Insatiable

Passport & Plate - Balinese Satay Ayam

Indonesia | Wednesday, March 4, 2015 | 4 photos

Ingredients
Skewers:
500g chicken mince
2/3 cup finely grated coconut (fresh if possible, but desiccated will work in a pinch)
7 kaffir lime leaves, finely chopped
4 shallots
3 cloves of garlic, crushed
3-5 small red chillis (depending on heat and preference)
6 peanuts, ground
1-2tbspn grated fresh galangal
2 tbspns fresh tumeric OR 3 tspns tumeric powder.
1-2tbspns fresh grated ginger
1 stick lemongrass, grated
2 tspns fish sauce
2 tbspns palm sugar

Sauce:
125g lightly toasted peanuts (unsalted)
1-2 red chillis (depending on heat and preference)
2 cloves garlic, crushed
juice of 1-2 limes, depending on juiciness
a decent thumb of ginger, grated
a pinch of salt or a dash of soy
a dash of fish sauce

 

How to prepare this recipe
Satay skewers:
1. Make a spice paste by grinding up all of the ingredients, except for the chicken mince, coconut and 4 of the kaffir lime leaves.
2. Heat a frying pan and add the paste to the hot pan. At this stage, adding a bit of sesame oil to grease the pan can give a real aromatic lift
3. Leave the paste to one side to cool off, while you mix the chicken mince, coconut and remainder of the kaffir lime leaves in a big bowl. It is best to do this with your hands so you don't end up with big coconut lumps.
4. Add the paste to the chicken mince and combine.
5. Get a big tablespoon full of chicken mince and roll it into a ball. It is best to wet your hands before you do this- it is pretty sticky! Mould the ball around a skewer and set aside. The balls should be almost cylindrical – if you make them too fat, the centre doesn't cook properly.
6. This is the point where I usually make the sauce – that way, the skewers are fragrant and hot off the barbecue when they're served.
7. Heat up and oil a griddle pan or barbecue until piping hot.
8. Cook each skewer until charred and delicious.

Sauce:
1. Grind the chilli, garlic and peanuts in a mortar and pestle. You can use a blender, but part of what makes this sauce special is the gorgeous rustic texture, so be careful not to blitz it to a pulp!
2. Once the ingredients are ground (you may need to grind it in batches), add them to a preheated pan. I often use the same pan that I use to cook the spice paste, as the flavour residue adds some real depth. Add the ginger, fish sauce and soy/salt and stir.
3. Add in two cups of water. It will look really runny and loose, but don't worry, it will cook down. Simmer and stir until the sauce thickens and has a beautiful glossy sheen
4. Squeeze over the lime juice. Taste the sauce – you can add a little more soy, lime, ginger or chilli to balance the flavour.
5. Serve the sauce alongside your skewers. Enjoy with a frosty bottle of beer and your best mate.

 

The story behind this recipe
It was mid-morning and I had no idea what we had gotten ourselves into. Two women attended me, as though I was a princess in an ancient tale, weaving frangipani flowers into my hair as I watched a young man artfully painting the face of my beloved. What had begun as a romantic escapade had suddenly become thrillingly real. It was an auspicious day – the roadside swelled with handwoven offerings and floats. How extraordinarily humbling that the priest, whose language we did not even speak fluently, should choose this as our wedding day!

Almost in a trance, we walked to the shrine, a beautiful building that opened onto a vista of rice fields and a glistening pool, smelling of the meditative swoon of incense and the fragrance of frangipani trees. The priest smiled as we entered, as mysterious and beneficent as ever. The sacrifices were made: five unfortunate chickens and a collection of fruit and cakes, all of which we were under a sacred duty to devour afterwards! Through instinct, we followed him through the rituals; an intricate dance we had never learned, guided by words in a language we did not understand.

Eventually, the priest gestured, and I passed through a bamboo gateway, breaking a white thread of spun wool with my hips. The man who followed me across the threshold became my husband. The priest gestured for me to sit, just beyond the gate, while my husband knelt before me, shouldering the rod weighted down with coconuts he had carried on his shoulder throughout the ceremony. Between us, an attendant brought two sticks of satay ayam in a banana leaf. As we fed one another, the priest laughed, and began to chant. At that moment, I felt the gods of the place around me, and I knew that I had promised to nurture and nourish my husband in all the years to come. Whenever I cook this dish, I smile and remember the smell of frangipani, the feeling of the sun on my skin and the sensation that the gods of the rice-fields and the mountains are watching over us.