Tau Suan

If you know what tau suan is, you probably know that 'tau' ('豆') means beans. What about 'suan'? What does 'suan' mean?

No one has ever explained to me the meaning of 'suan'. But I know that when 豆爽 is made with lotus seeds instead of mung/green beans, it's called 蓮子爽. And my mother made a savory sticky soup with chicken and duck 'spare parts' – gizzards, livers, blood and intestines – called 爽腹內. So '爽' probably means sticky soup, which could be savory or sweet. Kind of like '羹', I guess.

Cooking for the President has an alternative explanation that's quite interesting. The Nyonya Hokkien author says 'suan' means diamonds because the little beans in tau suan look like diamonds, and 'diamonds' ('钻') in Hokkien (and Teochew) is pronounced 'suan'.

Diamonds, eh? Make mine lotus seeds size please! Actually . . . mung bean size would do too. Give me a handful, just a small handful 'cause I'm not greedy.

'豆钻' miswritten as '豆爽'? Oh dear, how embarrassing!

Fortunately, Nyonyas aren't exactly a world authority when it comes to the Chinese language. It's '豆爽' on China websites, which presumably have a higher standard of Chinese than a Peranakan Chinese. Shucks, there goes my diamonds!

TAU SUAN (豆爽, SPLIT GREEN BEAN SWEET SOUP) (Recipe for 8 persons) 220 g split mung/green beans (1 cup) 4 pandan leaves, lower/light green part only, wash and cut 8 cm (3 inches) long 200 g sugar (1 cup) 6 cups water 16 pandan leaves, wash and knot ⅔ cup sweet potato flour (White Swallow brand, special grade), mix with ⅓ cup water . . . if you use other brands, you may need to sieve the flour if it doesn't dissolve well . . . because it's coarse 1 pair 油条 (you char kway, Chinese crullers), divorced . . . toast till crisp just before serving, then snip crosswise 1½ cm thick with scissors Soak mung beans in water till expanded, about 1 hour. Drain thoroughly. Lightly oil a plate or line with parchment paper. Spread evenly with half of beans. Place cut pandan leaves on beans, spaced evenly. Top with remaining beans. Steam over rapidly boiling water till cooked but not mushy, 10 minutes or so. Remove from heat. Discard pandan leaves. Set aside till ready to serve. Cover only after beans are cool. Place sugar in a pot. Drizzle with 2 tbsp water. Cook over medium-high heat, swirling to ensure even browning. When sugar is lightly coloured, reduce heat to medium-low. Continue swirling till sugar is light brown, then turn off heat. Keep swirling till sugar is medium brown (like honey that's not too dark). With your hand to the side of the pot (to avoid the burst of steam), add 6 cups water. Turn on heat and bring to a boil. Add knotted pandan leaves and simmer gently, covered, for 10 minutes. Discard leaves. Taste and adjust sweetness if necessary. Set aside till ready to serve. To serve, bring pandan sweet soup to a boil. Add mung beans. Once soup returns to a gentle simmer, stir and, at the same time, drizzle with sweet potato flour slurry. Bring back to a gentle simmer. Turn off heat immediately. Do not overcook or beans would turn mushy. Stirring too much and cooking after the soup has thickened would make it watery. Serve tau suan hot, topped with you char kway just before eating.

Kiam Chye Ark

When I was looking at recipes for Itek Teem, I was surprised at the number of ingredients used for the Nyonya soup. Various Peranakan adaptations of Kiam Chye Ark had pig's trotters, assam skin, brandy, nutmeg, and even sea cucumber. These were on top of the kiam chye (pickled mustard greens), ark (duck), pickled plums, and tomatoes found in every recipe, Nyonya or Chinese. It all seemed a bit over-the-top to me, adding so much stuff.

I also checked out some Chinese recipes, which widened the variety of ingredients used: ginger, garlic, wolfberries (!), dried dates, pork ribs (!), onions, white peppercorns, carrots and, as for Itek Teem, brandy.

