Tales of Ubud
Janet DeNeefe
As we approach the bamboo-fringed festive season of Galungan, a Balinese Christmas of sorts, I decided the time is ripe to honor the doyen of warung food, Gung Niang Guling. Gung Niang Guling is the revered grandma who put babi guling, or suckling pig, on the Ubud gastronomic map, and elevated this home-grown treat into something divine. You could call it Food for the Gods because it truly is! Suckling pig is the preferred offering for special family ceremonies, if the budget permits.
Gung Niang Guling was the mother of the lovely Oka Wati. Remember her? I told you her tale a few moons ago. Ibu Oka who now runs the legendary Ibu Oka’s warung, is the daughter-in-law of the late Gung Niang Guling. At the expense of sounding like the cast of the Mahabharata, I will leave it at that.
Ibu Oka, of course, needs no introduction in Ubud and has become an Indonesian household name, selling ever-so-tender suckling pig next to the Wantilan or town hall on Jalan Suweta. She is a bit like the Colonel Sanders of the tropics without the franchises (and whiskers).
The story of Gung Niang Guling is similar to Nini Munir’s, who I wrote about last week. These two Ubud grannies were around the same age and grew up in the days when Ubud was just a leafy dirt-road village, a mere shadow of what it is now. Their food careers began at around the same time too, approximately 1945.
The compound of Gung Niang Guling and now Ibu Oka, is in an area known as Tegal Sari, a cozy part of Ubud that lies beyond the Ubud Palace. You know, in all these years I have never known Ibu Oka. Let’s face it, there are quite a few mums in our village with the same name and somehow I always thought she was someone else.
I first visited the family home in 1985, in the early days when I was diligently collecting Balinese recipes. I remember watching an old grandpa slowly rolling a pig on the spit, clove cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth. All the action took place under a simple bamboo thatched-roof construction in the southern corner of the compound. Nowadays the operation has expanded and occupies a sizable amount of land on the edge of the small ravine that borders their settlement.
The moment you enter this massive property, there is an air of order and prosperity. The shrines in the family temple glisten proudly under a layer of gold leaf, the various carved pavilions are spotless and patterned stone tiles edged by small, neat plants that wink at the sun, lead the way to all corners of the compound.
Ibu Oka greeted me at the entrance. Tall and gracious, she commands a certain respect, rather like a head mistress. I followed her obediently along the long path to the open-air kitchen where all the cooking takes place and chatted about her late mother-in-law. Members of the family gathered around. Under the shade of frangipani trees, stretched an ocean of roosters in their open-weave baskets. There must have been more than twenty of them, a chorus of captives amidst all the action.
“How long ago did Gung Niang Guling pass away,” I asked, wondering if she had lived a long life like Nini Munir. “She died about 36 years ago,” replied Ibu Oka stoically. “She was not really that old. She passed away after my daughter’s third oton (a ceremony at about one and a half years)” she added, gazing at her grandchild nearby.
“When Gung Niang started making Babi Guling, there were just a few family members who helped. I moved here about 45 years ago when I married her son and worked alongside her every day. My family home was in Jalan Kajeng (next to Caf‚ Lotus).”
Gung Niang Guling would wake at four in the morning to start the day’s cooking, when the sky was still black and the air was crisp. You can imagine the sound of a simple bamboo broom sweeping the ground while a yawn of a sun crept slowly through the tall trees. I love the early hours of dawn in Bali.
“And what about the recipe,” I asked. “Is it still the same as it was all those years ago.” “Yes,” replied Ibu Oka. ” We haven’t really changed anything.”
Why fix it if it’s not broken, I thought to myself.
“But what about the firewood, did you use coffee wood back then?”
“Well, we used whatever we could find. But we always used fresh, pure coconut oil, just as we do now.”
Only a few months ago, I was watching a pig being roasted at Ibu Oka’s house when a tiny Grandma wandered in from the mountains carrying a jerry-can of fresh coconut oil.
She looked like she had walked from the Himalayas with her tired, sun-beaten looks, faded sarong and worn-out jumper. “We order our coconut oil from this old woman” one of the workers had said. “She makes the finest we can find.”
