We have a favourite Indian restaurant in Dili, called Megha India. The food is always fresh and delicious, but more importantly, it is made with love.
Mr Kerala (as we like to call him) comes from... well... Kerala. He is a moustached, rather stout man with a belly that makes him look like he doesn’t mind one little bit if he doesn’t get any customers for his buffet lunch – all the more for him. His sensible, short-sleeved business shirts do a not-so-effective job of disguising this protruding feature, made all the more obvious by the over-stressed buttons around his middle-region. He always displays a gentle film of perspiration across his brow, and a smile. And he is proud – so proud – of the food he prepares, single-handedly and lovingly in his oven-like kitchen.
Here’s how a typical visit to his House of Delectable Curries goes:
Upon entering the restaurant we are greeted by the smiling man, already looking slightly flustered, possibly because he has only just finished cleaning up his buffet lunch (you can take this statement any way you like).
He is VERY happy to see us, and informs us immediately that he has some nice fish that he has only just purchased and it is very, VERY fresh. (This is before we have even sat down.) I’m always happy to indulge him by remarking how hungry I am and how excited I am to be there, and how it’s been so long since the last time we ate his delicious food.
We sit, survey the menu and ask him what else is good today. After some negotiations about whether we want dry fry or curry, parathas or chapattis, he serves us drinks and then disappears behind a door where the magic happens. (You can actually witness this magic via a large letterbox style window at the back of the restaurant.)
While we’re waiting, I spy him through the letterbox window. I see him busying himself with chopping eggplants, chillis and onions, firing up the woks and frying mustard seeds till they pop. I see him mixing, kneading, slapping and rolling out the parathas and chappatis while the dhal is bubbling on the stove. He has four or five burners on the go at one time and he manages them as successfully as a professional plate-spinner. As he stirs, I imagine little droplets of sweat dripping into the cauldrons of bubbling curry, adding that special element of human salty flavour.
Timed perfectly with the last mouthful of our first drink, he arrives at our table, face beaded with sweat, smiling like a proud parent, bearing armfuls of his gastronomic offspring (well, you get the idea). He takes more drinks orders and proceeds to the bar.
The food is always remarkable, and I always eat too much. And I have absolutely no idea how he does it. Everything from scratch. All by himself.
Part-way through our meal, he does the courteous thing and comes to check on our reactions to his creations. I’m pretty sure he only does this as an ego boost to himself, because he is always showered with compliments at this point. He will often give away some morsel of information about a special ingredient used in the curry and how he brought it back from his village in India on his last visit, such as his special dried tamarind that will keep for years and years without going mouldy if you store it correctly. At other times he will simply make chit-chat, complaining about how he has had three light globes stolen from his restaurant’s front veranda in one week, so he has to unscrew them when he closes at night time.
Last time we were there, he had just returned from two months in India, and our gushes about how much we missed him were rewarded with some complimentary Indian sweets that he had brought back from his village. We also learnt how he has changed the position of his light globes on the veranda to one less obvious to passers-by.
When we leave, sometimes he scolds us for not ringing ahead and ordering his special fish curry that he needs 24-hours’ notice to cook. We promise to be more organised next time. We know we will be rewarded if we are.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
A name by any other rose
After many months of forewarning, Tuk Tuk, one of my favourite Thai eateries in Dili is gone. So sad it was to drive past last month and see it empty. It was one of the most popular places in an (increasingly dwindling) line of cute little beachfront restaurants. I really liked it because it was a pretty green hut with lots of character, and the food was pretty good too (by Dili standards).
So you can imagine my excitement (and slight confusion) when we drove past again just last week to see some people setting up tables inside and a sign outside saying, “The New Tuk Tuk”!!
We made haste to dine once again on fish cakes and seafood red curry in little banana leaf parcels.
Upon our arrival at “The New Tuk Tuk”!! we noted the fresh paint job in primary colours and an unusual mural on the wall - a silhouette in red of a naked woman, looking like the lead singer of a heavy metal band with a background of drums, guitars and psychedelic swirls.
We then noted the menu -a laminated piece of white A4 paper, entitled: “Garden 88”.
