Chef Damian D’Silva Revives Traditional Pulut Tekan with Family Recipe

Singapore, Singapore Sep 5, 2022 ALN: Earlier this year, the Financial Times ran a story saying kaya was set to be the flavour sensation of 2022, based on how kaya toast is becoming a popular snack in the UK. This growing trend reflects a wider appreciation for Southeast Asian cuisine, particularly among younger generations who are increasingly interested in authentic and traditional flavors. Kaya, a sweet and fragrant coconut jam, is traditionally enjoyed in various forms across the region, and its rise in popularity in Western countries signals a shift in culinary tastes.

Chef Damian D’Silva’s late grandfather might have had something to say about that. As a prominent figure in the culinary landscape of Singapore, D’Silva embodies a deep respect for traditional cooking methods and recipes, often drawing on his heritage to inform his culinary practices. His grandfather, a significant influence on his culinary journey, held strong beliefs about food pairings and authenticity. “Granddad thought it sacrilegious to eat kaya with bread,” recalled the MasterChef Singapore judge, chef-owner of Rempapa restaurant, and advocate and custodian of Singapore’s heritage cuisine.

Instead, Granddad, who was prolific in the kitchen, enjoyed his own homemade kaya with warm rectangles of glutinous rice streaked with blue pea flower – a dish known to the Malays as pulut tekan, and to the Peranakans as pulut tai tai. This dish not only highlights the versatility of kaya but also serves as a reminder of the rich cultural heritage surrounding traditional Singaporean cuisine. The connection between food and culture is a recurring theme in D’Silva's work, as he strives to preserve and promote these culinary traditions.

“Pulut” refers, of course, to glutinous rice; but why “tekan”, which has its place in popular lingo as a slang word for bullying or punishment? The Malay word means to press or apply pressure, which is what you do to the glutinous rice to shape it in the preparation process, D’Silva, 66, explained. The Peranakans, on the other hand, named it for the people privileged enough to be served it: Tai tais or ladies of leisure. This duality in naming reflects the social dynamics of the time, where food was often associated with status and class.

“I prefer ‘tekan’,” D’Silva said. “It’s more me – a chef, working hard to get it to the right compressed texture.” This statement encapsulates the ethos of many chefs who prioritize authenticity and craftsmanship in their cooking. Unlike kueh salat, in which a custardy sort of kaya sits on top of glutinous rice, pulut tekan’s silky kaya is served in a bowl. The rice is dipped into the kaya and enjoyed freshly made, while it’s still warm. This method of serving not only enhances the sensory experience but also emphasizes the importance of freshness in traditional dishes.

D’Silva insists on making his kaya from scratch and cooking it over charcoal, the old-fashioned way. Store-bought and Thermomix versions just don’t cut it for him, said the chef, who still recalls how his grandfather used to cook up a huge batch of kaya to give away to friends, and he would help by stirring it for hours on end. This dedication to traditional methods reflects a broader movement among chefs and food enthusiasts who seek to revive and celebrate heritage recipes that are at risk of being lost.

A small batch requires three hours of manual stirring, he said, and a large batch could take up to six. This labor-intensive process is a testament to the skill and patience required in traditional cooking. The secret to good kaya is fresh eggs – he goes to the market for eggs on Tuesday mornings because they come in on Monday afternoons – fresh coconut, coarse sugar, and a stirring rhythm that’s neither too fast nor too slow – aggressive stirring will cause the sugar to caramelise. This meticulous attention to detail is what sets artisanal kaya apart from mass-produced versions.

To stir the pot, he uses a wand fashioned out of a stick or a pair of long chopsticks, wrapped with pandan leaves covered in a muslin cloth. You want a subtle pandan flavour to come through, but not overwhelm the eggy aroma, he explained. This technique showcases the importance of balancing flavors in traditional cooking, where each ingredient plays a crucial role in the final product. And, although you could use a gas fire, a charcoal fire yields a silkier texture that “wraps around your mouth.” This preference for charcoal cooking reflects a commitment to authenticity that many chefs strive for in their culinary practices.

