Saté Babi

The first time I understood the Indo-Dutch table, it wasn't in a book. It was at a family table where the rice was passed with military seriousness, the sambal was treated with proper caution, and the saté disappeared before any polite person could pretend not to count the skewers. History and cookery, they cannot be separated, especially when history comes glossed with ketjap manis, sweet soy sauce, and a little char from the grill.

The name already tells you where the dish has travelled, but it tells it quietly. Saté entered Dutch through Indonesian and Malay sate, and babi means pork. That last word matters. This is not the Muslim street-food satay of Java, where goat or chicken would be the safer guest. Saté babi belongs to other tables too: Chinese-Indonesian, Balinese, Christian Indonesian, and the Indo kitchens that came to the Netherlands after empire ended and memory had to be cooked again in smaller rooms.

But let me tell you a secret: the Dutch did not adopt saté as an exotic ornament. They made it weekday food, party food, barbecue food, borrelhapje, the little bite served with drinks. The method is simple because it should be. Cut pork with enough fat to forgive the fire, marinate it until the ketjap stains it dark, grill it fast, and keep the peanut sauce warm and loose. Hou het altijd simpel, always keep it simple. A skewer should taste of smoke, salt, sweetness, garlic, and the long road home.