Penang Immersive 2025

1

Shutting the Air-Con in Penang to Meditate

Penang spends most of the year inside a slow cooker: 31–33 °C, humidity thick enough to chew.

The moment you step into a hotel room the air-conditioning hits you like a cold wet towel—lovely for five minutes, then you realise it has also locked out the sea breeze, the sound of waves, the faint charcoal smoke drifting up from the satay man on the corner. You came all the way to the coast and the only thing you can smell is refrigerant. Ridiculous.

So, if your room looks straight out to water—whether it’s the old balconies of the E&O in George Town or some quieter stretch up toward Batu Ferringhi—do this: kill the air-con, slide the doors wide, and let the real Penang in. But only at the two civilised times of day.

First slot: dawn until about nine. The night’s heat has bled away, the Andaman Sea sends a soft, steady wind across the strait, and the air actually feels cool on the skin. Sit on the terracotta tiles or an old rattan chair under the sea-almond and frangipani trees. The waves keep perfect time—one every four or five seconds—and the light is the colour of weak tea. Breathe with the water and within a few minutes the mind drops its luggage. No app, no Tibetan bells required; the ocean is doing the work for you.

Second slot: from about half-past five onward. The sun has slipped behind the mainland hills, the sky turns from glare to velvet, and the same breeze returns, now carrying a whole evening market of smells—wok hei from the char kway teow stall, incense from the Indian temple, sweet-spicy satay smoke. Sweat comes, yes, but it arrives politely, gets blown off, comes again. The body remembers it’s alive. Sit long enough and you stop noticing the temperature; you’re just part of the warm, salty air moving in and out.

Between ten and five, forget it. The sun is a blowtorch, the air feels like miso soup, and any attempt at stillness collapses into a private sauna session. That isn’t meditation, it’s punishment.

The trick is simple: treat air-conditioning like any other tool—grateful when you need it, happy to switch it off when you don’t. Open the doors at the right hour and the entire Strait of Malacca becomes your breathing coach. When your inhale and the sea’s are perfectly matched, 32 °C ceases to matter.

Heat won’t kill you. Missing that wind just might.

檳城打坐，要不要關冷氣？

檳城這地方，說穿了就是個大蒸籠，一年到頭三十一二度，濕氣濃得能擰出水來。酒店房間一推門，冷氣嘩啦啦地吹，像掉進冰窖，舒服歸舒服，卻把外頭的海風、浪聲、遠處炭燒沙爹的煙全部擋在門外，活生生把自己鎖進一個無菌的鐵盒子裡。跑到海邊，卻只聞得到的全是製冷劑的味道，未免太划不來。

我說，找個對海的房間或陽台，膽子大一點，把冷氣關掉，落地長窗整扇推開，讓真正的檳城進來。當然，不是叫你中午去跟太陽較勁，那種傻事留給別人。真正懂享受的人，只有兩個時段才會這麼做：清晨六點半到九點，以及傍晚五點半過後。

早上海風最溫柔的時候。

天剛矇矇亮，海面平得像一塊老鏡子，陽光還未發惡，風從安達曼海（Andaman Sea）那邊緩緩吹來，帶著淡淡的鹹味，拂過皮膚，涼意恰到好處。坐在舊藤椅或紅土磚地上，對面幾棵海欖仁樹、幾株雞蛋花（frangipani）影子拉得長長的，海浪一聲一聲，規律得像老鐘擺。你閉眼打坐，呼吸自然跟著浪的節拍走，幾分鐘就靜下來，比任何高級冥想音樂都管用。

傍晚更好。太陽剛沉到吉打山後頭，天邊留一抹橘紅，海面瞬間變成流動的絲絨。風又起，這回還夾雜遠處印度廟的鐘聲、喬治市舊街場的粿條鏟聲、路邊攤烤沙爹的甜辣香，一層層飄進來，雜而有序。你坐在那兒，冷氣早被關掉，汗是會出，但出得痛快，被風一吹就乾，乾了又再出，剛好提醒你：原來自己還活著。坐到某個當下，忽然覺得人跟這片海、這股風、這潮濕的空氣全混在一起，分不出彼此，那一刻，什麼三十三度，早忘得一乾二淨。

