IT SMELLS FISHY

I’m a wee bit stuffed, I can’t eat as much as I used to. Because I don’t eat so much anymore.
The soup was very good, so was the sooty grilled meat with hot sauce.
I added some pickle-chili juice to the soup for tanginess – mmm!
My dinner was delightful, but I left a slurry in the bowl.
I’m a more modest eater now.

I also probably spend more time scoping out my fellow diners than in the past. The whatever it was of Asian appearance who spoke no Cantonese or Mandarin at the table on the other side of the aisle, the young fellow at the other table who ordered in English, the elderly Cantonese couple at the table to my right sharing a plate of chow mein, and the sharp-tongued Northerner and her two men at the round table.
Plus the family at the table ahead of me, with the mommy, daddy, auntie, fat-faced boy-child, and perky little girl with pretty decorative things in her hair.  The auntie seemed very casual about everything, the little girl was intensely enjoying the food in front of her.
A pinch of fresh lettuce or basil, a bit of grilled meat and bean-thread noodle, squeeze of lemon, dab of sauce – yummy!
Then repeat. Again yummy!

Her older brother just shoveled the food in, then went outside to play. Her auntie was already using a toothpick, swilling her mouth out with tea, and chatting with the women who work there, when the little girl was only half way through the tactile food in front of her.
Food is so much more enjoyable when you can play with it.


SOMEWHERE ELSE

The entire place smelled of drying fish, which told the arriving visitor what the main enterprise in that town was. From the ferry you could see tall palms scattered among the buildings and clustering further in, but other than these deliberate plantings the coast and hills behind looked somewhat bare, with sparse vegetation. It was the hot season, perfect for drying the catch. The warehouses near the dock shimmered in the heat, and one wondered how sensible it had been to use corrugated iron sheets for roofing in this climate. A few pedicabs stood in the shade of a covered loading dock waiting for the better-heeled passengers to disembark, their drivers casually slumped among the vehicles, relaxing.

Mr. Ho was waiting in his van with the air-conditioning going full-blast. From the outside all you could see was the grey haze of his cigar, until you got closer and discerned the grinning visage in the driver seat. As soon as we got going he rolled the windows down to let the smoke out. When I had met him months ago he smelled of burning tobacco too.
As he explained it, the choices were cheroot or dried fish as personal funk, and after a lifetime in Banda Djamroed, he had his preferences.
Still, the vehicle should not smell too much of smoke – his wife and daughters occasionally used it too.
Especially when the Japanese sedan was broken.

After nightfall four of us headed out to eat on Djalan Alamoedin – Mr. Ho, the older daughter, the maiden auntie who lived with them and did the books in the office, and myself.
Was I by any chance interested in the Chinese restaurant on the corner of Gang Apbal? Well, no, the street food looked much more interesting. But before I had a chance to voice that opinion, the maiden auntie mentioned softly that the chicken with chilipaste and peanuts at Restoran Taai Foek was soooo delicious! She sounded so wistful and dreamy that I promptly said that yes indeed the Chinese restaurant would be just fine.
The owner greeted Mr. Ho like an old friend – I found out later they regularly played mahjong together – and sat us in the back, away from the door and the windows, behind a screen which gave us privacy.
The chicken with chilipaste and peanuts was indeed delicious. It was, remarkably, sweet. Oyster-sauce kangkong, a fish I cannot identify steamed with three kinds of ginger-like root plus dried black mushrooms, stirfried stringbeans and pork shred, plus, too much at that point, a steamed pudding with dates, gingko nuts, and glutinous rice.
They tried to get me to have a beer to drink with my meal – all white people depend on beer, they knew this for a fact – but I simply had the tea. Plus some of the maiden auntie’s bottle of ginger ale.
When we left the restaurant the smell of drying fish from the seafront mingled with the sooty reek of barbecue from the street vendors, grilling pork and fresh fish over burning frond and coconut husk. A dense wall of odeur, intense, intoxicating, slightly nauseating.

I lit up a cigarette, and when Mr. Ho told us to wait while he went and got the car with one of the restaurant boys, both the maiden auntie and the daughter promptly cadged two of my non-filters. I’ve never seen ladies suck down nicotine so fast.
Both of them were chomping their chewing gum madly by the time mr. Ho drove up.

It’s good for digestion, lah!
And freshens breath after eating!
They firmly encouraged me to try it also.


