Wonton with a Difference

Stepping into the supermarket is no big deal these days. But it wasn’t always so.

Back in the 1960s, the 4 or 5 supermarkets in Singapore were very exclusive places, frequented only by “ang moh” (Caucasian) residents and expatriates, and very well to do Singaporeans. The rest of us did our marketing or grocery shopping at neighborhood wet markets and provision shops (or “mama shops” as they were known). There were also many small cottage industries that churned out foodstuffs, such as fresh noodles, for residents living nearby.

I loved these small shops and the people who ran them, as they had their own secret recipes and particular identities. For instance, some shops specialized in soy sauces, and various types of bean pastes and sweet sauces, which they made themselves, or, in turn, obtained from other cottage suppliers. Back then, there was greater variety of tastes because there was greater variety of origins; unlike the food shops of today where the source is usually a “big” manufacturer or distributor that supplies the whole – or almost whole – of Singapore. 

The noodle suppliers were usually wonton skin makers too; and every morning, I watched as fresh wonton skins were pressed in roller-machines, cut into round or square pieces, and carefully wrapped in brown paper, or even used newspaper, to prevent them drying out. The packets were displayed in a glass cabinet at the front of the shop, next to other cakes and bundles of fresh-made noodles; refrigeration being unheard of in those days. And the whole shop smelled peculiarly of dry powdery flour.

After cutting, the edges and other odd pieces of wonton skin would be thrown into a tray. The scraps would by then have turned brittle and dry, and be sold for as cheaply as 20 cents per 300 grams; however, that would have been enough for a family of four!

There were different ways to prepare these remnant wonton skins. I preferred mine with fish stock and minced pork balls, as they produced a hearty comfort food that was great for a hot afternoon.

Wonton Skin Soup (for 4 persons)

Wonton skin             320 g, laid out and dried for 1 hour.

Choy sum                  100 g, or any leafy vegetable

Ikan bilis                     200 g, soaked in water for 1 hour and drained. Keep water for the stock.

Ginger                         2 slices

Pork bones               250 g

Water                         6½  cups + ½ cup of water from soaking the ikan bilis

Meatballs

Minced pork             150 g

Spring onion             1 tbsp

Oyster sauce             1 tbsp

Soy sauce                   1½ tsp

Pepper                        ½ tsp

Water                          1 tbsp

Corn flour                  1 tbsp

Garnishings

Fried shallots

Spring onion

Chillies

Method:

Stock:

1.   Deep-fry 50 g of ikan bilis until golden brown. Drain and set them aside for garnishing.

2.   Boil water.

3.   Saute the remaining ikan bilis and ginger for 2 minutes; 

4.   Add boiling water and pork bones, and simmer for 1 hour.

5.   Drain and keep the stock only.

Meatballs:

1.   Add marinate to the minced pork and mix thoroughly with a pair of chopsticks, stirring clockwise until the meat appears sticky.

2.   Roll the meat into balls and drop into the stock with the leafy vegetable.

3.   When the meatballs float to the surface, they are cooked.

Wonton skins:

1.   Boil 2 liters of water. Once boiled, cook wonton skins in a ladle for 30 seconds.

2.   Meanwhile, scoop boiling stock into 4 serving bowls.

3.   Divide the wonton skins into the bowls. Top with meatballs and garnishing.

4.   Sprinkle spring onion, chilli with a dash of pepper and sesame oil before serving.

Good to the Last!

It’s a funny thing…as adults, going to a wedding dinner is a chore; but when we were kids, going to a wedding dinner was fun. Maybe I was just plain greedy.

Remember the routine? Dressing up and combing your hair; meeting cousins, relatives and friends – people you haven’t seen in years; then waiting, and waiting, for dish after dish to appear on the table…

Certain dishes you only get to eat at a grand feast like a wedding. My particular favorites were the cold dish with crab-meat omelet and salad prawn, the shark’s fin soup, the roast suckling pig, and the steamed chicken with ham and kai lan.

The portions were big, well, at least they appeared big to a kid. After all, a wedding was a huge matter of face to Chinese; it would be unthinkable for your guests to go home with half-filled stomachs. Therefore food and drink flowed as abundantly as the wishes heaped upon the wedding couple. In fact it was common to have leftovers when each dish was cleared for the next course.

