By: Remy Majangkim
KOTA KINABALU: In the early 2000s, life moved at a different rhythm. I was stationed in Kemaman—the quiet Terengganu town many fondly know as Chukai.
Back then, long before the era of mandated minimum wages, my world was structured around a modest salary of RM800 a month. It wasn’t wealth by any stretch of the imagination, but it was enough to fund a routine that became the definitive highlight of my time there.
Finding Chinese food in that part of the coast required a bit of local knowledge.
On the ragged edge of town stood a small, unassuming row of shophouses. They weren’t flashy, but they held a culinary secret that ruined all other curries for me: a dry-style pork curry, tossed violently with wild amounts of fragrant curry leaves and fierce bird’s eye chillies. It didn’t take long for my visits to transform from a casual discovery into a mandatory regular affair.
One evening, however, the routine took a turn into the surreal.
I was sitting at my usual table when a sudden, violent commotion erupted just outside the shop.
Shouting shattered the evening air, and within seconds, a massive fight broke out. It wasn’t a minor scuffle; tables were being thrown, glass crashed, and the air grew thick with immediate danger.
The chaos escalated so quickly that the shop’s cook scrambled out of the kitchen and onto the street, gripping a massive meat cleaver tightly in his hand.
Panic swept through the shop. Customers abandoned their meals mid-bite, knocking over plastic chairs as they fled for safety. Amidst the stampede, my food had just arrived—steaming hot, aromatic, and perfectly paired with a cold bottle of Carlsberg lager.
I looked at the chaos, then I looked down at my plate. The curry won.
As tables flew and factions clashed right outside the perimeter, I remained firmly seated. I poured my beer, picked up my spoon, and casually enjoyed my meal, entirely unbothered by the unfolding theater of war.
Perhaps they thought I was brave, or perhaps a person that should not be trifled with; in reality, I was just a man who refused to let flawless pork curry go cold.
My serene indifference in the middle of a riot completely shocked both the terrified shop owner and the brawling aggressors outside. Eventually, the adrenaline faded, the fight subsided into the night, and I calmly finished my dinner, paid my bill, and walked out.
That pork curry was simply divine, an untouchable standard etched into my palate.
Over the years, the memory of that dry, fiery dish followed me back home. I have spent a long time trying to replicate it, adapting it to satisfy our distinct Sabahan taste buds which crave a sharp, sour edge balanced against a heavy dose of fresh chillies.
Through trial and error, I found my own secret: infusing the dry curry with Asam Alui-Alui to give it that perfect, tongue-tingling tang, and slow-cooking the entire affair over an open wood stove.
Today, when the crackle of the firewood starts and the scent of wood smoke blends into the aroma of searing chillies and pork fat, I am instantly transported back to that little row of shops on the edge of Chukai.
It is a reminder of simpler days, wilder nights, and the timeless truth that truly spectacular food is always worth staying at the table for.
