Join Annie Mehra Cannon, world-traveller, global foodie and now confirmed Kuching lover and local on a deeply personal voyage of discovery through the delights of the first purveyors of produce in the city.
2012.
That was the year we decided we had had enough of living in, admittedly, postcard-perfect Sydney and decided to pack up and rack off to Parts Unknown. It had nothing to do with Anthony Bourdainās TV series of the same name. It had to do with an exciting job offer and an undiminished sense of adventure, even at our advanced ages of 63 and 65. The destination was Kuching. The job offer was for two years. What was the worst thing that could happen? It never occurred to me, back in 2012, that it was possibly the best thing that could happen. And that two years would turn into four, and now 11, the place to relax (not necessarily retire ā I hate that word) once weād decided that this gem of a place had worked its way into our hearts sufficiently enough to make us want to stay.
To be honest, back in 2012, I didnāt even know where Kuching was. When I discovered it was in Sarawak, Malaysian Borneo, I wasnāt deterred. Apart from stories about The Wild Man of Borneo, a name used in the 1800s to name several American circus āfreak showā acts, I knew nothing about the place. We did a 3-day recce first, at the invitation of Mikeās potential employer. I was given a car and driver while my husband attended interviews and, being a passionate cook and baker, I had only one request:
The driver took me to two supermarkets where all I could see were aisles and aisles of instant noodles, infinite rows of jars and bottles with Chinese labels, the contents of which were mostly dark brown, and some imported veggies that had obviously seen much better days. In Sydney, those veggies would have already been composted or gone into landfill. The third supermarket was definitely a cut above the rest, so I didnāt lose heart entirely. In fact, I was amazed to find brands from the US and Britain that I had been unable to find in Australia. And being a cook, I was also ready to experiment with produce that I had never seen before. Tentatively, of course.
Once weād actually made the move, and settled into our rented apartment, I took the opportunity to explore further. A lovely British neighbour, who had lived in Kuching for many years, escorted me to one of Kuchingās wet markets. As I said, that was 11 years ago, but I was already familiar with the concept, having lived in Hong Kong and spent many mornings at Wan Chai market, studiously avoiding the stalls, where live frogs were skinned alive, docile chickens were stuffed into tiny cages, waiting to be decapitated, and live eels slithered in slimy plastic containers, definitely not for the squeamish. At Wan Chai, I had to shop with blinkers on.
Happily, Satok Market had none of the above and was conveniently located in the centre of Kuching. Despite having experienced the markets in Hong Kong, I was completely bowled over by the sheer size, the vibrant colours, the pungent aromas of exotic fruits permeating the air, the miles of fresh, glassy-eyed fish, stacks of seafood, and mountains of freshly plucked chickens, and the heaving masses of shoppers, loading their bags and baskets with produce, most of which I didnāt recognise. Sure, it wasnāt the cleanest place. Not like Singapore. Organic debris littered the pavements but, man, it said āReal Asiaā to me.
Sadly, Satok Market, was eventually demolished to make way for ādevelopmentā but there were still plenty more wet markets I could explore. And so, I did. Kubah Ria across the river replaced Satok, and was even bigger, but somehow, I couldnāt connect with it. It was too big, too hot for this orang puteh, too difficult to navigate and I didnāt like the addition of racks and racks of cheap garments, plastic toys, and touristy knick-knacks. I just wanted fresh produce. Fruit and vegetables. Chicken and fish. Eggs and herbs. Noodles and rice. Plus, there were markets that were closer. Petanak Central Market was good. 3rdMile too. And then I discovered Stutong Market, only a few minutesā drive from home. It had a roof and fans, so it was cooler. It was spotless. It had all the produce I could ever want, mostly local but also some imported stuff like fresh flat leaf parsley, (cause for celebration in this climate), Australian and NZ apples, juicy navel oranges from the USA – you know, stuff I was familiar with.
Slowly but surely, I began to be more courageous and bought local, seasonal items like belimbing merah, an exquisite looking relative of starfruit that turns dark red when ripe; dabai, perhaps the most famous of all the wild fruits and resembles an olive but tastes nothing like it; mangosteen, not at all pretty but an absolute favourite ā a sweet and sour explosion of flavour; exquisite scarlet roselles from which I made the most delicious jam. Terap, cempedak and nangka, all varieties of jackfruit but milder in taste, are all very popular here but I havenāt yet acquired the taste for them. Sweet ruby-fleshed papayas are everywhere. Bananas are plentiful, not only in quantity but also in quality. There are nine or ten varieties of banana in Malaysia, from tiny ones with fragile peels you could almost eat, to gigantic ones that could easily double as lethal weapons. The one fruit that sends people into paroxysms of delight in Malaysia is the stinky durian, which, I have to say, I still find nauseating. But each to his own. (Apologies to the millions who love it.) Lucky for me, those are not sold within the market but outside at separate roadside stalls where they do the least nasal damage. And they are seasonal, so not always available. Phew!
The vegetables are another story, and many remain a mystery. Terung asam (a round yellow vegetable related to an eggplant, though looks or tastes nothing like, and is delicious in soup, daun ensabi (mustard greens), daun just means āleafā so no idea what to do with it yet, cangkok manis, absolutely delicious stir-fried with egg but comes with a warning that it can make your blood pressure soar if you eat too much of it, and then thereās umbut pantu, benda (bitter gourd) and palas (more leaves I think). Tepus is another favourite here (a type of whiteish, pinkish shoot with a distinct taste that is indescribable but authentically Sarawakian.) Bawang kecil (baby red onions or shallots), I get my husband to peel them (he has more patience than me) and then I pickle them and keep them in a sealed jar in the fridge.
