From peerless risottos to pistachio fondant, hidden upstairs café CHUMS is worth the climb in Taman Cheras

July 26, 2025
9:44 am

KUALA LUMPUR, July 26 — The first spoonful still stays with me: a dashi-softened risotto carrying a savoury warmth that unfolds gently, each grain holding a quiet hum before giving way to the sea-sweetness of Hokkaido scallops.

Their caramelised edges provide the lightest contrast, snow peas snapping green through the richness, trout roe scattering bright bursts of brine that sharpen everything for a heartbeat.

This is the Hokkaido Scallop Risotto at CHUMS, a café-restaurant blending Australian flavours with a Malaysian touch, and it’s divine.

The shop’s entrance is easy to miss (left). Iced Americano and Genmai Lemon Tea (right). — Pictures by CK Lim

Located in a row of shophouses in the always-busy Taman Cheras (also known as Yulek), CHUMS isn’t the sort of place you stumble upon; its sign at street level is easy to miss, and the four of us almost did.

The climb up a narrow staircase leads us into a room where pale wood furnishing reigns. Potted greens anchor the space, and a faint trace of dried eucalyptus drifts in the air, clean and herbal.

The restaurant-café feels aptly named; “chums” is but another way of saying “close friends”, after all, so we feel the place was made for our little quartet.

The space is washed with soft daylight. — Picture by CK Lim

Indeed, this isn’t a room designed for haste, but one that invites us to take our time, to let the meal stretch into the afternoon.

Three of us order black coffee, iced Americanos brewed from Ethiopia Sidama beans that reveal themselves slowly — blueberry brightness at first, then bergamot’s floral trace, finishing with the gentle sweetness of demerara sugar.

The fourth opts for an iced Genmai Lemon Tea, its citrus brightness layered over the toasted warmth of roasted rice, a refreshing counterpoint that lingers just long enough.

The space is washed with soft daylight. Small details such as wine bottles filled with fresh flowers by the windowsill catch our eyes.

It feels almost an interruption to our meditative reverie when our mains finally arrive, each set before us like a quiet offering.

Duck Rigatoni (left). Wine bottles with fresh flowers (right). — Pictures by CK Lim

Across from me, the Duck Rigatoni holds a wine-dark sauce, each hollow tube heavy with braise, shreds of duck collapsing under their own tenderness, red wine and herbs still resonant in the meat.

Cheddar lends a sharpness, an edge that cuts through the warmth, while mozzarella brings a gentle stretch, a milky softness that lingers between bites. It is a sturdy dish, layered and deeply savoury.

My own Iberico Pork Risotto unfolds in pale rose hues, threads of cured jowl weaving nutty sweetness through the rice. The rose cream adds its delicate perfume, pesto flecks bring bright herbal notes whilst dollops of spring onion cream cheese add a welcoming tang.

I taste a spoonful and then another. This might be a dish one feels the least inclined to share, if I’m honest.

It’s the dish that stays with me the most, surpassing even the scallop risotto that another had ordered and that we have all sampled.

(Do note that the Iberico Pork Risotto is typically a dinner menu item; however, the staff had kindly informed me they had it available for lunch too. Lucky me.)

Iberico Pork Risotto (left). Fish & Chips (right) — Pictures by CK Lim

Fish & Chips might seem a terribly safe choice, but the most effortless of dishes (at least seemingly so) can be the hardest to perfect. Barramundi, cloaked in a batter so fine it shatters at the touch, gives way to flesh white and mild, its brininess momentarily lifted by a squeeze of lemon.

Golden fries, edges just catching crispness, beg to be dragged through tartar sauce, caper-sharp yet mellowed by cream. As good as the original wrapped in greasy old newspapers in a London chippy.

When the plates are cleared, conversation drifts into its own rhythm until desserts arrive, meant for all of us to share.

The “Crack It” Tiramisu comes first, its cacao-dusted chocolate lid waiting to be struck; we tap it gently, shards splintering into rum-laced mascarpone and sponge soaked through with espresso, bitter coffee and cocoa balancing the warmth of spirit.

The ‘Crack It’ Tiramisu. — Pictures by CK Lim

Then the Pistachio Fondant, unassuming in its muddy green crust, gives way to a slow spill of molten pistachio cream. Its nut-buttery richness is balanced by the bright, tropical chill of passion fruit gelato, a fleeting equilibrium of heat and brightness that has us chasing the last spoonfuls.

By the time the plates are empty, the afternoon has slipped into an unhurried tempo, as though time itself has loosened its hold. We sit there a while longer, reluctant to disturb what we’ve found — this pocket of light, the lingering scent of eucalyptus, the simple pleasure of a meal shared without hurry.

Descending the staircase back into the street, I carry the memory not as a list of flavours but as a trace of warmth, the kind that remains when the company and the conversation are what you remember most.