Although I prefer my char kway teow (SGD $2) blackened with soy sauce, I was surprised to find that Ipoh’s ‘healthier’ version with no sauce and twice as many eggs was no less tasty. In fact, without soy sauce, it became all about the wok hei.
While I remain ambivalent about the prawn mee (SGD $2), I am convinced that Ipoh’s popiah (SGD$1.60 for two)—paper thin skin, juicy filling, crunchy centre (thanks to the addition of lard, deep fried onions and garlic)—is better than anything Singapore has to offer.
And finally, the coffee.
Ipoh’s white coffee is perhaps its most famous export—resulting in the town being named one of the top three coffee towns by Lonely Planet. Dating back to the 19th century, Ipoh’s Arabica coffee beans are roasted with palm oil margarine, laced with condensed milk and “pulled” to achieve a creamy head of froth.
Nearly every coffee shop in Ipoh worth its salt has its own take on white coffee, and Nam Heong is no exception.
The drink (SGD $2) is creamy, rich and glides right down my throat. It’s sweet, but well balanced with a bitter aftertaste. In all honesty, it resembles a decadent dessert much more than it does a regular Kopi.
Malaysian Food: 1
Singaporean Food: 0
The city of Ipoh rests comfortably within the state of Perak, two hours from Kuala Lumpur with its Hainanese Tea and Chilli Pan Mee, and one hour from George Town, Penang, with its Assam Laksa and Koay Teow Th’ng.
As for Ipoh, it has all the culinary hallmarks of its neighbours, and more—an advantage, research suggests, of being a major land transportation hub within West Malaysia.
It’s for this reason that you can find one of the most eclectic mixes of food within Ipoh’s eating houses.
In one coffee shop for example, you can find Chinese Guilinggao, European Crème caramel (or caramel custard pudding), Indonesian satay, pork innards, and Ipoh Kai See Hor Fun.
In another, you can find Fujian Mee Chiang Kueh (or peanut pancake), Hongkong-style Chee Cheong Fun, and an American-style ice cream soda with red syrup.
As I was feeling a little laid back on the second day of my visit, Ron—who by this time had become my unofficial tour guide—recommended that I have lunch at the The Haven’s Cuisines Restaurant.
While I’m typically opposed to eating ‘hotel food’ when in a foreign country, I was surprised to find that the food served was even better than what I had the previous day.
After witnessing the table beside me order Fish and Chips (made from perfectly battered and salted fresh grouper fish) and Cheese Spaghetti Carbonara (cooked to al-dente perfection), I was tempted to go Western with my food choices.
Eventually, I opted to go Asian, and the two of us ordered The Haven Chicken Rice, the resort’s specialty, served with regal chicken and crunchy bean sprouts. And as I was still feeling hungry, I ordered the Singapore Laksa, a unique fusion of curry and laksa flavours with thick vermicelli noodles. Ron, following suit, ordered The Haven fried rice, which came with two large, fresh prawns.
I could feel the waistband of my pants slowly begin to tighten, but it was worth it.
Ipoh’s everyday dishes reflect the mashup of cultures that have shaped the cuisine of the island. British colonisers, Japanese invaders, Buddhist monks, hungry tin miners, and Chinese millionaires have all passed through the city, leaving their mark on everything from the architecture to the food.
The locals however, tend to attribute their good food to more geological rather than geographical reasons: Mainly Ipoh’s famous limestone landscape.
“It’s the minerals in the water,” says Ah Wong, a worker at the Go Chin Pomelo Nature Park. After our sumptuous lunch, Ron had recommended I come to the 30-year-old farm to taste one of Ipoh’s most famous produce.
“Because the pomelos are grown near a hilly area, the water and soil collects minerals from the limestone.”
This, Ah Wong claims, is what gives the fruit a “natural and richer taste”.
Now this doesn’t mean the pomelos are overwhelmingly or artificially sweet like Singapore’s pomelos tend to be. Rather, they have a fruitier, more fibrous taste, and are significantly juicier.
Taste and minerals aside, I find myself deriving more pleasure from the visually arresting appearance of limestone.
Unless you live along Bukit Batok near Little Guilin, it’s not everyday when you get to fling open your windows and find yourself greeted by a impressive rock formation.
Fortunately, Ipoh has hundreds of such formations. At The Haven alone, three gorgeous (not to mention sizeable) limestone outcrops sit around a natural freshwater lake within its compounds.
