Have you witnessed the remarkable perseverance, the pep-in-the-step, the joie de vivre of the basil plant? Perhaps you have watched basil growing precariously by the curbside resembling a hardy bushy moss, undisturbed by time and traffic and the torment of water deprivation, while its leaves sway by the breeze and swell with peppery bite, advertising the time that is ripe for the plucking, its flowers ready to be taken at the whim of the winds or by the tender gathering of the worker bee. Being something of the hopelessly romantic gardener that I am, I admit to being witness to the dehydration and death of even the hardiest, most woody of basil plant to a return to infancy. It is truly remarkable to witness the cycle of basil from seeding to hanging seed, dusty branch to succulent soil, the idle dried flowers laden with the promise of re-growth in the new season…
Christmas truly makes December a coveted month because it brings food, family and friends together and closer to our hearts than any other time of the year. Cooking by recipes endemic to the season is a perfect example of how we celebrate the spirit of togetherness, for we bring down the once-a-year cookbooks from hibernation, oil the baking tins and ready pouches of flour, punnets of strawberries, ladels of sugar and bundles of eggs for the sweets our guests will enjoy. As a child, the first day of December traditionally meant I could put the hedonism switch on for all the hard work was done already, the presents and food were on their way and the laughter came easier than any other time of the year. I distinctly remember the simple joys of decorating and celebrating, in hanging candy canes from the highest reaches of our synthetic tree, storing bonbons from the ends of branches, draping tinsel and hooking nativity scenes and the golden star upon the top point of the tree. It was a tree we loved, even for its fatal flaws; it was awfully unstable and unpleasant tree, supported on the base by a cast-iron clamp and a few dirty bricks concealed with a tablecloth, with unsightly power-coated bristles and branches that would cut, scratch and itch the skin. But it was well worth the effort since it involved plucking carefully hidden chocolates from inside the tree.
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This post contains a cheeky surprise – something overwhelmingly vivacious, perhaps something slightly audacious and saucy, conjuring dazzling images of succulent culinary delights — lasagne is, undoubtedly, my personal favourite dish, a meal that I am most confident in preparing. And yet it a dish I learned to make and perfect by observational learning in the kitchen of my mother and grandmother. No amount of recipe books purchased, however detailed and exquisite, were able to impart their wisdom to me. So if you have been too shy to build a pasta masterpiece in the past, take note of the fact that lasagne is fiendishly difficult at first, but like moulding clay, becomes easier and more malleable with time has the potential to become a creative medium to accommodate your imaginative whims. Thai chicken lasagne? I’ve heard of it before!
In the writing and the preparation and photography of the dish, I had placed upon the table many awful, soggy excuses that were barely passable as a final product. With a grimace, my housemates would assure me it was edible and praised the effort. But not meeting one’s personal potential in culinary adventures is I decided to get right into the nitty-gritty, rolling up my sleeves and rolling out the sheets and spreading over the sauce. I spent hours on quiet contemplation with a mental scouring brush, seeking recollections of family moments crowded around the gas stove, as the dented steel deep-dish overflowing with lasagne bubbled under the gas flame and oozed a crimson river of mozzarella and tomato.
Forget your preconceptions of lasagne as difficult, time-consuming and hardly filling: as I don’t believe in the widely propagated image of ‘the perfect lasagne’, I set out a mission in this post to present a time-and-trial tested recipe and tout it as the best and easiest home-made version, that is certain to keep you coming back for more.
We knew we need only follow our nose and glimpses of the teasing dappled light of paper lanterns, flailing in the wind, hung to tents like bobbypins holding myriad iridescent petticoats, to know we had reached The Night Noodle Market. Had we been oblivious to the many signs and songs, the parades of Chinese dragon dances and, perhaps not surprisingly, beer cans and bottles, it would have been easy to know we were in Hyde Park by the crowds. Masses of hungry patrons descended upon the stalls, queuing irregular and fiercely impatient three-laned lines, all the while fiddling with their twenty-dollar notes and chatting about the working week.
I took the opportunity to take as many candid photographs as I could from all angles and perspectives, trying to realise the event from the eyes of somebody truly taking part in everything that was on offer. It was well worth the change in viewpoint, especially in the numerous instances in developing the courage to visit the chefs at their stalls in the restriced area. At first some were a little shy, others somewhat hostile, the chefs gradually warmed up to me and allowed me to take a few close-ups of their craft. It seemed only fair that I ask permission first, thank them for their co-operationand make a silly gesture about being ravenously hungry. Don’t worry, I did the right thing; I went to buy some curry puffs and spring rolls from the same tent.
