Growing up in Singapore in the 1970s, hotpot meant the Teochew version of a mild, clear chicken/pork broth. You put in your ingredients, cook them immediately, and eat them with a mild soy sauce and a bit of sesame oil. The whole point was to taste the quality of the ingredient that went into it. Fresh fish, slices of pork and chicken, and handmade fishballs. If the broth was clean and non-intrusive, everything tasted of itself. Clarity was the dish’s philosophy.

About a decade ago, something from Chongqing arrived and upended everything for those of us used to a milder approach.

Mala hotpot originated in Sichuan, spread across China, and then went global. In Adelaide, restaurants opened for homesick Chinese students. In Singapore, many said mala spots crowded out local Chinese food. I watched, suspicious as someone who identifies as Chinese but finds this cuisine genuinely uncomfortable.

I don’t really like mala hotpot. The heat is relentless. The numbing is disorienting. It overwhelms rather than reveals. You can’t taste the freshness (鲜) of the ingredients. Everything I loved about childhood hotpot seems to contradict everything I love about mala.

And yet, every now and then, I find myself craving it despite my reservations.

Part of this shift may come from my family. My elder son, who grew up here in Australia and has no memory of Singapore hotpot, loves mala completely. He will order it every time, and eat through the heat with the contentment of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.

So, over time, I’ve tried to understand what this dish is actually doing to us, especially from a cook’s perspective.

The Mystery of the Sichuan Peppercorn

The Sichuan peppercorn is not really a pepper. It shares a botanical family with the orange and the lemon, and nothing at all with chilli or with the black pepper in your grinder. The kinship is close enough that, for nearly 40 years, America banned the import of Sichuan peppercorns, afraid they’d carry a disease that attacks citrus groves.

The numbing compound in Sichuan peppercorns works differently from chilli. Chilli tricks your mouth into feeling on fire. Sichuan pepper tells your mouth it’s vibrating, a gentle electric current across lips and tongue, like a 9V battery we all put on our tongue as children. That’s ma. The numbness is its own sensation.

The la, the chilli heat, comes behind it. And because your mouth has already been altered, the heat feels different from just using chillis. The two sensations don’t cancel each other. They kinda collaborate, like a dance. Hence mala.

What mala produces is “complementary contrast”. The numbing sets up the heat. The heat builds until you stop eating, put down your chopsticks, and breathe. Take a sip of cold beer. In that moment of relief, something happens. The absence of sensation feels strangely extraordinary. Better, somehow, than if you’d never felt anything at all.

There’s a concept in Chinese painting called liubai, of “leaving the white”. The deliberate blank space in a composition makes everything around it more vivid. The unpainted sky makes the mountain more real. In Chinese aesthetics, emptiness is active. What you leave out intensifies what you put in.

Mala is like liubai applied to eating. The numbing is the white space. The flavour within it is enhanced.

The Tao of Hotpot and Horror Movies

Laozi said something about this. Chapter 22 of the Tao Te Ching opens with a paradox: yield and be preserved whole. Bend and become straight. The thread running through Daoist thought is that going through difficulty, rather than around it, is the only way to arrive somewhere real. You don’t fight the heat of mala. You surrender to it. What’s on the other side is only reachable because you went through it.

Maybe this is why we love horror movies. The comparison is less strange than it sounds. When you watch a horror movie, your body responds as if what you see is real. Your heart rate accelerates, your palms sweat, something in your nervous system treats the threat as genuine even as another part of you knows you’re sitting safely in a cinema. The pleasure isn’t just being afraid. It’s knowing that the fear will eventually end. The completion of the cycle.

Eating mala, perhaps, works the same way. Your body treats the heat and numbing as a kind of genuine assault. You stop, breathe, and relief arrives. Then, almost immediately, you reach for more.

Psychologists call this benign masochism. The deliberate seeking of controlled discomfort for the pleasure that follows. Humans appear to be the only species that does this. We ride rollercoasters. We watch horror movies. We eat mala hotpot.

Most intense flavours have to be learned. Fermented fish, bitter melon, the funk of aged cheese, durian, the stink of smelly tofu: You need familiarity before it turns from repellent to delicious. Mala is a bit like that, too.

But Mala carries something the others don’t. Underneath the acquired flavour sits a strange kind of reward. A pleasure, even. The chilli burn triggers an endorphin rush, the body’s own relief flooding in behind the heat. This fires in everyone, from the first bowl to the thousandth, from Chongqing to Adelaide. Durian gives you only the pleasure you learned to expect. Mala gives you that, and a chemical payoff underneath it that you can’t refuse. That is what carried an obscure regional dish around the world in a decade.

Sichuan sits in a deep, humid basin. In traditional Chinese medicine, damp climates call for hot, pungent foods: dishes that generate warmth and expel cold, moist energy accumulated in the body. Mala was a local answer to a local problem. The physiology, however, is universal.

Which brings me back to winter in Adelaide, and a craving I can’t get rid of.

My childhood hotpot experience was about cultural identity. The taste memory and clarity of the broth are what I crave. Mala is about something else entirely: discomfort, contrast, the relief that only the pain makes possible. We didn’t inherit this dish. It found us by a strange route. And despite my resistance, I’ll order it again, and again, and again.

The Basement: Building Your Own Mala Base

If you’ve read my hotpot piece, you know I’m lazy about stock. Packet-based, butane stove, dish-washer finish. For mala hotpot, there’s a whole range of pre-packs that will do the job: Haidilao, Xiaolongkan, Dezhuang. Most are good. Some are very good. If you just want mala on a Tuesday night in July, buy a packet and skip the rest of this.

But a pre-pack is almost always a suspicion. Build your own base once, and you’ll understand what mala actually is. After that, you read the back of the packet to see if that’s what you want to serve up.

What follows is a working framework, not a rigid recipe. Chinese cooking is forgiving, and mala especially so. Cook by smell and taste as you go along.

The two things that make it mala

Everything else is supplementary, if you like.

Dried chillies. Dried chillies. We use two kinds to do two jobs. Er jing tiao for fragrance, colour, and a moderate heat. “Facing Heaven” chillies (chao tian jiao) for a sharper bite. A good handful of each. Snip them, soak them in just-boiled water for fifteen minutes to soften and smooth the heat, then drain. Shake out some seeds if you want it gentler. The seeds carry harshness, not flavour.

Substitutions. The two-chilli logic works like this. For the er jing tiao, the fragrant red one, reach for coarse Korean gochugaru or whole dried Kashmiri chillies. Both give that deep red and gentle warmth without the heat running away from you. For the facing-heaven, any small hot dried chilli will do: Thai bird’s eye or dried árbol. Soak whole dried chillies to reconstitute them, but if you’re using flakes like gochugaru, add them to the oil with the heat off so they do not burn. Avoid generic Indian chilli powder. It’s usually too fine and too hot, which makes the base bitter and cloudy.

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After being away for over two years, I returned to Singapore. This trip was different. I had planned to stay longer, a luxury afforded by the closure of our restaurant business in Australia. With more time to explore, I looked forward to reconnecting and rediscovering the food of my past.

Food has always been a central part of my visits to Singapore. This is because we miss it. Having moved to Australia, we miss our usual hawker food. These trips back are like culinary pilgrimages, filled with anticipation for flavours that I grew up with, dishes that are unavailable or somehow impossible to recreate.

But something felt different this time round.

It Tastes Different

As I revisited the foods that had been such a part of my life, I realised that many do not taste the way I remembered. They weren’t bad, just different. It didn’t quite match up to how I remembered them. Was it old age playing tricks on me? There was something that was missing from every mouthful I took, from almost every dish I ate.

