The Cocoanut

This week we see promising signs that Melbourne is finally shedding off its wintry coat, giving way to bright blue skies and toasty sunshine that smell of spring. On such fine days, a few hours at the Queen Vic Market allow for some relaxed walking and a session of grocery therapy, which is really the most affordable form of shopping for us poor university students.

I always make a stopover at the Minh Phat Asian Supermarket nearby which stocks pretty much everything a semi-serious cook needs for his oriental supplies, and the deli section of the Market. Here, in passageways decorated in the style of European bazaars, we find traders selling cheese, sausages, bread and a stall dedicated to selling butter.

My favourite item is the pesto. Purists may only limit themselves to the basil variety, but if purity is not your thing then you might enjoy the pumpkin, sun dried tomato, coriander and capsicum pesto on offer. My favourite is the macadamia pesto, which is too rich for my own good but well worth the risk.

During Ramadan, Muslims are especially fond of sweets. After a whole day of fasting, a good way to reinvigorate oneself is with a dose of sugar. Traditionally this came in the form of dates, plump velvety dark ones that taste like crystallized sugar. But why stop at dates when there are so many sweet treats around?

The corner stall at the entrance of the deli stocks a variety of cakes and biscuits. I got myself a thick slab of the Napoleon slice, made of layers of puff pastry alternating with custard cream and jam. The contrast between the crunchy pastry and soft cream is what daydreams are made of, but in reality it’s a messy affair and it’s really best eaten in private.

Today marks the end of the first week of Ramadan. Yes, it may be too early to start a countdown, but knowing that you’re three quarters of the way into completing the annual fast does give a much needed psychological boost to the glutton in me.

Ironically, I have come to realize that I rely less on food than I originally expected. Apart from the intermittent stomach growls, particularly just before noon and around 3.30 (a case of threethirtyitis, perhaps?), the daily fast from dawn to dusk has been a breeze. To a certain extent, it has been quite liberating not to have to think of what to eat for lunch for a change. After 4 years at uni, I’ve adopted a utilitarian approach to lunchtime, subconsciously sticking with a routine menu that revolves around the same dishes that I know I will enjoy, despite the rather mundane predictability that comes with it.

Mondays and Wednesdays are reserved for eggplant karniyarik at the Turkish stall. For $7 I get a generous serving of thick eggplant halves stuffed with tomato flavoured mince meat, on a bed of very tasty and slightly glutinous rice. I’m not sure what they add to the rice to give it that flavorsome glutinous sheen, but I hope my being a regular customer might lull the nice Turkish ladies into giving me the recipe.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays I usually opt for the ‘gourmet veggie’ focaccia at the corner sandwich bar. The pretentious name aside, this is probably the best veggie meal in the whole of uni. That’s a big call, but it’s one I’m prepared to make. For $5.70 (or $5.90, they may have upped the price in line with inflation), you get a delicately crusty focaccia which neatly seals an extremely generous bed of roasted butternut pumpkin, bell peppers, eggplant, baby spinach leaves and a slice of cheese. Instead of spreading the bread with margarine, which is usually the case for most sandwiches, the focaccia is smeared with a tomato paste whose flavour, although subtle, really does leave an impressionable savoury mark on the whole sandwich. I really do enjoy the stuff!

On Wildcard Fridays, I might go for the onigiri, a chunky triangle of sushi rice studded with minute salmon pieces and seasoned with quite a lot of oil. Greasy, but tasty. Sometimes the Indian stall sells their signature chicken spinach, which although popular, is very rarely made. The stuff runs out halfway through the lunchtime peak hour so I only get to buy it if I’m early. Failing that, a decent flat white and a cotton-soft blueberry muffin with almond flakes from one of the cafes would help me get through the post-lunch lectures.

During Ramadan, after a whole day of fasting, I like something a bit more substantial. Recently I discovered one of the stalls at Queen Victoria Market stocks challah from Glick’s, a famous Melbourne Jewish bakery renowned for its bagels. I’ve always wanted to try this sweet bread, after a friend went on and on about how good his challah toast went with butter. If plain toast can arouse so much excitement in one person, that toast has got to be good. So I bought one to try myself, as an appetizer to break the fast with.

