Warung Doyong – Fried Village Chicken - Bogor, Indonesia

If you ever have the means to travel about an hour outside of Jakarta, to a locale called Bogor, you can find a placed called Warung Doyong on a dusty street corner.



Once there, you can see a crumbling shack, a beleaguered hut with Ruffle-like aluminum ceilings and concrete floors so filthy I’m loath to even look down. Old food bits, cobwebs, paint chips, and splotches of dirty water manage to pepper the ground on my quick glances downward. It’s hot, muggy, sticky, gross, pretty much the most despicable eating environment one could conceive of and you’ve arrived at the right place. There’s no sign. I doubt you will be able to find this place again, named quite literally as “the restaurant that’s half-about-to-crash-down-into-pieces” (I’m dead serious, that's the translation in Indonesian). Lining the entrance are a number of fresh fruits ready to be made into juices, which are necessary for taming down the palate from heat of the fiery green sambal included with the meal.

Ah, the meal. It’s not so much a meal but a religious travail of consummate proportions, like the struggle before sainthood is achieved (in the Catholic sense; note - I’m Protestant). Before we get to the food, a bit more on what Warung Doyong is like.



Whole families line the long, thin tables, sitting on colorful plastic stools that would crumble under any weight beyond 100 kg (I’m dangerously close, and a fellow like Mr. Jonathan Gold might not make it). I peer at the wall in front of me and notice proton-sized ants crawling slowly along a seam while my eye catches a lizard (or is it a gecko?) darting for a crevice. On the back wall, you can see the open kitchen, huge woks full of half-fried chicken pieces and ready for a final splash into hot oil. Warung Doyok specializes in “village chicken”, and more specifically, fried chicken pieces from young virgin chickens. These are selected for maximum purity of flavor. They only offer pristine chickens who’ve escaped the clutches of an impending rooster (the double-entendre is too obvious here).



The (US) Health Department could shut this operation down in about 8 seconds flat. I could imagine the scene if nefarious agents seized the cooks and chased out brave diners. But since that’s neither a possibility nor expectation at Warung Doyong, diners who are lucky enough to nab a seat shout their order to the waiters. Shouting is the only way to get your order in.



The first plates to come are of white rice, the necessary foil and primary flavor vehicle for our meal. Sides include large wedges of cold cucumber, fried chicken gizzards, and fried chunks of tofu. The raison d’etre of this establishment is the fried chicken, served on hulking platters and steaming from the hot oil. They’re seasoned with an incredible combination of spices, chilis, turmeric, shallot, ginger, and garlic (etc…who knows the real recipe) and topped with shredded coconut flakes. The meat is gangly and stringier than one might expect at your neighborhood KFC, but it’s still tender compared to other versions of village chicken I’ve had in Indonesia.



The flavor of the meat is superb and deep, not quite the confit-like renditions of “squish” village chicken I’ve had in Surabaya. Actually, the meat is succulent, savory, and just plain delicious. It’s a joy to eat with your fingers. In fact, fingers are the only utensil at Warung Doyong, where the white rice mixed with the flavorful coconut flakes and spicy sambal making an amazing complement to the chicken and tofu. Though I’m busy wiping my forehead from profuse sweat and cleaning my turmeric-tinted fingers, I’m having a blast, as is the rest of my table. I cool off the extreme spice of the sambal with a creamy, intensely-flavored mango smoothie and a cup of chilled water. They work as a fitting finish.

When a Man Loves Durian - Medan Durians in Jakarta

King of Fruits. Few things in the world claim and relish such titles. For Budweiser to consider their factory-made swill the King of Beers is both a travesty to the title and a dilution of its significance. The world of fruit is vast and varied, spanning every known culture and continent (with perhaps the exception of the icy South Pole's Antarctica). Very close to the belly line of the world lies the potential for the world's finest fruit, the bedazzling and intriguing spiky fellow whose odd rugby shape and interminable stench precedes its reputation.



Durian. Just the word itself conjures up thoughts of bliss or horror. A man approaching you with a gaggle of durians have you fooled as a flesh-dealing zombie or an epicure of the highest order.

Much like the way pain and pleasure are inevitably linked to human sensation, so the indelible aroma of a durian either delights or dismays the olfactory. And to complete the cycle, the incredible flavor of the durian straddles the far reaches of human comprehension with its mystifying complexity and guttural textures.