This wouldn’t mean anything to those unfamiliar with beachfront Dili eateries, but it meant a hell of a lot to us.
Garden 88 is another beachfront restaurant just 50 metres down the road. It is always empty.
As you can imagine, our suspicions were aroused at this point.
Still, we were hungry, so we chose a few dishes, and after being told “no have” to around half a dozen of them, we settled on some spring rolls, a papaya salad and some barbecued squid.
Our suspicions were further aroused when we noticed that “The New Tuk Tuk”!! didn’t appear to have a kitchen, and that our food was arriving through the front door, in the arms of an exhausted-looking waitress.
Our suspicions were finally confirmed upon the eating of the food which was, at best, mediocre.
To give you an idea about just how disappointed I was, think of “The New Tuk Tuk”!! as the Grease 2 of restaurants - Big hype, same name, but none of the stars of the original.
How can these people sleep at night when they know they are so blatantly capitalising on another’s success?
Bastards!!
****************************************
There is an ironic twist to this story.
I was grocery shopping the other day at Landmark Plaza. There is a Chinese restaurant next door. Guess what it’s called...
“The New Garden 88”.
So you can imagine my excitement (and slight confusion) when we drove past again just last week to see some people setting up tables inside and a sign outside saying, “The New Tuk Tuk”!!
We made haste to dine once again on fish cakes and seafood red curry in little banana leaf parcels.
Upon our arrival at “The New Tuk Tuk”!! we noted the fresh paint job in primary colours and an unusual mural on the wall - a silhouette in red of a naked woman, looking like the lead singer of a heavy metal band with a background of drums, guitars and psychedelic swirls.
We then noted the menu -a laminated piece of white A4 paper, entitled: “Garden 88”.
This wouldn’t mean anything to those unfamiliar with beachfront Dili eateries, but it meant a hell of a lot to us.
Garden 88 is another beachfront restaurant just 50 metres down the road. It is always empty.
As you can imagine, our suspicions were aroused at this point.
Still, we were hungry, so we chose a few dishes, and after being told “no have” to around half a dozen of them, we settled on some spring rolls, a papaya salad and some barbecued squid.
Our suspicions were further aroused when we noticed that “The New Tuk Tuk”!! didn’t appear to have a kitchen, and that our food was arriving through the front door, in the arms of an exhausted-looking waitress.
Our suspicions were finally confirmed upon the eating of the food which was, at best, mediocre.
To give you an idea about just how disappointed I was, think of “The New Tuk Tuk”!! as the Grease 2 of restaurants - Big hype, same name, but none of the stars of the original.
How can these people sleep at night when they know they are so blatantly capitalising on another’s success?
Bastards!!
****************************************
There is an ironic twist to this story.
I was grocery shopping the other day at Landmark Plaza. There is a Chinese restaurant next door. Guess what it’s called...
“The New Garden 88”.
Blood lust
Mestra Maria* (aka our Tetun teacher) is one of the most gentle and softly spoken people in East Timor.
It’s true!
In a recent class, we were learning about the word “to’o” (toh-oh). It means “until”. Maria told us that in Timor, when cooking, there is a saying: “Tein to’o tasak” - “cook until it’s cooked” (Good advice, especially when salmonella lurks).
We got the point, but just to drive the message home, she added, with enthusiastic actions to match, “Kill people until dead”, followed by an evil little chuckle.
She wrote the sentence on the board.
OK, yes, we understand.
And then, another example, again with actions, just in case we didn’t get it the first time: “Stab the pig until it dies.”
Another evil laugh as she wrote the sentence on the board.
And then: “Hit the cow until killed” (this one is really disturbing).
They do say it’s the quiet ones, don’t they?
*Name has been changed.
It’s true!
In a recent class, we were learning about the word “to’o” (toh-oh). It means “until”. Maria told us that in Timor, when cooking, there is a saying: “Tein to’o tasak” - “cook until it’s cooked” (Good advice, especially when salmonella lurks).
We got the point, but just to drive the message home, she added, with enthusiastic actions to match, “Kill people until dead”, followed by an evil little chuckle.
She wrote the sentence on the board.
OK, yes, we understand.
And then, another example, again with actions, just in case we didn’t get it the first time: “Stab the pig until it dies.”