After considering the alternatives, I decided to stick to my mother's recipe using only kiam chye, ark, pickled plums, and tomatoes. Yup, just the gang of four which everyone else had; and nothing else, unlike everyone else. I didn't want to dilute the taste of the duck with pork, or mask it with the pungence of ginger, garlic or onions. Nor did I want to tone down the full blast of the salted mustard greens with dried dates, nutmeg, and whatnots. I wanted the soup salty and sour with no hint of sweet or bitter. Sea cucumber was a no-no because it would have absorbed rather than enhanced flavours (which is why it's usually braised with flavourful ingredients, such as dried mushrooms). I didn't need peppercorns since my mother's Kiam Chye Ark was always served with a good dash of ground white pepper. The only candidate left was brandy. Hmm, maybe . . . .

After 90 minutes of patient simmering, my soup (and kitchen) was full of gamey sweetness from the duck. And there was a salty, sourish tang from the pickled mustard greens. The pickled plums and tomatoes were accents in the background, rounding off the robust, bold flavours. It was the hearty soup I grew up with, the Kiam Chye Ark that tasted of kiam chye and ark, unadulterated.

Growing up, it never occurred to me that my mother's Kiam Chye Ark might need any extra ingredient. Now, after pondering over it, I don't think it does. I wouldn't change anything . . . save for maybe a tiny shot of brandy to add a bit of 'oomph'. To me, Mom's Kiam Chye Ark is still the best in the world.

KIAM CHYE ARK (咸菜鸭, DUCK SOUP WITH SALTED MUSTARD GREENS ) Source: My mother (Recipe for 6 persons) 220 g 咸菜 (kiam chye, salted mustard greens) ½ duck weighing about 1.1 kg, or 950 g after trimming 2 big pickled plums (30 g; use 3-4 pieces if plums are small), crush or cut to break the skin 1 medium size tomato (120 g), rinse, trim and cut into 6 wedges 1 tbsp brandy, optional ground white pepper, to taste There're two types of salted mustard greens. One is more sour, less salty, and has leaves as well as stems; the other is more salty, less sour, and has only thick stems. Some people refer to both as 咸菜, but the sour one with leaves is actually 酸菜. Rinse kiam chye thoroughly and cut bite size, slicing thicker leaves at an angle to make thin slices about 2 mm thick. Add enough hot water to just cover. Soak 5 minutes and drain (don't squeeze dry), reserving the water. Chop off duck's rear end if it's still hanging around. Trim skin and fat but leave less fatty skin on the drumstick, thigh and wing. Chop into six pieces (drumstick, thigh, wing, and 3 pieces of breast meat). Blanch in boiling water. Rinse and pluck out any lingering feathers, with a pair of tweezers if necessary. Put duck, plums and 180 g kiam chye in a pot, tightly packed. Add enough water to cover by 5 cm, about 7½ cups (1.8 litres). Bring to a boil. Simmer very gently, covered, for 45 minutes. Taste and, if not too salty, add remaining kiam chye to taste. Tuck tomato pieces around the pot. Continue simmering very gently till duck is tender, another 45 minutes or so. There should be enough liquid to cover duck and vegetables by about 3 cm. Add more water as necessary, or increase heat to boil rapidly, uncovered, till soup is reduced to desired level. Taste and adjust seasoning with reserved kiam chye water if necessary. Add brandy if using, then cover and simmer 1 minute. Serve with ground white pepper to taste.

Sayur Lodeh

It was Cook a Pot of Curry Day yesterday because, to cut a long story short, some mainland Chinese with a delicate nose had asked his Singaporean Indian to stop cooking curry. Indignant Singaporeans protested in unison when they heard the story. How dare they tell us not to cook curry! It was a wonderful excuse to tell the mainland Chinese where to shove it, all in the name of protecting the national identity. Before long, Curry Day was organized via Facebook.

There are curries, and there are curries. If it had been a Malay, Nyonya or local Chinese cooking curry next to the mainland Chinese, there probably would have been no dispute. But Indian curries are different when they're not adapted to suit the tastes of the Singaporean Chinese. They have a pungence that's far more powerful than Malay, Nyonya or Chinese-style curries. Chinese Singaporeans call it 'the Indian smell'. For those who don't mince their words, 'smell' may be replaced with 'stink' or 'pong'

I don't know for sure but I suspect the Indian neighbour in the dispute was cooking the original, unaltered version of Indian curry that smelt really good or bad, depending on the race of the nose.

