The nyonya kitchen awakens, part 1

In the days of old leading up to Chinese New Year, my maternal grandmother would turn our kitchen into a small koay workshop. We were all staying in Seang Tek Road then. My mother and her sister worked beside their mother, measuring rice flour, grating coconuts and occasionally squeezing out the santan, and cutting banana leaves into neat pieces. I was normally chased out of the kitchen. The warning was always the same: don’t open your mouth and say anything, or the koay might not turn out properly.

Some of their work took place late at night. I remember especially the steaming of the tnee koay, which would start well past my 10 o'clock bedtime. By morning, the koay would be ready, all warm, sticky and with a faint golden surface sheen.

This was long before there were supermarkets in Penang. In those days, a Nyonya household made all its festival koay at home. For several days, the kitchen became a small workshop of rice flour, coconut milk, brown sugar and banana leaves, with trays of freshly baked or steamed koay appearing one after another on the wooden table.

Some of the koay were unmistakably associated with the Chinese New Year. One of the most prominent was the huat koay, which are steamed pink rice cakes that cracked open at the top like blossoming flowers. This name carried the hopeful meaning of prosperity and every family wanted them to rise well in the steamer. If the huat koay split neatly into four petals, it was taken as a sign of good fortune for the coming year.

Another was the tnee koay, the sticky brown Chinese New Year koay made from glutinous rice flour and sugar. I remember vividly how the steaming would start before midnight. The open kitchen was warm with the rising steam. By morning, the tnee koay would be ready, all warm and sticky with a golden hue on the surface and releasing a deep caramel fragrance. 

And then there were the red tortoise-shaped ang koo, moulded from glutinous rice dough tinted a bright, auspicious red and filled with sweet mung bean paste. Pressed into carved wooden moulds before steaming, they bore the patterned shell of a tortoise which was a symbol of longevity. 

But the New Year table was never limited to just these three. My grandmother’s repertoire extended far beyond them, reflecting generations of Nyonya culinary tradition. There was koay kochnee, a coconut-rich glutinous rice koay, sometimes made richer still, set in santan; koay bengkah ubikayu, a baked tapioca koay with a golden crust; and koay talam, the familiar two-layered pandan-and-coconut custard koay.

Preparing all these koay required not just skill but adherence to a set of kitchen taboos. When making huat koay, quarrels and arguments were strictly forbidden. Sharp words, my grandmother would say, would stop the koay from opening. With tnee koay, the batter had to be stirred steadily and without interruption. Children were sent outside or quietly watched. I was always barred from the kitchen while the steaming went on. Even lifting the steamer lid had its own rules: clockwise only, never counter-clockwise, to encourage proper rising. Sweeping the kitchen, tasting the batter too early, or sudden noises were all said to disturb the delicate rhythm of the koay.

By the time Chinese New Year arrived, the kitchen shelves would be lined with trays and covered plates. Some of the koay were destined for the household altars, others for visiting relatives. The adults had the quiet satisfaction of seeing all those trays filled with perfectly formed, fragrant and colourful koay, making the long preparations worthwhile.

Today, many of these koay can still be found in Penang, though increasingly in markets and specialty stalls rather than home kitchens. The old processes of grating the coconuts and layering the batter, and the quiet discipline in the kitchen have disappeared into memory. But the smell of freshly steamed huat koay or the sight of a tray of glossy ang koo can still take me back, almost instantly, to that busy kitchen in Seang Tek Road and to the care that went into every piece.

There is more to tell about the koay for visitors, the full spread of the festive table and some of the rarer Nyonya treats now almost forgotten. That, and a few more of the curious taboos that surrounded them. I'll explore them in Part 2.