中午那幾個鐘頭千萬別試。太陽毒辣，空氣黏稠，熱浪一灌進來，冷氣機還來不及叫救命就投降。想打坐，三分鐘不到就滿頭大汗，心裡只剩一個念頭：趕快開冷氣。這就不叫修行，叫自討苦吃。

所以，檳城打坐的最高境界其實很簡單：把冷氣當工具，用得著就用，不用時大方關掉。讓海風、浪聲、雞蛋花香、遠處的人聲煙火一股腦兒湧進來，陪你一起呼吸。當你的吐納跟整片安達曼海同步的時候，你會發現，熱，又不會死；錯過這股風，才真的可惜。

2

Eastern and Oriental Hotel, Penang

The balcony is small, yet the moment the sea breeze moves through it, the place feels larger than it should. The air tastes faintly of salt and warm stone.

The hotel was built in 1885 and carries age with an easy confidence, like a seasoned traveller who has stopped explaining himself.

I settle into the wicker chair.

It is firm enough to keep the mind awake but comfortable enough to hold you in place. The waves hit the rocks below with a rhythm that rarely changes. It is steady, patient, and quietly persuasive. A couple strolls along the path near the water, their silhouettes looking like a scene that wandered out of an old film reel.

This veranda once belonged to evenings shared by writers who understood both solitude and attention.

Hermann Hesse (Hermann Hesse) would have leaned into the silence for meaning. Rudyard Kipling (Rudyard Kipling) might have watched the same sea and rearranged the sounds into stories. You sense their presence not in nostalgia but in the way the place encourages a person to observe first and speak later.

In front of me stands the old Java olive tree. It was already here when the hotel opened its doors. The trunk is thick with the memory of storms it never bothered to dodge. Its branches spill outward over the sea, casting shadows that shift with the last light of the day. The tree gives the scene its backbone. Everything else adjusts around it.

The building’s white facade rises to the side, clean yet weathered in a way that feels honest. Arched windows open toward the ocean. Columns carry the soft weight of dusk. The exterior is not ornamental but it has presence, like a well used book that still opens smoothly.

Then the evening deepens. The breeze cools and the tree’s outline grows darker against the water. The waves continue their quiet argument with the rocks. The world feels slightly removed, as if someone has turned down the volume just enough for your own thoughts to surface.

You sit still. The sea listens. The tree stands guard. And for a moment, this simple balcony becomes the most complete place you could be.

陽台其實不大，可海風一吹，空氣忽然多了層次。像喝下第一口冰涼的氣泡水，喉嚨立刻亮起來。這棟一八八五年的老酒店，不張揚，也不造作。白牆像看過許多人情，淡淡一層，把熱帶的濕氣都擋在外頭。

坐在靠椅裡，肩膀自動放鬆。海浪拍岸的節奏規律得近乎頑固，卻讓人安心。偶爾一兩個散步的人從下方小徑走過，像電影裡的過場。無需台詞，也無需表情，只是存在，就已經足夠。

這地方讓人不自覺想起過往住客。赫曼赫塞(Hermann Hesse)在文字裡剝洋蔥般挖掘靈魂。吉卜林(Rudyard Kipling)把熱帶的煙火與世故裝進短句。也許某個夜裡，他們就在一旁房間的窗邊，看海，寫字，心裡對遠方有點迷惑，又有點興奮。

面前那棵古樹，是整個畫面的定海神針。酒店落成時，它已經在這裡聽海聲。百年不動，卻懂得如何與風相處。枝葉在暮色裡變得深沉，像在提醒你，世界可以很複雜，也可以很簡單。這正是它的氣質，一種不靠力氣的穩定。