Singaporeans love their curries. But, for those who aren't Indians, most of them simply do not eat true blue Indian curries which have 'the Indian smell' – the kind of curry that Indians cook at home. How much do the local Chinese hate the smell? So much that they wouldn't rent their properties to Indians for fear that the curry pong would not only linger on sofas and curtains, but even penetrate deep inside concrete walls! Gross exaggeration, you think? Hey, the Indian neighbour in the story cooked with his windows closed, but that didn't stop his curries from being offensive!

Would everyone have jumped to the Indian neighbour's defence if he had been a foreigner? Or if the Chinese involved were from Singapore, not China? I doubt it, at least not in such great numbers.

Singaporeans may proudly declare their love for curries and chide the mainland Chinese for not adapting to Singaporean ways. But the unspoken truth is that the bulk of the population, the Chinese Singaporeans, dislike authentic Indian curries as much as the mainland Chinese. The 'Indian' curry fish head they love is actually not very Indian. They might be busy cooking and sharing curries on Curry Day, but chances are very few cooked the type of curry that had upset the mainland Chinese. Hypocrisy, much?

What was my Sayur Lodeh like? Mild and totally harmless, 'cause I followed my mother's Chinese style recipe. There was absolutely nothing Indian about it.

SAYUR LODEH (VEGETABLE CURRY) Source: My mother (Recipe for 6-8 persons) Curry paste 10 dried chillies (10 g), cut into small pieces with scissors, soak in warm water till soft, about . . . 30 minutes, squeeze dry, and discard water 120 g shallots (20 pieces) 50 g garlic (8 cloves) 10 g tumeric (½ thumb size) 20 g ginger (thumb size) 15 g galangal (¾ thumb size) 60 g red chillies (3 pieces) 10 g candlenuts (4 pieces) 4 kaffir lime leaves, remove veins 15 g belachan (1 tbsp), toast till your neighbours smell it 4 tbsp vegetable oil 1 large lemongrass, soft part only, wash and crush 25 g dried prawns (3 tbsp) 550 g cabbage (from Malaysia, not China), trim, cut chunky, slicing thick veins in the middle, . . . wash, and drain 150 g long beans, wash, trim, devein, and cut 7 cm long 2 tbsp light soya sauce 6 pieces tau pok (beancurd puffs), cut each piece into 2 1 medium size carrot (150 g), peel, wash, and roll-cut chunky 4 sprigs curry leaves, rinse 330 ml undiluted coconut milk 1 medium size eggplant (250 g), wash, trim and roll-cut chunky salt to taste, about ½ tsp The mix of main ingredients may be changed to suit your preference. Besides those listed above, other popular choices include fried beancurd, beancurd skin (deep-fried or soaked in hot water till soft), and mang kuang (yam bean). Wash, peel and chop ingredients for curry paste as appropriate. Grind or pound till fine. In a just smoking wok, heat vegetable oil till just smoking. Stir-fry lemongrass and dried prawns over medium heat till fragrant. Add curry paste and stir-fry till fragrant, drizzling with 1 tbsp water at a time when it scorches. (The oil doesn't separate because there isn't much.) When curry paste smells good, add cabbage and long beans. Stir-fry till heated through and wok is hot again. Drizzle with light soya and stir till absorbed. Add enough water to cover half of vegetables. Scrape wok to deglaze. Push cabbage and long beans aside and place tau pok in the middle. Tuck carrots and curry leaves here and there, then add ⅔ of coconut milk. Top up with more water to just cover everything. Cover, bring to a boil, and reduce heat to low. Simmer gently till cabbage is half tender, about 20 minutes. Push veggies aside and place eggplant in the middle. Add more water if necessary so that there's just enough liquid for veggies and tau pok to sit in. Repeat simmering as before till eggplant and cabbage are tender, 15-20 minutes. Liquid should now cover about 80% of veggies. Adjust if necessary by adding more water or increasing heat to boil rapidly, uncovered. Add salt to taste, about ½ tsp. Drizzle with remaining coconut milk. Stir gently to mix in. Bring to a gentle simmer and turn off heat. Sayur Lodeh may be served immediately. Alternatively, let flavours develop for 45-60 minutes, then serve at room temperature or reheated.