On the first morning after we arrived, I wanted to eat the popular, common economy bee hoon. This is a simple dish of fried rice noodles with optional toppings/side dishes. Bee Hoon is a type of rice noodle, and a basic staple of Southern China. Here in Australia, it is also known as Singapore Noodles.

This is one of those “you can’t get it wrong” dishes. Bee Hoon is fried with a mixture of dark and light soy sauce, with perhaps some sugar and MSG. And white pepper. There is nothing else.

I didn’t like it. It was less than ordinary. It tasted incomplete when compared to a packet of plain fried bee hoon from my childhood.

This dish carries deep memories for me. When I was in primary school, my mother would sometimes buy me a packet to bring to school for recess. She had to wake up before dawn to go to the market, so she could make it in time for me to catch the 6:30 a.m. school bus. Back then, it was just 30 cents for a packet (just plain noodles).

Today, it is more expensive and has undergone significant changes. The bee hoon is usually served at room temperature, and customers can choose from a variety of toppings. Chicken wings, different types of fish cakes, braised cabbage, bean sprouts, fried eggs, luncheon meat, hot dogs and Chinese sausages. You name it. It is no longer a simple breakfast dish.

Despite my skipping dinner the night before, I didn’t finish it. It is possible this is my last plate of economy bee hoon.

Revisiting Katong Laksa

Several days later, I wanted to try Janggut Laksa, also known as the original Katong Laksa, a dish synonymous with Singapore’s food culture. Here in Australia, many chefs tried, in vain, to leverage the fame of Katong Laksa into an Australian interpretation. Myself included.

“Janggut” means beard in Malay. Named after its founder, whose long hair resembled a beard, this humble stall has grown into a small, renowned empire with five locations across Singapore. It is also the “original” Katong Laksa, claimed by the lady boss who sat next to us. She had taken over the business from her father, who had sold it from a pushcart in Katong in the early 1950s.

As someone who sold laksa in Adelaide for five years, I was eager to revisit this iconic dish.

The gravy was rich and flavourful; the sambal was satisfying. You eat Janggut Laksa with a spoon (no chopsticks) because the noodles are cut into short pieces. The bowl I had cost just under $10 (about AUD$14), and it was…well, not too bad. The history shared by the founder’s daughter added a little more depth to the experience.

Yet, it still felt like something was missing.

Throughout my stay, I sampled many iconic dishes: Michelin-starred char kway teow in Chinatown, chwee kueh (steamed rice cakes) from Bedok, Popiah (fresh spring rolls) and my favourite, bak chor mee (minced pork noodles).

All were “not bad”. None was as I remembered from long ago.

The Search for Steamed Buns

I heard from my mother-in-law about the story of a Chinese emperor who, after ascending the throne, yearned for the steamed buns he had eaten years ago while fleeing his enemies.

He recalled that he was trying to escape and, while in hiding, met an old man selling steamed buns. The old man, out of compassion, gave him and his guards some plain steamed buns, not knowing he was the emperor. He remembered they were the tastiest steamed buns he had ever eaten in his life.

When he ascended to the throne, he tried to find the old man selling the steamed bun. He also ordered his imperial chefs to make the same steamed buns for him.

Despite the best efforts of imperial chefs, the buns never tasted as good. Or the same.

The missing ingredient

One of the most cherished dishes I remember is ayam buah keluak, a complex Peranakan stew made with the fermented seeds of the Pangium edule tree. These seeds contain cyanide and require meticulous preparation to make them safe to cook with.

My grandmother prepared it every Chinese New Year, and it became my favourite dish. This blackish chicken stew has a savoury, bitter, and spicy taste, and is perfect with white rice. And it is especially delicious when left overnight at room temperature.

Despite trying versions from top Peranakan restaurants in Singapore, and thoughtful friends who took tremendous trouble to prepare it, none matched the flavour of my grandmother’s version. These were all delicious, and some tasted better than Grandma’s version, but they were all lacking something.

The Best Laksa in the World

The best laksa in the world isn’t Katong Laksa or any Michelin-starred version.

The best laksa in the world was served at a small canteen in the Toa Payoh Public Swimming Pool in 1980. Hardly anyone knew about it. It costs only 80 cents a bowl, and I used to share it with my younger brother after our afternoon swim during the school holidays.

No other laksas in the world taste better.

Perhaps what I craved wasn’t just a particular food, but the memories and experiences tied to it. The 50-cent char kway teow from my childhood came with the memory of bringing an extra egg for the cook to add to our order, taking it home with anticipation, and sharing it with my two younger siblings. One plate for the three of us. It was usually an afternoon treat, and it was never enough.

No other Char Kway Teow can beat that.

What was missing in all the lovely dishes wasn’t an ingredient or a recipe ingredient. It was the context: the time and place when I had the dish; the people involved in preparing it, serving it, and with whom I shared it; and all the emotions that flavoured each dish.

And these “contexts” carry the ingredients that cannot be replicated. These memories from the past, the people, the way of life, the remembering, make those dishes unique and forever beyond present reach.

The past cannot be recreated, but that’s okay. It helps me appreciate the present more than ever.

Creating New Memories

Two years ago, we had another laksa at another award-winning stall in Vivo City, the Republic Food Court. It had all the awards and reviews from all the major newspapers. It was recommended by influencers, and it costs a whopping S$27 a bowl.

The laksa was just so…so.

Maybe I was biased. So I asked my son how it compares to the laksa I made in our restaurant. He tasted it, thought for a moment, and said, “Yours is better.”

Hearing that warmed my heart. Maybe he was being nice. But if he truly feels it is better than one of the best in Singapore, I think I know why.

I hope that years from now, when I’m no longer around, he’ll look back and say, “My dad made the best laksa in the world. Better than the original Janggut Katong Laksa in Singapore. Or Australia.”

Anyway, if he did, it’s true. This is what it looks like:

CKT is a visual, delicious mess of a dish. In Singapore, it is a common and revered dish that is unique to us. There are numerous Instagram pages dedicated to just Char Kway Teow. Some stalls even achieved legendary status over the years.

Unlike Penang Char Kway Teow, which is equally tasty, the Singapore version is sweeter because of the kechap manis (meaning sweet sauce in Malay). It also has blood cockles.

Blood cockles are a species of ark clam. Found mostly in swamps, it is not a common food in Western cuisine. Because of the presence of haemoglobin, which helps the clams transport oxygen within their bodies due to their living in oxygen-poor habitats, the blood cockle appears to bleed when you open its shells.

It is bloody, and unless farmed properly, there is a high risk of cholera, hepatitis A and poisoning. This is because in CKT, it is usually eaten half-cooked or even raw. Blood cockles are banned in some countries, like the US.  

In Australia, the only other dish that may resemble CKT may be the Pad See Ew (Thai meaning Fried with Dark Soy Sauce), which, although delicious, tastes nothing like Singapore’s CKT.

Update: There are more and more Malaysian and Singaporean Restaurants serving CKT these days, but the lack of lardons and blood cockles usually leads to disappointments. The only exception is Lulu Char Kway Teow in Melbourne. It has been described as better than most CKTs in Singapore.

About CKT

CKT originates from the Teochew people in the Chaoshan region in Guangdong, China. “Kway Teow” (粿條) literally means “strips of rice cake” and “Char” means “fried”. As the Chinese migrants moved into Southeast Asia, they brought along their culinary traditions, CKT, among other dishes.

In Singapore, CKT has evolved over the years into an iconic dish that stands on its own. It was another street food, cooked and sold in pushcarts in the 50s and 60s, that made its way into the Michelin Guide.

Traditionally, the ingredients were among the cheapest available. Flat rice noodles, bean sprouts, Chinese sausage (lap cheong) and eggs. Cooked in generous amounts of lard and topped with a heap of raw blood cockles for that unique taste of the sea. 