Most importantly, infinite patience is required for this laborious task. “It’s not for every person. If you don't have patience, you shouldn't be doing kaya,” he said. This statement resonates with many culinary traditions worldwide, where the art of cooking often requires not just skill but also a deep appreciation for the time and effort involved. A bit of history for you: There are differing schools of thought about the origins of kaya.

“Most people think kaya is Hainanese, but I think it’s very much Malay,” D’Silva said, “because of the coconut.” He quipped, “I’m sure a Hainanese grandma would disagree!” This playful banter highlights the friendly rivalries that exist within culinary traditions, where different communities take pride in their unique interpretations of beloved dishes. He also cited the provenance of the word “kaya”: A colloquial form of the original serikaya. “‘Kaya’ means ‘rich’ in Malay.” Just think about the fact that “there isn’t a Hainanese name for kaya.” This observation adds another layer to the discussion of identity and heritage in food.

Interestingly, there is a Portuguese egg pudding with a long history called sericaia, which sounds very similar to serikaya. This connection underscores the historical interactions between cultures in the region, where culinary influences often cross borders and blend together. History researcher Khir Johari, in his book The Food Of Singapore Malays, writes that serikaya used to refer to a range of egg-based coconut cream confections in traditional Malay culture, making the case that it was eaten in Malay royal households when the Portuguese first came to the region in the 16th century – the 1620 manuscript Cerita Kutai makes mention of serikaya. The historical context of these dishes adds depth to our understanding of their significance in contemporary cuisine.

The Hainanese started making their version of kaya in the early 1900s, D’silva said, and he believes they adapted it from the Peranakans, who adapted it from the Malays. This lineage of culinary adaptation reflects a dynamic process of cultural exchange that has characterized the region's food history. What are the differences among the versions? “Peranakans cook it until it becomes almost custardy, then steam it for a very long time at a low heat. The Hainanese said, ‘Why don’t we put it over a bain-marie?’ And they add sugar only at the end – they caramelise it and then pour it in. So, the Hainanese kaya is brown; the Peranakan kaya is almost more green than brown. Malay kaya is brownish yellow.” These distinctions highlight the diversity within traditional recipes, where regional variations can lead to vastly different flavor profiles and textures.

So, eating kaya on toast with butter may have originated with the Hainanese, who worked in European households and adopted many elements of their cuisine – but traditionally, as D’Silva’s grandfather would assert, rice would have been the pairing of choice, a savoury-sweet and textural contrast to the richness of the kaya. This historical perspective emphasizes the importance of understanding the cultural context of food, as it informs how we appreciate and enjoy traditional dishes today.

Sadly, D’Silva says the last time he ate pulut tekan that wasn’t made by himself was when his grandfather used to make it. He hasn’t encountered any at shops or restaurants in Singapore. “It’s only available, I think, in someone’s home.” This scarcity is indicative of a broader trend where traditional dishes are becoming less common in the face of modern culinary practices. Why’s that? Well, it’s just too time-consuming and labour-intensive to make. “I think people don't have the time any more. Even if they do, there are better things they feel they want to do than spend four or five hours making kaya. It doesn't make sense,” he said. “I can go to the supermarket and I've got an array of different types, different styles, different brands of kaya I can buy.” This convenience often comes at the expense of authenticity, leading to a decline in traditional culinary practices.

Even at Rempapa, where you’ll find other almost-forgotten kuih such as kuih sarang semut or Ant’s Nest Cake, pulut tekan isn’t on the menu. D’Silva simply doesn’t feel he has the capacity to be faithful to the traditional recipe on a large scale. This challenge is faced by many chefs who wish to preserve traditional recipes while also meeting the demands of contemporary diners. But there’s good news for us kaya lovers. Starting end October, Rempapa plans to jar and sell kaya made the good, old-fashioned way. This initiative not only allows D’Silva to share his passion for traditional kaya but also serves as a bridge connecting the past with the present.

After all, kaya is the taste sensation of 2022 – and, well, since the 1600s, for that matter. As culinary trends continue to evolve, the revival of traditional dishes like pulut tekan and kaya represents a valuable opportunity to celebrate and preserve cultural heritage. In a world increasingly dominated by fast food and convenience, the dedication to traditional cooking methods exemplified by chefs like Damian D’Silva serves as a reminder of the importance of patience, skill, and respect for culinary history.