Minced Pork Stir-Fry with Ketchup & Fermented Black Beans

Minced pork stir-fried with fermented black beans is one of the standard items served at places that sell Teochew porridge. It's different from other fbb-based recipes because it's got a good amount of tomato ketchup, a decidedly non-Teochew ingredient which, I suspect, my cousins in China don't use. But ketchup actually goes well with fbb's salty fragrance, adding a distinct dimension not found in fbb dishes that are more traditional.

The stir-fried minced pork sold at Teochew muay places usually has a layer of oil coloured red by tomato ketchup, and meat that has a generous amount of fat. The one I make avoids the excessive oil because I don't think it makes the pork taste better. However, I do use pork belly that's quite fatty. I find that pork that's too lean dries out after it's minced and stir-fried. Ideally, the fatty pork belly is minced very roughly, with a cleaver (or two), into tiny pieces the size of rice grains. You can't really see it but each small little piece of lean meat has a bit of fat attached, so it stays succulent and smooth after it's cooked. And it has bite, unlike mushy machine-ground meat.

You might think if you use a lean cut, stir-frying it with lots of oil would make it moist. But it doesn't work that way because the oil stays on the surface of the little lumps of meat. It doesn't get inside, so the lean meat stays dry.

At this point, you might be thinking, I don't eat fatty meat, period. And this is where I could give you a blurb about fats being an essential nutrient for the body (and brain), how fats don't always make you fat, how dietary cholesterol doesn't clog up your arteries, blah blah blah. *yawn* But I'm not gonna do that. Instead, I'd ask you to imagine what your tombstone will say. (What a cheerful thought!) Will it be 'She Did Not Eat Fatty Pork Belly'?

My guiding principle is, if it's not important enough to be on my tombstone, then it's not terribly important. That's why I eat pork belly, fat and all, without blinking an eye. And I don't wash intimate apparel by hand. But I always give my cats a head rub when they ask for one because their tombstones will say, 'She Had All the Head Rubs She Wanted'.

MINCED PORK STIR-FRY WITH KETCHUP & FERMENTED BLACK BEANS Source: My mother (Recipe for 4 persons) 2 tbsp fermented black beans 6 tbsp tomato ketchup 1½ tbsp vegetable oil 1 tbsp minced ginger 1 tbsp minced garlic 1 tsp thinly sliced spring onions (white part) 2 bird's eye chillies, or to taste, wash, trim and chop roughly 300 g fatty pork belly, mince roughly, by hand if possible 1 tbsp Shaoxing wine 1 tsp sugar 2 tsp diced spring onions (green part) Soak fermented black beans in 2 tbsp water for 5 minutes. Drain, mix the liquid with ketchup, and chop beans roughly. In a just smoking wok, heat vegetable oil till very hot. Add ginger and stir-fry over high heat till lightly golden. Add fermented black beans, garlic, chillies and spring onions (white part). Stir-fry till fragrant. Add minced pork and stir-fry till wok is hot again, jabbing to break up meat into small pieces. Drizzle with wine and stir through. Drizzle with ketchup mixture. Stir till absorbed. Drizzle with 2 tbsp water. Stir through. Add sugar and another 2 tbsp water. Stir a few minutes till sauce is reduced. There should be just enough to keep the meat nicely moist. If not eating within 10 minutes, leave sauce a bit thin because it thickens slightly as it sits. Taste and adjust seasoning if necessary. Turn off heat. Sprinkle with spring onions (green part). Plate and serve with steamed rice or plain Teochew porridge.

Kueh Bengka Ubi (I)

I was going to say it takes five minutes to put together a kueh bengka ubi (baked tapioca cake). But, thinking about it as I write, I'd say it takes only 90 seconds if, unlike me, you're not reading the instructions at the same time, and chasing cats out of the kitchen.

Yup, one and a half minutes is all kueh bengka ubi takes, or I'll eat my hat. Baking time is not included, btw, so please don't say it takes you an hour, and then tell me to eat my hat with sambal. Neither is shopping time or washing up. And I reserve the right to change this agreement any time I like, in whatever way I like. I assume your arms and legs are fully functional and . . . .

Hey, I almost forgot I don't have any hats!

To bake prep a tapioca cake in 90 seconds, forget about squeezing coconut milk. This is the 21st century. Who on earth squeezes milk from coconuts by hand? If you can find a place that sells grated coconut, that place would also sell fresh coconut milk lovingly squeezed by a machine. If you can't, then you've got nothing to squeeze, right? (I'm assuming you're not going to pluck, husk, and grate a coconut yourself. If you prove me wrong, I'll go buy a hat and eat it!)

