The first time I cooked rendang I did not understand its tradition or complexity.
I stood before a large wok of coconut milk, spice paste and chunks of brisket in awe, watching Indonesian food writer Sri Owen prepare it, a Minangkabau woman who introduced the English-speaking world to Indonesian cookery.
Sri was 82 years old at the time and migrated to London 50 years prior from her birthplace in West Sumatra, Indonesia, following love to start a life with her late British husband.
That day she demonstrated the rendang technique she had learnt from her grandmother.
It marked the beginning of our long friendship forged through food, one of mentor and mentee with 48 years between us.
I longed to make sense of my own Indonesian identity
I migrated to London a few years prior, but feeling homesick and far from home, I longed to make sense of my own Indonesian identity.
Raised in Sydney by my Chinese-Indonesian father and Australian mother, the influence of my Timorese grandmother's cooking lingered long into adulthood, drawing me to Sri's kitchen and a lesson in rendang.
Typically considered a ceremonious food due to the expense of meat in Indonesia, rendang is reserved for honoured guests, eaten at weddings, special events and during Lebaran, the Indonesian name for Eid al-Fitr, marking the end of Ramadan.
Learning the art of making rendang
Sri and I cooked the rendang for three hours in her kitchen, where I learnt its three stages of cooking.
Never call rendang a dry curry, she told me, for it goes far beyond the traditional wet curry.
After an hour of simmering, the rendang enters its first phase as a gulai, a wet curry with a thin sauce.
An hour later, the oil split from the coconut milk, rising in bubbling pools to the surface reaching a stage called kalio, a delicious, thickened curry taken only two thirds of the way of rendang.
The third stage is when rendang become both noun and verb; the name of the dish and the cooking process. An abundance of split coconut oil fries and caramelises the remaining beef, producing a powerfully flavoured sediment and fragrant reddened oil that coats the tender chunks of beef — a technique that preserves it to survive the humid, tropical climate of Indonesia.
Sri's rendang lasts in the fridge for a week, but there are rumoured versions that last over a year without refrigeration.
Such legend speaks to the dish's 16th century origins as a preserved meal taken on long journeys by the Minangkabau, serving as a reminder of home.
Coconut and sambal
In 2020, I wrote an Indonesian cookbook called Coconut & Sambal. It acted as a gateway to explore, understand and celebrate my Indonesian heritage.
I spent half a year travelling across the archipelago in search of recipes from my family and generous locals who invited me into their kitchens.
Along the way, I was invited into the home of Pak Budi in the West Sumatran capital of Padang.
His family taught me about merandang, the philosophy of rendang: wisdom for when selecting ingredients, patience for its slow cooking and perseverance, as rendang must be stirred continuously or it may burn.
Robed in crimson batik was Pak Budi's mother, Grandma Erneti. Sitting cross-legged beside her on the kitchen floor was her sister, daughter-in-law and grandchildren.
Her brown, wrinkled hands intuitively prepared the bumbu, or spice paste.
A thumb-length of ginger and a fingertip of turmeric
Her recipe was committed to memory and the ingredients measured by feel, rather than precise instruction: a thumb-length of ginger, a fingertip of turmeric, a handful of chillies, alongside galangal, garlic, shallots and a pouch of ground cumin and coriander.
Beside her were aromatics in waiting: turmeric leaves, bruised lemongrass, makrut lime and salam leaves. Using the weight of her body, she ground a large, smooth stone against a flat stone basin, turning the ingredients to a paste in readiness for cooking.
The hum of motorbikes whizzed past as I stirred the large wok of rendang. The breeze from the open-air kitchen provided little respite from the heat as I inhaled the fragrance of the caramelised spice paste, my eyes watering from the cloud of steam and the burning sting of chilli.
Hours later the dish was ready to eat, slick with coconut oil and roughened shaggy edges where the residual sediment of the spice paste hugged the crisped beef.
Hundreds of years of history, passed down through generations, taking hours to cook and only moments to eat.
Wisdom, patience, perseverance
I still love to make rendang today for loved ones. And like the Minangkabau, I save it for special occasions.
The hours spent making it serves as a reminder of the wisdom, patience and perseverance of rendang's philosophy.
A dish that never fails to awaken memories of my grandmother, Sri and Pak Budi's proud family tradition whenever the taste of rendang dances on my tongue.
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