MPH Writer's Circle: On Saleable Malaysian Fiction

After attending panel discussions on various topics over a few years, I found myself among several other panellists - including publisher and writer Amir Muhammad, author Tunku Halim, and editor Eric Forbes of MPH Group Publishing (the panel's organisers) - discussing "Malaysian fiction that sells" during the MPH Writer's Circle event at MPH Nu Sentral on 13 August.

Frankly, I felt more like a seat-warmer than a contributor on that panel.

(Disclosure: Since I'm also from the organiser's side, I participated in my capacity as a book reviewer, though I do not have an idée fixe with regard to what makes a perfect book. That was from the sales and marketing executive, who I used to mercilessly tease for her lack of general knowledge. Seems she's wised up since then; she probably threw that term at me in revenge.)

The discussion was two hours long, but I think we started a bit late, the audience had little to ask the panellists, and there wasn't enough time to go deeper into some of the topics.

The question of what type of Malaysian fiction sells has been asked frequently and, I feel, has never been adequately or satisfactorily answered. Not even by this all-male panel (I was told all the female writers the organisers wanted to invite were unavailable for that date). I also felt that we just scratched the surface with the questions we were given.

The discussion opened with the question of best- and worst-selling genres of fiction. Horror and thrillers topped the list (and, with regard to BM fiction, the usual suspects), while the worst-selling genres are sci-fi and fantasy - even for Fixi titles.

Would a best-selling Malay fiction book do well if translated into English (and vice versa)? Fixi boss Amir Muhammad suggested that the draw with certain translations - whether from English to Malay or vice versa - is mostly the novelty. Maybe some would want, say, a BM copy of King's Joyland to see what the story would sound like in Malay. Besides, many Malaysians are already bilingual, so what's the point?

But the popularity of translated works depends on the story and the translator's skill. And not all phrases were translated: Amir said that in a BM translation of an English novel, the phrase "ham and cheese sandwich" was mostly untranslated from the original.

What about illustrations for fiction books? Eric Forbes said no, as works of fiction tend to be text-driven. However, Tunku Halim's Fixi novel, A Malaysian Restaurant in London, has illustrations by "Chee", a comic-book artist. "We put in the illustrations because there weren't enough pages for the book," Amir admitted, drawing laughter.

How important is the cover for fiction books, and is it more important than for non-fiction? Quite important, from what I understand. A couple of times, Tunku Halim's collection, Horror Stories, was referenced. The cover sports a pair of scared person's eyes and a "negative" review from the New Straits Times: "the most unpleasant book I've read". Because "unpleasant" draws more eyeballs than "boring".

This isn't a new tactic. A trio of horror (or, what I think are horror) novels began with the title Jangan Baca Novel Ni ("Don't read This Novel"). And who can resist a request to "wreck this journal"?

How important is it for the theme to be localised? Should the story be based in Malaysia? An upcoming Fixi book, the audience was told, is set in the US, but dialogue is in Malay, "and it works". So, it's back to storytelling and writing skill. I chipped in (I think I did), begging the audience not to write anymore "Malaya in wartime" stories or the like. Brian Gomez's Devil's Place was touted as a quintessential Malaysian novel, one locals will "get" because it's, well, so Malaysian.

How important is it for the author to be well known? Can a first-time author succeed? Authors can be well known without having published a book first, e.g., the Komik Ronyok guy, who has thousands of followers on social media. And, believe it or not, that British housewife who made millions from Twilight fan fiction had a fan base before she was published on dead trees.

What is a good price range for for English and for Malay local fiction books? One figure came up: RM19.90 - bien sûr, the average price of a Fixi novel. Because, Amir claimed, once the price goes into the twenties, people begin to reconsider. Fixi's boss also cited "the Big Bad Wolf factor" in pricing, but he's learnt to work with them; Fixi published limited-edition short-story anthologies for the event: Malam for 2014 and II (Dua) for 2015.

What is a good sales figure for local fiction books in English and Malay? Can't remember the quoted numbers, but I think upwards of 3,000 copies for English, while popular Malay titles can reach the 100,000 mark. Successes like Horror Stories (over 20,000 copies) are rare.

Okay, submissions: full manuscripts or novel concepts? When Fixi accepted synopses and first couple of chapters, they got lots of submissions but most were Hunger Games-style dystopian themes. Ergo, full manuscripts, please. Complete 'scripts also help speed up the publishing process, and it's nice to have an almost-finished product to work with.

Fiction authors CAN use ghostwriters to help them complete a manuscript, but the panellists don't seem too thrilled with the idea. Amir cited Naomi Campbell's novel and an incident where she was asked about something in the book and she was said to have replied, "I haven't read that far yet."

On the viability of pen-names: well, if you're going to make a buck by writing naughty stories, it's best to hide behind one to avoid bringing shame to the family. There was also the case of Patricia O'Brien, a.k.a. Kate Alcott and J.K. Rowling, writing as Robert Galbraith.

And all those Malay romance novels? Not all penned by women, as this story reveals. Many contributors to the series of romance novels from the likes of Harlequin and Mills & Boon hid behind pen-names too. When Amir revealed this during an edition of the Cooler Lumpur Festival, however, I was surprised.

Finally, the "general advice to aspiring fiction authors" bit. Tunku Halim said to write what you love, and one needs passion for the subject being written. Eric added that stories also have to be well written and well edited; once that happens, one is well on the way towards getting published. Well-polished manuscripts also make editors happy.

Someone in the audience wanted to know how to go about starting to write and what's a good word count. Eric was all, "don't think about word counts when writing". Amir suggested submitting to international literary journals, where the criteria, including word count, is set. Some journals charge a small fee, he added, to ensure those who submitted were serious about writing.

Another audience member asked about the viability of e-books. Well, digital publishing hasn't quite taken off as expected, especially in this region. Seems the two biggest e-book players, Amazon's Kindle and Apple's iBooks, aren't keen on operating here. Amir illustrated why: at a book fair, he saw someone nonchalantly taking photos of an already heavily discounted cookbook - basically pirating it.