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On any given bright Saturday afternoon, when the working week is over, I tend to look to the promise of the yielding, infinite goodness of the weekend proper to entice myself from home and the daily humdrum. ‘Let’s do something exciting’, I recall telling myself, ‘This weekend needn’t be as aimless as the last!’.
During moments of procrastination in the working office, my mind (and I’m sure yours does, too!) tends to imagine the ‘what ifs’ and the ‘if only’ scenarios, lost in dreaming mode, while those stolen glimpses outside the window remind me of the fresh air and sunshine that I am totally missing out on. The reality is, when you have exhausted and over-exerted your mind in search of something novel and interesting to prepare and have emptied your wallet in a Thursday evening grocery shop, it seems only fair that someone else should take the responsibility to cook. And why shouldn’t we have a break? Day-to-day, you think only of the mounting obligations arising from home and work and find yourself lost for energy and ideas and lacking the impetus to even open the fridge and put together some ragtag of ingredients.
Tired of the myriad of Thai restaurants along your streets cafe strip? The local Chinese takeaway store closed or the gourmet pizza bar leaving you out of pocket? It’s time to forget such worries that have taken hostage of our mind. There’s good news to be had in saying that there is no need to dash for the local saloon or the midnight bar for pub grub, for a different kind of watering hole in town, one that won’t leave your stomach wanting for exercise after a few drinks, your brain wanting for stimulation after some awkward smalltalk and your tastebuds craving for an after-dinner mint.
Look no further than Malay-Chinese Takeaway, a genuine-to-recipe laksa oasis moulded after the Singaporean/Malaysian hawker-centre style of eatery, located on Hunter Street in the heart of Sydney City. It’s a tiny trek to take up a climbing hill, dodging suits and briefcases along the way, and the queue outside the restaurant is somewhat daunting in erratic Spring weather. Nevertheless, with the expectation of formalities aside, it’s up to you to pull up a seat and watch the ceiling fans circulate the steam from pots and pans or, while waiting, to be hypnotised by the stirring beads of sweat pouring from the brows of those braving the fronts of extra chilli with their soup.
Don’t expect waitstaff to serve your every whim in this informal setting nor a cordial response to some banal chatter from the cooks behind the scenes; simply place your order to to the staff behind the counter, take a seat and wait merely a few moments for your food to arrive. It’s as good as it gets. There is enough seating and such a broad variety and demographic of soup-slurpers that you needn’t worry about arriving in your flipflops and singlet top. In fact, your mother will be thankful that the stains from the curry powder used extensively in the food, won’t leave a mark on that favourite silk tie.
You’re bound to be pleasantly surprised by the skinless chicken laska ($9.20) with healthy chunks of ingredients and a savoury chicken-broth bite, or perhaps the king prawn laksa ($11) that fills the palate with a delightful likeness to a seafood marinara. Of course, the title of the restaurant is really a dead giveaway to the variety of dishes available, including the delicious and rather famous Hainanese chicken rice ($8.20), chicken, beef, prawn and satay varieties of Malaysian curries brought in excellent taste and spice (ranging from $7.10 to $11.60) and even a handful of fried noodles, such as the personal favourite char kway teow ($9).
Within minutes, you are hailed to the counter and drawn to a delicious speciality dish. Feeling game? Give a try to one of the mouthwatering weekly specials.
At a modest average of ten dollars, you can drown your worries in a porcelain bowl beaming with coconut milk soaked in crimson chilli jam, ornate with flotsam of prawns, noodles, beansprouts and shredded cabbage. When you’re done or perhaps only half-way through, surrender your chopsticks to your bowl and succumb to a slur: it’s almost expected that you will soak up the ambience of chatter and the chiming of bustle from the kitchen and have a chat with your nearest neighbour.
Why shouldn’t you have a break? Day-to-day, you think only of the mounting obligations arising from home and work and find yourself lost for energy and ideas and lacking the impetus to even open the fridge and put together some ragtag of ingredients. But mental and physical exhaustion should never stop the avid culinare from an appreciation of good food consisting of a great variety, zest and substance. While it might not be as alluring as a sweet-and-salty Katong laksa, it’s definitely in a league of its own that is well worth the wait and the return visit.
Shop 1, 50-58 Hunter St, Sydney NSW 2000
phone: 9231 6788
fax: 9231 6799
website: www.malaychinese.com.au
Open: Monday to Friday 11am-7.30pm
Saturday 11am-6pm
Sunday Closed
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