ in Balinese.

“Where’s over there?”

“Over there!”

Revelation

My sciatica is throbbing. I’m getting dizzy from dehydration. Yet somehow, ‘over there’ becomes ‘right here’. We enter the path that leads to Yeh Pulu at last.

I start to wonder how I’ll react when I see the relief carving from my vision.

We walk down further steps as the sun sets over rice fields. Men and boys stare at us as we pass a communal mandi (water basin used for washing).

And then here we are. All the way over there.

And the rock carvings look absolutely nothing like my vision.

The Elixir

We retreat from the path’s end, Helene already laughing at me. We stop for refreshments at Café Yeh Pulu, further up the path. I swallow a bottle of water whole. Then I set about drinking a fresh tangerine juice from the nearby orchard.

The juice tastes like summer in the shade. I feel better just by staring at it.

After we’re done, we chat with the owner, a smiling young woman whose husband owns a wood carving shop next door. She shows us the passion fruits growing in her backyard. She asks us where we’re from.

“Do you know how to catch the bemo (shared minibus) back to Ubud?” asks Helene.

“Oooh…” she shakes her head. “There are no bemo at this time. It’s too late.”

Fortunately for us, her husband drives tourists around from time to time, and he agrees to drive us back to our homestay in Ubud for his usual fee, despite having to put down his carving and put a shirt on. The alternative for us was a seven kilometer walk along a ravaged sidewalk, dodging motorcycles who can barely see us in the dark. I make sure to shake his hand when he drops us off back in familiar territory; it’s the least I can do to the man who saved my ass.

Of Visions and Journeys

Now, about that vision quest.

It’s possible my quest is much larger, and the reclining Buddha relief awaits me somewhere else, far from here. Or it’s possible my mind made it all up, and sent me on a meaningless chase without a goal.

But I think there’s another explanation.

Once I stepped out of the comfort of my life in Canada, and set out on this path through the jungle chasing an illusion, I had already fulfilled my quest. The journey is the destination.

What matters is that I got from Edmonton to Yeh Pulu following that dream, so I could sit down in a café and enjoy the taste of fresh tangerines.

All the way over there.

Where to Go

If you’re in central Bali and are curious to see either Goa Gajah or Yeh Pulu, they can be reached easily from Ubud.

The easiest way to reach them is by chartering a driver, which should cost you approximately 150,000 Rp ($15 USD) for the ride over, and the return. You can also get there by bemo, but as my tale illustrates, try and make it back before sundown.

The jungle footpath isn’t such a hard trek if you’re  prepared for it. Make sure you have good shoes. If you want to just go to Yeh Pulu from Goa Gajah, you should make it back to the entrance; you will be able to access Yeh Pulu from the main road.

Entrance to Goa Gajah and Yeh Pulu each cost 600 Rp ($0.06 USD) per person.