A TASTE OF BORNEO

The Strange riddle of the Yew Char Kueh and the Chichi fregi

Yew Char Kueh

What can a Mediterranean Frenchie like me and the Chinese people of Sarawak possibly have to share from their respective cultural heritage? Give up? I’ll tell you what it is: A long golden fritter.

I would not dream of entering a debate on whom actually “invented” the rather addictive fritter and whether the Chichi fregi as it is called in Provence came before the Yew Char Kueh which is commonly served in Kuching or even in China.                                                                                                                                                Back where I come from and back in time, and well before my time, the port-city of Marseille was born out of a cluster of small and often quaint fishing villages. L’Estaque, on the west side, happens to be one of those villages with one very special pride: the Chichi fregi.                                    

Mediterranean folks from beyond the Italian border will probably point out, and rightfully so, that the Chichi fregi is actually a Chichi while at the other end of the coast, a Spaniard will insist that it is but a churro and by now I too could probably argue with them that it is in fact Yew Char Kueh; and if I did, any Estaquois (People from l’Estaque) listening to me would probably be only half surprised that their recipe should be found as far as Asia. Indeed the story goes in Provence that once upon a time, a man from l’Estaque left to visit China. When he finally wanted to come home and he presented himself at the Peking train station to purchase his return ticket, the officer asked him: “l’Estaque Beachside or l’Estaque Town”?  This would bring any common-sensed Estaquois to reason that it must be that the reputation of their treasured Chichi fregi has reached as far to the East as the Kingdom of Heaven; so much so that the Chinese are now aware that l’Estaque counts not one but two train stations!                                                                                                                                        And what of the amazing coincidence of l’Estaque being legendarily linked to China when they seem to share the same popular recipe? If Marco Polo brought the Noodle back to Italy, could someone have brought the Yew Char Kueh to l’Estaque all the way from Peking? Or could the Chinese have taken the recipe of the Chichi fregi back on board their ships in 1421 or 1434, perhaps after a short call at l’Estaque harbour?

Whether any amateur historian will ever get to the bottom of this (please do let me know) or not, I am simply grateful to be able to enjoy one of my childhood favourites on any given day while staying in my adopted home town of Kuching in Borneo; and the joy is even greater when I realise that I have learned many other ways to eat my Chichi fregi other than with olive oil and Orange blossom flavouring and sprinkled with sugar as it is the tradition in l’Estaque and which has long since spread to the street hawkers of Marseille and of all the fun fairs and markets of the region. Here in Malaysia, it also served as a mouth melting treat with sweetened milk or even with kaya (a curd made from coconut), my personal favourite. It is also delicious eaten with porridge and bak ku teh (herbal pork stew) or simply dipped in chilli sauce. So truly I just don’t know whom I have to thank for the joy of eating Chichi fregi except perhaps that young Chinese bloke at Penrissen Food Court? Never mind, if you happen to catch me there on my Sunday brunch, do join me for Yew Char Kueh!

Yew Char Kueh at Pensissen Food Court

 Recipe Chichi fregi: : www.gustave.tv/recettes/775/chichi-fregi-estaque.html 
  

TIGER IS BACK!

“Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright…”*


  So let’s get 2010 really started.


Disclaimer: No! This has nothing to do with Tiger Wood.


No offense to the bull, but I can’t wait for the tiger. For a start, I just read that it would be a particularly good year for me in the love department and that my worth will be recognized !?

Then too, I simply love the splendid, powerful, exciting noble beast. Not surprisingly, Malaysia proudly bears the great Asian feline as its royal emblem, and is now counting on the WWF to save the Malayan Tiger from total extinction, and all the heraldic artists from being sent back to their drawing board. Yet, and since my joss is good, I’ll gladly share it with the few hundred big cats left to roam the rainforest freely; after all isn’t it a wonderful sign that the tiger should enter the new year with a loud roar on Valentine’s day, bringing fire and passion of the loving kind?

Before life would come to a stop on CNY (Chinese New Year) eve in Kuching, Hubby had us kick out the old bull and ready for the dashing tiger by eating my favorite Chinese cold dish, the one delicacy that has me longing, drooling even for CNY many weeks ahead: Yee Sang. It is served on a large dish with the ingredients each separated into small stacks, dressed with sauces and condiments, salmon cuts in the middle. Then everyone around the table gets busy at once, tossing the salad, mixing bright green and shocking pink crispy vermicelli cracker bits with everything else, wishing for prosperity and, as Hubby insists, “for good health, for without good health, there will be no prosperity”.

Yee Sang

Yee Sang this year has been yummy and fun; with it good wishes have started filling the air. Helen will be serving dinner on New Year’s Eve; who knows, she might even serve Yee Sang? At midnight we’ll burn a few illegal fire crackers and fireworks to kick in probably a whole week of eating and playing mahjong with friends, with only short breaks for naps.

Yeap, I’ve tossed Yee Sang, “Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright…” Now we’ve got the party started. 

GONG XI FAT CHAI!

Thanks to food expert Jacqueline Lum.