建築從側面看過去，拱窗微微張開。白色立面在微光裡有種溫度，不冰冷，也不柔媚。像一本用過很多年的書，邊角有點磨損，但翻起來仍然順滑。這裡的空氣帶著微鹹，又帶著歷史的味道。吸進去時，連心跳都慢半拍。

但最奇妙的，是那種微不足道的靜。像村上小說裡常出現的場景，一個人坐著，世界突然變得很遠。你聽海，海聽你。什麼都不必說，什麼都能被接住。

陽台燈亮起來時，海面已經呈現那種灰藍的色調。樹影開始往地上鋪開，像一張自然生成的地毯。你被包在其中，沒有使命，也沒有結論，只覺得這個傍晚，不管在哪裡，都算是活得剛剛好。

3

Cornwallis Lounge carries a quiet kind of charm that settles over you the moment you step inside.

The black and white tiles at the entrance steady the mood without trying to impress. A tall wooden cabinet stands by the wall, upright and polite, as if giving a small nod to welcome you in.

The corridor stretches toward the sea where the light softens as it enters. A few red elephant cushions brighten the otherwise calm palette. They add an easy cheerfulness, the kind that reminds you you’re still on a journey. The chairs have a gentle give. They hold you without swallowing you, the way a steady hand might rest lightly on your back.

What wins you over is the sense of space. Tables sit far enough apart that the room feels like a private reading nook when quiet, and even at its busiest it never feels cramped. Sunlight pushes in through the tall windows, keeping the air clean and unhurried. Many hotels chase opulence only to end up suffocating their guests. This place knows better. It understands balance. You sit longer without noticing, and speak softer without planning to.

Along one side, the blue-green wall looks like a tide mark left after water recedes. The wooden pillars stand with clear unembellished lines, carrying the assurance of something built to last. Passing by them, your steps slow on their own. These details aren’t vintage for effect. They’re simply the traces of time doing what time does best.

You might think the charm of this lounge comes from the furniture or the light or the way the room breathes. But the real ending note waits outside the door.

Not far from the exit stands a Java olive tree. It isn’t a garden decoration planted for guests. When the hotel opened in 1885, the tree was already there. More than a century later, it still spreads its branches steadily over the courtyard, unhurried and watchful. Sitting inside the Cornwallis Lounge, you notice its silhouette falling across the ground, and that’s when the place reveals its soul.

A comfortable space is one thing. A sense of history layered into the air is another. And when an old tree still living well stands between the two, the whole place becomes something you remember long after you leave.

走進這裡時，黑白地磚先把情緒穩住。不誇張，也不故作姿態。牆邊的木櫃站得端正，彷彿默默點頭，算是替整個空間開場。

長廊延伸向海，光線柔和。沙發靠墊上幾頭紅象，鮮得大方。放在這種沉穩色調中，反而添了點旅行的爽朗。坐下去，椅子的彈性自然，不黏、不陷、不飄。你感覺得到一種穩定，像有人在旁邊輕輕扶一下，不張揚。

這裡最動人的是空間。桌椅之間留得寬，在人少時像私人閱讀室，人多時也不覺擁擠。光從落地窗推進來，氣氛乾淨，不浮躁。很多酒店追求華麗，結果讓人喘不上氣。這裡呢，懂分寸。讓人坐著願意久一點，也願意安靜一點。

靠牆那片藍綠色，像退潮後留下的顏色。木柱的線條清楚，不花樣，卻有一種站了很久的安定感。走過去，自然放慢步伐。這些細節不是仿古，是自然，是真材實料的歲月。

你以為這地方的魅力在於家具、光線、空氣、氣氛。其實真正的壓軸在門外。

離出口不遠的地方，站著一棵 Java olive（Java olive）。不是新種下的觀賞樹，而是酒店在 1885 年（1885）創立時，它已經在那裡。現在百多年過去，它還是撐著一大片枝葉，安安靜靜地照看整個院落。你坐在 Cornwallis Lounge 裡，看見那棵古樹的影子落在地面，才明白這個地方的靈魂在哪裡。

空間舒服是一回事，歷史沉在空氣裡又是另一回事。而一棵仍然活得好的老樹，把兩者連起來。

4

Q: What body of water is right in front of the Eastern & Oriental Hotel in Penang?
A: That’s the Strait of Malacca.

