Coffee, Butter and a Great Deal of Smoke

Malaysia’s traditional kopi owes its dark, powerful character not only to robusta and liberica beans, but also to an unusual roasting method involving sugar, butter and plenty of smoke. At Kun Kee, one of Penang’s long-established coffee roasters, I followed the transformation from humble green beans to a black, aromatic brew strong enough to wake both the drinker and, quite possibly, the neighbours.

Malaysians take their coffee seriously, although they do not necessarily drink it quickly. In a traditional kopitiam, or coffee shop, customers can sit for hours around marble-topped tables, reading newspapers, chatting with friends, and letting the ceiling fans move the hot air about with great determination but limited success.

Coffee may seem an unlikely national obsession in a country once ruled by the British, who did their best to promote tea wherever they went. Malaysia, however, developed its own loyalties. Here coffee is kopi, and it has little interest in being mistaken for a cappuccino, espresso or flat white. It is dark, thick, slightly bitter and unapologetically aromatic.

Its distinctive character comes partly from the beans. Malaysian coffee traditionally uses liberica and robusta, varieties known for their strong, earthy flavours. But the real personality emerges during roasting. The beans are first roasted until dark brown, then roasted again with sugar and butter – or, in less expensive blends, margarine. The result is coffee with low acidity, a heavy body and a smoky, caramelised bitterness.

Once ground, the coffee is brewed by pouring hot water through grounds held in a long cloth filter, popularly known as a coffee sock. This is considerably less glamorous than the polished machinery of a fashionable espresso bar, but it does the job admirably. The finished kopi may be served hot or over ice, black with sugar as kopi-O, or sweetened with condensed milk as kopi. Nobody could accuse it of lacking options – or calories.

Curious to see how this formidable drink was made, I began looking for a traditional roaster in George Town. Several had closed, moved far from the historic centre or become museums, which is usually what happens to a working tradition once it becomes easier to photograph than to practise. Just as my search was beginning to feel over-caffeinated but underproductive, someone gave me the address of Kun Kee.

Set among George Town’s old shophouses, Kun Kee is one of Penang’s long-established coffee roasters.

Its best-known product, Salute Kopi O, is instantly recognisable by the naval officer saluting from the packet. He has been holding that salute for decades, an impressive display of discipline even before the morning coffee.

The family business began in the 1950s. Its founder had left Hainan for Penang before the Japanese occupation and worked his way from employee to owner through persistence and hard labour. Today, the company is run by the second generation and supplies coffee throughout Malaysia and overseas. The equipment and scale have changed, but the roasting method still depends on experience, timing and men willing to spend their working day in a room full of heat and smoke.

I arrived by prior arrangement as the first jute sacks of coffee were being loaded onto a truck for delivery. Inside, the roasting was about to begin. The premises were dim and smoky, and the air carried such an intense coffee aroma that breathing felt like an early form of tasting.

During the first roast, the beans tumbled in the heat until they turned dark brown. They were then roasted a second time with sugar and butter. Historically, these additions helped soften or disguise the harsher notes of inexpensive beans; over time, the method created the flavour Malaysians came to recognise and love as traditional kopi.

As the men stirred, the beans, sugar and butter merged into a glossy black sludge. It looked less like the beginning of breakfast than something intended for resurfacing a road. Appearances, however, are not always reliable – especially in matters of coffee.

The hot mixture was poured into a large metal tray and cooled by fans and blowers. As it hardened, the sludge became a solid, tar-like slab. The workers attacked it with flat shovels, breaking it into large pieces before feeding them through a machine that reduced them to smaller fragments. These were finally ground into the familiar coffee powder. From green beans to black rubble to breakfast: the process was not elegant, but it was remarkably effective.

For the next several mornings, my usual cup of kopi-O no longer seemed quite so ordinary. Every sip brought back the smoky room, the roar of the machinery, and the men patiently repeating a process refined over generations. It also brought back the sight of that alarming black slab. Fortunately, it tasted much better than it looked- and was far easier to drink than to photograph.