And so the morning before I set off for the pomelo farm, I leave my 3-room suite and settle happily by the seahorse-shaped infinity pool with my breakfast—a kaya puff that I’d bought the day before.
Like many others, I’m a firm believer that you eat with your eyes. So whether it’s a rainbow-coloured freakshake, a beautifully crafted plate, or a spot by the pool overlooking a 240 million year old limestone karst, I can appreciate it.
“Out with the old, in with the new.”
Though our heritage boards may dispute it, this is Singapore’s ethos as most locals have come to know it. It’s a reality aligned with our first-world priorities, urban attitudes, and economic success.
Yet there’s something incredibly one-dimensional and unsettling about a city that’s continually being torn down, rebuilt, and re-painted.
Ipoh, on the other hand, is nothing like this.
Unlike it’s more developed cousins, Ipoh manages to straddle the old and the new.
Despite being branded by the country’s tourism board as the “Hipster capital” of Malaysia, Ipoh has managed to retain its sleepy-town vibes, which is embodied by its aged shop houses, dusty roads, and disorderly traffic.
This is no more evident than on the night Ron and I step out for supper.
We drive for 15 minutes before arriving at an unassuming coffee shop. “Get the Rojak. It’s not served at The Haven,” Ron instructs before heading off to find us a seat.
The Rojak stall, when I find it, is small and nondescript, managed by just one young lady. As she prepares an order, I hover quietly behind her, watching as she deftly slices pieces of cucumber, pineapple, green mango, and turnip into chunks before dropping them into a large, brown bowl. Then she adds a dollop of sweet sauce, a dash of chilli, a generous sprinkling of peanuts, and begins to mix.
After transferring it all to a plate, she finishes off the large gooey mass with a handful of crunchy prawn crackers.
1 minute, 7 ringgit, and a large plate of Rojak later, it’s time to locate Ron.
I find him not in the coffee shop but instead sitting at a table in the middle of a large grass field. Surrounding him are 20 or so other tables of customers (mostly men) drinking, eating, laughing, and talking.
Across the street, a projector—the kind we used to use back in primary school—screens a Cantonese Opera film onto the surface of an empty billboard.
If this were Singapore, this would be Hipster Hang Out #1 with fairy lights, lounge music, and wooden pallets for tables.
Here in Ipoh, it’s uncles, “frozen” beer, Cantonese Opera and ants up my leg. It’s simple, unpretentious, and authentic—you know, authentic in the the truest sense of the word.
Bathed in the moonlight and glow of the street lamps, surrounded by uncles three times my age, I realise that this is how Rojak is meant to be eaten.
Several hours before my flight home, Ron suggests we head to Chendol Wawasan for a mid-day dessert. This is despite the dark clouds that have just started to gather.
As we pull up alongside the makeshift street cart in the middle of literally nowhere, heavy droplets of rain begin falling from the sky. Unfazed, Ron leaps out and orders two bowls of chendol “with everything and with extra gula melaka [palm sugar syrup].”
The seller moves at lightning speed, concocting a heavenly combination of shaved ice, coconut milk, gula melaka syrup, sweet corn, thick slivers of green jelly, atap chee, sweetened azuki beans, and thinly sliced jackfruit.
At no point does he dawdle, hesitate, or even stop to think about what he’s doing. Why would he, when chendol is the one thing he’s been making for the past 19 years?
When I ask if he’s ever considered expanding his business or doing something else, he laughs and shakes his head.
“I only know chendol. I only like chendol. I only make chendol.”
That’s when it hits me.
Malaysian food is superior to Singapore’s because our hawkers are simply too diversified.
In Singapore, it’s seldom you find a store that sells only one type of mee pok, one type of laksa, or one type of ban mian without the various different iterations or add ons.
Malaysian (street food) hawkers, however, focus on doing just one thing right. So whether it’s spending 16 years just cooking the perfect plate of carrot cake, the smoothest tau huey with ginger syrup, or the tastiest bowl of penang assam laksa, they do that.
Clutching our bowls of chendol-goodness, Ron and I squeeze with three other customers under a tiny makeshift shelter. I’m shivering from the wind; my lips, mouth and hands are freezing from the chendol and I can feel rain droplets on my back.
Still, wedged between a weekend full of good food and a long flight home, it hit the spot.
Sources from: http://ricemedia.co/culture-food-malaysian-food-is-better-than-singaporean-food-period/