Q: So the sea I’m looking at from the E&O lawn is really the Strait of Malacca?
A: Yep, dead-on. George Town and the whole northeast coast of Penang face straight onto the Strait of Malacca. (The Andaman Sea is on the other side of the island, past Batu Ferringhi.)

Q: Those fishermen I saw hauling in nets this morning… any chance the fried fish I ate last night came from them?
A: Very good chance! There are still plenty of small wooden boats working these waters every dawn and dusk. What they catch (Indian mackerel, trevally, sardines, squid, etc.) goes straight to the hawker stalls, coffee shops, and restaurants around town.

Q: So the fish & chips, asam pedas, or ikan bakar I had could literally have been swimming in front of the hotel a few hours earlier?
A: Exactly. From that patch of water you’re staring at, pulled up by hand or tiny trawlers, straight to the wok or grill. Zero middleman, maximum freshness.

Q: Is there an even fresher way to get it?
A: Oh yes: roll out of bed at 6 a.m., walk to the Clan Jetties or the little fish-landing spots along Weld Quay and Batu Ferringhi, and watch the fishermen sell the morning’s catch right on the shore. It doesn’t get any more “boat-to-plate” than that.

一問一答

問：檳城東方酒店（E&O）外面的海是什麼海？
答：馬六甲海峽（Straits of Malacca）。

問：嚴格來說檳城面向的是哪片水域？
答：檳城島東北面（包括喬治市、E&O酒店一帶）直接面向馬六甲海峽，往西才是安達曼海。

問：我在E&O酒店前面看到的漁夫收網，抓的魚會不會就是我昨晚吃的炸魚？
答：非常有可能！現在雖然近岸漁獲量不如以前，但喬治市到峇都丁宜一帶仍有許多小漁船每天出海，捕撈的魚（印度鯡魚、竹莢魚、沙丁魚、烏賊等）會直接供應給附近餐廳、咖啡店和夜市。

問：所以我在檳城吃的炸魚片、亞參魚、烤魚（Ikan Bakar）是從哪裡來的？
答：極大機率就是從你眼前這片馬六甲海峽、用傳統拉網或小拖網捕上來的本地現撈魚。

問：還有沒有更新鮮的？
答：有！清晨時分，你可以去Gat Lebuh Armenian、Clan Jetties附近的小碼頭，或峇都丁宜海邊，看漁夫直接把當天捕的魚現賣，幾乎是「從海裡跳到盤子裡」的等級。

5

A Straightforward Plate on Hutton Lane

Hutton Lane in Georgetown has a way of hiding things in plain sight. Laksalicious sits there quietly, carrying its little Michelin badge without fuss. No theatrics, no noise. Just the calm of a place confident in its own flavours.

The turmeric rice arrives glowing with a steady gold. Nothing showy, nothing trying too hard. Its aroma rises warm and clean. Around it, a ring of finely cut herbs and vegetables sits like a small council. Lemongrass leads the conversation with a faint crunch that lifts the whole plate. Vietnamese coriander adds a sharp, leafy note that pulls the flavour into shape. Torch ginger brings its pink spark, the kind that wakes the dish with a single bite. Pandan lurks in the background, gentle and green. Cucumber brings the coolness, pineapple the soft acidity, and shallots a quiet sting. A spoonful of dark-toasted coconut ties all the bright flavours to the ground.

The staff reminds you that nasi ulam is meant to be mixed through. And they’re right. Once the herbs meet the rice, the whole bowl settles into an easy rhythm, like walking through a garden just after dawn.

The grilled fish waits on the side. Skin slightly charred, flesh dry and firm. A small coastal catch, likely from waters not far from Penang itself. It needs no decoration. Freshness does the work.