Challah is a bit like the French brioche, except that it’s not as rich and dairy-free. It’s usually shaped into a braid, although there are also round challahs. Personally, I prefer the braided challahs because they’re easier to cut into toasts. Soft and faintly sweet, it’s good enough to eat on its own, but when lightly toasted and slathered with butter, you have a completely different treat altogether. The slight crunch of the toasted layer gives way to a soft interior that’s stretchy and rich, without being overwhelming. It really is a good way to end a day of resisting temptations.

For the sake of being unpredictable I chose to forgo the hot cocoa and instead opt for gelato, that classically summertime treat that is somehow absolutely appropriate even in the harshest of winters.

Melbourne is without a doubt the gelato capital of Australia. So enthusiastically have Melburnians licked their gelati that it is now part and parcel of the city, in much the same way curry is now the national dish of Great Britain.

I admit to being one of those unadventurous, conservative customers who are so content with just one or two flavours that I end up eating the same thing at every visit to the gelato bar. At Lygon Street’s Il Dolce Freddo, the generous selection of mango, tiramisu, Snickers, strawberry and cookies n creme are gone to waste as I tread the safe path and choose my all-time favourite gelato combo : hazelnut roche, pandan coconut and frutti di bosco. The hazelnut roche is as indulgent as its namesake, with massive chunks of roche bits scattered throughout the gelato. The pandan coconut exudes the subtle, fragrant aroma of pandan that marries well with coconut, while the frutti di bosco combines the sweetness of berries with the rich comforting tang of yoghurt.

Melbourne’s gelato scene reflects the diverse make-up of its citizens. The gelato here is not confined to traditional Italian flavours like baci and lemon sorbet, treating eager lickers with quintessentially Aussie concoctions like Violet Rumble, Ice Vovo and sesame caramel, made famous by the Trampoline chain of gelato bars. Asian flavours get a resounding nod, with green tea, durian and lychee & lime sorbet famous with both locals and international residents alike. Whoever says multiculturalism is not good for Australia obviously hasn’t had a lick of her best-tasting gelati.

One of the things ubiquitous in the streetside café scene, besides fish and chips on the menu, is the tagline “the place to see and be seen”. This phrase is now permanently employed by tourism brochures and hosts of TV lifestyle shows to sell the next big thing in street dining.

I never quite understood the rationale behind the “to see and be seen” concept. When I go out my main motivation is to enjoy the food and the company of friends and family. I couldn’t be less bothered about being seen, or performing the whole ‘people-watching’ thing that’s as entertaining as seeing paint dry. Is it simply one of those taglines that everyone carelessly repeat without giving much thought, a bit like how any discussion involving lefties are almost always preceded by the phrase “latte-sipping”?

The thought of someone dressing up and eating out at a joint for the sole intention of being seen there is so absurd. Why anyone would voluntarily subject themselves to constant public scrutiny in the middle of a meal is beyond me.

In Melbourne, a lack of obvious physical attractions that grace say, Sydney, has meant that its charm is more understated, one fine example being the laneways that criss-cross the city’s CBD.

Melbourne’s laneways are heavily promoted, but luckily, instead of advertising them as another place “to see and be seen”, the people behind the tourism campaign are smart enough to sell them instead as a maze for one to wander and get lost in, while rediscovering the city from a whole new perspective.

Unlike streetside malls, the narrow laneways are totally pedestrianised and protected from the noise and smoke of passing vehicles. And rather than being a place to see and be seen, these back alleys provide an escape for Melburnians to hide away from it all and just enjoy the food and company.

Mayo just goes down so well with so many things. I know it’s no longer socially acceptable to publicly endorse McDonald’s, but back in the days I used to enjoy chomping down on a McChicken, eagerly pressing on those soft buns to squeeze out the mayo and lick it in its pure state.

The cult Melbourne burger chain Grill’d serves their chips with a choice of herb or sweet chili mayo, and on breezy sunny days when you eat outside, there are few things more satisfying that dipping hot salty chips into those tiny plastic tubs of herby mayo.