When dinner was over, close relatives and friends would linger a while to chat and catch up. A charming ritual then takes place. Boxes of leftovers, thoughtfully packed by the restaurant, would be brought out and offered to those who stayed behind. After pretending to noisily demur, the guests would happily bring the boxes home.

This practice may sound weird and unhygienic, but it was totally normal and acceptable. Like I said, things were simpler then. And you could never be sure what was in the box; chicken, duck, roast meat, prawns, and vegetables were all mixed in. In fact, so welcome were these leftovers, some restaurants even sold them to regular guests the following morning. They were known as choy giok （菜脚）in Cantonese or chai mui (菜尾) in Hokkien.

Every family has their own recipe for making something of the leftovers, but I liked my choy giok cooked with assam, mustard, chilli and bean paste. The dish tasted better as it “aged” -- the sourness of assam, the spiciness of chilli, and the earthy savoriness of bean paste mingling and slowly marinating in the pot day after day. And the bitterness of mustard leaves lending some freshness to the flavors.

For me, the greatest thrill of this dish is poking your chopsticks in and seeing what surprises await. As goes the Gump-ism: “Life is like a box of chocolates…you never know wad you’re gonna git”.

Choy Giok 菜脚

Oil                                          1 tbsp

Bean paste                           1 tbsp

Garlic                                     2 cloves, minced

Dried chillies                        5, soaked in warm water and chopped coarsely

Assorted roast meat            250 g

Salted vegetable                 50 g, optional, soak and wash thoroughly

Assam                                   2 tbsp, mixed with ½ cup of water, and strained

Water or stock                      1½  cups

Fried prawns                        100 g

Mustard leaves                    100 g

Salt and sugar                      to taste

Method:

1.    Saute bean paste, garlic and dried chillies over low heat. If necessary, add 1 tsp of water to prevent the paste from burning.

2.    Add assorted roast meat, salted vegetable, and fry for one minute over high heat.

3.    Simmer the meat with assam and water/stock for 5 minutes.

4.    Add prawns and mustard leaves, continue to simmer for another 10 minutes.

5.    Add salt and sugar to taste.

Note:

The dish tastes better overnight.

The Mother of All Kayas

I guess it’s just me…but I’ve always thought “kaya” was very aptly named. Because, whatever the actual origins, the word “kaya” is Malay for “rich”. And a good kaya is richness incarnate -- in texture, aroma, taste, and sheer satisfaction. Kaya transforms a slice of toast into an event.

The popularity of kaya and toast belies the fact that it is nothing new; in fact it’s so old hat to Singaporeans, it’s like, our national snack. You see it eaten morning, noon and night everywhere, and a small coffee shop has spun a mega-franchise on the back of this humble repast.

And humble its beginnings were. I remember the mini charcoal grill tucked into the corner of every old neighborhood coffee shop. It heated the copper tea/coffee container with the long needle spout, and I always associated kaya with this grill as the bread was invariably toasted on it.

I remember the white slice of bread laid on the carbon-encrusted wire, slowly darkening to golden brown over the charcoal. When nicely crisp, the bread, with parallel stripes burnt into it, would be spread with margarine or tiled with thick slices of “Cold Storage” butter, and then slathered with kaya (or sugar if preferred). Coffee or tea would complete it. Cheap. Simple. Utterly old school.

Kaya is unique to Singapore and Malaysia, I think, and I recall seeing two principal kinds in those days. The orange-colored kaya tasted cheap and was the most common variety used by coffee shops, bakery shops, bicycle hawkers, and the like. The other light green variety was usually homemade and lightly flavoured with pandan.

However, the most rare form of kaya was Serikaya. Today, Serikaya is nearly impossible to find, and most Singaporeans have never heard of it. Even in the early days, only well-to-do Peranakan households prepared Serikaya, and usually for their own consumption. Serikaya is custard made of eggs, coconut milk, and sugar, with pandan leaves added for a hint of fragrance. It was laborious to prepare and didn’t have a long shelf life, especially in an age where refrigerators were scarce.

I, too, was fairly late coming to Serikaya, and encountered it in my teens via a classmate, a true blue Peranakan. She lived in a sprawling bungalow in Pasir Panjang. We would go, my other classmates and I, to her house after school for cakes and pastry prepared by her domestic help. Serikaya would be the highlight, cut in thick slices and sandwiched in freshly toasted bread. The custard would be soft and rich with the flavor of coconut, and laced with the scent of pandan. It was out of this world.