The Nyonya assam laksa arrives with a clear attitude. A bright, sour broth that knows where it’s going. Mint leaves give it lift. Onion rings circle the bowl slowly, releasing their sweetness. The torch ginger here is cut thicker, the fragrance louder. The dish stays light on its feet, no heaviness, no drift.

Then comes the chicken lor bak. Deep-fried to a dark crisp, the meat inside springy and lightly seasoned. No oily bravado, just tidy, honest work. It grounds the meal, settles the palate, and closes the arc.

Hutton Lane 的一盤正氣

喬治市(Georgetown)的 Hutton Lane 不算寬，卻常有味道在路口轉彎。Laksalicious 就在那裡，靜靜掛著米其林(Michelin)的小牌子。沒有喧鬧，沒有排場，像是知道自己味道夠穩，只等人坐下。

薑黃飯的金色一落桌，就先收住了目光。香氣不強求，暖暖地往上升。四周圍著一圈刀工細密的配料，像小小草本圓桌。香茅是那個最先開口的，碎得均勻，入口微脆，把整盤的香味撐起。越南芫荽的辛香是後勁，像一筆收斂的線條，把味道從平面拉到立體。薑花碎是亮點，粉紅得自然，一咬花香放開，整盤立刻精神起來。香蘭葉碎則在後排坐著，氣味柔和，不搶鋒頭。黃瓜提供冷脆，菠蘿送來一點果酸，紅葱頭則在味道裡添一小筆刺激。最後那撮深烤椰絲，把草木的輕盈壓回土地，穩住整盤。

店家提醒烏蘭飯(nasi ulam)要全部拌開才對味。這是老方法，也是這道菜的性格。把葉香與米香攪在一起後，每一口都像剛走進清晨的花園，濕氣散得乾乾淨淨。

烤魚在邊上躺著，外皮焦香，肉質乾爽。這樣的小海魚，大多是檳城沿岸的貨色，火候恰好，不需要過多調味，單靠新鮮就能交代。

娘惹亞參叻沙(Nyonya Assam Laksa)酸得乾脆。湯頭紅亮，像被陽光照過。薄荷葉在最上層，香氣往外散。洋葱圈在湯裡打個慢轉，甜味後上。薑花這裡切得更粗，花香比在飯裡更直白。整碗湯輕快有力，沒有多餘的負擔。

雞肉卷(chicken lor bak)收尾。外層炸得深，內裡緊實，醃味輕得剛好。不是油炸店那種喧鬧的重手，而是乾淨的一口家常。吃到這裡，人也安靜下來。

5A

Why is Kebaya Dining Room the kind of place you remember once, but rarely return to?

The red curtain hangs low, the way an old theater signals that the outside world can wait. Step inside Kebaya Dining Room and the room steadies itself. The light softens, the tiled floor carries a quiet rhythm, and the dark wood cupboards stand like patient extras waiting for their cue. It makes sense that Michelin has begun to notice places like this. The room has intent. It knows how to hold a mood.

The food arrives with the same quiet confidence.

The otak otak comes first, a small golden dome with a crisp edge and a soft, fragrant interior. The fish is finely minced, the spices gentle but certain, opening slowly on the tongue. It’s the sort of dish that doesn’t rush its introduction.

Then the gulai tumis pomfret lands with its sharp, bright red broth. The sourness has direction. The heat is clean. The pieces of pomfret stay firm, soaking up all that color without losing themselves. It tastes like a shoreline after rain, sharp enough to wake you up, familiar enough to anchor you.

The prawn geng moves the other way. The broth is warm, golden, touched with coconut milk. The ginger and herbs give it a steady spine, while the prawns sit in the bowl like they know they’re the heart of the dish. It’s gentle, almost reflective, the kind of flavor that slows your breathing without asking permission.

Side dishes lean in quietly but do their part.

The eggplant is smoky and soft, drinking up the sauce without turning heavy.

The little cut vegetables bring brightness when you need a pause.

Even the rice behaves: loose grains, clean texture, nothing extra.