I remember that this was one of several dishes that I grew up with in Singapore. Near the coffee shop where we used to live in Toa Payoh, there was an elderly lady who sold CKT for 50c a packet in the 70s. We would bring an egg for her to add to the dish while she cooks it. Extra protein. The packet would be shared with 2 other younger siblings. It was always a treat for us. 

The Science of “Wok Hei”

Commonly described by celebrity chefs as the “breath of the wok”, this is an important characteristic of CKT. “Wok hei” is essentially a flavour element that combines the aroma and taste of a dish when cooked over very high heat in a seasoned wok.

This is almost impossible to achieve with home gas stoves. Most of these deliver between 5000 and 15,000 BTUs (British Thermal Units). 1 BTU is approximately the heat produced by a single matchstick. Commercial wok burners can deliver up to 100,000 BTUs. 

Typically, you will need to bring the wok temperature above 200°C to achieve the elusive “wok hei”.

Traditionally, and even in some places in Southeast Asia today, CKY is cooked over a charcoal stove, made from a used oil barrel, which can deliver the same impressive heat as a thousand-dollar, high-end commercial wok burner.

But what is “Wok Hei”?

In culinary terms, it is the Maillard reaction. The sugars and soy sauce in the Kway Teow react to the intense heat of the wok, developing a smoky flavour. Because of the intense heat, the cook can stir-fry rapidly, allowing the moisture to evaporate almost instantly. The risk of cooking CKT at home is that it can become soggy due to excessive moisture during cooking.

The high heat also creates convection currents from the steam produced as moisture evaporates. This also contributes to the “wok hei” flavour.

And finally, because they use a well-seasoned wok, it has a layer of patina, which is polymerised oil and food particles built over time, which prevents sticking. That’s why Chinese chefs do not wash their woks with soap; they just scrape off the residual food with a bamboo brush and rinse them with hot water. 

Can you achieve “Wok Hei” at home?

You can. There are techniques and process modifications you can use to achieve “wok hei” on your home stove for CKT. Of course, you can also use it for other stir-fry dishes, too.

Preheat. This means heating the (seasoned) wok, without oil, until it is smoking hot. If you have an infrared thermometer gun, use it to measure the temperature. We’re shooting for 200°C. The idea is to sear the food, especially the kway teow, immediately on contact, caramelising the starch from the noodles.

Keep the heat on high throughout the process. While CKT chefs in Singapore have to cool down their wok with water now and then, you won’t need to add water if you are using a home stove.

Use Lard. When the wok is ready, add cold lard or oil. For CKT, lard was used for its high smoke point. It was also traditionally the only oil available. Like Ghee and coconut oil, it was how people got their cooking oil. Now, you can use canola or peanut oil if you dislike lard, but the taste will be different. Do not use olive oil. 

In Australia, you can get a stick of lard (like butter) in some supermarkets, or if you are friendly with your local butcher, ask them to prepare some for you. They usually just throw it away, but if you can get hold of 2-3 kilograms, you can prepare a batch for other dishes as well.   

To prepare the lard, remove the lean meat and skin (crackling) and cut them into small cubes. Put them into a saucepan or pot over a slow fire. The heat will render the fat, creating the magic ingredient: lardons. These are the crispy, tasty, sinful bits when you eat CKT in Singapore.   

Cook small portions. It is important not to overcrowd the wok when cooking CKT or any other dishes. Unless you are stewing, cook a single portion each time. You don’t need to toss them in the wok; use a spatula to stir-fry the CKT rapidly, allowing moisture to evaporate quickly and achieving maximum contact with the hot wok.

Do not add the ingredients too quickly, as this will lower the temperature. Take your time and let the heat build up. While CKT cooks have to cook quickly, you don’t really have to. 

The result is a smoky, fragrant aroma characteristic of good Chinese food. The taste is complex with a combination of sweet, savoury and umami flavours created by the caramelisation. 

The CKY Recipe

These ingredients are for about 4 portions of CKT. 2 portions if you do it well.

• 1 kg of pork fat, cut into small cubes. (I trimmed these from a slab of pork belly and reserved the meat for other dishes. It is difficult to get just pork fat.)

• 300g kway teow (flat rice noodles)

• 200g fresh Hokkien noodles

• 500g of prawns. (I left out blood cockles because they are virtually impossible to find in Australia. I suppose you can use fresh oysters, which could give that unique seafood flavour.

• 5-6 cloves of crushed garlic 

• 8 free-range eggs (2 per serve)

• 2 lap cheong (Chinese sausage), thinly sliced 

• 300g bean sprouts

• 50g Choy Sum, cut into inch-long sections (If you can find garlic chives, better, but these are usually only available in Asian grocery stores.)

• 4 tbsp fish sauce (you can replace with light soy sauce, but it will taste different)

• 8 tbsp kecap manis (sweet dark soy sauce). I mix them together into a bowl (1:2) so that I do not need to measure it out as I cook. 

• Sambal Chilli, if you like it with a bit of heat

How to cook CKT?

I am learning how to create videos for all recipes and will make them available here when ready. Meanwhile, I will describe the process for those cooking at home (outside Singapore). Why would you want to cook CKT at home in Singapore?

Everything will happen quickly, especially if the wok is hot. So, have the ingredients lined up and ready to go.

1. When done, the lardons will be brown and crispy. Drain and put aside. You can sprinkle some salt on them and eat them as a snack if you like. Pour the rendered lard into a bowl and set aside.

2. Heat the wok until smoking. Add 2-3 tbsp of lard. 

3. Add some garlic and stir-fry until fragrant. 

4. Add a few prawns and fry until cooked. It shouldn’t be more than a minute.

5. Add the kway teow and Hokkien noodles and fry for a few minutes. 

6. Add a few slices of lap cheong

7. Add sauce and cook for another minute, then push the noodles to one side of the wok. 

8. Add another 2 tbsp of pork lard, then crack 2 eggs. 

9. Scramble the eggs slightly, then mix well with the noodles in the wok.

10. Stir to combine, then add the chilli sauce and kecap manis, and mix well.

Add the bean sprouts and crispy pork lard, then stir to combine everything into a delicious mess. 

If you find blood cockles or would like to add fresh oysters, now is the time. You don’t want to cook them, but just heat them up as you serve. 

Dish up and serve immediately.

Cornerstone of Singapore cuisine

CKT is an adaptation that evolved with ingredients available to the Chinese migrants who came to Southeast Asia. It was a popular and affordable dish for the many labourers because of its high starch and fat content.

Today, it is a cornerstone of Singapore hawker culture.

As celebrity chefs and high-end restaurants all over the world present their unique versions of the CKT, often with premium ingredients and innovative techniques, it is good to remember that this peasant dish, which has now gained global recognition, came out of necessity and practicality to feed the countless labourers who earned a few cents a day.

When we first moved into the village, an old couple invited us for dinner at their home. The lady of the house was French and quite an excellent cook, as we discovered. Although I couldn’t remember what she served, it was impressive and delicious.

So, to return the hospitality, we invited them over a few weeks later for dinner. For Hainanese Chicken Rice. I will always remember her reaction when I served the platter of chicken.

“Oh. The chicken is cold,” she said. 

It was dull. Almost boring and incomplete when I presented Singapore’s culinary pride. I assured her that it would taste better than it looked.

She was polite, and we sat down for dinner. 

By the end of dinner, she was raving about how delicious it was and insisted that I give her the recipe for Hainanese Chicken Rice. (Which I included at the end of this article).

It’s not Hainanese Chicken Rice in Hainan

Hainanese Chicken Rice is as simple as it gets. It is “boiled” chicken. In Chinese tradition, it is often offered to the gods on auspicious days and during important events.

