All my friends and family who helped me out in my trip down “childhood foodie indulgence” lane a few months ago will appreciate this:
In a particularly desperate, shaky, gotta-have-cholocate-now-!-oh-shit-!-we’ve-run-out-of-chocolate-! moments today, I raided the kitchen and came up with something I might otherwise have scoffed at in my more refined adult life, had I been in another place: a spoonful of nutella, double-dipped into a jar of crunchy peanut butter.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Friday, July 16, 2010
Life’s like that in Oecusse.
I just went out into my (very overgrown) backyard to chase the neighbour’s chicken away, and I bumped into a watermelon, sitting amongst the tall weeds, ripe for the picking.
...
I went to the Oecusse market this morning. I have been living in Dili and eating hotel food for the last six weeks, so it was a much-anticipated fresh food purchase. I’m now eating the rewards for lunch. I made a simple avocado and tomato salad with thinly sliced Asian shallots and a tiny clove of garlic, finished off with some local sea salt, pepper, extra virgin olive oil and red wine vinegar.
I don’t believe I have ever tasted anything quite as fresh and bursting with flavour.
...
I went to the Oecusse market this morning. I have been living in Dili and eating hotel food for the last six weeks, so it was a much-anticipated fresh food purchase. I’m now eating the rewards for lunch. I made a simple avocado and tomato salad with thinly sliced Asian shallots and a tiny clove of garlic, finished off with some local sea salt, pepper, extra virgin olive oil and red wine vinegar.
I don’t believe I have ever tasted anything quite as fresh and bursting with flavour.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Mr Kerala.
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.
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.
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”.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
The Honeymoon. The Highlights.
• Realising that getting there was half the fun.
• Discovering that the entire island of Timor only has one mix tape that has been copied and distributed to all bus drivers, shops and airports for continuous and painful repetition, 24 hours a day. And each song has EXACTLY the same bass line. Since getting back, have realised that it is the same stuff that our little diva neighbour belts out most hours of most days of the week.
• Noting the fully sick detailing on the windscreens of all the local buses - a word or short phrase in a whacky font - as if giving the bus its title, while at the same time diminishing visibility by at least 30%. Here are some of my favourites:
“Simples”
“Blessing”
“Predator”
“Alfa Omega”
“What’s the Greek connection?” you ask. I don’t know.
• Catching an unusually large number of men doing up their pants after urinating in public.
• Learning how to make hibiscus tea (among many other, wondrous tasty treats) at the Casa Luna cooking school (a wedding present from my naughty friends, Tara and Will).
Here’s how: You get 3 hibiscus flowers, put them in a cup. Pour over boiling water. Watch it turn dark purple. Take the flowers out. Squeeze in the juice of a lime. Watch the liquid turn to pink. Add sugar to taste. Chill if desired. Drink.
• Marvelling at young children asleep whilst riding motorbikes with their families. One little boy was standing, slumped over the handlebars, dead to the world.
• Discovering that using a banana leaf as an umbrella may not be all that effective, but it sure looks cool.
• Being oblivious to the fact that our fancy “Honeymoon Special” masseurs from our hotel in Amed were not the same people that come along from the beach and say: “You wan massaz?”. We’d booked for 3pm. The hotel masseurs were late. The beachcombers were not. We weren’t to know. We undressed. The beachcombers started with their baby oil. The fancy ones turned up at the door in their fancy uniforms and their aromatherapy oils. Then there were four masseurs in a room with two half-naked tourists looking confused and guilty, feeling like we’d been caught cheating. We wanted the good stuff. We ditched the baby oil (paid for it) and spent the next hour and a half in aromatherapy heaven.
• Getting loved up on New Year’s Eve with my two favourite men in the whole world: Wade and Michael Franti. Watched and listened to the smooth acoustic tunes with our legs dangling in the pool. Then went back to our own villa*, with our own private pool and had a night time swim as the rain started coming down. (That part was a bit luxurious).
• *Shaking my head in disbelief at the traffic congestion while walking back to our villa on New Year’s Eve. At one end of the road the cars were at a stand-still, motorbikes weaving in and around them, as well as speeding down the footpaths, until eventually, the motorbikes came to a gridlock, leaving only small spaces for us lowly pedestrians to squeeze through. Eventually even we were unable to advance any further, with all the available spaces being taken up by cars, motorbikes and other pedestrians.
• Discovering that the entire island of Timor only has one mix tape that has been copied and distributed to all bus drivers, shops and airports for continuous and painful repetition, 24 hours a day. And each song has EXACTLY the same bass line. Since getting back, have realised that it is the same stuff that our little diva neighbour belts out most hours of most days of the week.
• Noting the fully sick detailing on the windscreens of all the local buses - a word or short phrase in a whacky font - as if giving the bus its title, while at the same time diminishing visibility by at least 30%. Here are some of my favourites:
“Xpressi”
“Stand by You”
“Google”
“Posh Boy”
“Don’t cry”
“Buser”
“Forever Power”
“Predator”“Gentlemen”
“Cleopatra”
“Corinthia”
“What’s the Greek connection?” you ask. I don’t know.
• Catching an unusually large number of men doing up their pants after urinating in public.
• Learning how to make hibiscus tea (among many other, wondrous tasty treats) at the Casa Luna cooking school (a wedding present from my naughty friends, Tara and Will).