The same place that sells freshly squeezed coconut milk and grated coconut would also sell freshly grated tapioca. Just grab a pack, along with the coconut milk. Remember to buy the exact amount for the recipe, so you don't have to waste precious seconds measuring after you get home.

When you're ready to bake, pour the coconut milk and grated tapioca into a mixing bowl, crack the eggs, measure the sugar and water, then mix everything up. How long would that take? 45 seconds? You now have 45 seconds left to line a cake tin, pour the batter, scrape the bowl, smooth the top, put the tin in the oven, and shut the door – bang! Job done in 90 seconds like I told ya!

If you have a few more minutes, you may want to squash a few pandan leaves in the batter to give it a nice fragrance. (Cakes, like cars and computers, have 'optional accessories'.) Mind you, the cake smells and tastes wonderful even without pandan, because of the coconut milk.

If you don't have freshly squeezed coconut milk, you could use the 'undead' variety that comes in a can or box. (Long-life coconut milk is dead coconut milk brought back from the nether world, isn't it?) What about pasteurized milk, the type that's sold refrigerated? Sorry, that's absolutely nothing like the fresh, unadulterated form. It is, however, better than the canned or boxed zombies (generally speaking).

If you don't have fresh and ready-grated tapioca, frozen may be available, like in the US. Or you may have fresh or frozen tapioca but it's not grated, in which case get your grater out and put the stopwatch away.

Kueh bengka ubi is one of the easiest Nyonya kueh-kueh. Want to give it a go, and you need a good recipe? No problem, I've done the leg work for you. I've compared four recipes, two from Lilywaisekhong, and one each from Mrs Leong Yee Soo (The Best of Singapore Cooking) and Mrs Wee Kim Wee (Cooking for the President):

I've rejected Lily's original recipe because it has a crazy amount of butter, sugar, eggs and coconut milk. Maybe it's an Americanized version since she lives in Denver? I don't know, but I do know even her skinny recipe is decidedly plus-size. And steamed mung beans (!) in kueh bengka ubi? That's news to me! Verdict: out.

Mrs Leong and Mrs Wee use similar ingredients, but Mrs Leong's method is less straightforward. Her recipe has grated tapioca mixed with water, squeezed dry, and then the water is left to settle. After the starch sinks to the bottom, it's drained and mixed with the grated tapioca. Next, the other ingredients for the cake – eggs, sugar, coconut milk, etc – are cooked on the stove, then added to the tapioca mixture. Finally, the cake is baked till golden brown. Mrs Wee's recipe is much easier since the ingredients are just stirred together, more or less, then into the oven they go.

The recipe I've tried is Mrs Wee's. I'm munching a piece of tapioca cake as I write this post, and it's very, very fragrant, especially the caramelized top. It's a bit on the sweet side, but still within my acceptable range. The chewiness is just right, not too soft nor too hard (which Mrs Leong's may be, I think, because it has less liquid).

What's my rating for Mrs Wee's kueh ubi? Uber good! It's another great recipe from Cooking for the President that I'd thoroughly recommend (unless you don't eat ubi).

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go steam some fish, then pick out all the bones. "Ikan will be ready in a few minutes, Your Feline Highness."

7 June 2012 Update



Click here for tips on making kueh bengka ubi.

