Soto Banjar: The Roots that Bind Our Family

A pat on the shoulder is the first warning. In five minutes, a small shake on the waist or back follows, the second warning. If that doesn’t work, brace yourself—the third strike, a strike out, is screaming.

“Come on, wake up! Start praying, while the bathroom is still empty!”

The matriarchs of the Masdar Damang family will start shouting, shaking the sleepy children who stayed up too late. Their scolding continues until everyone is awake, preparing for the Eid prayer.

This moment happens every 1st of Syawal, a grand and glorius day for all moslems around the world. Including in Indonesia. It is the end of the puasa, fasting, a month-long of Ramadan. All of Masdar’s grandchildren are excited to greet this day. We can eat lots of food, buy meatballs, drink iced beverages during the day, and get angpao (money gifts). Even though we are lazy, we eventually wake up, head to the dining table, drink warm tea, and wait our turn to shower.

From the kitchen, the scent of chicken broth fills the room, making us wide awake. On the old amben (long and wide bench), a variety of ingredients for Banjar soto is laid out: thinly sliced crispy potatoes, shredded chicken, perkedel (potato fritters), celery, spring onion, fried shallot, and sambal.

Sometimes, we’d sneak a perkedel or two, which earned us glares and scolding. The matriarchs would chase us away like shooing chickens stealing grain.

The Masdar family is indeed large. Grandpa (Kaik) and Grandma had 12 children, but four passed away during childhood. Every Eid, Masdar’s children and grandchildren gather at Kaik’s house in Lumajang, a small town in East Java. They come from all over—Berau, Samarinda, Denpasar, Jombang, Surabaya, and the closest, Jember.

In every gathering, one thing remains: soto Banjar.

***

When I couldn’t read yet, and Grandpa Kaik was still alive, making us recite short verses, soto Banjar was always present at family events.

Grandpa Kaik was in the Navy and moved his family from Tanjung Redeb, Berau, East Kalimantan, to Surabaya in 1960. After retiring, he settled in Lumajang.

As a Banjar family from Kalimantan who moved to Java, soto Banjar became part of the Masdar family’s identity. It helped keep the distant East Kalimantan and faraway relatives close.

That’s why soto Banjar became a family heirloom passed down through generations, from Grandma to her children and grandchildren. It’s always there at weddings, circumcisions, religious gatherings, and of course, Eid. All of Kaik’s grandchildren, regardless of gender, know how to cook soto Banjar.

The heart of Banjar soto is its broth. On regular days, we make it with broiler chickens, but for special occasions, it has to be free-range chicken broth. Non-negotiable. Once the broth is set, the rest is easy.

Soto Banjar has many spices, but they are simple and you can find it easily on the market everywhere: shallots, garlic, pepper, and nutmeg. Other spices like fennel, cloves, cinnamon, and cardamom are also used. One spice we used when we lived in Tanjung Redeb was poppy seed (kaskas), but it’s hard to find in East Java, so we leave it out.

There are two versions of soto Banjar: with milk or without. Our family prefers the latter because it has a fresher taste, and the broth stands out without the overpowering richness of milk.

“If you use milk, it can make some people nauseous,” said Mamak, my mother, remind us that most Indonesian (and Asian) are lactose intolerant.

Soto Banjar is easy to make, but preparing it takes time. You have to make lontong or ketupat (rice cakes), which we believe is the best pairing for Banjar soto. If eaten with rice, it is called soup Banjar, although some of us still prefer rice.

“It’s not complete without rice,” one cheeky cousin quipped.

In addition to lontong, we also need to make perkedel, which means we should peeling and soaking potatoes. After that, we have to mashed it, and mix it with the spice blend, form it into round shape, and fry it until golden brown.

Then there are thinly sliced potatoes, fried to a crisp, which become our favorite snack when no one is watching in the kitchen. There’s also rice vermicelli, boiled duck eggs, and sambal.

Once everything is ready, we follow an assemble that has stood for decades: lontong, rice vermicelli, perkedel, shredded chicken, boiled eggs sliced lengthwise, fried shallots, celery, potato chips, sambal, and a splash of lime. After assembling, it's all drenched in steaming broth, its aroma filling the air—a mix of free-range chicken stock and fried garlic with margarine added just before turning off the stove. The perkedel can be eaten as is or mashed into the broth, thickening it and enhancing the savory flavor. The fresh lime juice and sambal add a kick, making the meal complete.

After Eid prayers and seeking forgiveness from our parents and family, it’s time to eat soto Banjar. No matter our age, we can all eat two bowls in one sitting. We sit together in the living room, a dozen of us, with sweat trickling down our foreheads and envelopes full of money from uncles and aunts.

This scene brightens our hearts.

***

Since marrying a Minang-Palembang woman who spent part of her life in Jambi, my mother-in-law has always made an effort to make me feel at home. Her way is simple: she cooks soto Banjar. Before I joined the family, their Eid table was filled with dishes like pempek, rendang, ketupat, and opor.

The first time I spent Eid in Jambi, I was surprised. As soon as the rooster crowed, my father-in-law was already munching on pempek and sipping cuko (pempek vinegar). I was stunned, thinking, "People from Ogan Komering Ilir must have strong stomachs, already downing vinegar first thing in the morning!"

My mother-in-law’s gesture of making soto Banjar each Eid in our Jambi home makes the distance between us feel closer. The soto brings familiarity, even in a foreign land with new family and new culinary traditions. Perhaps this is what Grandpa Masdar and Grandma Zubaedah felt when they first arrived in Lumajang decades ago.

For me, Eid will never be the same. My father passed away in 2010, leaving a hole that can never be filled. My close cousin, Rizal Fachriansyah, also passed away young. Of Kaik Masdar’s 12 children, only five daughters remain—matriarchs who are still strong, full of energy to scold and guide their unruly children, nephews, and grandchildren.

Many of our cousins have started their own families. We, who were once the children, are now the aunts and uncles, no longer receiving money on envelopes but handing them out. Like Kaik Masdar’s children who moved far and wide, we too are scattered—in Lombok, Aceh, Berau, Jakarta, Yogyakarta, Surabaya, and even Perth. The days of eating Banjar soto together in full formation may be hard to replicate.

Yet, we all know that life goes on. People come and go, remembered and mourned, but always prayed for. Even as time and memories pass, there is one thing that remains, binding our family in every Eid, both past and future. It has become the roots that remind us of where we come from and keep us grounded.

That is soto Banjar.