Poornima Manco

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travel

In search of Satay

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The red lanterns above us sway in the slight breeze. Sweat trickles down our backs, and our faces are flushed in the heat. The air is redolent with the smell of barbecued meats. There are a variety of food stalls jostling for space on either side of the narrow street. Chinatown, Kuala Lumpur, is no different from Chinatowns all over the world.

The stall in front of us displays a variety of uncooked chunks on skewers ready to be picked and barbecued as per preference. “2.50 Ringgit”, the stall owner informs my husband, who is eyeing the satays with enthusiasm. My daughters shrink back, and I steer him away towards a poster of a restaurant claiming to serve the best Malay food in Chinatown.

Jalan Petaling, the adjacent street, is even more crowded. Stalls of fake scarves, bags, shoes and assorted sundries spill over into the streets. Louis Vuitton competes with Chanel, while Burberry muscles in on Mulberry. I am exhorted to buy with cries of “Lady…lady….pretty bag….” We weave our way through, side stepping other tourists who display more interest in the wares.My eyes are searching for the restaurant that will hopefully deliver on its promise. Espying it, we enter its cool environs and sit ourselves down in front of the fan, that swings lazily from side to side.

Alas! There is no satay on offer. Instead we choose Nasi Lemak for ourselves, and Nasi Goreng for the girls. The coconut flavoured rice arrives with its side of anchovies, cucumber and boiled egg, deep fried chicken and a hot chilli paste known as sambal. The girls make short work of their fried rice, while we savour the the exotic favours of the meal popularly referred to as Malaysia’s national dish.

The next day we once again set out on our search. The small shopping mall across from the LRT station has many local eateries, but no satay on its menus. This is proving to be Mission Impossible.

Later, we examine the menus of all the Malay sounding restaurants in Suria KLCC,the mall beneath the Petronas Towers, fruitlessly searching for the satay that has now elevated itself from a craving to an obsession. At one, we beckon a waiter over, and ask him where this elusive satay can be found. Something of our frustration conveys itself to him, and kindly, he signals to the centre. What I take to mean, ‘Middle One’, actually turns out to be ‘Madam Kwan’.

Impatiently we wait for our order to arrive. When it does, it more than ticks all the boxes. Six skewers of beef and chicken satay are accompanied by chopped cucumbers, onions and rice cake . There is a large bowl of peanut sauce, that we generously apply onto our satays. Each piece is steaming hot and succulent. We tuck into our satays with relish, and my husband declares them to be the best he’s ever tasted. Similarly replete, we nod in fervent complicity.

Appetite satiated, we wander out.

Mission accomplished.

Appeasing the palate at the Palace

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“You must try the haleem”, my friend had urged, and after a few unsuccessful forays into local restaurants, where the waiters looked at me askance, I had finally struck gold. It was in the sumptuous surroundings of the Falaknuma Palace, that I finally got to sample the rich, wheat, barley, lentils and meat stew.

It had been a bit of a tussle getting my husband to agree to this rather expensive lunch. Unless you are resident in the hotel, the only way to gain entry is to book a meal at either of it’s two restaurants. Boy, were we glad we had! A visit to Hyderabad, India, could not be complete without visiting one of the finest palaces the state of Telengana boasted of.

Falak-numa or Mirror of the Sky in Urdu, was the grand residence of the Nizam of Hyderabad up until the 1950’s, when it was closed up, and left untouched till a lease agreement with Taj hotels, and a major restoration by them, breathed new life into this elegant old building. The original owner, the erstwhile Prime Minister of Hyderabad, had built the palace for his own use. In the process, he ran out of funds, and ended up selling the palace to the then Nizam, Mehboob Ali Pasha.

As the present Nizam dwelled in Turkey, we were getting to savour a slice of royal living. With the haleem and its accompanying victuals safely lodged in our stomachs, we waddled obligingly to the foyer, where a man built like an ox waited for us.

“Myself, bodyguard of Nizam”, he introduced himself proudly. “Today, guide.”