KUEH BENGKA UBI (BAKED TAPIOCA CAKE) Source: Adapted from Cooking for the President (Recipe for one 23 cm cake) banana leaf or parchment paper if using banana leaf, wash, wipe dry and lightly oil shiny side 2 eggs 300 g sugar ⅙ tsp salt 1 kg grated tapioca, at room temperature 4 pandan leaves, rinse and drain 375 ml freshly squeezed coconut milk, at room temperature, undiluted 125 ml water Line 23 x 5 cm square cake tin with banana leaf or parchment paper. Preheat oven to 170°C. Stir eggs, sugar, salt and tapioca till evenly mixed. Knead and wring pandan leaves in mixture till completely crushed. Add coconut milk and water. Mix thoroughly. Discard pandan leaves. Pour batter into cake tin, moving stream of batter around tin as you pour. Smooth the top, stirring liquid that may accumulate around edges so that batter is evenly mixed. Bake till top is golden brown, edges are crusty and slightly caramelized, and inserted skewer comes out almost clean. This should take about 1¼ hours. Cover edges with foil during last 30 minutes if top doesn't brown evenly. Do not over-bake or cake would be dry. Remove cake from oven. Leave on wire rack till slightly firm, 30-45 minutes. Unmould and leave cake on wire rack till cold, another hour or so. Cut into 4 x 2.5 cm pieces with an oiled knife. Serve at room temperature with Chinese tea as a snack, dessert or during tea. Chilled icewine or late-harvest Riesling would be good too. Leftovers should be wrapped and refrigerated. Cut and rebake till thoroughly heated and soft, then serve hot or at room temperature. Kueh bengka ubi is: "semi-soft and moist with some elasticity and bite, and has an inviting fragrance from the pandan, eggs and coconut milk. Slightly brown and burnt edges give it a special sensuous dimension." Cooking for the President, Wee Eng Hwa

Diced Chicken in Spicy Fermented Tofu Sauce

One day, whilst shooting the breeze with me somewhere, an ang moh acquaintance said he had a tattoo. Without any encouragement on my part, he rolled up his sleeve to show me the Chinese word on his arm. He seemed quite proud of it, and I was all prepared to 'Oooh!' appropriately (whilst running my fingers gently over his bulging biceps *wink wink*). Instead, when I saw the word he had chosen, the beer I was drinking took a detour into my lungs and up my nose. My face turned red; I thumped my chest; he thumped my back; it was a while before I could stop coughing. By then, Acquaintance probably suspected there was something wrong with his tattoo 'cause I was laughing and gesturing at it even as I choked on my drink. Indeed, there was, for the word on his arm was "腐".

"腐", for those who don't know, means decay, rot, spoil, or corrupt. Why the hell did he tattoo himself with such a word? Ah . . . . Because Acquaintance had been told the word meant eagle. Or rather, the catalogue that he'd picked the word from said so. But 'eagle' is "鹰", not "腐"! They may look similar, but the two words are worlds apart in meaning. Unfortunately, nobody at the tattoo parlour in London understood Chinese.

Grinning from ear to ear despite my watering eyes, I said, 'You know tofu? This word is the 'fu' part of "tofu".'

'I've got "tofu" tattooed on my arm?!'

'Er, no, it's just "fu", not "tofu".'

'What does "fu" mean?' It was cruel but I had to tell him. 'It doesn't make sense if "fu" means rot, because there's nothing rotten about tofu,' he said.

He had a point. Why is tofu called tofu when the 'to' (beans) aren't "fu" (rotten)?

The question bothered me for years but not anymore. I've just googled and found a plausible explanation, which is this: A long, long time ago, the Chinese called Mongolian cheese furu (腐乳), which meant spoiled milk. And then they started making curd, which resembled cheese, with soya bean milk. Hence, the curd was called tofu (豆腐), meaning spoiled beans. And then they started fermenting tofu, which turned creamy/milky as mould grew on it. So they called the fermented tofu furu, the same name which had been given to Mongolian cheese. This time, the preserved tofu did full justice to the word "腐".

Were Mongolians really making cheese even before Chinese started making beancurd, which was an awfully long time ago in 200-something BC (Han dynasty)? I don't know, but at least I have an answer next time someone asks me to explain the 'fu' part of "tofu".

I never found out whether Mr "腐" removed his tattoo, but I would if I were him. Or maybe put "豆" on the other arm, and tell everyone he loves tofu. If I see him again, I'll invite him to my place and make him some nice tofu dishes, like Spicy Diced Chicken with Fermented Tofu. I'm sure he'd love that. *wink wink*