Seems part of the problem isn't just the lack of quality fiction, but also the lack of quality readers.

I vaguely remember calling readers and book-buyers risk-averse, unadventurous and unwilling to explore other genres or stories that are harder to relate to - perhaps one reason why sci-fi and fantasy titles have failed to take off. I believe it was Tunku Halim who said that they can't get into these genres in general because they lacked the capacity to imagine the worlds unfurl in their heads as they read.

Then again, things like, say, a Snow White/Avatar mash-up is probably way out there for most people.

Amazingly, it was revealed that a bestselling genre - and one said to be popular on the e-book platform - is erotica. "Amazingly", because I never thought it would come up in this discussion.

Before the panel convened, I spoke to two acquaintances in the audience about the possibility of making it big - if it was legal - by churning out lewd awek tudung fantasies. I was being hyperbolic, but I was surprised when they agreed with me and contributed other premises for the genre.

Hearsay abounds regarding writers, including a few local ones, who made international bestseller lists with what is essentially smut. I haven't read any of those, so I can't comment further. And the organisers are not encouraging that sort of thing as a career path.

I suppose the holy Grail, the magic bullet, the philosopher's stone of writing (legit) best-selling Malaysian fiction (you can take home to your parents) remains elusive. so I'm not sure if we achieved much with the panel discussion, other than make the scene even more daunting for aspiring authors of fiction in the audience.

But I guess one way to get things going and people writing, hopefully, is to keep talking.


MPH Group Publishing editor Eric Forbes, i.e., the chief, had a little more to add as a primer for aspiring authors.

Getting Precious About Publishers

A long time ago, the administrator of the Silverfish Books Facebook page published what looks like an open rejection letter and all the poets lost their minds. From the two brief anecdotes offered in that post, it seems Silverfish doesn't want poetry from lazy-ass writers or loud, pretentious perasan poseurs.

However, it's as if Silverfish meant, "Why bookstores shouldn't publish poetry."

I find it sad that after all this time, the knee-jerk response is still strong in the arts community. Many of the dissenters appear to be incensed that it came from Silverfish of all places.

Some of the reactions to that Facebook post were dismaying, and that invitation to a poetry event had that "come here and we'll prove you wrong" vibe I didn't like.

I don't think it would've been taken up.

But the Facebook protests bothered me for a long while.

---

I hesitate to trot out the term "circle jerk" because many of those involved are light years from being jerks. However, it's hard to look at the local arts scene as a whole and think otherwise.

The tragedy is that it's not intentional. Most times, it's a lot of mutual back-patting, with the hopes that the continuous encouragement, especially in the wake of bad reviews, poor sales or empty chairs at an event, will "keep their spirits up" and "move them along".

"The reviewer might have a point"? "I see how that might be bad for the work"? "Maybe there is something wrong with the presentation"? Not so much.

Prose is hard to sell. Poetry, even more so. People who buy books or attend readings want some ROI for their time and money. However, not every piece of work hits the mark.

If publishers are rejecting poetry because of their business model and their apprehension over the saleability of poetry, what does echoing that achieve, other than provide false comfort to writers and fuel the "anti-establishment" rage machine? Is it really just one party's fault?

I think people put too much stock in their annointed institutions of free speech and the arts. Silverfish has moved to Bangsar Freaking Village II where the rent's like up here and business is tough. You wanna talk to them about championing the arts?

The current venue for a regular poetry-reading event has started implementing some sort of cover charge, fed up over patrons' reluctance to "donate" or buy stuff from there. And some of these patrons are from the old crowd or cheerleaders for the performers.

Never mind the institutions. What does that say about our regard for the arts?

---

There is a scene, and it has a base and a support system. Growing that base is the challenge, I feel. Because at some point, after a degree of success, some feel satisfied to be where they are and not plan for bigger things - at least, for the moment. So things stall.

In an old article where I allegedly took a dump on a regular prose-reading event, I was also - selfishly, perhaps - trying to sort out why, after all the sessions I've attended, I still felt like an outsider - besides trying to figure out where this little movement would go from its tiny alcove in KL.

From what I can see, it still feels like an open-door private party, albeit one that travels on occasion. But has that spirit of sharing and encouragement been passed on? Any way of finding out if it has?

Maybe the organisers are content with being a regular gathering of like-minded people who inspire the art passively, without overt evangelising. Whether poetry or prose, it feels perturbingly familiar.

I wonder how the novices feel when they're being lined up with more established figures. Do they feel insecure, inadequate, nervous? Or are they even aware that their stuff might be remotely, well, not as good? How many of them consult the senpais in their midst, or do they feel too intimidated to even ask?

Deep in the collective glow of the joy in meeting up and catching up, it's hard for the stalwarts in the game to pick up on things like the apprehensive loner, the nervous wreck, the intimidated kohai. The ones with the courage to ask gets the dibs.

Opening doors is easy; the hard part is getting them to come in, stay and grow. We have a long way to go when it comes to educating people about things we like and believe in.

---

As a publisher, we never say, "You suck. Don't EVER pick up a pen again." It's usually, "You suck, according to our business model. Try again, or you can find another publisher."

Deep down, some of us DO care. It's just that we are not wagering OUR money, and those who own that money might have other priorities. When a bad bet means five-figure losses and a lot of pulped copies, many would prefer to err on the side of caution.

Picking the chaff from the grain is a tough and imprecise process. Gatekeepers do get it wrong, which is why it's the "fine sieve of time" that ultimately decides what makes something a "classic" or, at least, worthwhile.

It's not as if writers have no other avenues. Self-publishing is now easier, thanks to technology. Do you even need money or the validation of the traditional players these days? The small presses are more helpful in that regard.

So, "Go ahead and self publish your poetry. If it survives 20 years, you're a poet. If not, you're not." Hardly comforting for those who want to make their mark yesterday. But if you have so little faith in the industry, why don't you just let time - and the market - decide?