I say complex because once one tastes the flavor of a durian from the Indonesian province of Medan, then one begins to understand the true power of this fruit. Those of us in this part of the globe may have the unfortunate chance of tasting mere shadows of durian through its meager paste or perhaps in the form of a shake in a forlorn boba joint in San Gabriel. Maybe we've seen those packages of durian ice cream, dusted with a heavy dose of frost from months, or even years of neglect.



To even hint that these resemble the real McCoy is both completely off the mark and frankly, inferior. There is no equal to the perfectly ripe durian, carved by the able hands of a street sales man, and consumed with the greatest utensils the Lord created for such a task: your fingers.

While cruising the streets of Jakarta, we stumbled upon a good number of these durian carts, hawking the spiky oblongs for about $3 each, a princely sum considering the purchasing power of those tres dolares in Indonesia. I'd easily pay $13 for these durians in LA.

Pulling over on the busy street, we crawled out of our vehicle and huddled over the cart, illuminated by icy blue fluorescent bulbs. The interesting thing about these carts is that there is no discernible smell from the durians. It's nothing unpleasant, but rather a light fragrance. It serves only to whet the deepest throes of your appetite, much like the imaginary pheromones of an impending lover.

The first bite might either be glorious or heavenly or both. I'm handed a palm-sized orb of the light-yellow flesh, which covers a single ping-pong sized seed. In nature, these seeds are consumed in tandem to the Siren-like durian flesh, calling upon monkeys and other creatures to spread its posterity to far reaches (through unseemly methods we shall not discuss). For hedonists such as myself, the seeds call to be suckled upon, all the better to wrangle off every bit of the sweet, custardy flesh.



The flavor! It's ineffable, like the sweetest dream interrupted and forgetten by a rude awakening. I think of almonds, gently roasted and pureed. Also light honey, un-tart mangoes, avocado, maybe even passion. In these superior Medan durians, there is next to zero of the gasoline-like disgust that I encountered in my first durian experience.

If you ever have the chance to get Medan durians in Indonesia, your foodie life will be just a little bit more complete.

Making Korean Tacos in Indonesia, All From Scratch

In the food truck zeitgeist of 2009, if you mention the words "Korean taco", you generally won't be met with a set of curious eyes. I was surprised to see Chef Roy Choi, an acquaintance of mine, featured in this week's Time Magazine about the future prospects of the state of California. I'm not quite sure if Kogi BBQ and Chef Roy really encompasses the exuberance and willing-to-fail attitude that the article claims, but you still have to credit the man for following through with a dream.

To be honest, my friends and I have been making Korean tacos for years, many years before Chef Roy and the gang fired the Kogi BBQ truck's engine, but then again, ours were crude, makeshift creations while Kogi BBQ's are refined, well-thought, and excellently flavored. I prefer dining on these tacos and other Korean-Mexican fusions such as kimchi quesadillas and burritos at the Alibi Room, an obnoxious and overly-Asian/Westside bar in a blank stretch of Culver City. The bar affords one a decent seat, a draught of beer, and respite from a potential 2-hour wait at a roaming Kogi Trucks.

Javier and I happened to be the ethnic ingredients, in a sense, to make the ideal Korean taco. He, "The Mexican Food Prodigy" and heir-apparent to Sir Jonathan Gold's punk rock-inflected, ghetto-fab food writing. Me, well I'm just the dude that loves Korean food and doesn't mind tinkering with a few things to make it more interesting.

While in Surabaya, Mrs. Chandra, the extraordinary Indonesian cook, asked the two of us to make the family the celebrated Korean tacos.

Among the problems with making Korean tacos in Indonesia, we didn't have pre-marinated Korean meat, something one can easily find at their neighborhood Korean market. (Midwestern readers are probably scratching their heads). There's also the problem of tortillas, that underappreciated, easily acquired staple of Mexican cuisine. Both of these would have to made from scratch, using only ingredients available in this part of the Island of Java.

Fiona's mother was kind enough to provide us with the nuts and bolts. First I made the marinade for the galbi, traditionally short-rib meat but in this case a boneless cut that more resembled the meat in bulgogi. Thinly sliced, fairly low in fat or gristle, it made for a very grillable collection of meat. This cut of beef is certainly not inexpensive, so perhaps in your case you should purchase a cheaper cut like skirt, hangar, or flank steak. We marinated the meat for a healthy 5-6 hours though it's best to be kept in the fridge over night. In keeping with the Indonesian palate's proclivity toward sweeter foods (even in main dishes), I bumped up the sugar and honey content a bit.

