KP in KL

I came up with the bright idea that while Ewan was still in town without Barry, his partner in crime, that it might be fun if we went to a Malaysian cooking class, since aside from Chicken Rice neither Paul nor I have really indulged too much in what we’ve heard is true Malay spicy goodness. I thought I might have to twist a few arms, but was delighted when I got a quick confirmation via email that both Paul and Ewan would be happy to test their knife skills in the kitchen.

Now to introduce two more characters in this story of Malaysian living, Paul works with Murray, who I think I may have mentioned before. His wife’s name is Ellen, who I’ve been having coffee with on occasion. Their story is a little confusing, but I’m going to attempt to get it right. They are from Australia originally, so I’ve heard that makes them called Kiwi’s, after the bird not the fruit I’m guessing. Murray and Ellen lived in the UK for the past 30 years or so, and were transferred to Singapore just about a year ago. Now they have been transferred to KL thankfully, because we really enjoy their company. Ellen had originally mentioned the cooking classes, so I jumped the gun a little getting all this together and we invited Ellen and Murray along as well. Murray took a little arm twisting, but in the end the five of us ended up signed up with nametags labeled and ready to go at the LaZat cooking classes.

None of us really knew what to expect from a Malaysian cooking class, especially after the incident at our neighbors with the little guppies in my rice, but it turned out the menu was online for us to see. Saturday’s menu consisted of Potato Samosas, Dhall Curry, Fried Mackerel, Tomato and Mint Salad, and Fruit and Nut pudding, so at least we knew we were making something with an Indian flair.

Murray volunteered to drive us, so we packed into the Asian version of the Civic with almost no idea of where to go. Murray handed Ewan a giant book of a map and told Ewan the general direction we would be going through several pages on the map, and we were off. This is where we realized that the funny thing about Malaysian road signs/maps/intersections/toll plazas and anything else that you might need to get somewhere without getting lost, is it seems that none of it makes sense. The street numbers are not in any particular order in the neighborhoods, the signs on the freeway are actually right above the exits instead of before, so by the time you realize you need to exit, it’s too late. The street signs and labels on the freeway are not on the maps either. As you can imagine this created a bit of a problem for Ewan the navigator, who has only been here a few weeks. He had no help from Paul and I who have never really needed to know where we were going since we’ve always relied on taxi’s, and Murray and Ellen said they get lost every time they attempt to go in the direction of this cooking school. So after a few U-turns and mostly cluelessness, we realized we were actually in the right place the whole time we just didn’t know it thanks to a gas station we saw that was actually labeled on the map. In the end of it all we made it to the LaZat cooking school in time to get started around 10:00.

The school is actually in a traditional Malaysian house, right in the middle of a neighborhood. We walked through the front yard to get there which had all sorts of herbs growing and a large curry leaf tree. It’s run by three Malaysian women who appeared to have been cooking these dishes for years. Two of them wore their traditional Malay outfit including the head scarves while they cooked. We were joined by six other people who were just in town to visit. We started of the morning with a light taste of mangosteen and another little fruit, along with some tortilla like stuff called Roti and two curry dipping sauces. The mangosteen was a very slimy fruit and there’s nothing that I can think to compare it to. All I know is I don’t care for it too much. I was about to eat my whole plate of Roti with curry sauce but it was taken away when I went back inside to get my camera. We were served very very sweet tea as we sat out on the patio waiting for the events of the day to begin.

We were called inside to start the classes and sat around the demonstration area with our aprons and nametags on and took notes on our small cookbook they gave us. The first item was the potato Samosa. I would say this is the closest thing to an empanada I’ve seen here. The difference is it’s stuffed with potatoes and peas and the dough is folded into a triangle instead of a half moon. It all seemed like a synch to me. After all, I’m a veteran in the kitchen so I thought. There was nothing to it. Little did I know my husband would show me up.

We each had our own cooking station that had one burner and the smallest little bronze pot you’ve ever seen to fry things in. My first mistake was I bumped the spoon that was sitting in the potatoes and pea mixture, so of course it flies behind me and potatoes and peas are all over the floor. That of course was no surprise to the two of us given my reputation for spilling, and especially spilling foods that stain when I’m wearing my sister’s clothes. Well, I got over that and was on to the next mistake. My pastry dough must have been dryer than the rest, because my triangles were cracking open and all the peas were rolling out. After fixing this issue, I realized that this little tiny burner we were given apparently heats up very fast. As soon as I threw the samosas in the oil they basically turned black instead of a nice golden color. All the while, my husband who has a daily habit of sitting on the couch while I slave away in the kitchen is chopping away very meticulously, making sure everything is just right.

I think he must have had some sort of grid placed over his food in his head with the precise engineering formula and strategy to make all the filling fit just perfectly in these perfectly formed triangles with perfectly pointy corners. He probably just whipped out the perfect boiling point of the oil we were using and calculated a few things to be sure these samosas would be picture perfect. Because they were. He very nicely and concernedly looked at my dark brown, bent cornered, halfway opened samosas that I had clearly failed at and asked, “What happened to the corners?” That’s when I decided it’s time to let Paul work in the kitchen a little more at home! I think he’s been playing dumb, or else surprised himself with his samosa victory too. Either way, I’m passing my torch of knives onto this guy whose engineering approach to things seems to make everything that he does a success, including cooking. I wonder what else I could get him to do for me? I bet he’d get perfect corners folded on the laundry as well!

I must have really made an impression on the head cooks because one came over to me after seeing all the mistakes I made and repeated herself three times telling me not to grab the hot pot of boiling oil with my bare hands. First of all, why would I do that, and why am I the only one she’s saying that to? I guess my pile of mistakes made me look inexperienced in the kitchen, thus making the cooks assume I was very young. She said to me, “It happens all the time! Teenagers like you forget and grab the pot and it’s just too hot!” So there you have it. I failed at my samosas and she thought I was a teenager. A wonderful start to the day of cooking. Later on the same woman gave me a hug when I said she needed to be patient with me, and I guess like it was some sort of conciliation she assured me, “But! You are very pretty!” According to her I guess I should rely on my looks instead of my cooking skills to get me through life. At that point it would have been nice to have a mimosa to go along with that samosa. I probably would have been carded for that request.

We took lessons and cooked until 2:00 in the afternoon, taking breaks to wash the chili pepper off our hands and step outside into the breeze. The house had only one a/c wall unit which doesn’t do a whole lot of good when there are 11 people frying food in one room. But, we managed, and most things went without a hitch, besides that Paul and I chopped up our red and green chili for one sauce and didn’t for the other sauce which was completely backwards. I think it turned out better that way though because the curry wasn’t as spicy as it should have been.

Afterwards we all sat down to eat our food which turned out pretty good actually. I think we were all impressed with ourselves, except for Ellen because she could probably teach the class with her eyes closed. The fried Mackerel was actually really good I think because it was drenched in so many spices they almost overtook the fish flavor. In the end, the cooking class was a success and we learned a few things. The most important thing I took from it is that Paul can cook! What was I thinking this whole time?

We got back into the car with plans to follow the directions backwards. Really any plan we had would have been the best one I guess because again we ended lost and turned around. We were trying to keep our eyes on the Petronas towers the whole time, but we never got any closer. After a detour through a museum area, up a hill with a very windey road which closely resembled the drive in Taipei from my first blog post, and an hour drive later, we got back home. After a day of cooking and quite a scenic drive, I think we were all ready for a nap.

That evening we all went over to Ellen and Murray’s place for a wonderfully western feast of a dinner Ellen cooked. After that I decided I am quite partial to western food over Malaysian.