Obtaining the recipe required epic effort. As with most cooks of that time, the “amah” (domestic help) claimed to have no recipe, and cooked by memory and estimation. On top of that, the Peranakan tradition of jealously guarding their “secrets” was legendary. I spent months cajoling her before she finally “broke”. I was allowed into the kitchen to watch. I had to make quick mental notes, and later, through trial and error, was finally able to replicate the taste and consistency. Here then is the elusive Serikaya.

Serikaya

Duck eggs                            10, or 12 chicken eggs

Sugar                                     450 g

Fresh thick coconut milk    250 ml (from one coconut)

Salt                                         ½ tsp

Pandan leaves                     10, score the leaves before tying a knot

Method:

1.     Stir egg and sugar gently using a whisk, without causing too much frothing, until the sugar dissolves.

2.     Add coconut milk and pandan leaves; stir well.

3.     Pass the mixture through a fine muslin cloth into a heavy pot.

4.     Set over low heat, cook and stir until the mixture has thickened slightly.

5.     Pour into a baking tin, and place the pandan leaves on top. Cover with an aluminium foil. Pierce the aluminium foil with a few holes.

6.     Steam for 1½ hours.

7.     Remove the tin and let it cool.

8.     Serikaya must be kept in a fridge and is best eaten within a week.

Meeting the King

Nowadays, eating durians doesn’t come close to what I remember it used to be…

Back then, durians were a true-blue happening -- akin to opening presents on Christmas morning, or chasing down a hysterical chicken in your own backyard and slitting its throat for the cook-pot. The whole family was involved, there was hullabaloo, and we would talk about it for days before…and after! When I was a kid, pleasures were simpler.

Back to the durian: unlike the artificial harvests of today, durian in those days was truly seasonal, appearing perhaps twice a year at most. They were really looked forward to.

Also, as types of fruits in the market weren’t so plentiful then, durian was king, and everybody loved it. My family was no exception. Usually, news would have “leaked” days before and the household would be abuzz. Then the day arrived.

Anticipation would build when the pickup truck, hired by one of my aunts, pulled up in front of the house. Off would go, Fourth Auntie and pickup, to the wholesale center. We would all hold our breath at home, and picture Fourth Aunt haggling and carefully counting out her dollars.

After what seemed years, the pickup would trundle in with an enormous bamboo basket filled with 30 or more durians. D20, D27, XO, etc, etc, didn’t exist in those days; the signboard would simply say “Durian…$$/kati…$$/each”. Price, and not so much grade or category, was the deciding factor in those less-affluent days. That was how we used to buy durians. 

So out would come the newspapers, to be spread on the kitchen floor. We gathered around, and one durian after another was taken out of the basket. The strongest member of the clan would pry and rip the husk apart. To a chorus of oohs and aahs everybody jumped in with their fingers.  The good durians would draw loud praise and appreciation, the bad ones, curses. The whole basket-load would be devoured in an hour, often much sooner, with the poor quality fruits put aside for other cooking purposes.

By feast’s end, fingers and hands would be smothered in sweet delicious goo, which was licked off noisily. Then every person picked a section of husk and used it as a “cup” for drinking tap water, as Grandma said it would curb the “heatiness” from eating durian.

With the smell of durian hanging heavy in the air, the fruits and seeds would be counted and noted. The following day the numbers would be used for 4-D, TOTO, or tontine (a form of illegal lottery).

If you lived in a flat, neighbours would enquire about the durians, their price and quality and so on, even though they had never been told about the feast. That’s because the smell would have permeated even the corridors, and your own body would have betrayed you.

Your breath would reek for hours if not days, despite your best efforts to deodorize it; and your pee would even smell of durian for a full day after! Sadly these days, the durian no longer possesses such “potency” in its flesh, and its eating no longer commands ceremony. Sigh…the king ain’t what it used to be.

With the not-so-good durians, there are ways to redeem them, including a number of jams, desserts, and cakes. I once met a Malay lady who had an unusual recipe for durian. I tried it as a sambal dip with crackers and fruits, and it was great, but I leave its use to your imagination! 

