PETALING JAYA, Malaysia — Brinjals, asam keping, garam masala. Cardamom, sultanas, turmeric. Ghee, fenugreek.
No, that’s not my latest itinerary, although my stops on this 3 1/2-week journey through West Malaysia and Borneo sound eerily similar. They’re all ingredients in a six-course meal I made in a cuisine I knew little about until I jumped off the sizzling beaten path of Southeast Asia and landed on a sizzling skillet.
Taking a four-hour Malay cooking class isn’t on many people’s to-do lists when visiting Malaysia. It’s not easy cooking food you’ve never tasted. Ever had Malay food? Thought so. I have — in Malaysia, 29 years ago. That’s it. I’ve eaten it nowhere else.
Malay food not only fell through the cracks when South Asian cuisines migrated around the planet, it barely made it to any foreign table at all. You can say, “Let’s do Thai tonight” in every major city in America. But who says, “Let’s do Malay.”? There’s no big run of Malay takeaway joints in London.
Too bad. One of the more prosperous countries in all of South Asia, Malaysia has developed a cuisine that takes a little bit of the chile from Thailand, a dash of the oils of China and a pinch of the curry from India. Combined with the Malaysians’ passion for gathering and eating until near dawn, you have a milder yet equally exotic eating experience you never knew existed.
Check out my menu I prepared last week: fruit and nut pudding, potato samosas, dal curry, tomato and mint salad, fried masala fish and chicken korma.
I’m not a great cook. I once turned a roommate into a vegetarian with one bite of my Swiss steak. But I’m an adventurous eater and always found dishes I cook taste better than dishes I buy.
With this in mind, I took a ride to this leafy suburb just west of the sparkling capital of Kuala Lumpur. Ana Abdullah runs LaZat cooking classes out of her pleasant, airy home lined with big ferns and plants. She gave me a tour of her garden, and I could smell the chile plants, curry leaves, shallots and lemongrass. You’d get the munchies just picking weeds.
A proud Malay from the west coastal state of Perak, Abdullah wanted to show visitors that you don’t have to hold your appetite through Malaysia until you get to Thailand. And Thais can’t beat Malays in hospitality. As a Muslim, she often cooks for 50-100 people after Ramadan, the month- long Islamic fast that ends with a month-long Islamic feast.
“It’s in Malay culture that we have open house,” she said. “So when you come to my home — anyone comes to my home — it’s better to have food.”
I was immediately intimidated when the other student was a French woman. It was her second class. If this was competition, it was like the Denver Broncos versus Denver West High. I had no shot. I asked Abdullah if the fire extinguisher on the wall was placed there specifically for me.
Abdullah started by bringing us to a display table and handed us a pamphlet filled with our recipes. Doing the demonstration was her chef, Saadiah Daud, whose full Muslim head scarf convinced me I wasn’t in Washington Park any more.
We whisked through the fruit and nut pudding, and I exhaled heavily when told I didn’t have to include the sultanas. They date back to the Ottoman Empire. Sultana is basically a fancy name for raisin, my least favorite food and one I associate with some of the more disgusting bugs in the insect world.
Abdullah and Daud were extremely flexible and patient, traits that came in handy while making potato samosas. They’re deep-fried triangles filled with a mixture of potatoes, peas and every spice starting with C (cumin, coriander, curry, etc.) on the spice table.
You must fold a spring roll wrapper into a pocket, stuff it with the mixture, fold over the overlapping wrapper and make a seal with water. Sigrid, the French woman, did about five in 30 seconds and started reading Camus. I spent 5 minutes on one, and it looked like your kid’s failed Play-Doh experiment. Potatoes and peas flew around like popped popcorn.
“Don’t Malaysians ever use toothpicks?” I asked. No one laughed.
Daud saved it with a quick, magical touch usually reserved for surgeons, and I munched on the samosas as we prepared the rest. The dal curry was rich and thick and the masala fish, topped with a marinade of eight spices plus the tomato and mint salad, was salty and sweet.
The highlight may have been the chicken korma. Traditionally known as an Indian dish, the Indians brought it to Malaysia in the 1940s when they worked on the rubber plantations. Malaysians, 8 percent of whom are of Indian descent, consider it one of their own. With ingredients ranging from coconut milk to the clarified butter called ghee, it exploded with spices buried in a rich, creamy brown gravy.
I’m taking home the recipe book for when I get tired of my George Foreman Grill. I just hope my local Safeway will carry fenugreek.
The Post’s John Henderson covers sports and travel and writes about food he eats during his journeys: 303-954-1299 or jhenderson@denverpost.com.
If you go
LaZat: 584, Jalan 1 7/17, Section 17, 46000 Petaling Jaya, Selangor, Malaysia, 60-019-238-1198, malaysia-klcookingclass.com. $50, $70 with transportation.
If you can’t go: Try Malaysian food at the Isle of Singapore Restaurant, 2022 S. University Blvd., 303-777-8388
