On this Indonesian island, tempeh is king

“Tempeh brownies,” chef Froosh Nur announces as he places a plate down in front of me.

I’m not sure how this is going to work. I’ve never tried tempeh in sweet form before, but these don’t look any different to normal brownies, and as I sink my teeth in, a familiar chocolatey taste emerges. The texture is perfectly moist and gooey; a delicate crunch comes not from nuts, but from the soybeans in the tempeh.

Originally from Kerala in Southern India, Froosh moved to the Indonesian island of Lombok last year to take up the position of head chef at The Sira, one of the many high-end resorts that line the palm-fringed turquoise coast in the island’s quieter northwest corner, between the Bali Sea and the imposing slopes of Mount Rinjani, which dominates the Lombok landscape. At 12,224ft, it’s Indonesia’s second-tallest volcano, with pristine primary rainforest running down its slopes, stopping abruptly at the lush, green rice terraces that tumble down into little settlements in river valleys. Further south, there’s a distinctly arid feel to the rugged coastline as it’s buffeted by the waves of the Indian Ocean.

Froosh’s first encounter with tempeh came shortly after he arrived. He’d just finished Friday prayers at the mosque in one of the nearby villages, and some local men were eating fried tempeh with a spicy sambal (chilli condiment). On the encouragement of a colleague, he gave it a taste.

“I didn’t realise it was fermented soybeans. It looked nice, but when I tasted it, I realised this wasn’t something for me. It was not love at first sight,” he says, laughing.

Although I’m Indonesian, I can understand why tempeh is divisive. For one thing, its appearance and structure don’t do it many favours — a bumpy slab of fermented soybeans bound together by a web of white mould. Some find the texture — akin to a knobbly, dense sponge — off-putting, while others aren’t keen on the slight sourness or gentle funk of fermentation. But to dismiss it without getting to know it would be to do it a disservice.

The most popular way of cooking tempeh is the simplest: slice it, soak it in brine to bring out the flavours, then fry it. When prepared this way, it’s savoury, nutty and slightly earthy, with a mushroom-like hint of umami. It’s the perfect side dish to accompany Indonesia’s richly spiced curries, vibrant vegetable dishes and fragrant stews.

At The Sira, Froosh — who’s now a fully paid-up tempeh convert — makes another popular Lombok dish, tumis tempe. It involves stir-frying slices of tempeh along with a mix of shallots, garlic, chilli, long beans, carrots and kecap manis, an Indonesian sweet soy sauce. His version is exactly like those cooked in home kitchens across the island, and it’s delicious. The brownies, meanwhile, are somewhat less traditional. “It’s a bit of an experiment to be honest,” says Froosh. “That’s the beauty of tempeh — it’s really versatile because it soaks up the flavour of whatever you’re cooking it with, or in. So I knew if I pureed it, it could work for brownies, enhancing the texture, giving a nice, subtle nutty taste and a boost of protein at the same time.”

Like many foods, tempeh was invented by accident. First documented on the Indonesian island of Java around the 16th century, it seems to have come about when some cooked soybeans were left out in the hot and humid climate. The result? Fermentation. A taste for these fermented beans spread across the Indonesian archipelago, from Java to Bali to the current-day Nusa Tenggara Barat province, where Lombok is situated. Tempeh has since become a staple source of protein throughout the country, and until recently was relatively little-known elsewhere in the world, although that’s starting to change — particularly among plant-based diners.

For Devi, head chef at Warung Ijo, tempeh is a hero ingredient. “It’s so cheap yet so tasty, and packed with protein,” she tells me over a simmering curry in her kitchen in the tourist town of Senggigi, around 12 miles down the coast from The Sira. She’s right; it contains around 20g of protein per 100g, compared to tofu’s 8g or the 9g in lentils. It’s also rich in fibre and minerals such as magnesium, calcium and phosphorus, and low in saturated fat.

It helps that it’s easy to make. A fungus, either Rhizopus oligosporus or Rhizopus oryzae (also known as a tempeh starter), is added to cooked and dehulled soybeans. The mixture is then spread into a thin layer and left to ferment for 24 to 36 hours at around 30C. Mycelium — the fuzzy, thread-like ‘roots’ of fungus often found on blue cheese or salami — then forms, binding the soybeans together and providing a slightly fermented taste.

Devi, who’s been running Warung Ijo for the past 12 years, tells me tempe daun, or ‘leaf tempeh’, is her favourite variety. It’s made using an old-school method, which involves wrapping the tempeh ingredients in banana leaves to ferment. “It’s more flavourful. It has this nice aroma, and it lasts much longer than the plastic-wrapped tempeh that’s more common these days,” she says, nodding enthusiastically.

Warung Ijo is a simple establishment with a few low dining tables arranged lesehan-style — an Indonesian way of eating cross-legged on the floor. Senggigi is a small coastal town in the west of the island, and while it’s past its heyday as Lombok’s original tourist hotspot — the masses have moved on to the Gili Islands in the north and Kuta in the south — the expansive resorts and palm-dotted beach still draw in a healthy number of visitors. Warung Ijo is my local lunch spot, popular with both locals and tourists alike — and at just past midday there are a few customers, including a group of German tourists and an Indonesian couple waiting for a takeaway.

I grab a plate and pile it high, picking from an enticing buffet comprising 20 different dishes — fish, meat and veggie. The tempe manis (‘sweet tempeh’) is one of my favourites. Sliced very thinly into little squares, the tempeh is fried and tossed with a sambal that coats it like caramel, making it super crunchy and savoury, a slight sweetness coming from the kecap manis.

