More Than Just A Burger King

Some "Motormouth from Ipoh" pointed this place to a friend. After a dinner there, she decided it would be a good idea if I wrote about this place. Which I did. We stopped by after a weekend assignment/getaway - the same day the article was published.

Despite the warnings of "parking hell" and "motorcyclists from hell" people were still flocking to the place; several groups, including families of four to seven, had to be turned away because there were no more seats.

Response to the food was good. My eating buddy even heard a mom with several kids go, "So cheap!"

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Hooked at first bite

The parking is terrible and the double-parking even worse, but the burgers and other offerings at Nambawan Restaurant are just too darn hard to resist

first published in The Star, 03 July 2010


One — OK, two — things about Kuala Lumpur that bug determined gourmands: an apparent scarcity of really good places to eat and the need to travel ungodly distances to reach any such treasures unearthed by those who have gone there before.

While reminiscing our visits to a recently-reviewed restaurant, some Motormouth from Ipoh (at www.j2kfm.com) told Alex about another place that served great pork dishes.

"Do you know where this Nambawan Restaurant is?"

Of course I didn't know.

Ergo, Google Maps — a useful tool. However, we took a few wrong turns along the way to what would be a good meal because I didn't take down the directions. At least I remembered, while researching the place, that the Masak-Masak Lady (at masak-masak.blogspot.com) had noted that Old Town White Coffee was near the premises.

Driving at night didn't help either. There were several hazards, notably the motorcyclists, who tend to ride without lights or helmets on.

Parking at Sri Manja Square was bad — as was the double-parking — the night we were at Nambawan Restaurant and Café for the first time. A family of three and one other patron were the only customers there when we arrived. The whole dining area was open-ended — the 99 Speedmart opposite can be seen at one end.

From where we sat, we could see the blown-up photos of choice menu picks painted on the wall, both featuring bacon, along with some bad copywriting encouraging patrons to "Taste your sense to infinity".

The air-conditioning failed to keep the warm and humid weather outdoors at bay. If some of the menu items look unsettlingly foreign, take a deep breath, calm down, call the waitress or manageress and ask for clarification. They'd be happy to assist.

I settled for the Stone-charbroiled Pork Belly with roasted potatoes and garden salad (RM13.90), and the proudly touted "100% Home Made Pork Burger" (RM6.90).

"Small-town prices," commented Alex but her eyes were city-sized when she realised that I had ordered two dishes.

It appeared that the place has only one chef, who is said to have earned his cooking chops from New Zealand. Nambawan has been around for two years; it turns three next month. No clue as to why they opened shop at a neighbourhood that, at first sight, won't move those pork dishes quickly enough.

The place has its regulars — people who were hooked at first bite, it seems, and braved parking hell for return visits. Can they handle a full house?

By the time the pork belly reached our table we were probably hungry enough to tackle the rest of the pig. Memories of pork bellies past melted like the chunk I'd cut and put inside my mouth.

A little bit salty, but the flavours — oh, how they gushed forth as the molars crushed the firm, glistening fat and the bits of tender, juicy flesh. Every bite was pleasure, with or without the apple sauce, so astringent and tangy it was almost citrus-like.

When the pork burger arrived I took the top half of the bun and wiped the sauce from what was once a plate of grilled pork belly. The patty wasn't really big, but it held a nice surprise. It was tender, juicy and had a nice texture, and most of all, virtually none of that gamey pork smell. A hint of fragrant herb might be responsible, and seemed familiar.

Coriander?

"No, it's parsley," said the manageress.

Yes, I had two dishes, from which Alex stole the occasional bite; she already had dinner prior. Small-town prices mean small-town portions, after all. But every bite was so darn good.

"Dish number three!" I thumped the table, with my sights set on the Pan-fried Chicken and Bacon Roll.

But then Alex spoiled it all by announcing that she was tired and had to go home.

I sneaked back when Alex was out of town over a week later. The manageress did say their "100% Home-made Beef Burger" was also worth a try.

The pan-fried chicken and bacon wasn't really rolled. The centrepiece was one slab of chicken that was butterfly-cut with a slice of bacon folded in. Resting on pieces of roasted potato and garnished with a similar salad, it was a tasty, healthier version of the KFC Double Down "sandwich".

The 100% home-made beef burger?

Upon dissection, I found that like the pork burger, it was rather loosely packed, allowing for a burger that was juicier and easier to chew. Besides flecks of parsley, there were also what looked like black peppercorns.

It's not just charbroiled pork belly, burgers, steaks or pastas — weekend specials may include Lamb Shank in Red Wine Sauce, Barbecued Spare Ribs and Roasted Pork Belly, which is different from the charbroiled version. From what I've eaten so far, they're all worth a try.

