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| Sunday, 16 March 2003 |
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Features |  |
| News Business Features Editorial
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Chilli makes a sexy meal by Sesha Samarajiwa Thais call them prik. Indonesians cabe. Chinese call them mo po tow fu and Sri Lankans miris.... They come in all shapes and sizes: some small, stubby and purple, others crinkled, long and red. They are all hot; the smaller, the hotter. Commonly known as chilli, they can make a grown man cry and a woman swoon.
Asia's love affair with the chilli goes back a long way. It was introduced to this part of the world in the 16th century by the Portuguese who brought seeds and plants from Central America. A chilli-based culture has since taken root in many countries in Asia. Thai, Indonesian, Malay, Indian, Sri Lankan, Philippine and Korean cooking all feature hot dishes - chilli-hot. Influenced by central Asian cuisines, the Sichuan and Hunan provinces in China have also developed a chilli-hot cuisine. And Australia's Caucasian population, traditionally used to lighter, more delicate flavours, is gradually learning to love it. Adventurous In recent years in Australia, restaurants serving spicy-hot dishes have been proliferating, ranging from Thai to Sri Lankan. Originally catering mainly to the more adventurous, these restaurants now boast a healthy number of patrons raised on boiled meat and potato. "Although we temper our dishes according to customers' requests, occasionally we encounter someone who can't handle it," grins Akram Dawood, proprietor of the Royal Mughal restaurant. "They are quickly given a lump of sugar or a glass of water. That usually puts out the fire." Chinese food, especially the ubiquitous Cantonese variety, lacks fire. The only real exception is Sichuan food, which has what the Chinese call ma, a spiciness that leaves your taste buds numb or paralysed. This potency is not found in any other Chinese cuisine, except perhaps Hunan food. Cantonese people who are partial to chilli-hot flavoured food have a range of chilli sauces to choose from, each suited to a particular type of food. For example, the bean-pase type of chilli sauce is used with stir-fried dishes and goes very well with clams. Chilli-flavoured food is certainly an acquired taste. Among its aficionados are great names like King Juan Carlos of Spain and maestro Zubin Mehta. It is said that their common love for chilli has strengthened the friendship between the two great men. As members of an exclusive network, they exchange information and recommendations on unique new blends of chillis. Both men are reputed to carry in their pockets a canister of chilli whenever they have to grace unfamiliar tables. Invited to a dinner at the four Seasons restaurant in New york, Bombay-born Mehta is said to have discreetly passed his chilli canister to the 'maitred', politely requesting him to instruct the chef to add a generous dash from it to his steak. "But sir...." protested the maitred'. Mehta silenced him by saying, "That's the only way to make your steak palatable to me. So please oblige." And of course they did. In countries such as Sri Lanka and Thailand, guts and palates are toughened at a tender age. When you get through a stretch of four or five red-hot dishes at a roadside restaurant in Sri Lanka without shedding a tear, you know you have arrived. I remember the first time I saw a field of chillies. I was travelling to the interior of the northern Sri Lankan peninsula of Jaffna and, in certain areas, chilli fields, like a green carpet dappled with bright red spots, stretched to the horizon on all sides. A field of red chillies, ready to harvest, is a glorious sight. Glorious Chillies come in a surprising range of colours, shapes and sizes. Kochchi miris is a long, dark red, red-hot number, definitely not for the faint-hearted. And here is a milder, green variety. Its larger cousin, the capsicum, is a giant pale green chilli, but it doesn't pack as great a punch as its smaller cousins. Stuffed with minced meat or fish, coated in batter and breadcrumbs and pan-fried, it is a delicious 'rice-puller', as my father says, and, as I write, the thought makes me salivate like Pavlov's dog. Then there is Bola miris, the size of a large marble, curvy as a tomato. It comes in red, deep purple and mauve. Some people grow it in pots as ornamental plants. This little cutie must be treated with respect because it can make a grown man cry. Most people keep it away from dishes with good reason. I found out why as a 10-year-old keen to make a macho impact on my peers. I took a bet that I could eat one. I picked the reddest of the bunch from one of my mother's pots, a grinning bravely at my buddies, I took a single bite. For a few seconds nothing happened. I remember my friends looking at me in awe. And then it hit me. I swear sparks flew out of my ears, and I took off. I ran around the house seven or eight times, screeching like a bat out of hell. Lest this story should scare the lily-livered, let me assure you that there is a wide choice of mild chilli dishes with meat, fish and vegetables. In fact, all Asian dishes can be cooked mild, medium or hot. Almost any curry - even an egg curry - can be given this treatment, depending on your choice. Charmaine Solomon, an Australian gourmet of Sri Lankan descent, explains in