“Most of the time in the early days”, Ibu Oka explained, “we only cooked one pig. Nowadays in the busy season, we cook up to ten. And the pigs were delivered to our house, just as they are now.”
I asked Ketut about portion control. “The servings must surely have been smaller than they are now?” “Yes” he reminisced, “You received about three slices but they were just thin, tiny pieces then.”
“What was Gung Niang Guling like” I continued to ask Ketut. ” Was she pretty, fat, slim?
“She was small and kind of attractive. No, she wasn’t fat.”
But what about her character, I persisted, “Was she chatty or funny?”
“She was quiet really. Most of the old folk didn’t say much then because they didn’t want to make a mistake,” he smiled and added, “For between the full moon and dark moon there were fifteen things you could not do.” (If I manage to find out what they are, I promise to let you know.)
By eleven in the morning, Gung Niang would be ready to sell her freshly roasted pork. The cooked piglet, sambal, rice and other trimmings were loaded onto her faithful table, perched on top of a well-worn towel on her head and carried to the market.
Picture the village scene, of Gung Niang Guling slowly sauntering down Jalan Suweta, under the shade of the tall trees that lined the road, with her days culinary efforts balanced on her head. Like Nini Munir, she sold her goods wherever there was a bit of local action: a temple ceremony, a spot of frenzied cock-fighting or a village meeting.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the difference between Nini Munir and Gung Niang Guling. Gung Niang Guling’s legacy continues with each generation. Her grand-children are involved in the preparation and selling of her food. It is a family-run business in the purest sense of the word.
In the busy season, up to ten suckling pig are roasted and carried down to the warung ready for a day of frantic trading. Up to 120 kilos of rice are steamed to be served alongside. There is nothing half-baked about this operation. In fact, Ibu Oka’s is almost as popular as the Monkey Forest, with bus-loads of tourists pouring in to this crowded space to sample this celebrated treat. In Nini Munir’s case, her recipe has been lost and she remains but a faded memory in Ubud.
“Not everyone’s story is the same” said Ketut wisely (because he says everything wisely). Some of the Nini Munir’s sons moved out of home or even exiled themselves in the rice fields.” The key is clearly the presence of a daughter-in-law, who, in this case, happened to be the smart and very capable Ibu Oka.
But what is it that makes Suckling Pig so delectable? In fact, I recently had lunch with a friend from Australia who said he dreams about Ibu Oka’s suckling pig when he is away from Bali.
Imagine that. Here we were, sitting in my restaurant, Casa Luna and eating take-away suckling pig, drooling over its many virtues. There’s something dreadfully wrong with that picture.
Suckling pig is a multi-leveled taste sensation. First you have the tender mother-loved meat and a pile of fresh Balinese spices. And then you have the pure coconut oil that undoubtedly makes a huge difference when cooking Balinese food. Without it, the spices would not sing, or rather hum like Annie Lennox, because it is the oil base that kick-starts the wild fragrance of all those earth-bound ingredients into something heavenly.
Beyond the fresh oil and the spices are cassava leaves that are tucked into the tummy with a rock or two to generate the heat. While the pig is slowly turning, a mix of coconut oil and turmeric is used to baste the skin, adding a golden glow and a crispy finish.
At Ibu Oka’s you can order the regular-sized portion, or for gluttons like me, you can load up on the deluxe serve, topped with a huge slab of crispy pork crackling. If you are going to indulge, you might as well do it properly.
But next time you are overdosing on Ibu Oka’s suckling pig, spare a thought for Gung Niang Guling, that pioneer of the Ubud culinary scene who single-handedly brought local cuisine into the laps of the world traveler. Ubud would not have been the same without her!
I also want to add a tender farewell note to the lovely Kylah Brown, the editor of Sunday’s Jakarta Post, who leaves next week. I have enjoyed every minute working with her and will miss our chats. Kylah leaves the shores of Indonesia to follow the man of her dreams and I wish her all the best. I did the same but landed up in Bali!
Matur Suksme
Janet DeNeefe is the owner of Casa Luna and Indus Restaurants, author of Fragrant Rice, and founder and director of the Ubud Writers & Readers Festival. She also runs the Casa Luna Cooking School.
Source: The Jakarta Post
Add comment January 21st, 2008