Days later, I came back for a third visit and a second go at the charbroiled pork belly. Am I becoming addicted?

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Nambawan Restaurant and Café

10, Jalan PJS3/48
Sri Manja Square One
Taman Sri Manja
6½ Miles, Off Old Klang Road
46000 Petaling Jaya

Non-halal

Lunch: 12pm-3pm
Dinner: 6pm-10pm

Closed every other Monday

+6016-224 1533 (Yap)
+6013-263 2772 (Gilbert)

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Change. It's In The...

G*d, Blogger keeps rolling out all these bells and whistles, and I unwisely switched to the templates editable with the "new" Template Designer. Now my Dark, Dreary Corner of Cyberspace™ looks like someone dumped Clorox bleach on it.

My old template had so many style sheet customisations the CSS code is half the length of the actual template code. Feels like I'm starting all over again.

Maybe that's what I need. What this place needs. Perhaps a less-is-more style scheme would be better for the future. ...Maybe not for now.

Has it really been about four months since this declaration? Better late than never. Only thing is, I'll also be tweaking the layout as well.

Knuckle Up For Pasta

When I called the restaurant yesterday afternoon, the lady expressed surprise. Apparently they've been looking for someone to write up the place in The Star in the two years since they opened. What concerned me was that the kitchen is also short-handed. Can they keep up?

Apparently not.

Many irate customers waiting for their food. The kitchen was cooking by table, which was probably not a good idea when the dining room is packed with people who may be ordering three or more plates of of the same, time-consuming and hard-to-prepare dish (the pork knuckle). At least two tables cancelled.

Somehow, I ended up sharing a table with two ex-colleagues. "We came here because someone wrote about it in The Star," one of them said. "The writer wrote so nicely about the pork knuckle, we just had to try it." At least they felt I was spot-on about the "dry" meat and the lovely skin.

But I knew now that restaurant reviews aren't just about the food, business hours, or kosher status. A bit more curiosity would also have revealed the situation in the kitchen. Lesson learnt.

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Vary good food

A small nondescript outlet, an unusual name, not many people about — first impressions can be deceiving.

first published in The Star, 05 June 2010


The drive to The Atria that day was uneventful. As I pulled over to the side of the road, my friend Alex suggested KFC. Then she remembered a pasta joint nearby.

Mass-market multinationals? No. Private mom-and-pop enterprises? Yes.

After a "Shop Closed" false alarm, we found the place. Vary Pasta, eh? Very unusual, very dodgy-looking. But many mom-and-pops are like that, and not a few managed to shut me up with their food, so we stepped in.

The décor at Vary Pasta had some semblance of a Tuscan establishment. Dominating the rather small dining area was a huge round table placed near a section of wall painted with a banquet scene. However, the place was empty. Not very good.

No matter. We were thirsty and ordered drinks. Then we saw the whimsical-sounding items on the menu. Reuban Bread Set?

"Made by Reu-Ban, son of Ray-Ban?" I snarked to Alex. Again, very strange. Then again, not quite. Reuban, if that's the chef's name, ranks right up there with such names as Oxide, Hacken and Fish. We ended up picking some itty-bitty bites to pass the time: a fettuccine carbonara with ham and some deep-fried pork ribs.

The carbonara was beyond expectation — not salty, not overly creamy and the pasta was not drowned in sauce. The bits of ham, fried but not stiff as tree bark, added more flavour and depth to the dish. The ribs? Deep-fried, certainly, but still juicy inside, and not salty, either. The prices? Quite competitive, given the neighbourhood.

Oohs, aahs and mmms were liberally thrown about as we exchanged notes. Words flowed freely between us. Like Hunter S Thompson, in Kingdom of Fear — or Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas, I volunteered, or Anthony Bourdain. In a restaurant, no less. It seemed appropriate.

After all that talking, I was hungry again. This time, we were more adventurous and went for the Reuban.

What arrived was a pile of chicken ham, bacon, gherkin, tomato, lettuce, cheese and sauerkraut placed between two slices of de-crusted toasted bread, with a scoop of potato salad cradled in lettuce leaves. I didn't know where the spicy bite came from, but the flavour combination was tops.

OK, so I'll bite what Reuban has to offer. But perhaps Oxide can benefit from a stint in cooking school after the debacle known as The Storm Warriors.

When we returned to the place for more, we were surprised to find all the tables taken, except for a two-seater close to the kitchen. Now why did we think this place was in trouble?

At RM46++, the roasted pork knuckle dish was among Vary's most expensive offerings. The over-20 minute wait for the dish was excruciating; neither of us had a proper lunch prior. The procession of dishes emerging from the kitchen didn't help much.

