HOKKIEN MEE, PART I: THE BROTH

The hardest dishes to cook are not those that are the most technically challenging. Often times, they are the ones we have accrued strong memories of. An emotive connection to the dish renders a failure doubly disappointing, even when the end product deviates just a hair from the way we remember it to be.

Before leaving Singapore, I cooked my mother mee siam. It is her favourite dish and one she has made so often for dinner parties that they have become her signature. I was confident of cooking her a mee siam she would like. After all, I had gone to all that trouble to procure the freshest ingredients from the market and to simmer stock for hours, taking no shortcuts. 

As we gathered around the table, I watched as she picked the plate of noodles apart with her chopsticks, dissecting it with her mind. She insists that my mee siam is too jelat (rich). If the flavour of caramelized prawn shells and coconut milk gets too cloying, you will not be tempted to have a second bite, she says. "You need more assam (tamarind)."

My mother's finicky standards stem from her days as a schoolgirl. She recounts eating at different mee siam stalls, picking up the finer points of the iterations that she liked, combining them into a homemade version she could be proud of. The beansprouts have to retain their delicate crisp texture and one ought to stir loads of shallots into the noodles at the last minute. Time has to be invested to rub the prawns with baking soda to render them crunchy. There are so many elements that have to be just right to fit her memory and idea of a perfect mee siam.

Being discerning of the food I eat is a trait I inherited from my mother. Before leaving Singapore for Melbourne, I went around the island on a crazy local food binge, scouring our hawker centres for the best roti prata, the best chicken rice, the best rojak. At the end of those final months in Singapore, I came across some really impressive renditions of dishes I have eaten since my youth, some of which subverted notions and became new standards for what these national dishes ought to this (more on this in another post). 

What Wex and I really wanted to find but did not, though, was an outstanding plate of Hokkien mee. Perhaps our net was not cast wide enough, but the ones that we tasted, including the famous ones, were ultimately disappointing. Some had weak broths, others omitted the crunchy bits of lard, and many had a synthetic-tasting chilli. The whole experience made me question: Does a perfect plate of Hokkien mee truly exist? Was there really an superlatively amazing plate I have had in the past that has become the benchmark for every subsequent plate? Funnily the answer to the second question is: I don't remember. 

I never attempted Hokkien mee at home because I knew that both Wex and I had high expectations - if a plate made by a hawker who has dedicated his life to perfecting his craft cannot fully satisfy, how will we ever be content with a home-cooked version?

Hence, the decision to make Hokkien mee in our little Melbournian apartment was borne out of a necessity, to quell a craving and homesickness, rather than a desire to create a perfect rendition of the dish. 

The backbone of any good braised noodle dish lies in its stock. In this phase, the primary goal is to brown and caramelize the ingredients as deeply as possible before the addition of water. An omission of this step would lead to a stock that is anaemic is taste and appearance. With well-browned ingredients, the water instantly takes on a ruddy colour as soon as it is added to the wok. At the end of 5 hours of blipping and puttering on my stove, the stock bears an uncanny resemblance to milky teh tarik and our tiny home is suffused with the warm spicy scent of prawn and dried chillies - an extraordinarily vivid scent that, by some mysterious synergy, brings to mind home. 

Prawn and Pork Broth

I highly recommend making the lard and broth the day before serving Hokkien mee, as it takes a considerable amount time and effort. You can certainly use regular oil and skip the crispy cubes, but pork fat in Hokkien mee is a non-negotiable for me. Also, in my house, we buy whole heads of garlic - I use the fat easy-to-peel cloves for regular recipes and save the ones that are too tiny and fiddly to peel for stocks. 

For the lard 

1 tablespoon oil

200g pork fat, diced

For the broth

4 tablespoons rendered pork oil 

2 pork trotters

1 large onion, sliced 

1 head of unpeeled garlic 

5 dried red chillies

25g ikan bilis

1 teaspoons white peppercorns

Heads and shells of 1kg prawns

3L water

2 teaspoons salt

1 teaspoon Thai five spice powder

1 tablespoon fish sauce

One small knob of rock sugar 

Place the pork fat and oil in a wok over medium heat and heat until the pork fat releases a lot of oil and shrivels in size. Turn up the heat to high and allow the lard to crisp and develop a lovely golden brown colour. Pass the oil and the lard through a colander or large sieve set over a bowl and set aside to cool. (This recipe makes more lard than you need for the broth; serve the rest to make Hokkien mee). 

In the same wok set over high heat, add the rendered pork oil and lightly sear the pork trotters on all sides over high heat. Set aside. Add the onion, garlic, chillies, ikan bilis and white peppercorns to the wok. Stir-fry until the onions turn golden brown and the ingredients are lightly caramelized and almost crisp. Return everything to the wok or use a stockpot if your wok is not large enough. Add water, salt, five spice powder, fish sauce and rock sugar. Bring to a boil and lower the heat to a merry simmer. Cover the wok with a lid and simmer for 5 hours or until the pork trotters are beginning to disintegrate and the stock takes on a milky appearance. Taste and adjust the seasoning if necessary. Keep in mind to underseason if you are using this broth to make Hokkien mee, because the stock will be further reduced in the braising process.