For those in our party who only spoke English, the rest of the tour was largely unintelligible. Our guide had an interesting way with the English language, which consisted of spouting random words together in the hope that they would translate into something meaningful. Case in point: “Building scorpion. This-tail. That stained glass.” A shame, as his Urdu tour was so much more enlightening.

Unable to take photos inside, we chose instead to take away impressions. From the beautiful mirrored ballroom, to the famed dining hall that can seat a 100 guests, to the impressive carved walnut roof of the library, the scorpion shaped palace left us feeling steeped in the history and culture of a bygone era. Our guide’s parting shot was a bit of Urdu poetry, loosely translating as: “There is the sky, and there is the palace that mirrors the sky. It is only the fortunate that get to see the latter before they are returned to the former”

Feeling like I was about to return to the former, I politely declined the offer of a second helping of biryani at another friend’s that evening.

“You ate what? Haleem is only consumed during Ramadan, when the Muslims eat before daybreak. It sustains them the entire day!”

No wonder I felt like I’d swallowed a palace!

Needless to say, Falaknuma lodged itself inside of me, in more ways than one.

Burp.

falaknuma

Pondicheri vs Puducherry

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When I first displayed an interest in writing, my father tried to steer me towards travel writing, a genre I was not very interested in. Later in life, with the amount of travelling I had done, he once again exhorted me to try my hand at it. A couple of years ago I did. This is the outcome:

Pondichéri vs Puducherry

The stench of the fish market assails one’s senses immediately. My twelve year old gags and steps back. My nine year old is fascinated and wanders curiously through the stalls displaying a variety of raw, freshly caught fish, all ready to be filleted to the customer’s satisfaction. The fisherwomen plying their wares chat, happily oblivious to the heat or the smell. It is 38c and we are in the Tamil quarter of Puducherry, India.

What a contrast this is to the French quarter by the sea front. There, the wide boulevards, the mediterranean structures, and the freely spoken French harken back to a different era, when Pondichéri was governed by the French. We are staying at a small boutique hotel in the heart of the French quarter. Last night’s dinner was rounded off by the best creme brûlée we have eaten outside of France.

Right now, we are being urged forward by my intrepid husband. We are in the fruit market, and I stop to watch a man cut open a jackfruit the size of a mammoth baseball. He holds it between his legs and plunges the knife in swiftly, yanking back, cleaving through the hard skin to reveal the soft fleshy fruit inside. He offers me some. I look at the all flies swarming over the fruit, but take a piece nonetheless. It is as sweet as last night’s dessert, and brings back a whole host of childhood memories.

We weave our way into a flower market. My daughters ask for flowers to put in their hair, as they have seen the local women do. The flower seller shakes her head vigorously to signal no. “Sami”, she says, grinning toothlessly. After a lot of gesticulating, we figure she means that these flowers are only to be offered to the Gods at the temple. The more common place jasmine flowers are for mere mortals. As a peace offering, she gives two little pink buds to my daughters, who accept it cheerfully.

We walk everywhere in Pondy, as it fondly known. Most tourists hire motorbikes or cycles. Hawkers don’t pester you here.They are far too used to seeing foreigners in their midst, and people are happy to let you mind your own business.

We deposit our shoes, and walk barefoot into Aurobindo Ashram. Almost immediately, a sense of calm envelops us. People sit around the flower bedecked samadhi or tomb of Sri Aurobindo, the great yogi philosopher, and his disciple, the Mother, in silence. A wander through the Ashram reveals an impressive array of memorabilia. This is the very soul of Pondicherry, and people flock here from different parts of the world, in search of spirituality. At Auroshikha, we stock up on scented candles and incense sticks.

Once more, however, we are lured back to the hustle and bustle of the street stalls. I want to take some photos to show friends back home. My daughter yanks my arm, and leads me to the fish market. “Mummy”, she says, “I’m hungry. Can we get some smoked salmon please?”, expecting a Waitrose fish counter to fulfil her innocent request. I laugh and hug her close. The fisherwomen smile at us in tacit understanding.