Traditionally called Wenchang chicken, named after the Wenchang county of Hainan Island in the Southern tip of Mainland China (文昌市). During festivals, family gatherings, and other significant occasions, Wenchang chicken is prepared and presented as an offering to ancestors and deities. 

The chicken is offered whole, with “head and tail” (有头有尾), symbolising completeness. And having sat on the altar for hours, it is also served at room temperature or cold.

Growing up, I had it only as a dish when my mother prepared it. Chicken in the 60s and early 70s was a luxury, and we only had it on festive occasions like Chinese New Year.

It wasn’t until the mid 80s that I remember seeing it as a popular dish at hawker centres. Restaurants like Boon Tong Kee and Tien Tien Chicken Rice specialise in the dish, and made it to the Michelin Bib Gourmand Guide after the late Anthony Bourdain featured it in one of his episodes.  

Army Days

Chicken Rice (we hardly called it Hainanese Chicken Rice in Singapore) was a staple when I was doing National Service. On weekend guard duty, someone would offer to buy lunch for everyone, and the 2 dishes we could order were Chicken Rice and Roti Prata. These were easy to pack and would make the volunteer’s job easier. 

No variations. Just a packet of chicken rice or plain Prata. 

If you ordered chicken rice, it would come wrapped in a brown paper packet. Inside, you will have a serving of cold rice with a few slices of cold chicken breast and cucumber. If you are lucky, you will have a small packet of chilli sauce.

All for $2.50 a pack. 

It was ok. At least, it was something different from what they were serving at the cookhouse.  

National Dish of Singapore

In his 1992 National Rally Speech, then Prime Minister Goh Chok Tong praised Hainanese Chicken Rice as an iconic representation of Singaporean culture, elevating it to the status of a national dish. I vaguely remember his call for Singaporeans to make this dish popular globally.

Since then, the humble Hainanese Chicken Rice has reached culinary fame on the world stage.

When we first arrived in Adelaide, there was no Hainanese Chicken Rice. So, like many of the dishes I shared, I had to learn how to cook it. It wasn’t until Adam Liaw, who won MasterChef Australia in 2010, cooked it in one episode that it started becoming popular in Adelaide. 

Today, fine-dining restaurants and celebrity chefs each have their own version of the 1authentic Hainanese Chicken Rice. And there are at least several chicken rice stalls in Adelaide CBD serving just this dish.

How to prepare Chicken Rice (the Recipe)

I wish chefs and restaurants were a little more confident in the recipes they present. If you were to ask any chicken rice hawker in Singapore about their dish, they would never need to claim that it is “authentic” or “original”. 

Chicken rice is just chicken rice. It is a humble dish prepared by those who want to make a living and send their children to university. Claiming authenticity and originality suggests that it isn’t.

Anyway, this is how I do it. It has passed the test of my Singapore friends and customers, including a French foodie who still craves it after 10 years. It tastes like the chicken rice I used to eat when I lived in Singapore. I think it is good enough.

Ingredients

• 1 or 2 chicken. I prefer those that are about 1.5 to 2 kg each, 

• Salt

• Some ginger

• Some garlic

• Some spring onions

• Some coriander

• Some sliced cucumbers and tomatoes for garnish

• Panda Leaves (difficult to find in Adelaide). We only get the frozen ones that have little fragrance, so you can skip it if you like.

Preparation

I use free-range chicken because I feel good about it. I suspect there isn’t much difference, but if the chicken you are about to cook had a comfortable life, it is worth the extra few dollars.

Wash the chicken and use a generous amount of salt to give it a good massage. A massage helps loosen the muscles and clean the skin’s surface. Rub a generous amount of salt inside and outside the chicken. Rinse and put aside.

Allow the chicken to come to room temperature. Otherwise, it takes more time and may not cook evenly. But this applies to most cooking. 

When I ran our restaurant, I would use about 4-5 kg of chicken frames and some wings/drumsticks (whichever was cheaper), along with salt, ginger, and spring onions, to make the base stock. I would also add some rock sugar or chicken powder to taste. 

Put everything in and bring it up to a boil. Let it simmer for 2-3 hours. Strain the stock into a pot large enough to submerge the chicken completely. 

Unlike chicken rice restaurants in Singapore, which poach hundreds or thousands of chickens a day, using just water will not give the depth of flavour needed to cook the rice. I find this step quite necessary for flavouring both the chicken and the rice.

Poaching the chicken

Pour some boiling water over the chicken just before it goes into the pot of stock. This tightens the skin, improves its texture, and enhances its presentation when cut. 

When the stock is boiling, slowly submerge the chicken into the stock, turning it to release air bubbles in the cavity. Ensure the chicken is fully submerged. Let the stock return to a slow boil for about 10-15 minutes, then turn off the fire and put a lid on. Leave the chicken in the pot for about 45-60 minutes.

Here is where I got it wrong so many times. It depends, really. On the pot’s volume, the chicken’s size, and how quickly the temperature drops.

The chicken is to be sous vide at about 77° to 82° C for 60 minutes. At 71°C, the collagen in chicken starts to unwind, and at 77 °- 82°C, it dissolves into gelatin. This makes the chicken tender and juicy. 

Overcooking occurs when the chicken is cooked at a temperature above 82°C for extended periods. This causes the protein fibres to contract, squeezing out moisture and making it dry and tough. So it’s important to keep the temperatures at the correct range, and for long enough.

Use a meat thermometer to ensure the internal temperature reaches 74°C. At 82°C, the chicken’s internal temperature will exceed the minimum safe temperature, ensuring the meat is safe to eat.

Ice Bath

When the chicken is ready, lift it out gently and place it in an ice bath. This will stop the cooking process immediately and lock in the gelatin between the skin and the meat. This is the magic process that makes Hainanese Chicken Rice unique. Let it soak in the ice bath for about 20 minutes, then lift it out and let it rest on a rack. In Singapore, you would see them hanging on the windows of the stalls or restaurants. 

Serve on a plate

Cut the chicken into bite-sized pieces and serve it on a plate of sliced cucumbers and tomatoes. If you dare, debone it. Your guests will be so impressed. Garnish with spring onions and coriander.

Chicken-flavoured Soy Sauce

This is the diluted soy sauce that is drizzled over the rice and chicken to flavour the dish. It is a key component of the dish that ensures both the chicken and rice are not too dry. 

• A small bunch of coriander stems and roots

• A small bunch of spring onion stems and roots 

• 2 tbsp of sesame oil 

• 2 tbsp of light soy sauce

• 2 tbsp of fish sauce

• 1 tbsp of oyster sauce

• 1 tbsp of sugar

• 1 cup of chicken stock (poaching liquid)

In a saucepan, heat the sesame oil and fry the coriander and spring onion roots until fragrant. Add everything else into the pan and bring to a simmer. Strain and drizzle over the chicken and rice. 

Chili Sauce

• 10 pieces of red chillies

• 2-inch piece of ginger

• 8-10 cloves of garlic

• 2 tbsp of sugar

• ½ tsp salt

• ½ cup of chicken stock from poaching the chicken

• 2 tbsp lime juice (we use calamansi in Singapore, but almost impossible to find here in Adelaide)

I use a Nutribullet to blend everything into a paste. Taste and adjust accordingly.

Ginger Sauce

2-inch piece of ginger
5-6 cloves of garlic
½ tsp of salt
2 stalks of spring onions
½ cup of cooking oil (not olive oil)

I use a Nutribullet to blend ginger and garlic, except the oil, into a paste. Top with sliced spring onions. Transfer to a heatproof bowl. Then heat the oil in a saucepan until it smokes, then pour it into the ginger-garlic paste. Taste and adjust accordingly.

