Hawker-hopping is part of what makes a KL food trip so much fun.

“Malaysia? There’s nothing good to eat there!”
I know my friend means well, so I bite my tongue and reply, “Really? I sure hope that’s not true.” All the while, I’m thinking that she has no idea what she is missing. She doesn’t know that I am going armed with insider info.

A few months ago, I interviewed Robyn Eckhardt and David Hagerman about their food blog Eating Asia (http://eatingasia.typepad.com). The blog is a captivating archive of the globe-trotting duo’s adventures around Southeast Asia. Robyn writes while Dave photographs the food, the people, and the places. Bringing to the blogsphere the diverse cultural and culinary delights from this part of world, the duo has elevated blogging into an appetite-whetting art. The two Midwest American transplants are currently based in Kuala Lumpur, and I could not think of two better people to show me around the city.

Unfortunately, they are not able to do so personally as my trip coincides with the day they are on assignment in Jakarta. But I am undaunted. I settle for a list from fellow bloggers instead, and after a flurry of emails listing times, places, and foods to eat, I set out with notes and a map in hand on a food tour of KL.

The delectable popiah, cousin of our very own lumpiang sariwa.

To The Market
Every food tour should begin or end with a market. According to Robyn, Pasar Bukit Bintang, better known as Imbi Market, has been “temporarily” situated at its current location along Jalan Imbi for over 25 years now. Serving mostly Chinese Malaysians, the market provides an abundance of every ingredient that any home cook would need and desire. But I am not here to shop. I am here to eat.

Near the fruit and vegetable section is the makeshift hawker center. Robyn, a woman who doesn’t like keeping a good meal waiting, warned me to be early. Surprisingly I find an open table and immediately, a couple of corporate types ask to share the table—an unavoidable situation in such a busy place. 

After an exploratory lap or two around hawker stands, I decide to try a spicy-sweet bowl of Chee Chong Fun and while I’m at it, some Popiah as well. Chee Chong Fun is a popular breakfast—thick silky-soft rice noodles that are lightly boiled and combined with the customer’s choice of tofus and meats. The noodle mix is then tossed in sweet dark hoisin-like sauce and a fiery red chili sauce. Finally, it is garnished with a shower of nutty sesame seeds and mildly spiced green chilis. Smooth, soft, and unexpectedly light.

While Chee Choong Fun may be unusual, Popiah is completely familiar. A cousin of our lumpiang sariwa, Popiah starts with a freshly made wheat flour pancake. The paper-thin wrapper is lightly covered in a sweet sauce spread and chili paste and then sprinkled with minced garlic and crushed peanuts. With lightning speed, the Popiah maker assembles a selection of ingredients: leaves of green lettuce, finely cut matchsticks of carrots and white radish, and thin slices of bean sprouts, cucumber, shrimp, coriander, and Chinese sausages. All of this is tightly rolled and then deftly sliced into delectable mouth-poppable pieces. As I walk out of Imbi Market, I wonder if the rest of my foodie tour will be just as delicious. Only time and my stomach will tell.

Pak Din's Master Grillman. All grilled seafood at Pak Din are served with a special dipping sauce.

A date with a fish
My wife and I hungrily head to the Lake Gardens district of Kuala Lumpur for lunch—a meal that Robyn suggests I should not miss at Ikan Bakar Pak Din.

For over a decade, Pak Din and his large family have been grilling and cooking the best of Malay cuisine. In fact, the patriarch of the family, Pak Din, does all the grilling under the trees behind his stall. There is nothing fancy about the food. This is home-cooked comfort food at its best.

I head for the long queue in front of Pak Din’s stall. One of Pak Din’s long-serving assistants Amy spots me as an orang asing or foreigner and begins to talk to me in English.  She patiently describes the vast array of dishes before me—presented turo-turo style in large stainless steel chafing dishes. I ask about the Chicken Rendang, a Robyn favorite, but I am informed that they just ran out. Disappointed but unfazed, I chose a grilled catfish, grilled squid, and a vegetable side of long beans and chilies.

What first hits me are the smells: the aroma of a smoky grill and the scent of cooked seafood perfumed with a hint of curry spice, turmeric maybe. Each dish comes with a generous serving of Pak Din’s special dipping sauce. It is a heady mixture of tamarind and shrimp paste, spicy chilies, roughly chopped red onions, and sugar—making it a balancing act of flavors in a bowl: sour, salty, spicy, and sweet. This dish is not about complex marinades and spicy rubs. Every bite of fish, every piece of squid is a smoky delight. But with a plate of steaming hot rice and spoonfuls of Pak Din’s special sauce, you cannot help but lick your lips and feel at home.

Before we leave, Amy asks us what we think of their food. There is no need for words, I think. The empty plates speak volumes.

Indian snacks at Restaurant Chat Masala.

Care for a chaat?
I love Indian food. But after years of eating spicy chicken tandoori and buttery naan dipped in sweat-inducing curry, I wonder if there is more to this cuisine. What am I missing?

Robyn’s suggestion—an afternoon snack at the North Indian restaurant Restoran Chat Masala—is a novel idea. I have never thought of snacking on Indian food. I hail a taxi by the hotel and   head out.
This might be a good time to talk about taxis. My advice? Never get a cab in front of your hotel. Taxis around hotels are like vultures waiting for gullible tourists to feed on. Go to a mall or walk around the block instead. And make sure they turn on the meter. Your wallet will thank you.