But keep at it. Even with the help of crusading independent outfits, it'll all be gone if you don't sustain the momentum.

Safest thing is to "keep your day job."

Messing Around In Melaka, Part 5

We passed by the Dutch Square, where Christ Church and the Stadhuys were. When the Dutch took over Melaka, the Stadhuys (State House) was built as the administrative centre. We skipped this part.

On my last visit, I was turned off by how much the area had become like KL's Central Market - kitsched up to thirteen with souvenir stands and overly kitted-out rickshaws, which blared music and had spinning or flashing lights. Now, the rickshaws have themes: Captain America, Avengers, Doraemon, and even the girls from Disney's Frozen.

Themed rickshaws (not at the Dutch Square)

Remembering something, I asked The Ladies to wait at a huge corner shop - more like an emporium - after we crossed the bridge over the Melaka River. I hurried to the Dutch Square, encountering a mime in green clothes and full-body make-up on the way and, at the Square itself, a pair of buskers: a young guitar player and a much younger girl who was belting out popular hits. Shouldn't there be a minimum age limit for street performers?

Back in 2007, I had peered into a cannon near the clock tower and saw it had been "repurposed" as a garbage can. Lacking a camera of my own, I'd asked Melody to help me take a picture of the inside. This will go viral, I thought at the time.

The photo vanished, a victim of Melody's overzealous digital housekeeping.

This time, I had my own camera. And smartphones were more ubiquitous now.

CLICK

Signs of people messing around with Melaka

Looks like they done cleaned up the cannon, but seems sum varmints still wanna mess with Melaka.

Returning to the emporium, I looked around for The Ladies, but they were nowhere. I whipped out the phone and WhatsApped them. By now I was already accustomed to this gadget and what it offered - near total connectivity to everyone else who's similarly wired.

Then, I spotted Sam, who waved me over to where Wendy was. We soon headed back towards the hotel to meet up with Melody and reported our morning's findings.

In our absence, Ms Freelancer had charmed who she said was the hotel's cook into a conversation. He even put up an extension cord for her laptop as she worked in the dining area and offered to buy her lunch.

I can see why the hotel's sales manager that night was cautious around Melody. Unlike the cook, he probably had some experience with her ilk. Probably from how writers and journalists ask questions. Her good looks might have helped, too.

---

We showed Melody the murals, plus some of the other sights after that. Sam finally took a photo of me on the bench in front of the drooling devil bull, but left before I suggested posing in the "hey, what's that smell is that rain OMG OMG OMG DROOLING DEVIL BULL AAAAH GET IT AWAY GET IT AWAY CALL THE POLICE" manner. I did a lot better with a similar parade of drawings in Penang's 3D Museum two years ago.

"...It's behind me, right?" (Photo by Sam Fong.)

Later, Melody suggested having lunch at some place visited by a blogger I referred to as "a violet-haired witch". We found it easily enough, thanks in part to the Internet.

From the outside, you can't tell what kind of place the Calanthe Art Café is - not without the letters on the shopfront that spelled "Malaysia - 13 States Coffee". As part of her research, Melody stalked the violet-haired witch's blog, leading us to follow part of the latter's Melakan food trail on this trip.

Presumably named for a group of terrestrial orchids (editing manuscripts on botany helped), parts of the café's interior is reminiscent of what I'd dub "desert island" chic: overhanging vines and plants, recycled wood, creepers and such.

A pile of junk was heaped in a corner, including an antique TV from Sharp (I was only yeay-high when I watched it, OMG!) turned fish tank, assorted enamelled steel kitchenware, and an old painting of some bloke. Nearby was a fish pond and an old well ("my grandma's shower", said Sam).

Outside Calanthe Art Café

Melody chose the most out-of-the-way nook in the café that made me glad I packed mosquito repellent. A walkway of planks over mostly white rounded stones led to it. G*d, would the waiters even know we're here?

From the length of our waiting time, it seemed they didn't - for a while.

Like Chawan in KL, Calanthe offered a choice of coffee from all the states in Malaysia. The girls ribbed me over ordering "Penang coffee": "We're in Melaka, drink the local stuff!"

Maybe I was homesick, or just having a taste of how Melakans do Penang coffee. Anyway, since all three beverages (including the two "Melakas") were on ice, they weren't all that appealing. Ice waters everything down.

The food was more satisfying. My "golden" nasi lemak was particularly wonderful, as was the chicken rendang served with it. Wendy sort of regretted picking the tom yam noodles, which she felt was bland in taste and presentation. And is it common to have celery in tom yam?

Melody took her cue from the blogger and was soon writing micro-paeans to the Nyonya curry laksa. Rich and spicy, the chilli and coconut-milk gravy was elevated with a dollop of what we think was ground Vietnamese mint. The pungent, earthy herb lent a dimension to the laksa we had no words for-

Golden nasi lemak, because plain white just won't do at a historical city

"I'd come back for this," said Melody.

Yes, the exact words! Thank you, Mel.

But then, came the dessert. I'd only heard of kuih batik for the first time, despite it being around for ages (I was told). This sinfully decadent local fudge-like brownie is an unbaked mélange of crumbled Marie biscuit, sweetened condensed milk and Milo - household items in the average Malaysian (or, maybe even Malayan) kitchen and synonymous with "comfort food".

Which might explain the sugar-high plateau we'd ended up in.

I'd come back for this. After about a year on the exercise bike.

"I can make this," said Melody the recipe thief. At my look of reproach she went, "C'mon, it's easy!"

"Sweetened condensed milk, not creamer," I told her. By the way, anybody notice that most of the "sweetened condensed milk" brands out there call the products "sweetened creamer" these days? Why is that? Could it be that there's little of what one might call "milk" in them?

The nyonya curry laksawas great, but I never figured out whether
the herb paste that made it better was normal or Vietnamese mint

"I'm more interested in the curry laksa," said Sam, reminding me of my wish to get a pestle and mortar. I shared this, perhaps unwisely.