I tried making mayo at home, and although I knew mayo is fattening, it never occurred to me that it was essentially all fat. Home-made mayo is at least 85% fat; that is the amount needed to sustain the emulsion of oil and egg yolks. I became so flabbergasted by the amount of oil that was going into the mixing bowl that all those happy childhood memories of licking mayo transformed into scenes of what might be the culinary equivalent of a horrow flick. How could I have dipped all those chips into this?

The thing with mayo is that it is quite deceiving in its appearance. Mayonnaise lacks the greasiness of oil that puts so many people off, and its viscosity makes it easy to pile a huge dollop onto your food, be they tuna, chicken, chips or sushi.

The experience of making home-made mayo, far from cementing my appreciation of it, has actually turned me off. Well, not really. I will probably never dip my hot salty chips in mayo again, but drizzling just a bit of it onto a pile of leftover tandoori chicken pieces is hardly insane.

The leftover tandoori is now my adult version of the tuna mayo sandwich. I love the deep red color of the chicken pieces, shredded from the bone and piled up high inside Turkish pide bread, soft and doughy in the inside, crusty on the outside. And unlike the canned tuna, the tandoori doesn’t merely serve as an excuse for mayo. I actually look forward to biting into a pile of shredded tandoori.

It opened its first Australian outlets in Sydney, and for a time, one of the most common sights on the Sydney-Melbourne flight are boxes upon boxes of Krispy Kremes, smuggled to satisfy the cravings of the donut-deprived populace of Melbourne.

I have heard testimonials by many Kremers who swear these donuts smell like heaven and taste better than sex, and not surprisingly, my expectations were high. When a friend offered a donut specially flown in from Sydney, I could not refuse, even though it would not be fresh. I found the ritual of heating the donuts in the microwave a bit perplexing, but I guess all the best foods need to be microwaved.

My first bite of an Original Sugar Glazed was not one of orgasmic pleasure, but of mild indifference. It’s sweet. It’s soft. The same effect could be duplicated by pouring an obscene pile of icing on really soft bun.

Personally I like my doughnuts to be a bit sour, which would then be perfectly complemented by icing or creamy custard filling. In our highly-stimulated, ADD world, sugar is valued as the elixir to kick-start the day. Cookies, beverages and so many other food products are excessively sweetened so much so that we have come to regard the painful, brain-numbing sweetness as perfectly normal.

Krispy Kreme to me is like the culinary equivalent of crystal meth. I realise the sensation of getting high is not exactly unpleasurable, but I would rather be stimulated by something more natural. To be fair, I have only tasted the original sugar glazed, despite the donuts now being easily available in Melbourne, with two outlets in the CBD alone. However, I doubt I will be tasting the other varieties any time soon, as I cannot bring myself to join the long queues at the stores, and worse, being seen in public slavishly waiting in line. Not only am I anti-social, I’m also unreasonably snobbish.

Although this vegetable is very popular among Southeast Asians and the Chinese, I have difficulty buying it in Melbourne, and so far I’ve only been able to locate one stall in the whole of Queen Victoria Market that supplies it. It is sold in bunches, and preferably we buy those which are abundant in leaves rather than stems, because it is in the leaves that the luscious flavour is most concentrated, whereas the hollow stems I find are only good for supplying fibre.

Like most vegetable dishes, the tastiest ones are the easiest to prepare. For a plateful of classic kangkung belacan, all you need are a bunch or two of kangkung, shallots, garlic, ginger, red chillies, and the magic ingredient, belacan. Like many Malaysian dishes, the ingredients can be adjusted to taste, so a recipe really merely acts as a guide. Trust your instincts, and adjust according to your preferences.

Kangkung belacan (serves 2-3)

2 bunches kangkung, hard stems removed, washed and squeezed of excess water.
1 shallot, chopped (Most recipes either make do without or use a mere teaspoon, but I love shallots so I use the whole thing)
1 clove of garlic, chopped
an inch of ginger, chopped
2 red chillies, cut at a slant
belacan, about the size of a 2 cm square (dry-fried and pounded)

Saute the shallot, garlic and ginger in a wok until slightly golden.
Add the chillies and ground belacan, and smother the belacan over the aromatics until well-mixed.

