Melaka

Food, food, food. What else?

So we were dawdling about in Melaka sometime last year - well, not dawdling about really, more like eating our way through - when my boyfriend and I hopped into a cab to get ourselves to Portugese Square for fresh seafood. A little history here - the Portugese colonised Melaka (or Malacca, if we wish to be a little more politically incorrect) in 1511, and left their offspring, as well as an smattering of Potugescised (is that even a word? oh never mind) Indian immigrants to carry on their cultural legacy. As much as countries in the region do suffer a bit of a post-colonial chip on the shoulder, their food, quite thankfully, does not. So Daryl and I were looking forward to some Eurasian food - devil curry, namely, because the name fascinated us, and also because rumours of its spiciness had reached his chili-addict ears.

We didn't have Eurasian food in the end, because we were eventually distracted by a row of seafood stalls that were beginning to bring out their pots and pans and plates to prepare for the onslaught of customers, local and foreign. We stood, for a short moment, next to the murky Straits of Melaka, looking out into the distance at oil tankers, and catching a whiff of the waste and bacterial froth that littered the surface.

image copyright to Pale, found on stockxchng

We then proceeded to the nearest stall, had a look at the fresh-looking dead fish, and thought ah lovely, let's eat here.

It really was rather good. I could tell you more - but this was a year ago. And like just about everyone knows - it's all about the freshness. So out of that steaming, rancid water came sweet-tasting fish and prawn. Ah, the sweet mysteries of life.

But what matters most is this - before making our bumpy way into the heart of the winding estate surrounding Portugese Square, the cab driver pointed us to a small row of shophouses that lined a corner of a street that, being out of the shopping centre belt and the historic old town, failed to produce a bleep on the tourist radar. "Eat here," he said. "Good Baba food. But must call in advance one." The addition of the "one" at the end of his statement reminded me how Singapore and Malaysia - as separate as they are - remain forever joined by our patois. I only hope that my government, at least, would officially recognise it exists.

So on our most recent sojourn to Melaka, we engaged the help of a friend to call in advance. This friend was a brand new father, and according to Daryl, he shuttled faithfully and what must have been most exhaustingly between Singapore, his place of work, and Melaka, his place of well, diaper changing and baby raising. So Daryl and I demanded he make a call on our behalf look for the number, reserve a table, and to place our orders. I point to my boyfriend as having the heart of cold and impenetrable stone.

Being Singaporean

After an hour long wait that was engendered by a large group of loud, noisy, demanding and altogether ogre-ish Singaporean customers, I began a quiet reflection on my country's lack of civility. And then I tsk-tsked as they walked past, glared at the commanding, condescending woman demanding more out of harried waiters, and made loud comments about annoying Singaporeans as we Singaporeans like to do. Later that night, I also plotted to steal a packet of toiletries from the hotel trolley. But I do digress a little.

A dragon guards the entrance to a Chinese temple


The food finally arrived, and it was fantastic. Not in a "ooo daahling you should have seen the foie gras and lemongrass mousse I had at that new place, it was really to diiiiie for" sort of fashion, but as in, "if my mother could cook like this everyday, I would have thought myself dead and gone to heaven after every meal". Two dishes stood out in my food-addled memories the most - chinchalok egg pancake, and chilli garam ikan. The former was a marriage of fermented shrimp and egg. Like much pungent, fermented condiments that dominate Southeast Asian cooking, chinchalok is an assault on the unitiated senses. To be impolite, it smells bad. But mix it with a generous portion of egg, put it on slow heat and let the flavours meld naturally, and enjoy the excursion into fermented raw shrimp territory. As the eyes of the shrimp remain intact even as it undergoes vigorous fermentation, be prepared therefore to have your pancake of egg dotted with little eyes - tiny dots, really - that stare back at you with indignation. The latter involved fresh fish (once again, from the murky waters), deep fried to perfection and smothered with pounded chilli, garlic, and a little belachan (fermented shrimp again, but belachan is dried into a dark looking cake, that if left unwrapped, can stink out the fridge and cause all other foods to evacuate in a hurry.

Emptying the wallet

And finally, a kebaya. The sarong kebaya is the traditional dress of the Peranakan, or Nyonya, peoples. I stepped into a beautiful boutique, was taken with the intricately beaded shoes and tops and sarong bottoms, and parted with all the money in my boyfriend's wallet. Words can't really explain the beauty of the kebaya that points to the aesthetic sensibility and adherence to tradition in every print, fold and embroidery. So in a month, when the kebaya arrives, pictures will ensue.

To make a trip down to historic Melaka, all you need to do is hop on a coach, sit on your bum for about 4 hours, and spill out of the bus into this utterly charming and disarming town.

Just some information:

For fresh seafood, head to Portugese Square. Just don't look at the sea water. I ate at the stall closest to the seaside.


To visit Aunty Lee's nyonya restaurant, make a call at least a week in advance, and be prepared to place orders. Number: +6062831009



a shophouse wall endowed with cross-eyed graffiti

And for the most beautiful Kebayas you could ever lay eyes on, visit J Manik on Jalan Hang Lekir. It's run by a lady named Joyce Ngiow - she will astonish you with her impeccable sense of service. I almost parted with my life savings because of her.