Sam turned to me at once. "If I get you a pestle and mortar, you learn how to make this." She pointed at what was now a bowl half-filled with laksa gravy. "Deal."

Hey, wait, don't I have a say?

We left Calanthe and wound up back at East and West Rendezvous, where Melody also purchased some dumplings. She and I shared one later, and it was delicious. But I still held back on buying my own.

Wandering around, the afternoon heat eventually got to us. We escaped into the same food emporium, the large one that sold more "local" goods. This one stocked items from local brand San Shu Gong - literally, "Old Third Uncle" - which I knew for its bird's-eye chilli sauce. Nothing quite like Nando's, unfortunately. In a chiller and huge buckets of ice, bottles of iced coffee and honey-lime drinks.

Again, I bought nothing. The lines at the cashier counters put me off.

Kuih batik - who needs fudge?

Leaving San Shu Gong, I found the girls inside an Ochado outlet on the opposite side of the road, seeking refuge from the heat. A few minutes later, we left for the hotel, but not before picking up something.

In Melaka, there's always a famous "something you gotta try". We were not sure if this was a famous putu piring stall, but we were curious, peckish, or both. The stall appeared to be manned by migrant workers. Making this dessert, said to be a Malay take on the Indian putu mayam (string-hoppers), is hard work and requires special equipment, so we got a batch of five or six. We were ashamed to order less.

We watched the staff sandwich a filling of, yes, gula Melaka between scoops of rice flour in funnel-shaped moulds and cover them, allowing the steam from the boiling water below to cook the contents.

Getting the right consistency for the flour is tricky: too much water makes it goopy and too little leaves you with something dry. The flour has got to crumble the right way. Much later, I wondered if the consistency had something to do with the way the batter is treated, like the idli served in Indian restaurants.

Not the "famous" putu piring, but still nice

Back at the hotel, the crumbly, white rice-flour cakes proved a welcome pre-lunch treat. Melody approved. What else can you say when the flour bits disintegrate and do that soul-soothing carb-rich medley with that familiar scent and sweetness flooding your mouth? Shut up, trilled the putu piring, and enjoy.

A drink helps, as the flour can leave your mouth and throat a bit parched.

If you encountered this page by chance, I suggest starting at Part 1, followed by part 2, part 3 and part 4. Read part 6 here.

Idli-ng Away At An Indian Kitchen In Bangsar

first published in The Malay Mail Online, 01 August 2016


I was one of many who skipped the balik kampung exodus during Raya — wisely, as it turned out.

But where to go?

A couple of friends of a friend, Sam and Wendy, volunteered the Idli Only Café in Bangsar. Having recently binged on a series of YouTube cooking videos by a Hyderabadi chef, I was intrigued. And can a café only sell idli to get by?

Not really.

At the Idli Only Café and Indian Kitchen, you'll find much more
than steamed rice cakes.

Turns out the Idli Only Café shares the same space as a restaurant called the Indian Kitchen. Once inside, however, there's no distinction, other than the two sets of menus patrons get when they take a seat.

The idli is a little steamed cake made of fermented black gram and rice; the fermentation, according to online sources, breaks down the starches and makes them easier for the body to process. Idlis look a little like putu piring, sans filling.

Idlis are traditionally eaten in South Indian households for breakfast, though that's not a firm rule. They lack a distinct taste, so they must be eaten with chutneys, sambars, stews or the like.

Sam, who's become a fitness freak after spending a year transforming herself, is naturally wary of carb-heavy meals. She also proclaimed that she's not a fan of idlis.

The marvellous butter podi idlis: good on
their own, even better with chutneys.

Nevertheless, she came along because she'd spied this place while out to lunch at another place and decided to try it.

We had a tough time selecting dishes from the menus. I recognised many of the terms but not what all of them meant (should've paid more attention to the videos). Still, what a joy to behold. Everything you'd want for an introduction to Indian cuisine was available.

For me, the only major blip in the otherwise heavy and luscious lunch was the mutton rogan josh. The sauce for this Kashmiri specialty had a slightly bitter note that discouraged me from taking too much of it.

A pity — the meat was succulent and tender. Wendy had ordered it at the advice of the waiter because she wanted something with sauce. Well, kabhi khushi kabhie gham...

But we loved the butter chicken and the mutter paneer: Indian cottage cheese and peas in a tomato-based gravy. The butter chicken's buttery, silky and mildly spicy gravy was such a hit, I wished there was more of it to eat with the breads.

Garlic naan, tandoori paratha and butter chicken.

Not bad for a dish that was said to have been invented to make use of some leftover chicken tandoori. The tandoori paratha the ladies had ordered had more charring than I'd expected, but nothing an extra dab of gravy couldn't fix.

Wendy had also ordered a three-piece idli set with a spicy red chutney, a sambar and some coconut chutney, so we could each sample one. That was what we came here for, after all. After the first bite, though, we wanted more because the butter podi idlis were butter-fried spice-encrusted marvels that were good enough on their own.

A podi is a spice mix that's also eaten with idlis; one famous type is milaga podi, which is referred to as "gun powder." But, in this case, the idlis were coated with a podi (didn't ask for the name) and fried in butter. Sam loved them, and Wendy even more so.
"I'll come back for this," said Wendy.

So would I.

Then, Sam passed around her glass of lime and mint and everybody wanted seconds of that, too. Sweet, tangy and refreshing, it was just what we needed after a rich and heavy meal. No longer used to feasts of carbs, Sam was the first to slip into a post-meal torpor.

The rest of us joined her not long afterwards.

My gaze wandered from the dining room to the medley of Bollywood song-and-dance numbers on the screen, some of which featured Datuk Shah Rukh Khan. My senses and mind were already worn out by the culinary equivalent of an SRK/Kajol number, which is why this account has to stop here.

Just drop by, and let the food speak for itself.

---

Idli Only Café & Indian Kitchen

64, Jalan Maarof, Bangsar Baru
59100 Kuala Lumpur

Daily, 8am-8pm

+603-2284-0522

Messing Around In Melaka, Part 4

Back at Heeren Street, disaster struck. Melody came down with a pounding headache and I was dispatched to a nearby 7-Eleven to get a strip of Panadol.