DICED CHICKEN IN SPICY FERMENTED TOFU SAUCE (香辣腐乳鸡丁) (Recipe for 4 persons) 400 g boneless chicken leg, wash and dice 2 cm Marinade 1½ tbsp white fermented beancurd's pickling liquid ⅓ tsp salt ½ tbsp sugar 1 tbsp Shaoxing wine 1½ tbsp water Stir-fry 1 tbsp white sesame oil 1 piece ginger, half thumb size, peel, wash and slice thinly 3 cloves garlic, peel, wash and slice thinly 3 bird's eye chillies, or adjust to taste, wash, trim and slice diagonally 3 mm thick ½ tbsp spring onions (white part) cut 1 cm long 30 g white fermented beancurd, mash 1 tbsp Shaoxing wine Finishing touch 2 tbsp spring onions (green part) cut 1 cm long ¼ tsp white sesame oil Mix chicken with marinade ingredients till all liquid is absorbed. Marinate for 15 minutes or longer. In a just smoking wok, heat 1 tbsp white sesame oil till very hot. Add ginger and stir-fry over high heat till lightly golden. Add garlic, chillies and spring onions (white part). Stir-fry till garlic is also lightly golden. Add fermented beancurd and stir-fry till fragrant. Add chicken and stir-fry till wok is very hot. Drizzle with wine and stir through. Drizzle with 1 tbsp water and stir through again. Add 2 tbsp water and continue stirring – a few minutes would do – till chicken is just cooked (totally opaque and firm), and sauce is reduced and slightly thickened. Or leave sauce a bit watery if not eating within 10 minutes, because it thickens as it sits. Taste and adjust seasoning if necessary. Turn off heat. Sprinkle with spring onions (green part). Stir through. Sprinkle with ¼ tsp sesame oil. Plate and serve immediately.

Pork Stir-Fry with Sesame Oil

I stir-fry pork with sesame oil; so did my mother, my mother's mother, my mother's mother's mother . . . . I'm guessing that since sesame oil was invented discovered in China, which was supposedly some 2,300 years ago during the Three Kingdoms period, Chinese have been cooking pork in it one way or another. 

The version I make is with garlic, ginger, light soya sauce, oyster sauce, Shaoxing wine and salt. I've done it so many times I can practically do it with my eyes closed.

At various points in my life when I lived on instant noodles, the classic stir-fry was a long-term resident in my fridge. When I was hungry, all I had to do was boil some noodles, chuck some of the pork in the pot, add a few green leaves, and lunch/dinner/midnight snack/morning-after-pick-me-up was ready, and served in the pot). I ate enough to last a lifetime, which is why I don't stir-fry pork with sesame oil nowadays . . . except once in a blue, blue moon. It may be a bit same old same old, but I still treasure an occasional visit from the familiar friend – for old times' sake, you know?

A classic is a classic for good reason . . . . Oh look, there's a queue for my pork stir-fry! That must mean it's good!

"Ok, ok, don't rush; there's plenty for everyone. Hey, Baldie, don't you dare jump the queue!"

PORK STIR-FRY WITH SESAME OIL (Recipe for 4 persons) 300 g pork (shoulder butt, or tenderloin if you're a tenderloin person) . . . wash, drain and cut bite size across the grain about 2 mm thick Marinade 1 tbsp light soya sauce ½ tsp dark soya sauce 1 tbsp oyster sauce ½ tbsp Shaoxing wine ¼ tsp salt 2 tbsp water 1 tsp white sesame oil ½ tbsp cornflour 1 tbsp white sesame oil ⅓ cup julienned ginger 3 cloves garlic, peel and mince roughly 1 tbsp Shaoxing wine 3 tbsp water ¼ tsp black sesame oil, or white if not available Mix pork with light and dark soya sauce, oyster sauce, wine, salt and 2 tbsp water till absorbed. Drizzle with 1 tsp white sesame oil and mix through. Leave to marinate 15 minutes or longer. Sprinkle with cornflour and mix through. In a just smoking wok, heat 1 tbsp white sesame oil till very hot. Add ginger and stir-fry over high heat till lightly golden. Add garlic and stir-fry, also till lightly golden. Add pork, minus marinade if any. Stir fry till pork is almost cooked. Drizzle with 1 tbsp wine and remaining marinade if any. Stir through. Drizzle with 2 tbsp water. Stir to deglaze wok. Drizzle with another 2 tbsp water. Bring to a gentle simmer. Pork should now be just cooked. There should be just enough sauce for the pork to sit in and stay nicely moist. Add a bit more water or simmer gently to reduce as necessary. Do not overcook or pork would be tough. Taste and quickly adjust seasoning if necessary. Turn off heat. Drizzle with sesame oil. Plate and serve hot or at room temperature with steamed rice or plain Teochew porridge. Also good as topping for noodles in soup.