October 10, 2024
JAKARTA – Ketchup is a condiment. Kecap (sweet soy sauce) is a condiment. But sambal? Sambal is a way of life, at least for most Indonesians. As the saying goes, “Belum makan kalau belum makan nasi (You haven’t eaten if you haven’t eaten rice),” and the same goes for sambal.
Whether it’s a dollop of chili sauce added to a steaming plate of nasi goreng (fried rice), a spoonful of an orangey, watery concoction stirred into a bowl of bakso (meatball soup) or fiery paste served as a sidekick to crispy ayam goreng (fried chicken), sambal isn’t just about adding heat. It’s about transforming a meal, and for many Indonesians, it’s a core part of their identity.
From the sambal ijo (green chili) of Padang to the aromatic sambal matah (raw sliced chili, shallots and lemongrass) of Bali, sambal seems to have endless varieties — each reflecting not just the local palate but also a deep-rooted connection to home and who we are as Indonesians.
A 2018 study by Gadjah Mada University identified 322 distinct types of sambal, with countless more uncatalogued creations in kitchens across the country.
So where does this love, or dependency, come from? Is it in our DNA, or is it something we acquire, passed down from generation to generation, one spoonful at a time?
To answer this question, I asked around, and to quote Elizabeth Schuyler from the musical Hamilton, I realized three fundamental truths: one, sambal is more than a mere sauce; two, nature may lay the groundwork for our tolerance to it, but nurture truly shapes our love for it; and three, alternatives exist, but they don’t really hit the spot.
Sambal as ‘mindset’
Prominent chef and culinary expert William Wongso, 77, goes so far as to say that sambal is a “mindset”, ingrained in the way Indonesians approach food.
This mindset reveals the deep emotional and cultural connection Indonesians have with sambal, something that goes beyond taste and becomes a part of their identity, culinary rituals and even travel habits.
Tiara, 36, for example, has gone to great lengths to support her sambal obsession.
Around a decade ago, she moved to London to pursue her studies and resorted to BonCabe, a brand of chili flake seasoning, to survive the blandness of European food.
“I even tried growing my own chili plants in my flat, but of course it didn’t work,” she recalls.
Tiara even tried making her own sambal, but the price of chili and other Asian ingredients was too high for her to make enough to meet her usual level of high daily consumption.
“It’s better now, as packaged sambal mixes like sambal uleg [ground chili paste] are easily available. I take them everywhere,” she says.
What exactly makes Indonesia’s sambal stand apart from other chili sauces around the world?
William points to the complex blend of ingredients that incorporates heat with layers of flavor: sweetness, saltiness and umami. Beyond taste, sambal represents something deeper: the feeling of home and the sense of incompleteness without it.
“Sambal is also part of local wisdom, illustrating a region’s acculturation,” he says.
But he notes that because younger Indonesians often grow up with packaged sambal mixes or bottled sambal made with simpler blends of salt, MSG and garlic, their palates aren’t developing the same complexity as those of older generations.
Nurture, not nature
I’m most curious about whether our love for sambal and our ability to handle its heat are inherent or acquired. People from some regions, like West Sumatra, can take more spiciness than others. But does nurture really win over nature?
“Nurture,” William says, firmly, explaining that his three grandchildren have acquired different levels of tolerance for heat.
Tiara says she was exposed to spicy food early on, “like most kids in West Java”.
“I was already eating seblak in elementary school,” she adds, referring to a Sundanese specialty of fish crackers, meatballs, greens and other ingredients in a spicy broth.
On the other hand, Salsa, 28, a proud Minang from West Sumatra, says she discovered her love for sambal only after she left home for university.
“Growing up, my mom tried to get me into sambal, but I just didn’t enjoy it. It wasn’t until I moved out and missed her food that I started adding sambal to everything,” she recounts. “And once I started, I never looked back.”
Salsa laughs as she recalls a time she didn’t have access to good sambal in a remote area: “I survived by eating raw chili. It’s not the same, but [it was] better than nothing.”
Her mother Emi, now 63, was born and raised in West Sumatra and has been a sambal devotee since she was 8.
“I think most Indonesian parents teach their kids how to eat sambal, because it’s part of our everyday meals,” she says.
Like her daughter, she can’t live without it. “I don’t do alternatives. I just make sure I’m stocked up, even when I travel.”
Sambal is personal
Everyone has their go-to sambal.
For Salsa, it’s sambal ijo and sambal matah, though she says she loves other variations just as much. Tiara’s all-time favorite is sambal bawang, made with a simple base of chili and shallots, the same as Salsa’s mother Emi.
As for William, true to his decades of culinary expertise, he gives the most “correct” answer: “I can’t pick just one,” he confesses.
“It depends on the food,” he continues, explaining that Balinese dishes call for sambal matah.
In Java, it’s usually sambal bancak, made by grinding chili, tomatoes and shallots, or sambal terasi, chilies ground with fermented shrimp paste. And Lombok is known for sambal plecing, or chili sauce served with water spinach.
Maybe our love affair and journey with sambal, like our mindset, is something uniquely our own.
I was left with one lingering question: With all this undying love for sambal, what about people who don’t like it or worse, can’t handle it at all? Are they seen as, or perhaps feel, “weak”, or dare I say, less Indonesian?
I’ve often wondered this myself. Being the firstborn child and grandchild in a big Sumatran family, my parents were very careful with what I ate growing up, and that included shielding me from the fiery wrath of chilies.
Thirty years later, I might be a disgrace to the Sumatran tribe I came from for my inability to handle chili, let alone sambal.
But are the “rare” Indonesians like me really at fault for being “weak” here?
“Asking for a friend,” I tell William, joking, though we both know I’m asking for myself.
Thankfully, he is understanding. “There’s nothing wrong with it. Not everyone can handle the heat,” he says.
“Some parents introduce chili to their kids early on, while others are more careful. It’s all about how you were raised.”
At the end of the day, sambal isn’t just about the heat; it’s about heart and home.
It’s personal, even for those who can’t handle it. Our perceived “weakness” only highlights how deeply sambal is interwoven into our lives.
No need to feel bad for them (well, us). After all, there’s always ketchup, or kecap.
Adelia Anjani Putri, a communications consultant and former reporter, has found herself writing again. She’s also exploring a career shift that would let her pursue her passions for cooking and catsitting — ideally with a paycheck.