Plate after plate drifted towards eagerly waiting tables like teasing mirages: piles of spaghetti covered in red sauce; chicken chops wearing coats of black pepper-speckled brown gravy; spaghetti tossed in olive oil and herbs; a monstrous mixed sausage platter with an obscene-looking centrepiece; and a mouth-watering pile of butter sauce-covered "Dijon mushrooms".

Finally, a huge pile of pork, lightly garnished with greens materialised at our table. The knuckle came all carved and cut up for us. We dug in.

The roasted skin — bits of blistered, charred, caramelised goodness — had the crispness and flavour expected of it. The meat was largely devoid of extra fat, unlike braised pork knuckles, and a bit dry (we did take five minutes to photograph that plate beforehand). There were more oohs, aahs and mmms as we dipped skin and meat into the brown sauce and ate.

Beneath the pile of porcine goodness were two bones with almost nothing clinging to them, and a sparse bed of sauerkraut with a few bits of potato — an attempt at making the dish more German, perhaps? I took the much larger bone and peeled off the remaining bit of flesh, fat and connecting tissue with my teeth.

The pork knuckle was wonderful. It had flavour. It had texture. It had us at "Hello".

It also made us want dessert, in the form of a tiramisu. Alex has her standards, though: "If it's not real coffee liqueur, I don't want it."

She need not have worried. It tasted nothing like a thawed out dessert, not overpoweringly sweet or rich, and the sponge was absolutely drenched in coffee liqueur. While I went over the bill, Alex called me over. "You've got to see this...!"

She was riveted to a bunch of photos on the wall, closest to the door. She pointed to one and my eyes widened. In a framed photograph posing with an arm draped on (presumably) the chef's shoulder was St Anthony himself, the profane but profound Hunter S Thompson of Discovery Travel And Living.

Weren't we talking about both of them the last time we were here?

We asked about the photo. Vary Pasta's chef worked at a hotel, explained the woman behind the counter. It seems the chef was at the right place at the right time when Tony B dropped by.

"Is this your first time here?" she asked.

"Second," I said. "And we'll be back for a third, fourth, fifth..."

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Vary Pasta

21 Jalan SS22/23
Damanasara Jaya
47400 Petaling Jaya

Non-halal

+603-7710 6100

Lunch: 11am-3pm
Dinner: 5pm-10pm

Closed on 2nd and 4th Thursdays of the month

Wading Through Time

The request came out of the blue. I'd sent samples of my writing to The Star, including something about time and an old clock. The editor of Starmag felt it was good enough for publication in the Heart & Soul section.

And so it was published - on Teacher's Day, no less. I can tell you that I owe my current mastery of the English language to my folks and not a few teachers. I suppose this can count as a kind-of thank-you to them.

I'd been feeling down after reading about some writers who'd become authors (one of whom had her first book pulped due to plagiarism), and that piece was the result. Making writing a viable career feels like a long hard slog, but like a shovel that keeps working, maybe I'll reach China someday if I keep at it long enough.

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Time takes no sides
first published in The Star, 16 May 2010

There's a clock that sits on my multi-shelved, self-assembled computer table. It came with me when I migrated to Kuala Lumpur. Mum bought it for me, along with other things, at Gama Supermarket in Penang.

It's an alarm clock but it has been mute for a very long time. The shop assistant who looked at it thought it could have been the continued use of full alkaline batteries.

For telling the time, however, it's still very useful. I have another alarm clock now, but its presence is calming, reassuring. It's been with me through a lot. College, mostly. But I think, sadly, that it became silent before I started working for a living.

The day I first started college should have been the day a boy became a man. Layers of dust and numerous batteries came and went, but the clock kept ticking. The boy, however, never really grew up. He probably spent too much time enjoying being a boy, or lamenting the passing of time – a strange irony – and not enough of it finding his way in life and preparing for it.

Mum's a lot older now, and in light of this the clock she bought me has taken on another kind of significance. Our time will be up someday, like the clock. The springs and whatnot will wear out eventually, even if they outlast us both, mother and son. And as I stare into the wake of those who have gone far ahead of me, is it too late?

"Time is on our side," goes an old song. Like those who sang it, that axiom is old, perhaps a romantic notion used to sell songs. Time takes no sides. It goes along its merry way regardless of who we are and what we strive for and accomplish.

So why should I be bothered about other people's accomplishments? Time to make tracks of my own.

In the infinite realm of possibilities, even time itself may end one day. Like the old clock in my room, that thought is strangely comforting.

Thunkin New

I did not supply the heading to this article, perhaps one of the best pieces I've done prior to my departure from The Edge.