Chicken Rice

I recommend a rice cooker. It’s easy to use and almost impossible to go wrong. 

• 4 cups of jasmine rice

• 4 cups of chicken stock

• Chicken fat from the cavity of the chicken

• 2-inch ginger

• 5-6 cloves of garlic

In the pot where you will cook the rice, render the chicken fat. You can add more oil if there isn’t enough. You should have about ¼ cup of oil, eventually. 

Blend ginger and garlic, or mince it up with a cleaver. Sauté in oil until fragrant. Then add rice into the pot and stir-fry it a little. When the rice is well coated, add the chicken stock in a 1:1 ratio. 

Cook the rice in the rice cooker or on the stove. If you use a rice cooker, then just relax and let it do its work.

If over a stove, bring to a boil, then turn the heat to low and simmer. Cover and when the stock is absorbed into the rice and the rice is cooked, turn off the heat, cover and let it rest for 10-15 minutes.  

Serve. Enjoy.

Have you had chicken rice before?

If you have never tried Hainanese chicken rice before, you should. It appears to be a simple dish, but it is clean and complex at the same time. There isn’t another dish that I can think of that is remotely close to this. 

The combination of cold, juicy poached chicken on hot, steaming, savoury rice, with a bit of chilli and ginger sauce, is simply incredible. 

It is indeed a dish fit for the gods.  

It started when I was 8. I fell in love with fried carrot cake. The “white” kind.

On my 8th birthday, I wanted to have fried carrot cake. The “white” kind.

Growing up in the 70s in Singapore, we never ate in restaurants. Except for the occasional Chinese Wedding Banquet, hawker food was always a treat for us. Sometimes, neighbours bought fried carrot cake, the “black” kind (I’ll explain what this is) and gave the neighbour’s children a tiny piece each on a toothpick.

Oh…yeah.

So, on my 8th birthday, my mother asked me what I would like to eat.

When she returned from the market, she said it was too expensive. At $1.20 a packet (the shop had a kind monopoly on fried carrot cake in the place where we lived), it was more expensive than a bowl of wonton noodles (50c). She told me they even berated her when she asked if she could buy a smaller pack and commented on how expensive it was.

“I will make some for you.” She promised.

And she tried. And tried. And tried.

She never really succeeded. It was always too “gluggy” or pasty, so you couldn’t cut it into pieces. She tried different flours and flour-to-water ratios. She asked friends who frankly didn’t know how to make it. And she always added too much daikon (white carrot, we call it), which made it too wet when steamed. She wanted it to be better than those from the stall. I have often complained that it wasn’t nice. It was not the same.

Of course, eventually, we could afford it, and we bought them regularly.

And she eventually stopped trying to make them.

History of Chinese Carrot Cake

Carrot cake is a Teochew dish. In Singapore, it is commonly called “Chye Tow Kueh” or 菜头粿. This is what it looks like.

Most shops now will have both the black and white versions. The black version uses a “sweet dark sauce,” so it will taste a little sweeter, especially when it caramelises in the hot pan. The white version uses “fish sauce” and lots of eggs and has a salty, savoury taste. Both are delicious.

Cake, or Guo (粿) or Gao (糕) in Southern Chinese cuisine, is usually a rice-based snack that is steamed. It occurred during the mass migration from the north in the 4th and 10th centuries to the Fujian and Guangdong regions.

When they arrived, they discovered that wheat was not readily available. Rice was the staple. So they adapted and use rice to make rice-based noodles like “Kueh Teow” 粿條 and “Bee Hoon” 米粉. There were also versions of steamed cake using rice flour, like the carrot cake. This radical 米 means rice, which you can find in all those dishes I just mentioned.

There is no fried carrot cake in Australia

It wasn’t until we arrived in Australia some 15 years ago that I missed the good ‘ol fried carrot cake. The “white” kind.

Except for the fancy, overpriced XO-sauced laden fried daikon cake occasionally served in some restaurants, you can’t get “Chye Tow Kueh” anywhere here. I had to learn how to make it myself.

It was a long journey, and I faced the same challenges (and failures) my mother did when she tried to create this dish.

I have included my recipe below for curious readers who may want to try making it. And homesick Singaporeans who may have missed it.

Black and White Carrot Cake

Whenever we served it to our friends or in the restaurant we used to run, my wife would tell this lovely story.

“Black and White isn’t a racist label for the carrot cake,” she would say. “It’s because there are 2 versions of this dish.”

And continue to tell of the difference between our Chinese carrot cake and the sweet carrot cake (dessert) that most in the West are familiar with.

So, imagine the confused looks when we bring out the Singapore “carrot cake.” The suspicion when they pick up a small piece to try it. And the subsequent delight when they realise it tastes much better than it looks.

They always finish it.

There isn’t anyone I know who doesn’t like it. Many of our Australian friends have also asked for the recipe. It took me a long time to get the recipe right. To achieve that springy texture when you bite into it.

In that process, I learned to appreciate the effort that my mother put in. As a parent, I now understand the frustration and anxiety as she tried to give her children what they wanted, what she couldn’t afford to buy at the time.

I cry a little each time I make this. I shouldn’t have criticised her fried carrot cake.

My Recipe and the Secret Ingredient

You don’t need many ingredients to make fried carrot cake. Like most Singapore dishes, you need time. This dish is best prepared over two days, since it needs to cool properly before you can fry it. Here are the ingredients I use:

Ingredients for the carrot cake:
1500 ml of water
500g white radish (daikon), grated
500g rice flour
3 tablespoons tapioca starch (This is the secret ingredient. It makes the cake springy when cooked)
1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon sugar
Chicken Powder (I have used clear chicken stock to replace the 1500 ml of water, and it tastes even better)

Making and Steaming the cake

The first step is to make the cake. Begin by hydrating the rice flour. Mix the rice flour and starch well with 1000ml of room temperature water. Let it soak for about an hour. I do not use boiling water because it cooks the flour and starch, and the mix becomes lumpy and gluggy. There should be no lumps of flour after mixing in the water.

Note: Rice flour is very forgiving in the water-to-flour ratio. I have tried 1:2 up to 1:4 for flour and water. You will get varying degrees of firmness and softness as you increase the water. I found that 1:3 gives me the closest result to the usual Singapore version.

Grate the daikon. Then, with a little oil, cook it with the remaining 500ml of water. Just bring it to a gentle boil. Add salt, sugar, and chicken powder. Taste it to see if you like it.

Then, add the radish mixture to the flour mixture. Slowly, stirring constantly so you don’t get lumps, in case the hot radish cooks the flour mixture (it shouldn’t).

It should be watery. I recommend using a large pot or mixing bowl for the next step. Taste again to see if it needs more salt, fish sauce, or chicken powder.

Over a slow fire, cook the mixture until it becomes like a paste. This is the important part. Stir constantly to prevent the mixture from sticking to the bottom of the pot or bowl. Keep doing this until it is stiff like this:

Note that you can skip this process if you like and just steam the mixture in a greased cake pan. The problem is that the daikon may sink to the bottom, and you won’t get an even mix when the cake is done. So, I recommend cooking it partially first.

Then transfer to greased pans and steam for 45–50 minutes. It depends on how deep your pan is. I usually put a wooden chopstick into the cake to check for doneness. If it does not stick, it’s ready.

Remove from the steamer and let it rest. Pour away the excess water accumulated on top of the cake. If the top is a little wet, it is OK. The rice will eventually absorb it. When cool, cover and refrigerate overnight.

