3) I IS FOR IPOH

Between the hustle and bustle of Kuala Lumpur and the sunbather-strewn beaches of Penang lies Ipoh, one of the largest urban areas in Malaysia - and luckily still unravaged by the tourist hoards. Nestled in the Kinta valley, the city's tin mining glory days are over, yet there remains a vibrancy centred around community and food consumption.

For my family, eating is the central aspect of existance, and the days consist of many meals and whiling away the time between each of these feasts. It is impossible to avoid the topic, and when one is finishing breakfast, discussion begins on possibilities for lunch and even dinner, and/or meals in days to come. The number of hours that may/will elapse between the current meal being consumed and the one to come is also calculated and dissected, and the duration of the current meal is perhaps even lengthened.
"No food for at least, mhmm, 3 hours."
"No I think it is closer to three and a half, maybe even four! Order another plate of chicken rice just in case."

However, as my last foray into South East Asia consisted in a lot of bathroom time between each meal, for weeks on end, I began a strict regime by the book: no ice, no uncooked vegetables, no water that does not come from a bottle that I do not open myself, no fruit that needs washing, no fruit in a shell that I do not peel myself. (And no chilis, lah.)

The pomello, the sweet juicy fruit with flesh that ressembles grapefruit, but a taste that lacks the bitter back-bite has become my favourite. My Auntie hands me a plastic shopping bag for my lap, and I tear off chunks to stuff in my mouth as we drive about town.

Location comes a close second to what is being consumed. Chicken rice is served all across town, but there are certain places to frequent and certain to avoid. My favourite stall uses margarine in their rice.

There is a contraversy in town over the true flavour improvement of cooking satay chicken over charcoals or over a modern grill. I opt for charcoal-hands down! Many of the local breakfast 'joints' are the same ones my father frequented back in the late 40s and early 50s. My favourite satay man, who also served my father way back when, just retired this past year, his grill purchased by another local who will benefit from a customer-base decades in the making.