āBest pickled onions on the planet!ā my husband exclaims.
Midin, which we love, is a local fern picked from the wild, often in swamps, and only available in Sarawak. You canāt even find it in Peninsular Malaysia as its delicate nature prevents it from travelling well. The markets sell it in neat, emerald-green bunches and it always looks very appealing. I bought it once, put it in the fridge carefully wrapped in newspaper, ready to stir fry with garlic the next day. Big mistake. Twelve hours later, it was black. So, I made an executive decision that I would leave midin to the experts and now enjoy it only in local restaurants. Iāve also been persuaded by some of my favourite stallholders, at what has now become āour marketā, to try various other leafy veggies, but even after 11 years here, Iām ashamed to say there are still many that elude me. Some of the Chinese vegetables Bok choy, especially baby bok choy, choy sum, gai lan (Chinese broccoli) I can cook with confidence. Ong choy (water spinach) I havenāt mastered. Yet.
So, my visit to Stutong Market on a Sunday morning, goes something like this. With husband in tow to carry bags and sometimes supplement my supply of small bills, I begin at the Jungle Produce section. The first face I see belongs to āmy” pineapple seller.
āHey lady, we have the best pineapples today! I know you like big and sweet! I choose for you. Only 8 ringgits ā special price!ā
I note the 10 MYR price tag on the pineapple she has selected and Iām naively grateful.
āIāll take two!ā and then I proceed to wonder how Iām going to use up two humungous pineapples? Apple and Pineapple pie for a start, my husbandās favourite. Banana, papaya, and pineapple smoothies for breakfast. Thick slices of sweet juicy pineapple at any time of the day. Beats a Mars Bar, thatās for sure!
Thereās excellent entertainment at this stall too: a guy whose sole job it is to peel the spiky pineapples with a scary-looking broad knife and then proceed to carefully carve diagonal grooves into the juicy flesh, eliminating all the āeyesā. Itās an absolute wonder to behold. Once I even filmed him in action, much to his amusement.
āSilly angmoh,ā he may have been thinking, but knowing that the people here are so innately kind, I deemed his smile to be more friendly than sarcastic.
I make a sharp left turn to the chicken department where I proceed to the same stall I always go to for a plump chicken, cut deftly into ten pieces by a guy who Iām astonished still has all his fingers. He knows me. He knows exactly how I like my chicken cut. He asks if I also want more chicken wings, chicken feet and a neck or two to make my healing chicken soup. He just knows.
I bypass the fish and seafood section. The fish are different here. I donāt know what to do with them. And I donāt like to cook fish at home anyway, because: 1. The restaurants do a great job with fish and seafood here, 2. I donāt like the smell of fish cooking, 3. I feel guilty eating anything with a face I can see.
Moving right along, I pass individual saucers piled high with bright red and green, tiny chili peppers. Innocent-looking, like precious jewels, but I know better. Take a weeny lick of one of those babies and youād better have an icy cold beer on hand – or a fire extinguisher. Each stallholder has his or her special produce. Mountains of unhusked corn, stems still visible; long tubes of bamboo for ayam pansoh – chicken marinated in various local herbs and spices and cooked over an open flame inside the hollow bamboo; some wispy brown branches that are meant to be burned to keep mosquitoes away; a variety of long beans; things that look like pimply cucumbers; jambu (the local apple); star fruit, passionfruit (when they are in season). There are oodles of noodles; tons of rice ā white, red, brown, and black. I spot bottles of fresh local organic honey, pots of gula melaka and gula apong (varieties of palm sugar); kampung eggs, which are the ones I buy because I like to think of the happy chickens that roam those many villages. Thereās the coconut guy with a machine that removes the husks, decants the milk, shreds the fleshā¦ you wonāt get a fresher flavour for your curries than this. Forget the canned stuff!
And talking about curries, thereās the ever-smiling Indian chap who stands behind his stall laden with colorful mountains of ground spices, whole star anis and cinnamon, pepper, and curry leaves. He sees us coming and, with a huge smile, asks,
āChicken curry mix for you? Not too spicy, yes?ā
āYes,ā I say, proud that he knows me so well. With hands clad in thin plastic gloves, he carefully scoops up exactly the right amount of ground chilli peppers, garam masala, turmeric, coriander, and cumin. He feeds this mixture into a small plastic bag and throws in some curry leaves and lemongrass. Maybe even a stick of cinnamon and some star anis. He assures me I can freeze it if I donāt feel like making the chicken curry in the next couple of days. I feel like Iāve just had the best hug.
We move on, buying a couple of handfuls of ripe red baby tomatoes, some local ginger, and purple garlic. I buy Australian apples, American oranges, New Zealand onions and South African pears from another stall and now Iām almost finished. Except for a papaya, which are really excellent down this end of the market. And then Iām done. My husband and I divide the bags and we struggle back to the car, passing all the lovely familiar faces bidding us farewell for another week. Our bags are carefully placed in the boot, the chicken pieces in a cooler bag containing ice blocks. Itās hot in Sarawak! And then we drive 10 minutes and get home for the next ritual. Unpacking the car. Getting everything inside. Filling the sink with cold water and washing everything before drying and putting it away.
I couldnāt do this in Sydney, New York, or London (although I have to say I do have a soft spot for expensive, beautifully art directed and curated Borough Market, which, as you may have gathered, is very upmarket), But I certainly wouldnāt get the welcoming smiles, the friendly discounts, the variety of exotic produce, the cheap bananas, the āHello, where you from?ā from friendly shoppers, and the parking would cost a lot more than 30 sen an hour, thatās for sure!
Join Annie next month for another ‘Outsider’s Insider’s guide to the other main site of Kuching’s favourite food offering – The Kopitiam
