The Cocoanut

There has been this snobbery over dried herbs where they’re treated like some outcast creation of the industrial age. Dried herbs have actually been around for ages, to either give a different dimension to the dish, or as a substitute ingredient for the lazy cook such as myself. I’m quite happy to substitute dried parsley for its fresh variant, on those days when I have neither the time nor the inclination to visit the supermarket solely for the pursuit of fresh parsley.

In any case, my favourite herb is the lemongrass. This beautiful herb usually works behind the scenes, adding gently its subtle floral essence in braised dishes or dry curries. Southeast Asian dishes tend to include a whole multitude of ingredients, and at times I often wonder if some of the herbs or spices are redundant. But lemongrass is one of those herbs whose presence can seem to be missing amidst all the different flavours, but whose absence is definitely felt when it’s removed from the recipe.

There are many ways to enjoy lemongrass. It can be blended with onions and other aromatics into a paste, or sliced thinly and scattered over meat. I extract the greatest pleasure by bruising the stalks and throwing it into the pot, letting it simmer and slowly release its beautiful notes of citrus in the background.

The tom yam fish prepared in the photo involves steaming a whole fish (I think it was barramundi that day, but any fresh white fish will suffice). While steam is happily puffing away gently cooking the fish and turning its flesh from its translucent shine into soft tender white, I make the sauce by frying sliced onions, too much garlic, oyster sauce, tom yam paste and the bruised lemongrass stalks.

When all the meat has been consumed, some people enjoy sucking the bones of the fish. I much prefer to suck on my bruised lemongrass, extracting the essence for all its worth.

A mainstay in any Malay feast, the chicken rendang manages to assume both a regal distinction and a common presence in the culinary landscape of Malaysia. It is as pedestrian as nasi lemak, readily sold in makeshift stalls along the roadside, yet it also occupies the ornate pages of celebrated cookbooks, passed down as family heirlooms to be shared with the masses.

Unfortunately, as can be seen in the photo, the rendang, together with deep fried fish braised in soy sauce with fried chilli and toasted coconut, share a most unfortunate feature of Malay food, the ‘brown gravy syndrome’, where virtually all dishes end up as a pile of indistinguishable meat pieces bathed in a puddle of brownish gravy. But what they lack in aesthetic appeal they more than make up in the indulgently heady, rich spicy taste and lingering aroma that fills the room.

Stir fry veggies, deviating from the pure ideals of vegetarianism through the addition of ikan bilis (dried anchovies) and tiger prawns, provided a safe, classic option for everyone. I personally would have preferred kangkung belacan or steamed eggplant sambal, but then I have very little say among the elders.

Vegetables are an integral part of Southeast Asian cooking, featuring heavily in rice, noodles and even meat-based dishes. This is probably why the concept of vegetarianism in Asia is not treated like a kind of subversive, almost heretical movement in some of the meat-obsessed European cultures, where pompous chefs take pride in treating vegetarians even worse than the animals they butcher.