To Mix or Not to Mix, That Is the Question
To Mix or Not to Mix, That Is the Question
Bubur Ayam in Java
It’s not even seven in the morning and Bronso has already set up his humble wooden cart under a bridge near one of the busiest intersections in East Jakarta. Traffic is already at a standstill. Bronso’s cart, like other mobile food vendors in the area, is illegally using the sidewalk, and recent crackdowns have them playing a cat-and-mouse game with the local government. His wife told me a recent tussle with authorities resulted in all the bowls crashing to the sidewalk. But the threat of eviction in the middle of breakfast is definitely not in the minds of Bronso’s customers as they wait to be served, further clogging an area that is already busy with pedestrians and motorbikes. They are here for Bronso’s infamous bubur ayam, or chicken congee, a hearty, filling breakfast popular in Java.
No one is quite certain when and how bubur ayam as we know it today was first prepared, but it is certainly derived from Chinese chicken congee—contact with China was established in 7th century—mixed with local spices and cooking techniques. Java, an island among more than 17,000 in Indonesia, is historically an important trading center and received traffic from India and China, as well as Arabic and European countries. The cuisine reflects this, including bubur ayam.
First, Bronso scoops three ladlefuls of piping hot, runny rice congee into a clean-ish bowl. Then he splashes a generous amount of bright yellow kuah kuning, palm oil dressing with spices such as turmeric and coriander seeds, on the congee. After that he squirts kecap manis (sweet soy sauce). He then digs into a huge, clear plastic bag full of salmon-colored wheat crackers, dumps a handful of them on top of the congee, and digs into another plastic bag filled with pale yellow yucca crackers dotted sparingly with chile flakes. They, too, go on top of the congee. Just when you think he cannot possibly fill the bowl with anything else, he adds a handful of thinly sliced cakwe, or Chinese crullers; shredded chicken boiled in spices and then flash fried for crispness; and toasted soybeans. He then sprinkles on some fried shallots. He places a spoon on the side of the bowl, and plunks on some spicy peanut sauce. For those who order extra toppings, he slices fried chicken liver on top and sticks a marinated chicken intestine satay on their bubur. All this in mere seconds—32, to be exact—while holding three bowls at a time, all the while nodding and answering freshly arrived customers barking orders at him: “One bowl, hold the soybeans,” or “One with everything, extra hot sauce, and five to go.”
Bronso hands me my bowl. Moment of truth. To mix or not to mix? I glance at the man sitting next to me. He greedily digs into his bubur with gusto, scooping spoonfuls of congee speckled with toppings, dropping a few crackers on his lap which he brushes off to the sidewalk. No mixing for him, then.
You see, some people get very specific, not to mention passionate, when it comes to their bubur. Not just its toppings, but also whether to stir their bubur, therefore mixing the heap of toppings with their rice congee or to eat it as is. After a satirical online paper ran a story on two men getting into a brawl over how to properly eat a bowl of bubur, someone posted a thread in a popular Indonesian online message board in April: “No-mix bubur ayam, a fundamental belief!” The poster, obviously, was in the no-mixing camp, claiming that by mixing the bubur YOU’RE RUINING AN ART GODDAMMIT!
As of now, the thread has ballooned to 123 pages, igniting fierce debates both philosophical (Marx was mentioned) and candid (“I just think it looks like vomit if you mix it”). Camps were created (#TeamMix and #TeamNoMix), but a poll at the beginning of the page clearly shows #TeamMix is the winner. Facebook pages for both groups, including a third fringe group, “I sometimes mix my bubur, but sometimes I don’t” appeared but all have since closed down. A blogger complained, “Are we really having this discussion?”
I’ll admit that I totally understand #TeamNoMix. By not mixing the bubur, I get to be surprised with every spoonful: I get salty and sweet congee with a crunch of soybeans in one, then I get a plain spoonful with soft Chinese crullers and crisp fried shallots. But mixing the bubur gives me a more uniform blend of umami from the kuah kuning, savory chicken, and sweetness from the soy sauce, with all the different textures—soft, crunchy, crispy, chewy—from the toppings. For once, I’m with the majority. #TeamMix for the win.