Fresh from The Shore, we returned to the Jonker neighbourhood and took a coffee break at Backlane Coffee, another hipster café, to wrap up the day. The ambience and décor made us café rats feel at home and we quickly settled in. It was also near our hotel.

Backlane Coffee - this might be the back entrance; another
doorway opens to a real back lane

After ordering, Wendy paid up. Earlier, we had pooled an equal amount of money for food and drink for our stay and left Wendy with the purse. Among Backlane's signature items was a drink where you poured milk over frozen owl-shaped coffee cubes in a glass.

Melody's malaise was apparently due to the late nights she'd been keeping, along with the stress of dealing with debtors in her freelance gig. She'd been agonising over one client who'd been late with a hefty payment, but she didn't want to sound pushy while chasing it.

Properly caffeinated, Sam gave Melody some advice and taught her a few lines in Cantonese, though I felt the words had a similar impact in Malay. I think it was along the lines of:

Tauke, lu tak cantik la macam ni. Bukan saja lu cari makan, saya pun mau cari makan.
(Boss, you ain't bein' pretty. You're not the only one scrapin' by here. I'm also tryin' a make a livin'.)

Saya punya kerja lagi susah. Tauke dah hutang berapa bulan belum bayar lagi. Saya banyak buat kerja sama lu. Ni macam tak cantik, tauke.
(I got it rough too, y'know. You been owin' me for months, and I done lotsa work for you. This ain't pretty, boss.)

I'm sure Sam must've used these lines before; they were too polished to be "new". Her gig involves lots of money, tough customers and tougher bean counters.

We laughed quite a bit, which is always pretty. Melody sounded a little better; I think she had half a mind to hire Sam part-time as a debt collector. And "Lu tak cantik/You ain't pretty" became our catchphrase and, later, our hashtag.

Owl be chillin' at a cool backlane coffee place, yo (photo by Wendy Lok)

Guess you could say our evening at Backlane Coffee was a real hoot.

---

30 December 2015...

I was left with The Ladies the next day. Melody chose to stay behind to do some work for a client or two. She seemed to feel better, and Sam's cantik pep talk might have given her freelancer's spirit a huge booster shot.

To my surprise, everyone liked the hotel's breakfast buffet. Something to do with the neighbourhood, I suppose, where every other shop is considered part of the area's cottage industries and everything was still prepared and overseen by locals.

We made our way to Jonker Walk, which Sam and Wendy were hankering to explore. In addition, Melody gave us an errand: find the alley where some 3D murals are.

The morning was pleasant. A few shops were open or in the midst of opening. Outside a closed shoplot, a large tray of barley grains were being sunned, suspended on an upturned plastic chair. I haven't seen much of that for a long time.

The Ladies spent a good part of the morning at Simpson Wong's Top-spinning Academy at 79 Jalan Tokong. At this institution (it's on TripAdvisor and Lonely Planet), patrons are guaranteed mastery of top-spinning in two minutes by Wong, who also sold tops and assorted bric-a-brac.

Perhaps sensing my less-than-enthusiasm for the sport, my tennis elbow made itself known after lurking in the background for a while. Sam and Wendy took to it like ducks to water.

Simply put, the keys to top-spinning lay "in the wrist" and how the string is wound. The string must be wound tight around the spike and firmly around the rest of the lathed wooden body. One length of string is wound around the thumb. The whole thing is then thrown in a downward angle, launching the top.

Top-spinning class in session (photo by Wendy Lok)

Well, that's as best as I can describe it. Worried about my elbow, mosquitoes and the impending warm weather, I didn't pay close attention.

Having spun tops before, Sam picked things up quickly, making several successful attempts. She also shot a video of Wendy's learning process. It took Wendy a little longer.

We passed by many other shops en route towards the murals. Staff at a biscuit shop were pulling out trays of freshly baked biscuits for the day. By "biscuit", I mean Chinese pastries of all sorts, without or with fillings of sweet mung bean powder, molasses, lotus seed paste or some savoury stuff which might have been pork or anchovy sambal.

A dodol workshop made the local version of taffy the old-fashioned way, with a huge wok and wooden stirrer. Sam and Wendy sampled some. Later on, Sam purchased a bamboo steaming tray from a rattan-goods shop. At the shop opposite, a tinkerer finished up a metal utensil he was making. I bought nothing, since I hadn't drawn up a shopping list.

Even with the influx of tourists and out-of-towners like ourselves, I began wondering whether these businesses can survive. The first time I dropped by as an adult, I gawked at scenes from my childhood I'd thought I'd never see for real again.

Many of these sights in Penang have vanished or retreated into quiet, ever-shrinking enclaves, preserved by necessity and the tenacity of the locals, with help from the state government. Having these around was comforting, letting me pretend I hadn't aged much since I last encountered them.

Not sure if this is the real Aik Cheong shop. It was almost mid-morning
and it's still closed. Few shops around Jonker Walk opened before 10am,
probably waiting for the crowds. Or maybe it was their rest day.

We left the shops and drifted towards the more historical part of the quarter. Along Jalan Tokong (formerly Harmony Street), we strolled past the trio of holy places: the Cheng Hoon Teng (Azure Cloud Pavilion) Temple, the Kampung Kling Mosque and the Sri Poyyatha Vinayagar Moorthi Temple, all of which were at least two centuries old.

Despite the irritating smoke from burning joss sticks, I felt wistful over how harmonious things might've been, compared to today. What would those uptight weirdos upset over places of worship think of these temples sitting side by side on this tiny road?

Who knows why we took that turn at a junction into Jalan Hang Kasturi, but shortly after that, we found what Melody asked us to look out for in an alley to our right. A huge stone-encrusted concrete bollard stood in the middle of the entrance.