Look up from your plate and the whole room reinforces the same intention.

The curtain absorbs the noise.

The lights stay warm and low.

Service is measured, nearly silent.

The pacing feels deliberate, as if the restaurant is unfolding a story one chapter at a time.

You understand why Michelin paid attention.

This place presents itself with clarity, almost like a well-directed scene.

But will I come back? Probably not.

If it’s atmosphere I’m after, Penang has plenty of places just as charming at a gentler price.

If I want food, there are hawker stalls and hidden kitchens doing brighter, bolder, more unguarded flavors with better value and more spirit.

Kebaya Dining Room is worth experiencing once.

You leave through the red curtain, step back into the humid night, and you realize the evening was exactly enough.

A well-framed moment, fully formed.

Perfect to remember, not necessary to repeat.

為什麼 Kebaya 餐廳（Kebaya Dining Room）值得來一次，卻不一定值得第二次？

紅簾低垂，把外頭的熱與塵一口氣隔開。走進 Kebaya 餐廳（Kebaya Dining Room），燈光柔和，木櫥沉穩，老地磚像舊戲院的舞台。這裡的氣氛的確有分量，難怪米其林開始把目光放在這類有情緒的餐桌上。不是因為浮誇，而是因為風格明確，空間能把人安頓住。

菜一上，節奏就定了。

金黃的 烏打（otak otak） 外層薄脆，裡面細嫩，香料是慢慢打開的，像有人在耳邊慢聲講話。魚肉切得細，混著椰與香料的香，入口時不搶味，卻留著輕柔的尾韻。

紅亮的 酸辣煮金鯧（Gulai tumis pomfet） 是另一個方向。湯頭酸香鮮明，辣度乾淨，金鯧片在湯裡吸飽味，肉質仍保持著該有的緊實。這道菜本身就是檳城招牌味系的代表，吃下去有一種被海風拍醒的感覺。

接著的 蝦羹（prawn geng） 端得溫柔。湯色金黃，椰奶洩開得細，薑與香料在背後搭著骨架。蝦身不小，咬下去彈性明確。整道菜像是在為前面的酸與辣收個尾，語氣低，質地厚，是一種緩緩往下落的安定感。

配菜也不含糊。

茄子煎到外層略帶焦香，吸著醬汁後變得濃郁。

黃瓜與香草點在側邊，讓口味能在重與輕之間切換。

米飯粒粒分明，像替這一桌味道鋪好了背景布。

抬頭四望，紅簾厚，燈光暖，服務生的步調穩定，整間餐廳的節奏被調得很準。米其林會注意這裡，不是意外。這裡的菜與空間配合得自然，整體呈現有一種完整的敘事感。

然而，要說我會不會再來，心裡倒是很清楚。

若為氣氛，檳城還有不少地方做得同樣出色，價格更親民。

若為食物，街巷裡的道地味道更直率，分量爽快，性價比高得多。

Kebaya 餐廳是一種旅途中值得閱過一次的體驗。

吃完，走出紅簾，夜風重新撲來。你知道這裡值得被記得，但也知道一回便足夠。

6

Late Morning at Pulau Tikus

By half past ten, Pulau Tikus settles into a quieter rhythm. The market has passed its morning rush, leaving behind a warmth that hasn’t quite cooled. Light filters through gaps in the metal roof and lands on the damp floor, turning the puddles into silver patches.

At the fish stalls, the ice has thinned. Meltwater drips in a steady beat, gathering beneath the counter like a metronome. The vendor lifts a gleaming fish, checks the eyes, smooths the scales with a practiced hand. A faint briny scent hangs in the air, more like a memory of the sea than the sea itself.

The vegetable section feels unhurried. Greens line up in soft gradients, long beans curving neatly, mustard leaves stacked with a quiet pride. A woman on a low stool peels shallots, her hands moving in an easy rhythm. The skins fall in soft rustles, sounding almost like pages turning.