A few days later I did get a chance to try out the street food. I was on my own that day, despite mr. Ho’s concern that a white face would attract attention from the locals, and the possessor of said face might not know how to deal with stares and questions.
But I assured him that I could handle myself, and I would not drift off the main streets into dodgy areas. His walled home and warehouses were in any case near enough to Djalan Alamoedin and Djalan Soekaboemi , and though it was unbearably hot, I was by that time fairly used to strolling sloyong sloyong, with arms drooping and relaxed, and not moving any more muscles or body parts than I had to. It would be okay. No car. I’ll be sure to have lots of tea before I go, and no, I shan’t buy any freshly made ‘cold’ beverages while in the poesoh (city centre).

Sloyong-sloyong. Not quite as relaxed and lazy-looking as selembe-lembe, but very close. It’s like ghost-walking, drifting along the road at a perceptible pace, but with the least amount of motion possible. White shirt, thin slacks, and lightweight shoes.
Unless there is too little shade you won’t really need a hat, though it helps.
But a cigarette drooping out of one’s mouth is essential. It’s the attitude.

I ate grilled squid at a rickety table underneath a tree. Soot-streaked white flesh, ripped basil leaves and lemon juice, crumbled fried peanuts, and a drizzle of thick sweet dark sauce. Fresh chilies optional.

While I bit into the succulent morsels, I observed a young lady at another table, close to the traffic. She’d raise a skein of noodles to her face and inhale it slowly, then stop chewing when a vehicle passed, turning her head to watch it as it went by. It took a long time for her to eat her noodles, she seemed much more interested in the cars. Occasionally she added a dollop of chilipaste to the noodles, once or twice a drizzle of sweet dark sauce. By the time she had nearly finished eating, her bowl had a thick slurry at the bottom, and the noodles going into her mouth looked rusty instead of white.
I have no idea what the flavour had originally been. It may have been seafood chunks in a pale broth, with tamarind, turmeric, and ground peanuts. But that was long ago.
Before all the cars, and absent-minded additions of chilipaste.

I had a glass of cool squigglies with green syrup and condensed milk while watching her down the last of her noodles. She still looked at the cars as they passed, her head swiveling away from her bowl each time.


The last night that I was there we went to the restaurant at the corner of Gang Apbal again. I had spoken to the owner and arranged a meal in advance, choosing among the dishes he recommended, and making sure that the chicken with chilipaste and peanuts was among them, as well as some of the nice fatty pork with pickled garlic that the daughter had mentioned. And plenty of vegetable dishes, because mr. Ho’s wife had remarked that leafy greens were good for the skin, and soothed the humours.
I’d heard the skin thing before, but I had no idea what she meant by the humours. Probably the surfeit of chilies in the local diet got on her nerves.
The restaurant owner knew who was coming, and made sure to have the table ready, as well as a soup that he know they all liked – expensive ingredients, clarified broth.
Plus another lovely soup half-way through, just before the juicy grilled squab with crunchy things.
I must commend him on his stellar recommendations. I gained much face that evening.

Three hours later we drifted out into the darkness. The barbecue sellers were folding up for the night, and a line of pedicabs stood empty along the far side of the street, their operators snacking on the last of the grilled meats and the baked banana wrapped in leaves.
Mr. Ho and his son went to get the vehicles, with the help of restaurant boys holding lamps. After thanking me for the meal, the two elderly Tangson brothers from the factory near the wharf (Tangson Primus, Tangson Secundus), and their sister (Tangson Nining) went up to Djalan Kebauwen where their driver had waited.

As soon as it was safe to do so, both of Mr. Ho’s daughters, and the maiden aunt, and even Mrs. Ho herself, lit up the cigarettes that I had given them.   From the sea came the odour of dried fish, now all the more noticeable because there was so little smell from the street food vendors. 
I got into the van with Mr. Ho and the maiden aunt, both daughters and Mrs. Ho rode in the sedan with the son.
Mr. Ho had a cigar in his mouth, and auntie chided him about the smell.
Then both agreed it was anyhow better than the reek of drying fish.


On the boat the next day I swear I could still smell the drying fish several hours after we had left the harbour.
But that may have been a faint perfume from the local people who were also on board.
Mr. Ho had given me some cigars; they would prevent sea-sickness.
I lit one, and the fishy remnant faded.


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