In the age of social media, these "3D paintings" provided photo opportunities for the Instagram-crazy. One interacted with these images: "holding" a rose while "wooing" a local maiden (no risk of angering her machete-swinging father), "handing" an Indian moneylender his dues, "painting" a Nyonya lady's windowsill, "shaking" the hand of an orangutan, or looking up in fear at a rearing, salivating bull.

Outside East and West Rendezvous, where Nyonya goodies are sold

Of course we took photos. Melody might need photographic evidence of our find.

We also managed to reach the mausoleum of Hang Jebat via an alleyway between a row of shops, around the orangutan mural. I enjoyed poking fun at the poorly written text on one of the signs, despite a notice saying that it was being "fixed".

(Whoever it is, you're taking too long. I was so annoyed I was willing to do it for free.)

Hang Jebat was one of ancient Melaka's famous five caballeros, who included the famous and loyal Hang Tuah. When Tuah was framed by jealous officials and wrongly sentenced, Jebat went on a vengeful rampage for his said-to-be-dead buddy.

Tragically, Tuah - who was revealed to be alive - had to kill Jebat for the kingdom's sake, establishing himself as a role model who put king and kingdom first. Lately, some are holding up Jebat as a symbol of rebellion against a cruel and unjust government - bros before bosses and all that.

As the day wore on, the heat crept up. Past 11am, we reached another shop with another weird name: East and West Rendezvous at 60, Lorong Hang Jebat. Besides serving cendol, it also stocked some of the usual "local" Melakan goodies in what used to be an old house's hall, big enough to fit a cendol "stall" - a stationary cendol station, really.

This morning, we'd walked in on the staff and lady boss stuffing bamboo-leaf pockets with white and blue glutinous rice and savoury fillings.

Zongzi! sang our hearts. We'd found a place where Nyonya rice dumplings, another Melakan Nyonya staple, were made and sold.

Zongzi (glutinous rice dumplings) being wrapped before steaming, at
East and West Rendezvous

I don't know why part of the rice is stained with the juice from the blue peaflower - it's not the morning glory, a different plant - but it made for a nice colour contrast. The filling looked savoury, probably minced pork stir-fried in soya sauce.

Sam and Wendy wanted a load of dumplings, some for their friends and relatives. We - or, at least, Sam and Wendy - were assured that, even without refrigeration, each zongzi can stay fresh for up to 48 hours. I wasn't convinced.

But there weren't enough dumplings on hand for their order and the lady boss said the dumplings might take a while - fifteen minutes, maybe? So Wendy and Sam confirmed how many they wanted and we went elsewhere to wait.

We ended up at Bikini Toppings, a quirky café nearby whose main offerings were coconut-based. Every other item is a Bikini-something: Bikini Ice Cream (ice cream with coconut), Bikini Shake (ice-blended coconut water and flesh with choice of ice cream), Bikini Jelly (jellied coconut water in the shell), Bikini Wrap (didn't ask) and Bikini Spaghetti (ditto). "Bikini Juice" was plain old coconut water.

Aren't there better ways to engage customers than having them decipher cryptic menu items?

At least we enjoyed what we got. My coconut shake wasn't as legendary as the stuff from Pantai Klebang (which we planned for but couldn't reach), but it was still good.

They even had a "bikini" T-shirt. You know, the one that makes you look like a broad when you wear it. We thought it would make a nice present for Melody, who's fond of such kitsch. But we thought the better of it after some half-hearted wrangling - what if the "bikini" is the wrong colour?

"Oh, there he goes again!" Sam exclaimed as I returned the used utensils to the counter - a little thank-you to the shop and the city that made our holiday so pleasant. "Again", because I'd nurtured this habit back ... way before meeting The Ladies, I think. And it depends on the shop.

Sam's "Bikini Jelly" - just coconut jelly in the shell, really. A welcome
respite from the mid-day heat at Bikini Toppings (photo by Sam Fong).

Amused, the lady boss recalled a similar story about a kid who came with his parents and started helping out at the shop, just to bask in the smiles and attention he was getting. "When it was time to go," she concluded, "the boy cried and said he didn't want to leave!"

High five, kid.

Nyonya dumplings finally in hand, we made our way back to the hotel. Lunchtime loomed, but we held out until we got back to fetch Melody.

If you encountered this page by chance, I suggest starting at Part 1, followed by part 2 and part 3. Read part 5 here.

Messing Around In Melaka, Part 3

"Pictures are for illustrative purposes only."

Like a talisman, this disclaimer is used by many F&B establishments to disavow responsibility for discrepancies in what they serve - food, drink, rooms, and so on between what is depicted in promotional materials and reality.

Online, the photos of the rooms in the Swiss Heritage Boutique Hotel were pretty. They were, after all, the only things many had to go on when selecting accommodation besides TripAdvisor reviews, not all of which were glowing.

Back at our rooms at the Swiss Heritage - which was Swiss only in name and, perhaps, Christmas decorations - after our mid-afternoon walk around the Jonker Walk area, some of those TripAdvisor brickbats were confirmed.

Part of the waiting lounge at the Swiss Heritage Boutique Hotel, with
some travellers' bags. Shouldn't just leave them around like that.

My room smelled musty, the air felt and smelt damp, and one wall sported a brown watermark - proofs of water seepage and poor ventilation. Windows opened to the next room's windows and a narrow air well of sorts. Inside, it's hard to tell whether it's night or day. Funny, considering how the original Straits Chinese architecture had features that maximised air flow and natural light.

One side of the bed creaked loudly, threatening to cave in under the weight of any enthusiastic bed-jumpers. A Pyrex panel on the bed head for covering the embedded fluorescent lamp had come loose.

Other than that, the place looked new. Recently renovated, we were told. I loved the showers (with rain shower option, yo), and the bathroom had a new working hair dryer, which I used to warm up when the air conditioning got too cold, which was often.

Then, there's the noise. The staff and neighbours tended to get loud on occasion, and at least one other building nearby was in the process of getting new again. Among us, Wendy was most perturbed by and most vocal about the din. By the time we went out for dinner, she was contemplating moving out.