The cooked food corner still carries the last traces of heat. Steam rises from a noodle pot, and the ladle taps the metal rim with a clear, clipped note. Outside the coffee shop, a few plastic tables remain, marked with rings from Kopi-O and Teh cups. Chairs sit slightly askew, as if the conversation ended only moments ago.

Further in, the household-goods shop keeps its own kind of order. Aluminum pots catch the light, chopping boards lean in a tidy row, and baskets form a gentle arc on the ground. A bright orange sign lists the opening hours, seven to one thirty. Nothing more, nothing less.

Late morning brings a certain clarity to the market. Not excitement, not fatigue, but a steady pulse that feels honest. Stand there for a moment, and your pace shifts without you noticing. At this hour, Pulau Tikus shows its true texture, shaped by routine and held together by small, ordinary gestures.

十點半的 Pulau Tikus，有一種剛收檯後的清醒。市場的聲音已從早晨的沸騰降到穩定，像一鍋湯熬到中段，味道更清楚。陽光從棚頂斜照下來，把濕地映得亮亮的，腳步踩上去，帶出微涼。

魚檔前，冰層變薄，水流得急，滴聲在木板下聚成一段小節奏。老闆抬起一尾銀亮的魚，檢查眼睛、拍一拍魚身，像是替這半天做最後的確認。海味散得輕，不刺鼻，反而讓人想到岸邊剛起風的清爽。

菜檔那邊，多了份從容。深綠與淺綠排成一列，長豆安靜地彎着，白菜的葉脈在光裡顯得乾淨。賣紅蔥頭的大姐坐在矮板凳上，削皮的動作流暢，蔥皮落下的沙沙聲，穩得像有人在翻一頁書。

熟食角落還有餘溫。麵檔的湯鍋上有薄霧，金屬杓敲向鍋沿，清脆又短促。咖啡店外的塑膠桌面留着 Kopi-O 和 Teh的圈印，像剛結束一場悄悄的談話。椅子沒收齊，反倒呈現一種日常的自然。

賣家用品的小舖最有秩序。鋁鍋反光，砧板靠牆，筲箕排成半個弧形，像是等下一位家庭主婦來挑選。橘紅色的營業時間牌掛得筆直，七點到一點半，不偏不倚。

十點半的街市，不熱，也不冷。它像走進自己節奏中的人，呼吸平穩，步調乾淨。你站在其中，很容易就被這份安定帶動，跟著慢下來。Pulau Tikus 在這個時候，最能展現它的特質。

7

Two Markets, Two Mornings

Chowrasta Market feels like a diary someone has thumbed through for decades.

Light slips in from odd angles and lands on the wet floor, turning the place into a slow conversation with the past. The spice stalls sit in long, confident rows, colours deep and unapologetic. Turmeric yellow, chili red, cloves the shade of old wood. Even the salted-fish vendors look as if they have seen everyone grow up and no longer bother with persuasion.

You don’t rush here. You drift. The market tells you what it remembers of Penang.

Pulau Tikus Market wakes with a different pulse. It starts early, sharp, and straight to the point. Fishmongers work with a drummer’s tempo, blades tapping rhythmically on chopping boards. Vegetable sellers shake their greens with a single brisk motion and the water beads jump like tiny sparks. Outside, the breakfast stalls steal the spotlight. Nasi lemak, apom, prawn noodles, porridge — all hot, all quick, all for the people who live nearby. Aunties order without hesitation, clear and efficient, and no one has the patience for slow photographers blocking the line. This place runs on routine. Miss one step and the whole street knows.

Both markets belong to the same island, yet they greet the morning in opposite moods. Chowrasta keeps the memories. Pulau Tikus keeps the heartbeat. Walk through both and you understand how Penang can hold its past and its daily grind in the same pair of hands.