Frying the carrot cake

Cut the carrot cake into small pieces or cubes. We’re going to fry it like we fry noodles. Here are the ingredients I use:

Vegetable oil (lard is better)
2 tablespoons preserved radish (chai poh), chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
As many eggs as you like
3 tablespoons fish sauce (for the white version)
2 tablespoons sweet dark soy sauce (for the black version)
Spring onions (for garnish)
Dash of white pepper

Instructions:

Heat 2–3 tablespoons of vegetable oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. I prefer a flat cooking surface instead of a wok, but use what you have. Make sure there is enough oil so the cake crisps up nicely.

Add the garlic and gently stir-fry until fragrant.
Add the chopped preserved radish to the skillet. 
Add the cubed carrot cake to the skillet. 
Fry for 5–7 minutes until the cake is crispy and browned.

Prepare the eggs. I use 4–5 for a 28-inch skillet. It should cover the entire surface of the carrot cake. Add some fish sauce, beat the eggs well, then pour on top of the carrot cake. Let it cook and brown nicely.

If the cake is flavoured well when you make it the day before, you shouldn’t need to add any salt or fish sauce at this point. Taste to see if you like it.

For the white version, I try not to stir-fry too much to keep the pieces large.

For the black version, add a generous amount of sweet dark soy sauce. Stir-fry for another 2 minutes until all ingredients are combined. Messy is OK.

If you like, you can also add some sambal chilli paste at this point.

Garnish the dish with chopped spring onions and a dash of white pepper.

After so many years and many trials and errors, I have finally nailed it.

I think it is as good as those in Singapore. It definitely tastes better than the stall’s “Chye Tow Kueh” that sold for $1.20 in 1974.

I now make it regularly. It costs just a few dollars, and the ingredients are easily available. My wife and younger son love it. I will teach him how to make it so that one day, when his children ask for it on their birthday, he can make it for them.

And he can tell the story of how their grandmother poured her heart into making this simple but delicious dish.

“I have to make 3,400 dumplings for the fridge.”

“The table, about 7,000 dumplings.”

We used to measure the setup costs of our restaurant in terms of dumplings. So when someone asked how much we invested to build the shop, my wife would inevitably say…

“…he has to make 618,000 dumplings to pay it off.”

Customers loved the analogy.

Here’s the math. We initially sold dumplings at $10 for a plate of 12. It takes me about 3 hours to make 300 dumplings a day. At 618,000 dumplings, you can tell how much we borrowed from the bank to build the restaurant.

These dumplings often sell out before we open. Regulars would order ahead via Messenger, and those who missed out would ask, “Why don’t you make more?”

“He’s a one-person show. That’s all he can make a day,” she would say.

Eventually, we increased the price, but it was time-consuming. The “scalable” dishes, like Laksa and Chicken Rice, paid the bills.

Making dumplings is hard work. We know of a Chinese lady near our home who sells dumplings to support her three young children. She only sold them on Saturdays at the local farmers’ market. After her husband left her and the children, she found a way to support her family.

She did other work, like cleaning and washing, but selling dumplings was what she enjoyed most. And they were delicious! There was always a crowd at her pop-up stall, and you had to wait. Sometimes for close to an hour. She made them fresh as the orders came.

One-woman show. It’s all she can make in a day.

She has since stopped. Her kids have grown up, and she can now take it easy. It was hard work.

My first dumpling was in Kaohsiung.

In 1998, I was in Taiwan, China, for reservist military training. An officer had bought the platoon two packets of pork-and-cabbage dumplings. I had just one dumpling before it was gone.

It was so delicious. More cabbage than pork? 50/50 maybe?

Dumplings, or Jiaozi (饺子), were hardly available in Singapore in the 1990s. They weren’t mainstream. Jiaozi is a Northern Chinese dish in which wheat is the staple. We were more familiar with soup-based wontons (云吞) and the Cantonese Siu Mai (烧卖).

In 1989, a stall selling Shanghai cuisine was near where I worked. They had pan-fried dumplings and hand-pulled noodles. It was exotic and spectacular to watch, but too expensive for a poor bookshop assistant.

Now, of course, you can find dumpling restaurants all over Singapore and dumpling bars all over the world.

In Australia, dumplings are among the most popular dishes, especially the pan-fried variety. We call them “Pot Stickers” (锅贴) or “Jian Jiao” (煎饺).

You know it is popular when you google “dumpling recipe” and it appears on Gourmet Traveller and the New York Times. When every MasterChef winner has a dumpling recipe on their website, and hatted restaurants serve fancy “dumpling-type dumplings” on $130 tasting menus, using lowercase letters to describe the dish:

The descriptions get longer as you get fewer dumplings on ever bigger plates.

Don’t get me wrong, we enjoy these too. Most are delicious and very creative. Some are a bit too creative and not quite “authentic”. But you don’t go to hatted restaurants for “street food” authenticity.

My dumpling recipe

I started making dumplings for shared meals when we moved into the eco village years ago. I wanted to impress my neighbours. Most people love them, and I tell them it’s easy to make. Just look it up on YouTube.

Preparing the dough

Although I often use commercially made wrappers (or dumpling skin 饺子皮), I have occasionally made these from scratch.

The recipe for the dough is simple:

• 2 parts plain flour (400g)

• 1 part room temperature water (200 ml)

• A pinch of salt

That’s all. No oil, no yeast.

Put the flour into a mixing bowl. As you add the water (slowly), mix it with a pair of chopsticks until it becomes a sticky mess.

Then, knead the dough into a ball. It will be hard and lumpy initially, but that’s ok.

Cover and let it rest for 20 minutes. This allows gluten to develop, making the dough elastic. A pinch of salt neutralises the electrically charged parts of the gluten and improves the taste.

Knead the dough again for about a minute. It should now be a little softer, smoother, and no longer stick to your hand.

Then, let it rest for an hour while you prepare the fillings.

The fillings

If you visit the northwestern parts of China, where some of the most delicious dumplings are from the Muslim community, lamb is the key ingredient. In Southeast Asia, pork is more common. You can use tofu or mushrooms as the main filling if you are a vegetarian or vegan.

I prefer minced chicken thigh with skin on. It should have a high “fat to lean” ratio, or it will become dry when cooked. I ask the butcher to prepare it with 40–50% fat. It is much tastier.

In a large bowl, add:

• 500g of minced chicken/pork/lamb/beef/minced tofu (or a combination of)

• A tablespoon of minced ginger

• A tablespoon of minced garlic

• A generous dash of soy sauce

• Some white pepper

• 2 tablespoons of oyster sauce

• A dash of sesame oil

• A tablespoon of sugar

Slowly add soup (carton soup is fine) or water to the filling as you mix. Mix in one direction. You should notice that the mixture will become gluey. This improves the texture and moisture content.

Add the vegetables

Dice about 500g of vegetables. These can be Chinese cabbage, garlic chives, or even kimchi. Mix them in just before you make the dumplings, or the salt will draw out moisture, and the filling will become too wet.

There’s a process that many recipes call for. Heat some oil (about 50 ml) to a boiling point and add it to the filling. Cooked oil gives a smoky taste. You can even flavour the oil with spices like star anise and Sichuan peppercorn. I usually just add sesame oil.

I will put a teaspoon of filling in a saucer and microwave it for 20 seconds. Taste and adjust (调味) accordingly.

Making the “dumpling skin” (饺子皮)

As mentioned, I usually use commercially made dumpling wrappers. If you are keen, here’s a video showing how to make them yourself. I have tried, and it’s not too hard. Practice will get you there. I even practise in my head as I move my hands and fingers.

The magic dipping sauce

My younger son makes an excellent dipping sauce. This is HIS recipe:

• 100ml of Light Soy Sauce

• 100ml of Chinkiang Vinegar (Chinese Black Vinegar)

• 1 teaspoon of Sugar

• 1 large tablespoon of Lao Gan Ma chilli oil (You should be able to get it anywhere in the world)

• 200 ml of hot water or unsalted chicken stock to dilute the sauce.

