11 recipes that use tamarind pulp, with photos, step-by-step instructions and cook times. The quickest, Penang rojak, takes 20 minutes. It is most often cooked with sugar, shallot and dried red chillies.
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A Gujarati-style dry vegetable dish made with chopped colocasia (arvi) leaves and chana dal, cooked with peanuts, tamarind and jaggery for a sweet-sour taste, then thickened with a fresh paste of coconut, green chilli, coriander and ginger and finished with a mustard and cumin tempering. Uses only two teaspoons of oil. Serve hot with baked parathas.
Canh chua, 'sour soup', is on the table at nearly every family meal in the Mekong Delta, served with plain rice. The broth is soured with tamarind and sweetened with pineapple and tomato, then filled with okra, celery-like taro stems, bean sprouts and lots of herbs. This vegetarian version uses fried tofu in place of fish. It is light, tangy and refreshing in hot weather. Chef's tip: fry the tomato with the shallot until it collapses before adding the liquid, so the broth turns rosy, then add the herbs and bean sprouts only off the heat and finish with garlic fried in oil, which gives the soup its southern fragrance.
Ask any Malaysian cook what lives in the fridge door and the answer is usually a jar of sambal tumis. 'Tumis' means to sauté, and the paste of soaked dried chillies, shallots, garlic and spices is fried slowly in plenty of oil until it turns dark and jammy. From Johor to Kedah it goes on nasi lemak, gets stirred through fried rice and noodles, and is spooned beside eggs, tofu or roti. Most versions lean on belacan (shrimp paste); here a little toasted nori brings back that savoury, faintly sea-like depth. Chef's tip: make a double batch; covered with a film of its own oil it keeps for two weeks in the fridge and months in the freezer.
Sinigang is the sour soup that Tagalog families crave when the monsoon arrives between June and October, when rain hammers the tin roofs and a steaming bowl next to rice feels like the only sensible lunch. The sourness traditionally comes from young tamarind (sampalok) boiled and mashed into the broth, and the vegetables are whatever the market has: white radish, taro to thicken the soup slightly, okra, yard-long beans, aubergine and a final handful of water spinach. This vegetarian sinigang na gulay skips the pork or fish and relies on the tamarind, tomato and onion for flavour. The broth should make you pucker a little on the first sip. Chef's tip: add the tamarind in stages and taste between each, since blocks of tamarind vary a lot in sourness.
Chotpoti is what Dhaka eats at dusk: vendors ladle it from great brass pots at Dhanmondi Lake and outside every university gate, and during Ramadan it is a fixture of the iftar spread. Dried yellow peas (motor) are simmered with potato until soft and slightly soupy, then served warm under a shower of raw onion, green chilli, grated boiled egg, crushed fuchka shells, roasted cumin and plenty of sour tamarind water. Chef's tip: soak the peas overnight and cook them until some burst and thicken the liquid; chotpoti should be spoonable, halfway between a stew and a salad.
Fuchka is Bangladesh's answer to pani puri, but with its own character: in Dhaka the crisp shells are filled with a coarse mash of potato and yellow peas sharpened with raw onion, chilli and coriander, then dipped in or splashed with a sour tamarind water rather than a mint-heavy one. Stalls along Bailey Road and at every fair sell them by the plate of eight, often with a little extra chopped chilli for those who dare. Chef's tip: make the tamarind water ahead and chill it hard; ice-cold sour water against a crisp shell is what you're after.
Night markets and seaside stalls from Port Dickson to Kuantan announce ikan bakar by smell long before you see the charcoal: whole fish or stingray wings smeared with red sambal, laid on banana leaf and grilled until the leaf blackens and the paste caramelises onto the flesh. The leaf keeps the fish moist and lends a faint tea-like smokiness, while the sambal brings shrimp-paste depth, tamarind sourness and steady heat. It is eaten with the fingers, with plain rice, cucumber and a sharp dip called air asam made from tamarind, chillies and shallots. Chef's tip: score the fish right down to the bone so the sambal seeps into the cuts and the thickest part cooks at the same pace as the tail.
The town of Kajang, just south of Kuala Lumpur, built its name on satay, and evenings there still smell of lemongrass smoke drifting from long charcoal troughs. Kajang skewers are cut in larger chunks than most, soaked in a yellow marinade of turmeric, lemongrass, cumin and fennel, and grilled while being basted with oil brushed on through a lemongrass stalk. They come with a chunky, sweet-spicy peanut sauce, cubes of compressed rice (nasi impit), raw onion and cucumber. Order them by the dozen with friends as a starter or a whole supper. Chef's tip: thread a small piece of chicken skin or fat between the meat on each skewer; it melts over the coals and keeps the satay juicy.
Forget coconut and cream: Penang's asam laksa is all sour, hot and herbal, a dark tamarind broth thickened with flaked mackerel and poured over thick, slippery rice noodles. Hawkers at Air Itam market and along Gurney Drive pile the bowl with shredded pineapple, cucumber, red onion, lettuce, torn mint and a spoon of sticky, sweet prawn paste (hae ko) that you stir in as you eat. Torch ginger flower and Vietnamese mint (daun kesum) give it a smell that is wholly its own. It is a hot-afternoon dish, eaten fast while the herbs are still crisp. Chef's tip: poach the mackerel in the broth whole, then flake it back in; the bones and skin give the soup much of its body.
Few salads are as divisive or as loved as the rojak sold from carts along Penang's Gurney Drive: crisp jicama, cucumber, green mango, pineapple and guava cut into bite-size pieces and tossed in a black, toffee-thick dressing of hae ko (fermented prawn paste), tamarind and sugar. The fruit stays cold and crunchy while the sauce is sweet, sour, salty and funky at once, finished with a snowfall of crushed peanuts. Stalls often add fried dough fritters and tofu puffs for chew. Eat it as an afternoon snack or alongside grilled meats. Chef's tip: toss only just before serving; the salt in the dressing draws water out of the fruit and turns it watery within 15 minutes.
Kuching wakes up to laksa Sarawak, ordered at coffee shops before work and reaching its peak on a lazy Sunday morning. It looks nothing like curry laksa: the broth is a russet, gently creamy soup built on a complex paste of chillies, shallots, galangal, toasted sesame, peanuts and warm whole spices, cooked into a chicken and prawn-shell stock with tamarind and a little coconut milk. Thin rice vermicelli is topped with shredded chicken, whole prawns, ribbons of omelette and bean sprouts, and every bowl comes with lime and a dab of sambal belacan. The work is in the paste, which keeps well and makes several batches. Chef's tip: toast the spices, sesame seeds and peanuts separately in a dry pan before grinding; it gives the broth its deep, roasted aroma.