Add the kangkung over high heat and mix thoroughly. Initially the wok will seem overwhelmed by the volume of kangkung, but like spinach, it will shrink dramatically once cooked. To speed up the cooking process, you can cover the wok for a few minutes until the kangkung has shrunk in size.

Season with salt to taste, and dish out onto a plate.

Note: If the kangkung is not squeezed of excess water, it will result in a blackish puddle in the cooked dish due to the belacan mixing with water. Of course, there is nothing wrong with this, but I prefer not to have my favourite vegetable meal drowning in black puddle , so I squeeze it thoroughly, just as you would with spinach.

Melbourne has a pretty healthy vegetarian scene, and The Vegie Bar, in the bohemian and rapidly-yuppie Brunswick Street, has long been a well-loved institution in this part of town, and among vegetarians and non-vegos alike. A good friend and I went to check the place out one sunny Saturday morning. The décor is mainly industrial warehouse chic, with unpolished bricks and chunky metal tables partnered with those abstract Scandinavian polymer chairs in fluoro finish. At certain corners lurk exotic artworks and pierced and tattooed and very friendly waitresses that scream BOHEMIAN to first-time visitors.

I skipped breakfast (which is very, very rare) solely for this restaurant trip, and I intend to eat large. We ordered nachos and roti canai as starters, the latter as curiosity over their version compared to the Malaysian standard classic, and as an introduction to my friend of Malaysia’s favourite breakfast. The roti canai came with lentil curry, which is different compared to the dhal I have at home, but it was extremely good nonetheless. Their roti canai is not as flaky and oily as the Malaysian version, but no less inferior. The nachos were generous, and they were perfect with the guacamole, the best I’ve ever had.

In fact we learned, rather belatedly, that generous servings seem to be the rule at the Vegie Bar. By the time our mains arrived, we were already full. We had genuine trouble finishing the pizza Margherita and mee goreng, but we did it anyway because they were that good. I have to say, throughout the course I didn’t notice the absence of meat at all. If all vegetarian restaurants are like this, and if only people are less suspicious of vegetarian dishes, then I’m sure more of us will be less dependent on meat.

Unlike Malaysia’s pasar malam, which is sheltered by the oversized Technicolor umbrellas, Melbourne’s Night Market is held under one giant roof, but apart from that, it has the same vital ingredients that make for a bustling bazaar, arts and craft, the lure of cheap imitation apparel, and of course, abundant food.

While there was the predictable fare of pizza, souvlaki and stir-fry Chinese noodles, regional specialties such as Paella, Persian floss candy and Turkish-style chocolate crepe made for an impressive culinary display. My life-long fantasy of trying out Poffertjes (Dutch pancakes) was once again dashed as a long queue of about 10 metres formed behind the counter.

My missed chance quickly turned into an arresting opportunity as I caught eye on the Ethiopian food counter. Apart from cous-cous, which is a staple of Morocco, I have never tasted African cuisine. I quickly queued behind the growing line and waited in anticipation for my turn to order. At $8, I was given a generous scoop of kik alicha, which is a rough puree of split beans cooked in spices and saf, an Ethiopian beef casserole. These are eaten with 2 pieces of enjera, a slightly sour rolled pancake that was perfect to soak up all the spice-laden gravy.

I cannot seem to end a meal without something sweet, and when you’re in a food bazaar, with the temptation of Pistachio nougat, bird’s nest baklava, fudge, chocolate fondue and even ais kacang (shaved ice drizzled with evaporated milk and rose syrup), it is simply impossible to deny my sweet tooth its craving. I had an almond pudding with custard and fresh strawberries which had a nice crunch that marries well with the softness of the custard.

There is something about the hustle and bustle, the throngs of people walking about and trying out freshly-prepared food that makes the whole night market experience so enjoyable. Cheap prices (by Aussie standards) help too, of course.