To make a bigger batch, increase the amount proportionately. There should be enough in a small bowl for each person to dunk a whole dumpling.

Cooking the dumplings

There are quite a few ways to cook them. The traditional way is to boil them. Drop a tray of dumplings into a large pot of boiling water and let it come to a boil.

Add half a cup of cold water to the pot when it boils to bring the temperature down. Do this three times. The dough will cook before the filling (especially frozen dumplings), so slowing down will ensure that the dumplings cook properly. Otherwise, the skin may break if overcooked.

You can also pan-fry them.

Add oil and water, about 50:50, to a non-stick pan. This should cover about ⅓ of the dumplings.

Then, arrange the dumplings in the pan until it is complete.

Cover the pan and put it on the stove. Let it steam for a few minutes.

The water will evaporate slowly as it cooks. Once most of the water has evaporated, remove the lid and let the fish fry in the remaining oil. I check frequently with a pair of chopsticks to make sure they don’t burn.

When the bottoms of the dumplings turn light brown, I put a plate over them (like a lid) and pour out the excess oil. Do it slowly, and don’t burn yourself. Then I flip the whole thing over and serve.

You can also steam them in a basket steamer or deep fry them.

I didn’t make 618,000 dumplings, so I am still paying off the loan. I hope this newsletter can help pay off a little more. But I also love eating dumplings, and I still make them often.

I am grateful for this little dish that helped me put food on the table after I quit the corporate world.

I am grateful to my wife and kids, who helped make hundreds of dumplings over the years when more orders poured in than I could handle.

I am grateful to all the customers who came, ate, and shared sweet memories in our little restaurant.

Thank you all! Thank you.

When we were running our restaurant and takeaway, we often organised hotpot dinners or lunches with our friends and neighbours on weekends and holidays. These were private events that were always filled with laughter and memories. Customers have asked many times for me to turn it into another “menu” item. Hotpot dinners are not profitable unless done on a large scale. It will take too long or cost too much for our small restaurant.

So I thought, why don’t more people do this themselves?

You can certainly go to one of many hotpot restaurants in the city, but it’s really very different from having it at home. And I think it is easier to organise than a BBQ. At least you don’t have a large grill to clean after.

So in this brief article, I will share how we organise a hotpot dinner in Australia. Especially now that winter is just around the corner.

But first, a glimpse into the Chinese Reunion Dinner

The Reunion Dinner

Central to Chinese cultures, especially around occasions like the Lunar New Year, is the reunion dinner. It is a momentous family gathering, usually on the eve of the first day of spring.

Back when life was harder, winter in China was especially difficult. The “Nian (年)”, the beast in the popular lion dance you often see in Chinatowns all over the world during this period, symbolised this hardship. Nian also means “Year”, so that Guo Nian (過年) literally means “The passing of the Year”.

The long, cold winter means that sometimes, people don’t make it through. So on the eve of the last day of winter, families gather for a reunion and count their blessings if everyone made it through. And for the next few days of the New Year (Spring Festival), we visit friends and relatives to congratulate them on making it through winter.

Growing up in Singapore, it was usually an annual affair on the eve of the Chinese Lunar New Year, a kind of communal cooking experience that brings everyone together. In some parts of China, families gather around to make dumplings for dinner.

So a hotpot dinner is not just delicious food, but the ritual of sitting around the table, sharing stories, laughter, and love. It’s an intimate, interactive dining experience that fosters bonds. And we should all do it often.

Tracing the Roots of Hotpot

The history of hotpot dates back thousands of years. The tripods of the Zhou Dynasty in China date back to 1046 BC, when nobles ate from personal bronze hotpots over burning charcoal called the Ran Lu (燃炉). My parents, in the Teochew dialect, used the same description when I was growing up in the 60s. I am often amazed that my mother, who didn’t go to school much, used words that go back over 3000 years without realising it. Wei Lu (围炉) or gathering around the pot, meant having a reunion dinner.

But the hotpot has long spread beyond Chinese borders, inspiring similar traditions elsewhere. In Japan, there’s the “Shabu-shabu,” a lighter hotpot that focuses on thinly sliced meats swished in a bonito and kelp-based broth. Korea offers the “Jeongol,” a hotpot filled with vegetables, meats, and rich seasonings. I love the kimchi hotpot, especially when the weather is cold. Even in France, fondue resembles hotpot, with a communal pot of melted cheese or chocolate.

But let’s get on with it.

Your Hotpot Checklist

Organising a hotpot dinner is surprisingly simple and requires minimal preparation. I think it is easier than when I am preparing for a usual dinner. The first thing you will need is the cooking utensils and the hotpot setup. If you want to keep it simple, an electric induction setup or camping (butane) stove with a pot from most supermarkets or camping stores works just fine.

We use a camp stove with a $3 butane cartridge. And you need a wide, shallow pot so it is easier to cook and eat without standing up. We use a pot with a divider to separate two types of broth. You can have just one type of broth, but 2 is better than 1.

Word of caution. Be careful when you have children at the table. Especially with boiling broth and a hot stove. Charcoal and butane stoves are only suitable for outdoor hotpot. If you are having it indoors, an electric induction stove or very good ventilation prevents carbon monoxide build-up.

Serving utensils, chopsticks, and small bowls and sauce plates. I usually provide Korean BBQ tongs or food tweezers for guests who do not use chopsticks.

Ingredients:

Depending on what you like, the soup can be made with a chicken, beef, mushroom, or spicy Sichuan base. Vegans and vegetarians can also use a vegetable soup base. This is usually the most time-consuming part, boiling bones, vegetables and aromatics for a few hours. If you have time, it will be delicious. But don’t let this stop you.

You can also use packet soup if you do not want to spend hours making the stock. You can get these from your local Asian grocery. Or order online from Amazon. The Lee Kum Kee soup base is our favourite when I am too lazy to make stock.

Ingredients for the hotpot include beef, chicken, lamb, pork and seafood such as fish, shrimps and scallops. Basically, whatever you like. The important thing is that you sliced these as thinly as possible so that they cook quickly. If you can find a Korean butcher, they usually have a variety of meats ready for hot pots and Korean BBQ. We also love adding sliced Spam into our ingredients. Remember, whatever you like.

Vegetables like spinach, bok choy, choy sum, a variety of mushrooms, even carrots, potatoes, and dried seaweed are delicious. You can add tofu and noodles for carbs and textures. You can easily get udon, rice noodles, or mung bean noodles.

Finally, when you dish out the cooked ingredients, dip them in a delicious sauce before eating. The simplest would be a blend of soy sauce with a dash of sesame oil. You can also add minced garlic, chilli, and/or green onions into the soy sauce. We love the popular Kewpie Japanese Dressing with Roasted Sesame, available at any supermarket. Whatever you like.

Then, sit everyone down, turn on the stove, and eat as you cook and cook as you eat. Have a beer, a glass of wine, or a gin and tonic. In the cold of winter, laughing and talking loudly, serving food to each other, and simply enjoying the company of your family and friends.

When it is done, everything can go into the dishwasher.

The Cultural Heartbeat of Hotpot

The hotpot reflects the culture of sharing and unity, where the act of eating together is as significant as the meal itself. It demands little in terms of preparation but yields abundant rewards in laughter, conversation, and the human connection.

Whether it’s the joy of reuniting or the comfort of deepening bonds, the hotpot dinner, with its rich flavours and cultural significance, reminds me that the most memorable gatherings are often the ones that require the least. Could there be any greater gift than the simple pleasure of sharing a hotpot with those we love?