Belachan Tempoyak Durian

Belachan                   30g

Oil                               2 tbsp

Red Chilli                  10, chopped coarsely

Chilli Padi                 15, chopped coarsely

Shallots                     6, chopped coarsely

Garlic                         5 cloves, chopped coarsely

Durian                       10 seeds, deseeded

Calamansi                5, juiced

Sugar                         1 tbsp

Salt                             ½ tsp

Method

1.             Fry belachan over low heat until it disintegrates and becomes fragrant.

2.             Add oil, chillies, shallots and garlic. Fry until fragrant, about 3 minutes.

3.             Remove from heat, add durian and mix well.

4.             Add calamansi juice, sugar and salt. Mix thoroughly and let it cool.

5.             Serve as a dip or as a condiment during meals, eg. mixed with rice.

Helpful note:

Adjust the recipe to your preferred thickness/consistency by adding calamansi juice and sugar.

Basic Instinct

Along with sex, shelter, God, and happiness, food is one of our primal needs, and one of the things that’s always on our mind.

Well…at least, food is always on my mind.

I ate well growing up; there was always simple but delicious food on the table. I ate well in my profession; I was a publisher with a leading Singapore food magazine, then later with a Gourmand Award-winning cookbook company, in which I helped rejuvenate classics such as the Mrs Lee’s Cookbook. And I ate well outside of work, most notably with my foodie “kakis” in Hong Kong and Singapore.

Guess I had eaten well 24/7, for more than 50 years! 

After all, didn’t the Turkish writer Abdulhak Sinasi observe, “One should not pass over these things, simply saying they are food. They are in reality a complete civilization.”

I totally agree. Whether you’re just so-so or obsessed, food is a big part of life.

Food has shaped human history and directed our progress in ways we’re just coming to understand and acknowledge (check out the loads of recent books on this). But that isn’t my story. This blog is about food on a more intimate, personal level.

I’ll share with you what food means to me, my attempts to know it better, and my efforts to give food its proper due and place. Food as memory, food as nostalgia, emotion, imagination, desire, and dream -- that’s the message, the soul, of Gastronaut.

Just think of childhood. You may forget places, customs, languages, sounds, faces, and even names, but you never forget taste. A taste is something you instantly recognize though the separation in time may be years, or even decades.

A taste never leaves you. From the comfort food we crave for in times of illness and loneliness, to our choices in front of a restaurant menu, to the imagined delights that could make us drool in anticipation, food is woven into our chemistry and being.

This blog will explore and celebrate this.

And because I cook, you’ll be witness too as I gingerly probe, decipher, and trial-&-error my way through the mysteries of the kitchen. And who are my guides and resource? The distant memory and the yellowed recipe; the whispered advice of a dear long-gone aunt; the conversation with a chef, a writer or a food-crazed friend; the cutout from a magazine or newspaper; the inspiring cookbook or cooking class…

What I especially treasure are recipes that have vanished -- or nearly so. And with the inexorable march of the pre-packed ingredient, the shortcut recipe, and the indifferent cook, such “endangered” dishes will only multiply. I’ll unearth these dishes and write about them where I can.

For instance, while something like the dish below still exists, it is so little known that were it to die out, I think no one would even notice. I remember it from my childhood, from times when there was an unexpected guest, or when Grandma wasn’t in the mood to cook, or when one of us had lost his or her appetite. It's so easy to prepare (easier than instant noodles!) yet amazingly tasty. Try this “emergency” dish on its own or with rice. Enjoy!

“Savory Tau Hway”

Bean curd (豆腐花)             250g (without syrup)

Premium soy sauce            2/3  tbsp

Infused oil                            1 tbsp

Spring onion                        ½ tbsp

Fried shallots                       ½ tbsp

Sesame oil                           a dash, optional

White pepper                       a dash, optional

Infused Oil:

Oil                                         ½ cup

Spring onion                       100g, only white part

Method (for infused oil):

1.     Gently heat oil in a heavy-bottom pan. Add spring onion and fry until the spring onion turns light brown. Discard the spring onion.

2.     Sieve oil to remove any residue and store it in an airtight container.

Assemble:

1.     Place 2/3 tbsp of soy sauce in a bowl.

2.     Heat 1 tbsp of infused oil until very hot; pour it over the soy sauce.

3.     Just before serving the bean curd, add soy sauce with infused oil to the bean curd and sprinkle with fried shallots and spring onion.

4.     For a final touch, add sesame oil and pepper just before serving.