Cap Cai: Culinary Star of the Pontianak–Entikong Highway

Chinese Cuisine: Cap Chai Along the National Road from Pontianak to Entikong, West Kalimantan. Photo: Rmsp.

By Masri Sareb Putra

If you’re traveling the scenic National Road from Pontianak to Entikong in West Kalimantan, don’t just focus on the landscapes—follow the scent of sizzling woks. 

One dish stands out along this well-traveled route: cap cai. A vibrant stir-fry rooted in Hokkien Chinese tradition, the name cap cai translates to "ten vegetables", but don’t take that literally. This dish is less about the number and more about abundance, variety, and flavor.

From the bustling streets of Pontianak to the rural outposts of Sosok and Entikong, cap cai reigns as a culinary favorite. Served hot with a thick, savory sauce and paired with nasi campur (mixed rice), it’s a comfort food that locals and travelers alike swear by. Whether you’re stopping at an urban warung or a roadside diner tucked beneath rustling bamboo, you’ll find cap cai in some form tailored to local tastes, budgets, and ingredients.

A Cultural Staple with Deep Roots

Originating in the Fujian province of China, cap cai made its way to the Indonesian archipelago through centuries of migration, eventually becoming a staple of Chinese-Indonesian cuisine. In West Kalimantan—home to one of Indonesia’s largest ethnic Chinese populations—it’s more than just a dish. Cap cai is a symbol of harmony and adaptability, blending Chinese culinary heritage with local Indonesian flavors.

Vegetables like cabbage, carrots, mustard greens, cauliflower, and wood ear mushrooms are common players. But cap cai is fluid. Along the Pontianak–Simpang Ampar–Sosok–Entikong corridor, it often includes local ingredients like tauco (fermented soybean paste), bamboo shoots, sweet corn, or even banana blossoms. The presence of tauge (bean sprouts) adds a refreshing crunch, while the addition of red chili or garlic chives brings a welcome punch of spice.

Add-ins like shrimp, chicken, crab, or even mushrooms for vegetarians give each plate its own personality. It's as diverse as the communities it feeds' from Chinese-Indonesian families to Dayak truckers, Malay workers, and cross-border travelers heading to or from Sarawak, Malaysia.

Cap Cai and Nasi Campur: A Perfect Pair

What makes cap cai even better? A scoop of nasi campur steamed rice topped with delights like char siu (barbecued pork), lapciong (Chinese sausage), soy-braised egg, or Hainan-style chicken. Together, they balance each other beautifully: the richness of the meats offset by the freshness and crunch of the stir-fry.

At popular eateries in Pontianak, like Nasi Akwang on Jalan Pahlawan, Cipta Rasa near Arteri Supadio, or the humble but packed Warung Makan Lestari in Siantan; cap cai often gets a spicy kick from sambal or a tangy lift from tauco. Some even serve it with a splash of Chinese rice wine or oyster sauce, creating a savory umami explosion.

Head east toward Simpang Ampar, Sosok, and Tayan, and you’ll find humbler but no less delicious versions served in generous, communal-style portions. Many warungs operate from early morning to late evening, feeding everyone from schoolchildren to truck drivers hauling palm oil. These spots cater to all dietary needs: Muslims who avoid pork, vegetarians seeking tofu and mushrooms, and seafood lovers craving shrimp or crab. All for just Rp25,000–Rp45,000 ($1.50–$3.00) a plate.

A Tasty Road Trip Companion

The Pontianak–Entikong highway is more than a border route; it’s a culinary pilgrimage. Each stop offers not just nourishment, but a snapshot of West Kalimantan’s cultural and culinary mosaic. Cap cai, in its many forms, is a reflection of that diversity.

In Entikong, near the Malaysian border, roadside stalls whip up rustic versions using what’s fresh and available; young papaya, ginger leaves, or even wild greens from nearby hills. In Sosok, locals favor bamboo shoots and baby corn. Meanwhile, in traditional towns like Sekadau and Sanggau, Chinese-Peranakan families often pass down secret spice blends for cap cai that include hints of cinnamon, star anise, or white pepper.

These warungs and restaurants not only serve food; they tell stories of migration, adaptation, and survival. Generations of Chinese-Indonesian cooks have preserved their heritage by blending it with the land they now call home. Wherever you stop, cap cai is there; piping hot, generously portioned, and deeply satisfying.

In the end, this humble stir-fry speaks volumes: of history, of cultural mingling, of everyday creativity. It’s not just a dish. It’s a delicious bridge between heritage and homegrown flavor; a star of the road, and a story on every plate.*)