After a long and rather expensive taxi ride, I am on foot and lost. Being a sometime-idiotic tourist, I forgot to simply call the restaurant. The voice on the side of the line seemed amused by my predicament and informs me, “Sir, we are right beside KFC.”

This hole-in-the-wall eatery is easy to miss. The restaurant entrance is cramped—hawker stands and an open kitchen take up every available space. The atmosphere is organized chaos. I’m staring at its menu on the wall—tired, confused, and, quite honestly, still a bit lost. A friendly Indian takes hold of my elbow. “Sit,” he says, directing me to a nearby table, “and someone will take your order.” I settle myself and order my savory afternoon snack.
As recommended by Robyn, I order a plate of puri. What arrives at my table is a surprise. On a plate are four, light brown golf ball-like puffs. On top of each are layers of ingredients: first, a white creamy yogurt; next, a thick tamarind paste; and on top, a garnish of fried lentils and short segments of crisp orange noodles. At the center of my plate is a metal cup filled with a concoction of tamarind, mint, and chilies. Again, I’m slightly bewildered—how do I eat this, I ask myself. I decide to do what seems logical. I drizzle the sauce on top of a puff and pop it into my mouth.

It is an explosion of flavor. The first bite is too overwhelming, in fact, I take a gulp of milk tea to wash it down. With the second puff, I can taste the flavors: the cooling milky yoghurt, the sour tamarind, and the bitterness of puréed garbanzo beans. The next puff reveals textures: the crunch of the puri and the fried lentils, the velvet feel of the yoghurt and sticky tamarind. My last puri brings these layers of flavor and texture all together into an unusually scrumptious chaat.

As I pay for my meal at the cash register, the owner, my man in white asks me if I enjoyed my snack. I reply with an emphatic “Yes, very much.”  He smiles and invites me to return. “Remember, beside KFC,” he says. I laugh, step out to street, and hail a taxi, feeling much better for the experience.

A must-eat at Sek Yuen's: Slow-Roasted Duck.

Make the old new again
My final stop is a personal favorite of Robyn and Dave, Restoran Sek Yuen. Knowing how much they love to eat here is enough to give me goose bumps. I am just beginning to imagine the flavors I will soon be savoring.
Located in an older part of Kuala Lumpur, this Chinese restaurant, a long dining hall with high ceilings that looks more like an open-end warehouse than a restaurant, is an institution of Cantonese goodness. It has a tiled floor that was probably once pristine white but is now a worn-out grey from years of shuffling servers and dining guests, old black-and-white photographs on the walls, and tables with formerly colorful laminated tops, wiped endlessly to faded grey.

As my wife and I step into Sek Yuen, I feel like an unwelcome guest who enters a dining room without an invitation. There is a pause as the regulars stop, look at the new arrivals, and return to   their meals.

We sit and wait. Finally, a handsome, middle-aged woman approaches our table and starts speaking in perfect Cantonese. We obviously don’t understand. With a laugh and scratch of her head, she says “English lah?” smiles, and moves away.

Soon afterwards, another slightly older woman informs us in perfect English, “Sorry, we have no menu but this is what is good tonight.” She immediately begins to enumerate a parade of fabulous-sounding dishes: steamed fish head with black bean sauce, braised stuffed pig’s feet, sliced slow-roasted duck, stir-fried shark fins served in lettuce cups... I politely interrupt and inquire about the Sweet and Sour Fish, another Robyn recommendation. “Very good,” she says but expresses concern that the fish might be too big for only two. In unison, my wife and I tell her we are very hungry. The waitress relents. We also ask for the roasted duck and an order of stir-fried baby gai lan to round out the meal. “So much! You must be very hungry,” she says then dashes away to place our order.

While the stir-fried gai lan is perfectly cooked, preserving both its crunch and deep delicate flavor, it is the duck that steals the show. The duck—slow-roasted over a wood-burning fire—has a dark caramel-flavored skin that encases layers of moist duck meat. Every bite is a duck lover’s dream: a drool-induced crunch followed by the unmistakable sweet flavor of succulent water fowl. We eat bite after juicy bite and we never tire of taste. The fat which stops most diners after a fifth or sixth bite has been almost completely rendered out, leaving only its essence behind. The dish is absolutely amazing but what comes next is even better.

Like most Chinese food devotees, I avoid the sweet and sour fish on menus. Partly because it’s a cliché, but mostly because restaurants treat this recipe with little reverence, losing the fish in a orange, sickly sweet goo. But I trust Robyn and it pays off. Sek Yuen’s version begins with a fish fried in light, airy batter, holding in its freshness. Then it is covered with a tangy ruby-toned sauce with only hints of sweetness. Finally, it is garnished with juliennes of carrots, slivers of curly spring onions, and slices of cucumber. The star is still the fish with a light layer of crisp and luscious flesh. The sauce does not obscure but highlights the almost sweet fish. Our fish was big. It could have easily satisfied a party of four but when we were done, only bones were left, picked clean.

Our server returns to our table and begins to ask if we want to wrap our leftovers. She stop in mid-sentence, looks at our table and smiles, “Must be very hungry!”