Meanwhile, Javier worked tirelessly with Mrs. Chandra and two other housemaids to produce the tortillas. In my opinion, the best tortillas for tacos are of the corn variety, a bit grainy, nicely textured to successfully cradle the spoonfuls of meat, as well as any requisite sauces and toppings. Unfortunately, despite Indonesia's available supply of fresh corn, corn flour is a rare gem. Aside from a highly effective corn mill (not a common item in Indonesian or American kitchens), our only option was to pulverize corn meal (the larger, mite-sized chunks you'd use for polenta or grits) using a blade grinder. After sifting, we were able to make about 2 cups of corn flour, which is both hideously inadequate and functionally difficult for the quota of tacos we were to make. Javier opted to combine this corn flour with a bit of standard all-purpose wheat flour to make not only a thicker, more resilient tortilla, but also one whose quantity multiplied with the paucity of our corn flour.

Finally, Javier put together a makeshift chile salsa using fiery red Indonesia chile peppers. These need to be de-veined and seeded to prevent hyperventilation and possible coma-inducing spice attack. Combine the chiles with some quickly roasted (or in our case, toasted over hot pan) tomatoes, and you've got yourself a fine sauce for Korean tacos. Maybe Javier and I could start our own enterprise and franchise these puppies in every mall in Indonesia. Or not. This is tedious work and it's probably best left to someone who really has the desire to capitalize on it. Blessings to all that do attempt to do so.


Marinated Bulgogi

Serves 4 or makes 6-8 tacos. Recipe can be doubled or tripled easily.

2 pounds thinly sliced short rib meat

1/2 cup soy sauce
1/4 cup honey
1/2 cup diced onions or Asian pear

2 tablespoons white sugar
2 tablespoons freshly grated ginger
2 cloves minced garlic
2 tablespoons sesame oil
2 tablespoons mirin or rice wine vinegar (Asian rice wine vinegar)
1/2 teaspoon of salt and pepper
1 tablespoon of toasted sesame seeds (optional)
1 cup

1. Combine first three ingredients and blend until pureed, or if you don't have a food processor, mash or finely mince onions or Asian pear, and combine all marinade ingredients. Dilute the marinade with up to 1/2 cup of water, but make sure the flavor is still strong. Pour the marinade over the meat and mix together with your hands.

2. Let sit covered in a refrigerator for up to 12 hours, but at least 6 hours. Before cooking, drain off extra marinade. Cook over a cast iron skillet or coal fire (for best flavor).


Corn (and Wheat in times of Corn-Flour Famine) Tortillas (adapted from Rick Bayless' Authentic Mexican)

Makes 10 thick tortillas

1 Cups Corn Flour or Masa Harina
3/4 Cup All-Purpose Flour
2 Tablespoons of hot water

1. Add water to flours and knead until smooth. Let rest for 30 minutes.

2. Dust countertop or cutting board with flour and press out small balls of dough into 5 inch diameter tortillas. If the tortillas are not perfectly circular, it adds to the rustic flavor. Though tortillas you're used to are thin, something a bit thicker, make 1/8 inch thick could work.

3. Heat a cast iron griddle under medium heat and warm up tortillas until slightly browned and bubbly. The wheat element of the tortillas should give them some more body and heft while the corn flour element keeps the texture ideal.


Indonesian Chili Pepper Salsa

1 pound red chili peppers, de-seeded.
2 small tomatoes
salt and pepper to taste

1. Lightly grill chili peppers over a skillet over high heat. Remove when the skin starts to char. Remove and set aside.

2. Grill tomatoes over skillet until skins char. Throw both chilis and tomatoes into a blender and puree until smooth, adding up to 1/2 cup water to thin out it out. Add salt and pepper to taste. Add back seeds for additional heat. Salsa should be on the thicker side.



Korean lettuce salad

This salad is typical of what one might expect to go along with your Korean BBQ at a restaurant.

Serves 4, or more than enough for 8 tacos.

1 large head (or two smaller heads) green leaf lettuce, finely chopped.
1/2 cabbage head, shredded

2 tablespoons spicy Korean chili paste
1 tablespoon sesame oil
2 tablespoons mirin or Korean rice wine
1 teaspoon toasted sesame seeds
1/2 teaspoon red Korean chili flakes

1. Stir together dressing elements and dress over lettuce, mixing with hands.