"Thunkin New", Off The Edge, May 2010

I still consider Ms Clare Wigfall one of my best interviewees, and the replies she supplied here to be among the most interesting I've ever read. As a writer, I have some vested interest things such as the advent of the short story genre, Internet-driven changes in language and shrinking reader attention spans.

It took two days to research and craft the questions. Though some bits were trimmed, the final results are still good food for thought. I regret not having the time to read her short story collection yet, but I'm sure it'll be just as interesting.

Long Black Or Flat White?

It was at first a tiring, action-packed media hunt by Tourism Australia. I still couldn't believe that we emerged the winners of the grand prize. I will maintain that it was thanks to my ex-colleague's go-karting skills.

"Long Black Or Flat White?", Off The Edge, April 2010

The five days and four nights in Melbourne, 2009 were a vivid dream for one who has never left South East Asia all his life. I don't think I made the very, very best of the opportunity, but I'm glad of the attempts I made.

I'm proud of the photo of the wedding entourage; it was, like many things I encountered, unexpected, quaint and beautiful.

I walked almost everywhere within the Central Business District. Everywhere. Despite fears of swine flu I never felt so healthy and so refreshed. It was spring, and it was lovely.

I managed to save the notes I made when I was there. Someday soon I'll finally blog about this trip.

Flat white for me. Always.

The Great Unfinished War Tale

A long overdue piece on an unconventional novel from a Bosnian playwright - whose name gave the editor some trouble when she tried to spell it - darn Cyrillic characters.

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Out of the box

first published in The Star, 02 April 2010


The limited time I’ve spent with novels and storybooks convinced me that, for my tastes at least, plain narrative is the only way to go. Then came this tale of growing up amidst war from a Bosnian author and playwright that’s very unconventional and that stretched my literary muscles nicely.

How The Soldier Repairs The Gramophone is about young Aleksandar Krsmanovic of Višegrad who is given a “magic wand” by his grandfather, along with these words of wisdom: “The most valuable gift of all is invention, imagination is your greatest wealth.” Then the old man dies.

Although “the best magician in the non-aligned states” – and future painter of all unfinished things – is unable to bring his grandfather back, young Aleks tries to weave some semblance of magic into his daily life, and the events about to unfold.

His homeland, Yugoslavia, will be riven by war, and he and his family will escape it by fleeing to Germany. He will encounter a girl, Asija, whom he tries to rescue and, later when he grows up, tries to find when he returns to his hometown.

Caveat emptor, dear reader. This novel is work. All dialogue is free from quotation marks, something Aleks more or less explains in one chapter. The story of his life after grandpa features a cast of thousands, from family members to neighbours and soldiers and victims of war. Some have nicknames such as Walrus and Mickey Mouse. At times, it seems as though somebody else other than Aleks is narrating the tale.

It gets stranger towards the middle, as narratives give way to letters, poems, lists and transcripts of messages left on answering machines. Pretty much a huge, messy jumble of text – not something that one can flip through and “get” without effort, like the more conventional, linear novels elsewhere.

As far as I can tell there are no cues such as, “Aleks and family leave Yugoslavia”, or “Aleks returns home”, and many chapter titles are as long as those in Lim Kit Siang’s blog. You can’t tell whether something is happening in the present, past, or even in a dream. Perils for the inattentive reader – or reviewer – trying to connect the dots.

Despite the novel’s shambolic structure, though, one can find a kind of poignant, folksy touch in the way Aleks interprets or makes sense of everything that’s going on around him, even as he witnesses history in the making.

A couple of tucked-away gems – to me, at least – is the observation of how similar war-torn Bosnia and Somalia are in the 1990s, except for the “short-haired, black children” with guns; and, in response, an uncle provides some brutal honesty: “We don’t have any oil either. That’s why the Americans aren’t helping.”

If you don’t skip the author introduction, you will notice that, like Aleks, the author was also born in Višegrad. Which explains the vividness in the descriptions of town life and the River Drina that’s so prominent in the story. Could “Aleksandar Krsmanovic” be the author’s alter-ego?

Yes, I would recommend this to anyone who wants to expand their literary horizons – a peek over the wall or the top of the box where the grass may be greener, or just a different colour. While I did get how the soldier (kind of) repaired the gramophone, I never quite found out if Aleks was finally reunited with the girl he tried to save. Perhaps Aleks and the author are one and the same: a creator of unfinished things, as this novel seems to suggest.

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How The Soldier Repairs The Gramophone

Saša Stanišić
Translated from the German by Anthea Bell
Phoenix
277 pages
Fiction
ISBN: 978-0-7538-2473-3