I wasn't too concerned with the state of the rooms, though it felt too much like one of those polished and expensive studio apartments cropping up in the country. I lay in bed, nursing my disappointment over a bar of "artisanal" chocolate from a nearby chocolatier. Had I taken a closer look at the package, I would have left it alone.

Good chocolate imparts an intense, somewhat spicy, charred-earth smell and sandy mouthfeel that remains for a few minutes, indicating a substantial amount of cocoa solids. Bad chocolate has less cocoa solids, contained "vegetable oil" that comes from other non-cocoa veggies, and goes down like chocolate-flavoured candlewax.

At least there was dinner: the famous satay celup. Melody also convinced us to case at least one other hotel in the city, perhaps for future visits, either before or after eating.

Wendy's eyes glinted.

This evening, Sam drove. I would take the wheel the next evening as we were only four people, so it didn't make sense for both our cars to be out. With the clipped tones of Star Wars droid C-3PO directing us via Waze, we made our way to what Melody's acquaintance said was a satay celup institution.

Parking wasn't hard, nor was getting around. Scheduling the trip on weekdays was smart. The dinner, sadly, disappointed.

The satay celup was ... well ... underwhelming

I was expecting satay celup to be skewered meat dipped in chilli and peanut gravy - which is just satay. What I saw instead was skewers of assorted bits of raw and precooked food: prawns, cockles, squid, fishballs, meatballs, otak-otak and even broccoli florets, plus a boiling pot of satay gravy - set into a recess in the centre of the table - to dip them all in.

Here, satay celup was just steamboat. About as Melakan and exotic as chicken rice balls.

The air went out of my sails quickly as we settled down to eat. Comparisons were made with the notorious Sichuan hotpot. Looking at the roiling hellbroth of peanuts, chilli and oil in the centre, it was hard to disagree.

"In China, they tend to cook with a lot of oil," the well-travelled Sam recalled. "I lifted one side of a plate of half-eaten fried rice and-" the fingers of one hand mimed an explosion, "the oil pooled at the other end."

We made short work of our dinner and went on to find things that were more Melakan, like this fried oyster place within the vicinity, whose awesomeness ensured it would be constantly walled off by hordes of expectant diners. Again, we were guided there by the voice of that fussy protocol droid.

"You have arrived!" C-3PO eventually announced through Sam's smartphone. A few robotic bleeps from R2-D2 followed. "Oh my stars!" he exclaimed in reply. More bleeps. "It is you! It IS you! ... Uh, what a desolate place this is."

No kidding, 3PO.

The fried oyster place was closed.

For the next ten minutes or so, everyone else was Googling other alternative destinations on their phones. Melody, meanwhile, looked up the opening hours for the oyster place. Consternation filled the car as we discovered how much updating some of the sources needed.

"Closed on Tuesdays!" Melody finally wailed. Another search revealed more places that took Tuesdays off. We wondered if there was a conspiracy among the hot hawker stands to go on holiday on Tuesdays.

I could've kvetched about how we could have done all this research months before we got here, but I wanted to live, and it was too far for me to walk back to the hotel.

Melody suggested a change of pace by casing a hotel, so off we went after 3PO was given new coordinates.

Where a pleasant surprise awaited.

---

I put away my phone, giving up on taking more photos. Not that there was much to photograph up here anyway with my less-than-awesome gear.

"Queen" Melody's dais: one of the round sofas at the rooftop Sky
Garden lounge of the Swiss-Garden Hotel and Residences
Malacca (photo by Sam Fong)

The girls felt different. Melody posed, Cleopatra-like, on a large circular sofa for Sam, whose photo-taking skills ("Make me look hot!") and cameraphone (Apple, mah!) she admired.

Around us, the wind raged. I was convinced it would wrench our gadgets off our hands, sweep them away to the city below and brain an unlucky passenger or vehicle.

We were thirty floors up in an alfresco lounge, the Sky Garden, at the Swiss-Garden Hotel and Residences Malacca. Fierce gales greeted us when we scoped out the infinity pool, the family pools and the water recreation area and followed us up here - could've been our proximity to the ocean. The floor next to the infinity pool was wet and puddled - did the wind splash all that water out of the pool?

The hotel and apartments were attached to The Shore, a newish shopping mall situated in a piece of land surrounded by river. I was a bit sulky when the ladies decided to spend some time in this mall after checking out the hotel - weren't we supposed to get away from that?

However, at the elevator lobby, we met an older gentleman and what I thought was his assistant. A conversation was struck up, and Melody kept it going. Her curiosity about the current topic would arouse a similar interest among others, which tend to lead to unusual situations.

The nighttime view from the Sky Garden lounge (photo by Sam Fong)

When he learnt we were curious about the hotel, the gentleman introduced himself as the executive sales manager of that very hotel. "So you're gatecrashing?" he said, and we were all nods and "Yes."

Accustomed to antisocial behaviour in KL, we did not anticipate him personally showing us the pools and, later, the rooftop lounge and got one of the staff to "show us around" (read: stand there while we roamed, gawked at and photographed the place).

Of course, none of this happened without a little grilling on the way. "You're not planning on opening a hotel, are you?" he asked us at one point.

We were a little taken aback by that. Industrial espionage, here?

As if we could.

Eventually, Melody's line of questioning also raised a couple of flags. "Cut to the chase," said the manager when we took the elevator up. "What exactly are you looking for?" Understandable, since he could've been in trouble for showing us around if we had been the wrong type of guest.

Melody revealed her secret identity as a freelance writer with a pen in several publications' inkwells and explained that we were shopping for hotels in the city. I suspect she was emboldened by our success at "sneaking" into the E&O in Penang and being wowed by it. I reckoned a weekend at the E&O was something one would have to save up for.

The manager was more relaxed after that. We'd learnt how young the hotel was (just over a year old at the time of our visit), so not much was done to market it while the kinks were being ironed out. Once we arrived at the 30th floor, he and the assistant left us.