her book on Asian cooking: "Curries, which are an inevitable part of every meal, are not necessarily classified according to the main ingredients, but according to the type of spicing, the method of cooking, or the colour which, to the initiate, conveys a whole lot more than just whether a curry is white, red or black. "White curries are based on coconut milk and are usually mild and have a lot of liquid, so they double as soups. Red curries are based on a few spices and large amounts of chilli powder or ground chillies that gives the curry its vivid colour and red-hot flavour." She adds that black curries are the most typical curries in Sri Lanka. They get their colour because coriander, cumin and fennel are roasted until they are a rich coffee brown. Solomon says that:"This dark roasting brings out nuances of flavour in a subtle and wholly pleasant way, making the cooking of Sri Lanka strongly individual." Versatile Unlike its neighbour across the Palk Straits, Sri Lankan cuisine uses large quantities of chilli. And chilli is one of the most versatile of all spices. Take a grated coconut, add a dash of chilli powder and dried fish and you've made pol sambal (coconut sambol), a dish fit for a king. In Sri Lanka an unexpected guest, invited to a meal, would tell the host or hostess: "Nothing elaborate please. A bit of coconut sambal and a plate of rice would do grandly, thank you". I remember sharing a few bottles of freshly-tapped toddy on a starlit night at my uncle's place on the beach at Unawatuna in south Sri Lanka.. eating freshly boiled manioc and small fried fish dipped in lunu miris sambol. (The sambol is as basic to Sri Lankan cuisine as salt and pepper are to the Western table. It is a mix of dried or fresh chopped chilli, Maldive fish or dried prawns, chopped onions, lemon juice and salt). A balmy evening .... the Indian Ocean lapping at our sarongs ... a pair of flower children walking by ... we invite them to join us .... to watch the moon ... initiate them into toddy, manioc and lunu miris sambal, a great recipe of south Sri Lanka ... "Wow!" they say, "this is something else." Indeed it is. Another favourite of mine is fried onion sambal. Making it is simple. Heat half a cup of oil in a firing pan, add finely sliced onion slivers from two large onions, and fry slowly until the onions are soft and transparent. Add six dried chillies, broken into pieces, and Maldive fish (the finest export of the maldive Islands, this is sun-dried salted fish which is hard as a piece of wood, and must be shaved with a sharp knife). Cover and cook for 10 to 15 minutes, or until the oil separates from the other ingredients. Stir occasionally while cooking. Add salt and lemon juice, cook a few minutes longer, and you have badhapu lunu sambal. By adding a dash of sugar, you create one of Sri Lanka's all-time favourites - sini (sugar) sambal. Devilled fish, beef or pork are the favoured accompaniments (somehow hors d'oeuvres just doesn't sound right because these are substantial dishes) at Sri Lankan taverns. Tipplers who also appreciate their 'bites' know the places which serve the best. Some pubs are good for the devilled prawn, others for the meats and so forth. Normally you ask for some roast paan (bread with a crunchy crust and a tender middle). After eating the slices of meat, or fish, or prawns, you tear off a piece of bread to scoop up the thick, hot gravy - a tasty, dark-brown paste with onion, tomato and, of course, chilli. The fresh bread nicely offsets the bite of the 'bite'. It's a combination guaranteed to set your taste buds a-tingle, and make you call for another round of arrack. You can try a similar garlic bread and gravy combination at most restaurants serving South Asian fare. I would advise a novice to start with the mild dishes, and once your stomach and tongue get gradually acclimatised, proceed gently to the red-hot zone. Better yet, unless you are determined to join the top guns, stop when you are nearly there. Chilli warriors are a long time in training. If you happen to bite a zesty piece, your fellow diners will see you going through a mini-metamorphosis, like Charlie Chaplin doing a Jekyll-and-Hyde routine. Your cheeks will turn red, then scarlet; your hair may turn static and stand on end; your pupils may become dilated; you will shed a copious amount of tears and your tongue will turn acrobatic. Don't panic; stay calm. The condition is only temporary and has no lasting effects. You can try one or all of the time-tested antidotes. Believe me, they work. Reach for the rice bowl, scoop out a handful of rice and swallow it, or eat half a cup of sugar or drink a large dollop of honey. A glass of water also works, but not so fast. Ignore the howls of laughter at your expense. they can't help it. You undoubtedly look a sight. Wipe your tears, compose yourself, proceed gently with the rest of your meal. Stick to the rice. Please try not to go "Aaaaaaaagh". It's not polite. And be happy: you've arrived. So take the chance to become acquainted with the spice for all seasons. If you do get hooked, know that you'll be in a club which counts royalty among its members. And if you are eating at milder tables and get a craving for chilli, you can always do a Zubin Mehta. Charmaine Solomon, Encyclopedia of Asian Food, Periplus Editions, New Holland Publishers (Australia) Pty Ltd., 1998. |
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