Another evil laugh as she wrote the sentence on the board.
And then: “Hit the cow until killed” (this one is really disturbing).
They do say it’s the quiet ones, don’t they?
*Name has been changed.
DV in Dili
I just went out to get a bite to eat for lunch at a busy little cafeteria around the corner. I took my uni readings with me because I was sans company.
I ordered my food, chose a seat in a nice quiet corner and got down to business: eating and reading. I didn’t immediately notice the couple sitting at the table directly to the left of me.
I successfully entered the Zone of Academic Consciousness, but shortly after, was diverted off course by something happening at said table on my left.
The woman (just beyond my peripheral vision) had begun continuously whacking the man (just within my peripheral vision) with an empty water bottle. The man was feebly defending himself, both in word (by softly trying to placate the woman in a language I couldn’t understand) and deed (by blocking the blows with his forearm while looking embarrassingly around at the people in the restaurant). The woman scolding him was doing so with lowered voice, but she was very obviously unconcerned about the scene she was creating with the bottle.
I didn’t feel it was my place to stare, so I kept my eyes on my reading, pretending not to notice. But in my mind I was secretly scandalising about what it could all be about.
After a little while, I couldn’t bear it any longer. I looked up. But I didn’t look directly at them. I just kept them in my peripheral vision, pretending to be looking at a picture on the wall near them.
They both looked at me and the woman stopped the whacking, momentarily.
I went back to pretending to read. The woman went back to whacking and scolding.
A short time later, I looked up and stared innocently at the wall again, as if considering something very intellectual from the reading I’d just been doing. They both looked at me and again the whacking stopped. I noticed that other people in the restaurant were also pretending not to notice, looking at their own parts of wall.
I resumed “reading”, the whacking continued.
I wasn’t getting any work done, so I decided to pack up and leave. As I was pushing my chair in, I turned and looked directly at the couple, and gave them a big smile. I’m not sure why. I guess I thought I’d be the first to acknowledge the elephant in the room by making light of the situation.
The woman didn’t see the funny side of it. When I met her gaze, I was greeted with the most unpleasant of death stares, looking out from heavily lined eyes, punctuated by an intimidating scowl.
Whoops!
I walked out, to the beat of plastic against skull.
I ordered my food, chose a seat in a nice quiet corner and got down to business: eating and reading. I didn’t immediately notice the couple sitting at the table directly to the left of me.
I successfully entered the Zone of Academic Consciousness, but shortly after, was diverted off course by something happening at said table on my left.
The woman (just beyond my peripheral vision) had begun continuously whacking the man (just within my peripheral vision) with an empty water bottle. The man was feebly defending himself, both in word (by softly trying to placate the woman in a language I couldn’t understand) and deed (by blocking the blows with his forearm while looking embarrassingly around at the people in the restaurant). The woman scolding him was doing so with lowered voice, but she was very obviously unconcerned about the scene she was creating with the bottle.
I didn’t feel it was my place to stare, so I kept my eyes on my reading, pretending not to notice. But in my mind I was secretly scandalising about what it could all be about.
After a little while, I couldn’t bear it any longer. I looked up. But I didn’t look directly at them. I just kept them in my peripheral vision, pretending to be looking at a picture on the wall near them.
They both looked at me and the woman stopped the whacking, momentarily.
I went back to pretending to read. The woman went back to whacking and scolding.
A short time later, I looked up and stared innocently at the wall again, as if considering something very intellectual from the reading I’d just been doing. They both looked at me and again the whacking stopped. I noticed that other people in the restaurant were also pretending not to notice, looking at their own parts of wall.
I resumed “reading”, the whacking continued.
I wasn’t getting any work done, so I decided to pack up and leave. As I was pushing my chair in, I turned and looked directly at the couple, and gave them a big smile. I’m not sure why. I guess I thought I’d be the first to acknowledge the elephant in the room by making light of the situation.
The woman didn’t see the funny side of it. When I met her gaze, I was greeted with the most unpleasant of death stares, looking out from heavily lined eyes, punctuated by an intimidating scowl.
Whoops!
I walked out, to the beat of plastic against skull.
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