As far as rooftop lounges go, Sky Garden's décor was relatively modest compared to, say, that one in 1Utama. Big cushioned chairs, water features, a bar, wooden footpaths and more, surrounded by colour-changing lights. But it was open to the elements - too much, if you ask me - and what a view.

Then, my fear of heights kicked in and made my hands tremble and sweat. I put away the phone, not trusting myself to keep a firm grip on it. The ladies, however, had a ball.

Part of the Sky Garden rooftop lounge (photo by Sam Fong)

Coming down from the high, we gathered at the lobby. We still could not believe our luck. The rooftop visit was more than we'd bargained for. Then, we learnt how much each room cost per night.

We had to restrain Wendy, who was ready to move her luggage from the other "Swiss" place we were staying in.

We could empathise. For just a few ringgit more, we'd have a pool, gym, rooftop view, swankier surroundings and no noisy neighbours or construction cacophony. But that would also mean forfeiting what we paid for our original accommodations. And we were already a day into our sojourn in Melaka.

It wasn't worth the trouble. We'd anticipated being unable to see or experience everything in this city, so we made a point to return and stay here - provided the prices didn't rise too much by then.

Witn that, we browsed around in the mall, which had an aquarium and two food courts, one for Chinese cuisine. I went along; the Sky Garden visit made me amenable to following the girls around. They posed with life-sized figures from Snoopy and window-shopped. We continued to make plans for Melaka Part 2 on the way to the parking lot.

Incidentally, Swiss-Garden Hotel and Residences Malacca hosted the contestants of Miss World Tourism 2015/16, who were here, I think, for the finals that Thailand couldn't host for some reason. Memories of Melaka still fresh in my mind, I was incensed by the noise some groups were making about the event "promoting" vice and whatnot.

Their "concerns" and shallow notions of piety paled in comparison to the hospitality and generosity (and, perhaps, courage) the manager and his assistant showed to four clueless chumps from KL.

Don't mess with Melaka, yo.

Some random passer-by pointing at a now-famous slogan - with
his forefinger, naturally (photo by Sam Fong)

If you encountered this page by chance, I suggest starting at Part 1, followed by part 2. Part 4 is here.

Raya Weekend Cooking: Pasta From Scratch

I've talked about pasta dishes so much I doubt anyone wants another pasta story from me. But bear with me, this one is different because...

A wild ball of pasta dough appears! How will it turn out after
some kneading, resting, cutting and boiling?

A couple of recipe videos managed to convince me that it was easy to make your own pasta and that it tastes better than store-bought. Knead an egg and 100g of flour into a ball of dough, flatten it out, cut it into rustic pasta strands, boil, season and enjoy.

What the videos didn't mention was how HARD it is to knead the dough to the right consistency, and that you need to rest it for maybe one hour, not half. I had to rest the dough twice, adding a little water to knead before wrapping it up in cling film.

From dough to bowl, the process took a whole afternoon, and I did chores afterwards. My arms were feeling it for a while. I can see why Italians of yore went "Meh, I'll just toss this with some olive oil and cheese" after making a batch of this. A good idea, though.

Getting the flour into a dough didn't take long but, my, how the dough STICKS. I would knead it again after a failed attempt to roll it flat, then stored half in the freezer, in case 100g was too much for me (it wasn't). The resulting portion was snack-sized and it was almost 5pm when I tucked in.

When I finally arrived at this stage, my heart did belly-flops.
Watching DIY pasta come together in real life is incredible.

As you go along, it's easy to get lost in the kneading, especially if you have issues to work out. At some point, you might even feel it's ... fun.

Three rounds of kneading and a bit of rolling and ... can it be? Is it ... ready? Yes, it is! The strands were ragged and unevenly rolled but they were ready. This is technically a bunch of Chinese egg noodles, since I didn't use durum wheat semolina.

I remember dining at a place in Penang called Cozy in the Rocket, where I saw the chef make pasta from scratch and was mind-blown. I'm still not close to that level, but this still feels like an accomplishment.

Yes, once cooked they looked and tasted like pan mee. The strands almost doubled in width and thickness in the boiling salted water, but took half as long to cook as store-bought linguine. Tastes better too, but I think that's because it was seasoned with Blood, Sweat and Tears and that special ingredient: Personal Satisfaction.

Actually it's just olive oil, a clove of garlic (grated), powdered
Parmesan, black pepper and a dash of mixed herbs. But it
tasted like satisfaction. Sweet, sweet satisfaction.

But this portion was still half of the dough I'd made. The other half's chilling in the freezer and probably not kneaded enough. I'll have to deal with it soon...


22/07/2016   I've since found out that this kind of pasta has a name: pasta all'uovo, or "egg pasta" (jidan mian in Chinese). Mais bien sûr.

I also came across this piece by someone who takes her pasta more seriously than me. That's a lot of dough she went through.

Full portion of pasta dough from 100g of flour, mostly rolled out.
Any flatter and it might stretch wider than the counter.

But after this batch, I determined that the dough had not been kneaded enough because I had not been tracking the time. So for the next batch, I stopped at intervals to check how long I'd been working on the dough.

The dough stretched better when rolled. Well, I did spend 25 minutes kneading it. I started sweating around the twentieth minute. Despite flouring the dough and the strands liberally, the pasta was still sticky and hard to unravel.

Same amount of flour and egg, yet I ended up with enough pasta
for two - or three people. What gives?

Ah, so there's supposed to be a drying period, like in this recipe? I'll explore that.

This time, I decided to cut up the whole portion into strands. However, I was puzzled at the amount I ended up with. Easily more than twice the amount of the previous batch - just enough for two hungry people.

Home-made pasta with home-made basil pesto

More than twice the portion, more than twice the satisfaction. But 25 minutes of kneading? Probably because I'm no Zangief.

Perhaps it's time I take up a workout regime. But I suspect I'd be working on another batch of pasta much sooner than picking up a pair of weights. It's much easier, and I get to eat my exercise equipment afterwards.