兩個巴刹的早晨

Chowrasta 巴刹（Chowrasta Market）像一本被翻到起皺的舊日記。

走進去，光線從斜縫鑽進來，照在濕漉的地面上，彷彿替你翻開上一頁。香料攤一檔接一檔，顏色濃得像畫家調色盤。薑黃的黃、辣椒乾的紅、丁香的深褐，層層堆疊。老字號的鹹魚攤靜靜擺著，連味道都像見過你幾十遍，懶得招呼。

逛到這裡，不急著買什麼，反而像是在跟檳城的過去慢慢寒暄。

Pulau Tikus 巴刹（Pulau Tikus Market）完全是另一回事。天還沒亮，已經吵吵鬧鬧。一進去，魚販手起刀落，節奏跟打鼓似的。蔬菜攤的女販子把青菜抖得生脆，水珠跳起來像晨露。外頭的小吃檔才真是靈魂。Nasi lemak、apom、蝦麵、粥檔，熱氣蒸騰，把剛睡醒的胃喚醒。這一帶的婆婆媽媽熟門熟路地點餐，眼神銳利，動作俐落，沒有空理會外地人慢吞吞地拍照。這裡的生活，既精準又真實，像每天都要打卡報到，少一個人，都覺得不對勁。

兩個巴刹，看似都是日常。可 Chowrasta 是城市的記性，Pulau Tikus 是城市的脈搏。前者像翻舊相簿，越翻越柔軟；後者像早市的鑼鼓，敲一下，讓你立刻醒神。走過兩邊，才知道同一座檳城，早晨也能有截然不同的表情。

8

In Penang, otak-otak goes by the name “fish carp bun” or more commonly just “koi pao” (鯉魚包), and no, it’s got nothing to do with actual carp in the recipe or some poetic description of the flavor. It’s pure Penang-style practicality.

First, the shape.

Back in the day, Nyonya families would wrap the spiced fish paste in banana leaves and fold it into a long, slender packet with slightly pointed ends. After steaming, the whole thing looked uncannily like a little carp swimming on the leaf. Neighbors started calling it “koi fish bun” because, well, that’s exactly what it looked like. The name stuck.

Second, the cooking method.

Unlike the grilled versions you get in Malacca or Johor that come out charred and flattened, Penang otak-otak is steamed. The banana leaf stays bright green, the edges are neat, and the fish paste keeps that clean, elegant fish shape.

One look and any local knows instantly what it is.

Over time, market stalls just kept the nickname alive. So when you’re at a Penang morning market and hear an auntie yelling “Koi pao! Hot ones just out!”, she’s talking about that fragrant parcel loaded with lemongrass, turmeric, galangal, and mackerel or Spanish mackerel paste, not some mysterious carp experiment.

It’s classic Penang: zero romance in the name, 100% accuracy. Next time you’re there, walk up to the stall and say, “Auntie, three koi pao please!” Watch her face light up. Guaranteed.

檳城人叫 otak-otak 做「鯉魚包」（Leh Koh Pauk）確實超級有意思，而且完全是本地人務實又形象的命名方式。

1. 外型像鯉魚 傳統檳城娘惹做法是把魚漿包進香蕉葉，折成長條形、兩頭略尖，蒸熟後打開真的很像一條小鯉魚在葉子上游，尤其是那個弧度跟魚尾巴超級神似！不像南方那種壓成方塊或燒烤到焦香的版本，檳城的就是「優雅地游」在葉子裡。
2. 蒸的包法保留「魚形」 因為是蒸不是烤，香蕉葉不會焦黑，整個輪廓乾淨俐落，魚形更明顯。馬六甲、新加坡那種烤到金黃帶焦邊的，反而把「魚形」烤模糊了，所以才沒人叫鯉魚。

現在檳城早市、夜市，婆婆一喊：「鯉魚包！熱辣辣！」你千萬別傻傻問：「內底有鯉魚肉嗎？」

她會白你一眼：「有鯖魚、紅鯡啦！哪有鯉魚啦！」

這就是檳城人可愛的地方：取名不浪漫，但一聽就記得住、認得出來。

下次去檳城吃娘惹 otak-otak，記得跟攤販說：「阿姨，來三個鯉魚包！」

保證她笑到見牙不見眼。