*The Tyger”, William Blake

DURIAN FOR CHRISTMAS

December’s back and here I am, on a regular thirty something degrees Celsius pre-Christmas day, standing in my neighbor’s chilli-pepper field. I am here specifically to shoot a Durio zibethinus (a Durian tree) with my camera and collect a new picture for this blog. Standing near me and my tripod is Ah Chai, the chilli-peppers grower; he is frankly disappointed with the scarce number of oblong golden fruits which we can see, hanging from the huge tree ahead of us. “This season is not good” he laments. As I recall, the previous one, half a year ago, was not any better; climate changes?
                                                            
I seldom have the opportunity to talk to my neighbours; they are all farmers and our family is of the urban kind, “wanna be” hobby farmers. We commute in and out of the small country drive, we wave, we give way to motorcyclists, sometimes to a van, yet we rarely stop. The only friendship we have developed is with Ah Peck, which by the way is not his name, it really means “grand-father” or “old man” in local Chinese. We don’t know his real name; he’s never told us and he seems to enjoy us calling him Ah Peck.                                                                   
It was easy to for us to become good neighbours because he and his family are the only planters who actually live on their land; the others are daily farmers.      Today happens to be a busy field day for most of them, a fortunate coincidence, and a chance for me to finally meet them on my walk to that large durian tree down the drive where Ah Chai, and by now three other men, have gathered around my strategic photo-shoot spot. Right now, with them by my side, I can witness the legendary and amazing power of the durian: the power to attract and unite people. This is exactly what is happening here, in the midst of chilli-pepper plants for two Hakka and one Bidayuh men and I, a French woman.

The powerful spell of the durian spreads through South East Asia, Indonesia, the Philippines, southern Thailand and Malaysia. No other fruit I know of can get people together to enjoy a splendid time like this one does. I mean, no-one would ever fuss so much over a pineapple, a bunch of bananas or even a jack fruit.
Despite its thorny nature (“duri” in Malay means “thorn”) the durian actually creates bonds, at least between locals. As a general rule though, sharing a durian with a non-Asian without any prior briefing may result in the end of a beautiful friendship. Although there seems to be a growing number of Caucasians who claim to love the custard-like pulp that covers the large seeds encased in the inner compartments of the spiky shell, even for those, it is still an acquired taste; most of them react by running off, literally, or like my friend Elsa did, by diving head first into a river.                                                                                       
As controversial as a durian can sometimes proved to be, and as much as it can test East meets West friendships to the brink, here in Sarawak, as everywhere else in the region, it is, truly, a diplomatic fruit which has been unanimously crowned KING of FRUITS, by both genders of all ethnic groups and regardless of their religious faith. Call a few friends to join a durian hunt all the way to some remote kampong (village) and you will find yourself leading a caravan!


Durians are good business too, and many shrewd farmers set up makeshift stalls on the roadside, the ultimate temptation for drivers to make an impromptu stop and start a “durian ritual”: pick a few fruits, sniff them like a French would a truffle, shake them like a maracas, close to the ear to listen to the dull, subtle knocks that tell the tale of a ripe to perfection durian. Buyers even like to exchange savvy comments with total strangers on how to pick the best fruit (yet not before they have finished picking their own) and finally negotiate the price with the seller.

Except for its look, I used to hate everything about the durian, its taste and its odour; then without me even knowing, my nose, first, got used to it, and what I had first perceived as a revolting stench, I now identify as a familiar call to get together with friends and have fun sharing a fruit I have grown to actually enjoy! Mind you I do have a preference for the orangey pulp rather than the whitish one. I am picky.

The durian happens to be particularly nourishing; it is loaded with vitamins and minerals, a real bonus to animals and for this reason humans actually have to seriously compete to get to it first while it is still on the branch. I remember an Iban legend that tells the story of an unfortunate young woman who had been abducted by a randy Orang-Utan and owed the success of her escape only to the fact that the big ape had let himself be distracted by the sight of a few durians that had fallen to the ground, long enough to give his sweet heart enough time to run to her rescuers’ long boat.

The KING of FRUITs does come with some dangers though. Although it never seems to drop onto the heads of those patient fellows who spend whole nights waiting for their prize to fall from the branch (they’ll tell you it just never, ever happens.), it does have bad chemistry with alcohol.

Yes, it’s almost Christmas; back on the French Riviera, my brother and the whole family are probably feasting on tiny and cute looking, irresistibly flagrant Corsican Clementines (a winter fruit), while I am ready to bet with my husband that the almost 30 centimetres long, 15 centimetres in diameter and well above 2.5 kilos orangey durian that dropped last night, from one of our trees, is going to taste like the perfect KING of FRUITS, and tomorrow morning, I’ll walk down the drive again, to talk about it with Ah Chai and may be with a few other neighbours too.

Have a splendid festive season!

P.S: To Raeleen, “thank you” and I hope I will have to say it again many times in future.

Some useful information was gathered from “Durian - How to Choose and Open a Durian” from Dennis Sim, former About.com Guide http://southeastasianfood.about.com/od/malaysianfruits/ss/ChooseOpDurian_9.htm

As published in THE EXPAT magazine - Dec 2010 issue