Around the World in 80 Dinners - Bill Jamison [52]
After spending much of the afternoon confined to our hotel room by heavy rain, we go for dinner to another regular restaurant, Blue Ginger. It serves Nonya or Peranakan cooking, a local tradition developed when early southern Chinese traders in these waters married Malay women. The men (known as Babas) brought soy sauce, garlic, and onions to the pot, and the ladies (Nonyas) contributed coconut milk, tamarind, and lime leaves. Indian and Thai seasonings, including chiles, entered the blend over time, and centuries later the result is a cuisine distinctive of Singapore.
Unfortunately, Blue Ginger doesn’t earn much distinction itself tonight. Founded by the niece of famous Peranakan cookbook author Leong Yee Soo, it succeeds sometimes but falls flat frequently. The only outstanding item is the constantly replenished pickles on every table—cucumbers, cabbage, and carrots in a light vinegar and citrus dressing, meant to accompany the savory courses. They redeem our otak otak appetizer, mild white fish pounded with galangal, candlenuts, turmeric, kaffir lime leaf, chile, and shrimp paste, then wrapped in a banana leaf to grill. Bland and spongy alone, it needs the pickles for balance. Nothing can save our main dishes, a beef rendang without any of the character of its potent seasonings, and a muddy, clunky version of the Nonya classic, ayam buah keluak, chicken chunks cooked with the nutlike fruit of the Indonesian kepayang tree. Needing dessert to clear our palates, we decide on two shaved-ice options, each topped with a fruit puree. The soursop cream is yummy, but its cousin made with durian—infamous for its odor—starts whispering ammonia more and more loudly after the first few bites. “The Nonya dishes should be much better than this,” Cheryl says. “The kitchen is the problem, at least tonight.” Both of us regret booking our only Peranakan meal here.
On our last morning, we return to the Tekka Centre in Little India. The stalls closed on Monday are now open again, including two that Makansutra recommends highly. Rong Ji Cooked Food serves us chwee kueh, savory steamed cakes with a gelatinous, chewy texture, like glutinous rice. Okay, but not nearly as tasty as the treats at Yan Seng Cooked Food, where the booth’s only words in English are “black carrot cake.” Each of us orders one of the advertised dish, a loosely formed patty of grated white radish, mushrooms, and garlicky Chinese chives bound with egg and dyed with a sweet, dark soy that leaves an appealing molasseslike undertone.
While we’re eating the goodies, a young Chinese businesswoman approaches us to ask, “How do you like the cakes?”
“Wonderfully delicious,” Cheryl says enthusiastically, and the lady pulls up a chair at our table to join us.
She points to the stooped, elderly woman, barely more than four and a half feet tall, who cooked our food and is now making two kinds of dumplings at the table next to us. “She is one of the rare masters left who do everything by hand. Her fans come here from all over the city. I want you to try her dumplings,” she insists, going over to talk to the cook in Chinese and pay for a couple of both types.
Each contains a vegetable filling, sealed in one instance with a rice-flour wrapper tinted a traditional pink and, in the other case, with sesame-seed-coated yam paste. Handing us containers of soy sauce and chile paste, the businesswoman says, “Dip the dumplings in these.”
“Lovely,” Bill acknowledges after a dunk and a bite.
When the older woman sees us using the paste, she smiles and says “Chile,” apparently one of the few words she knows in English. Still grinning, she passes us a small piece of banana leaf holding a bright red dessert dumpling, plump