Devi is thrilled whenever she sees Western visitors trying Indonesian cuisine for the first time. “Many of them already know what tempeh is, but those who don’t almost always like it after trying,” she says. It’s indicative of the change I’ve witnessed in Lombok over the past decade. Before then, the island didn’t really have much of a food scene. There were only warungs (local restaurants), like this one, catering to Indonesians. Those that did entice foreign customers tended only to offer basic local dishes such as fried rice or noodles, as well as poor imitations of Western food.

“Indonesian cuisine never really took off internationally the same way that Thai, Vietnamese and other Southeast Asian cuisines have done,” reflects Froosh. “I think it has something to do with immigration. Indonesians are very family-orientated and tend to stay close to home, whereas you’ve seen mass migration from other nations, and with that, they exported their food, too. That’s why Indonesian food continues to fly under the radar, relatively speaking.”

But that’s changing. While we may not have exported our cuisine out to the world, the world has come to us. With the skyrocketing number of visitors to Bali, there’s been a natural overspill to Lombok, which lies just 25 miles to the east. There’s an increase in younger and moneyed travellers, and dining in Lombok has quickly evolved to cater to visitors for whom food is paramount.

Kuta, on the south coast, is the poster child for this change. Once a sleepy surf town, it’s sprung into life in recent years, sprawling out from the main crossroads where you’ll find modern restaurants offering global cuisines, from Italian and Greek to Mexican and Chinese.

The scene has attracted a diverse array of chefs from all over the world, including Mamiko Eda, head chef at Terra — one of Lombok’s few fully vegan restaurants. It’s a relaxed, modern affair with low, comfy sofas. A clientele of digital nomad types tap away at their laptops as they wait for their healthy lunches to arrive, all to a subtle soundtrack of lo-fi jazz.

As a Japanese chef, Mamiko is no stranger to fermented foods — especially soybeans. Ingredients such as natto and miso are part of her everyday life, so tempeh wasn’t such a leap. “I came across it when I was at cooking school in Japan,” she says. Later, when she was working in the Bali hill town of Ubud, it was very much part of the local cuisine, and now, at Terra, she’s putting her own creative spin on it.

In front of me is a plate of sushi rolls incorporating local red rice, kimchi and tempeh marinated with shio koji, a Japanese fermented condiment made from water, rice, salt and koji (a mould used in the production of miso, soy sauce and sake). I use chopsticks to pop one into my mouth, flooding my palate with a complex combination of flavours. There’s the familiar saltiness of the seaweed, but instead of the vinegary short-grain white rice typically used for sushi, the red rice adds earthy and nutty notes. Combined with tangy kimchi and the creamy, spicy cashew wasabi sauce, there’s layers upon layers in one mouthful.

Next, I try a Thai green curry containing chunks of tempeh, green beans, aubergine, pumpkin and herbs like coriander, curry leaves and lemongrass — all grown in the kitchen garden of Ashtari, Terra’s nearby sister restaurant. It’s fresh and fragrant, the tempeh adding texture and soaking up the delicious curry sauce; as an ingredient it works best when it acts as carrier for big flavours.

What I taste in Mamiko’s food is a fusion of different cuisines — but that’s hardly new. For centuries, the islands of the Indonesian archipelago have been connected by maritime trade that stoked the world’s clamour for spices like nutmeg, cloves and mace, which at one time were worth more than diamonds. I touch on this with Froosh, wondering if there are similarities between Indonesian and Indian cuisine.

“Oh absolutely,” he says. “In the 15th and 16th centuries there were princes from my state in India visiting Bali and Java. It turns out I’m 4% Indonesian. There’s this chain of trade and communication reaching back 400 years. So, fermentation in South Indian cuisine came from Indonesia. And then the Dutch did their part, introducing chillies and tomatoes. All our cuisines overlap.”

Lombok’s changing food scene represents a continuation of this trend — the comings and goings of ingredients and influences across Indonesia. And now, it may just be tempeh’s time to shine. “It’s all about marketing, really,” Froosh theorises. “Probiotics are the craze right now, and tempeh is a probiotic product. It’s an amazing superfood.”

Indeed, an increase in health consciousness is a large reason why fermented, probiotic-rich foods are becoming more popular. Mamiko tells me that during the Covid lockdowns of 2020, she started hosting fermentation classes, making things like kombucha, kefir, tempeh and miso. “Because of the pandemic, I saw more and more people becoming interested in the health benefits of fermented foods, which include a stronger immune system, better digestion and less inflammation,” she says. And in tempeh’s case, its versatility is another selling point.

My last stop, Asano, is a local favourite in Mataram, Lombok’s capital. This place serves Padang cuisine — known for its thick, rich curry sauces and tasty sambals — which originated in northern Sumatra and is now hugely popular across the country. I’m joining the lunchtime rush, jostling for a place at Asano’s serving counter among office workers and food delivery drivers, while scouring the place for an empty table. It’s a casual, low-key spot — service is hurried and rarely comes with a smile — and, typically for Padang restaurants, the window is stacked with dishes, showcasing the kind of cuisine on offer.

A brief glance at the buffet reveals the international influences behind Indonesian gastronomy. Beef rendang, a rich and spicy curry also found in Malaysia, has its roots in Indian curries, no doubt brought to Sumatra through maritime trade. Perkedel kentang, meanwhile, are fried potato fritters inspired by Dutch frikadel, while sambal hijau (green sambal) is made with chillies introduced by the Portuguese.

The standout dish, though, features that most Indonesian of ingredients — tempeh. It’s sliced impossibly thinly and deep-fried in batter, with a snap and crunch that’s incredibly satisfying. As I chat with the owner, Muglis, he tells me this dish was introduced in response to customer demand. “Tempeh isn’t actually an essential Padang ingredient — we put it on the menu because people here kept asking for it,” he says. “Seems like Lombok has an appetite for tempeh.”