I never really liked Laksa that much when I was younger.

Growing up in Singapore, there were infinitely more dishes to choose from. I don’t dislike it; it’s just not my favourite.

Six months after we migrated to Adelaide, I began craving it. We are lucky that most ingredients are now available at most Asian grocery stores. I was told that in the 1960s, you could hardly find a bottle of soy sauce.

The cravings were strong enough to motivate me to spend many weekends learning to cook. Laksa, among other dishes.

10 years later. I have learned to cook well enough to open Lot 8 at Aldinga, a family restaurant serving Singaporean food.

Our most popular dish during the five years we were open for business was the Nonya Laksa. I am often asked for the recipe. “It’s easy. I learned about it on YouTube.”

Sorry for not taking the time to explain then.

Taking the cue from customers who now miss it since we closed the restaurant, I thought I would share the recipe and a little about Nonya Laksa.

The Origin of “Laksa”

No one knows.

One of many theories is that the word “Laksa” originates from the Chinese words spicy (辣) and grainy or sandy (沙). It originated in Peranakan culture in the 16th century, when Chinese migrants who introduced noodles to Southeast Asia intermarried with local Malays and used local ingredients and spices to create this and other Peranakan dishes.

Wikipedia: …the word laksa is theorised to come from an ancient Persian word for “noodles”.[8] According to Denys Lombard in the book Le carrefour Javanais. Essai d’histoire globale II (The Javanese Crossroads: Towards a Global History, 2005), one of the earliest record of the word laksa to describe noodles was found in the Javanese Biluluk inscription dated from 1391 of Majapahit era that mentions the word hanglaksa. Hanglaksa in Kawi means “vermicelli maker”. [10] In Sanskrit, laksa means “one hundred thousand”, referring to numerous strands of the vermicelli. The term laksa or lakhshah is also believed to have come from Persian or Hindi which refer to a kind of vermicelli. [10]

In any case, there are 2 popular versions of laksa in Singapore and Malaysia: the coconut-based Nonya Laksa, which was what we were serving at Lot 8, and the tamarind-based, fishy, and overly sour Assam Laksa, which I do not like.

A recipe for Nonya Laksa

I must confess that I don’t have a “recipe” in the usual sense. Like my mother and grandmother, I cook based on “agak-agak”, the Malay word for “estimation”. So I wouldn’t be able to tell you the exact amount for each ingredient. I realised it doesn’t matter as long as it tastes right. And I taste as I cook.

I always begin with the rempah, or laksa paste, which is the key element of the dish. The rempah comprises the following:

From left to right, top-to-bottom row.

• Bowl of candlenut (you can replace with macadamia nuts as well)

• Bowl of galangal (I used minced galangal that comes in a jar, but fresh galangal is better)

• Bowl of turmeric (also from a jar)

• Bowl of chilli powder or paste. You can use as much as you can tolerate. I prefer Gochugaru (Korean Red Pepper Powder) because the colour is much brighter, though not as spicy. You can use dried chillies, but remember to rehydrate them first.

• Bowl of coriander powder

• 1 kg of red onions (Shallots are too expensive here, and they look like undersized onions anyway. I use whatever is on offer)

• A bowl or handful of garlic cloves

• Some lemon grass

• Some palm sugar. You can use brown or raw sugar, but palm sugar is fancier. More authentic.

• Some dried shrimps. This is NOT optional. Also, only available in Asian grocery stores.

Next, blend everything well, then fry it over a low fire with an equal amount of oil. A cup of rempah paste with a cup of oil. You can use vegetable oil or peanut oil. The idea here is to cook until the oil separates. That’s when the paste thickens, with a layer of red oil floating on top. Set aside.

This requires patience. And constant stirring to prevent the rempah from burning. You can use this rempah for multiple dishes, like dry-tossed Wonton Noodles and Nasi Lemak (coconut rice). You can even have it with cheese and crackers, too, like a dip.

The (soup) stock

The stock is the next most important building block. The stock adds depth to the dish, so I would ensure it is done properly. I use free-range chicken frames for the stock, but if you like, you can add chicken wings and/or drumsticks. It will taste better.

Put the chicken frames into a deep pot with cold water. Add several slices of ginger, a few bunches of spring onions, unpeeled garlic, and a generous dash of Shaoxing wine. Bring the pot to a boil, then let it simmer gently for about an hour. When done, filter out the chicken frames and aromatics. Once again, you can use this for many other dishes.

The Toppings

Traditionally, the toppings for Nonya Laksa in Singapore comprise:

• Prawns. Poach the peeled prawns in the clear stock for just under a minute.

• Chicken. Shred them with your fingers and set aside.

• Boiled eggs. Halved.

• Tofu Puffs. I usually cut it into pieces and leave it in the final laksa gravy.

• Fish cakes. Optional. I love fish cakes, but most Aussies don’t. I wonder why.

• Blood cockles. This is one of the key ingredients for Laksa in Singapore, but it is virtually impossible to find here in Adelaide. Blood cockles are shellfish found in swamps, but I have tried replacing them with fresh oysters or mussels, and it works, too. Again, it’s optional.

• Laksa leaves, or Vietnamese mint. Cut them into thin shreds. This is another key ingredient that gives laksa its unique taste and aroma. You can grow these easily in Australia. Otherwise, Asian Grocery stores will usually have them. If you really can’t find them, replace them with spring onions for colour, but it won’t be the same.

Preparing the Prawns

I use raw prawns with the shells on. Peel the prawns and set aside the heads and shells. In a skillet, sauté some garlic, then add the prawn heads and shells. Sauté them until they are nicely browned. Then add everything to the clear chicken stock and simmer for about 15-20 minutes. If it’s any longer than that, it starts to lose flavour.

Remove heads and shells. This will be the base stock for the laksa gravy.

Preparing the Chicken

I usually give the chicken a good rub with salt, then bathe it in boiling water. This tightens the skin and removes impurities. It’s also the same process used for preparing poached Hainanese Chicken.

Bring the clear stock to a boil, then gently add the chicken. When the stock comes to a boil, reduce the heat and simmer for about 10 minutes. Then, and this is important, turn off the heat and put a lid on the pot. Let the chicken sit in the stock for about an hour. This will cook it without overcooking it.

After an hour, remove the chicken from the stock and let it rest. In Singapore, that’s when they hang the chicken up with butcher hooks.

The laksa broth

Heat lots of rempah (laksa paste) in a pot and add the stock. Let it simmer for a few hours so the broth can absorb the spice from the paste. This is the same reason that overnight curries taste better. It allows the broth to become rich and thick.

Just before serving, add coconut milk. You can use coconut cream, but it makes the gravy thicker. I use about 1 part coconut milk to 2 parts stock for the laksa gravy. I like it thick and very “lemak” (coconutty). Add fish sauce for extra umami as you taste it.

Assemble

In Singapore, laksa is served with thick rice noodles. You can also use Hokkien Noodles. We had a customer who had her laksa with thin egg noodles. That’s very nice, too. It’s up to you. I occasionally have it with steamed rice as well.

Poach the noodles in boiling water for under a minute, with some bean sprouts if you like, and transfer to a nice big bowl. To assemble the laksa, arrange the toppings of your choice on top of the noodles, then ladle the laksa broth onto the noodles and add a pinch of laksa leaves. If you like it with some heat, add a tablespoon of rempah and serve it hot.

Other ways to have Laksa

In Singapore, you can have Laksa Hotpot, Dry Laksa (a braised noodle dish using laksa gravy), Fried Laksa, and even Laksa Instant Noodles. Be creative. But since this dish takes so long to prepare, I think it is an occasion for a Weekend Laksa Party (if you start the preparation a day earlier) with lots of friends and family.