Here’s how: You get 3 hibiscus flowers, put them in a cup. Pour over boiling water. Watch it turn dark purple. Take the flowers out. Squeeze in the juice of a lime. Watch the liquid turn to pink. Add sugar to taste. Chill if desired. Drink.
• Marvelling at young children asleep whilst riding motorbikes with their families. One little boy was standing, slumped over the handlebars, dead to the world.
• Discovering that using a banana leaf as an umbrella may not be all that effective, but it sure looks cool.
• Being oblivious to the fact that our fancy “Honeymoon Special” masseurs from our hotel in Amed were not the same people that come along from the beach and say: “You wan massaz?”. We’d booked for 3pm. The hotel masseurs were late. The beachcombers were not. We weren’t to know. We undressed. The beachcombers started with their baby oil. The fancy ones turned up at the door in their fancy uniforms and their aromatherapy oils. Then there were four masseurs in a room with two half-naked tourists looking confused and guilty, feeling like we’d been caught cheating. We wanted the good stuff. We ditched the baby oil (paid for it) and spent the next hour and a half in aromatherapy heaven.
• Getting loved up on New Year’s Eve with my two favourite men in the whole world: Wade and Michael Franti. Watched and listened to the smooth acoustic tunes with our legs dangling in the pool. Then went back to our own villa*, with our own private pool and had a night time swim as the rain started coming down. (That part was a bit luxurious).
• *Shaking my head in disbelief at the traffic congestion while walking back to our villa on New Year’s Eve. At one end of the road the cars were at a stand-still, motorbikes weaving in and around them, as well as speeding down the footpaths, until eventually, the motorbikes came to a gridlock, leaving only small spaces for us lowly pedestrians to squeeze through. Eventually even we were unable to advance any further, with all the available spaces being taken up by cars, motorbikes and other pedestrians.THE Honeymoon Highlight
I didn’t know I was so clever. In fact, I had absolutely no idea what I’d done until it was happening. It’s the sort of thing you do for someone and keep it as a surprise, because it’s so GOOD.
Somehow I managed to surprise both of us.
After half a caprioska on an empty stomach, I forgot about Don and started looking forward to the food. With our drinks we were served a canapé of black truffles in puff pastry - gourmet vegetarian sausage roll – and as soon as I bit into it, I immediately realised something:
I don’t like truffles.
Is that a faux pas?
Of course, I didn’t complain. I still scoffed the lot.
I just went off and vomited quietly in the corner afterwards.
And here are a few of the dishes:
Somehow I managed to surprise both of us.
I booked us into Mosaic – reputedly Bali’s best restaurant. We were to have the degustation menu (our second such indulgence for the trip – the first being at Lamak, with my friend Beverley, where my fellow diners and I shared our first sweetbread experience. For those that don’t know, sweetbread is not bread. And it it’s not so sweet either. Some say “testicle”. I have heard “pancreas”. But don’t let that deter you from this otherwise delightful dining experience. However, I digress...).
When we arrived at the restaurant, I gave my name to the maître-de, but it didn’t appear to be on the list. “That’s bloody typical,” I thought, “‘Best restaurant in Bali?’ I doubt it!” Just when I was about to start rifling through my bag for my booking confirmation, I heard the maître-de exclaim: “Oh! You’re having the Chef’s Table! Follow me!”.
We were at once ushered into a posh lounge area where a man was playing the piano and a few other guests were sitting on plush couches and sipping elaborate cocktails with a general air of self-importance. The whole scene seemed ridiculously inappropriate to me, considering the economic climate of our broader location. This notion was compounded by the man sitting opposite us who was, for all intents and purposes, Don Johnson from Miami Vice, complete with ridiculously long side-parted fringe that he seemed to enjoy flicking back dramatically with both his hand and his head at the same time, with great aplomb. He just made the whole thing feel downright tacky.
I don’t like truffles.
Of course, I didn’t complain. I still scoffed the lot.
I just went off and vomited quietly in the corner afterwards.
Only joking.
We were then collected by a waitress and whisked off to our second location. We walked through the restaurant and down the stairs out the back. Then we were led into a smaller building with around half a dozen tables set up (Don was sitting at one of them, flicking his hair and looking generally seductive), and a fully functioning kitchen. It was then that I twigged: OH MY GOD. WE’RE GOING TO WATCH OUR FOOD BEING COOKED BY REAL CHEFS IN A REAL KITCHEN!!!!!
It was something I’d been dreaming about for a very long time.
Our six-course degustation came with matching wines and it was perhaps the most fancy, French-influenced Asian meal I’ve ever had.
Here is the menu (you will note the chef’s preoccupation with truffles. Personally, I think truffles are passé, but that is perhaps one of my only complaints):
(Click on the image to enlarge, and then drool, if you wish)
And here are a few of the dishes:
I was on a silly high for much of the evening, but it was one of those nights that will definitely be one to remember, and a lovely way to spend our last night in Ubud. Even Don Johnson couldn’t spoil it.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
More Timor commercial television (if it existed)
“So, Clive. What are you having for lunch today?”
“Actually, Bill, I’ve got a hankerin’ for a sandwich.”
“What kind of sandwich? A toasted sandwich?”
“Nope”
“A club sandwich?”
“Nope”
“A knuckle sandwich?”
“Nah mate. A Crazy Sandwich!!”
“Oooh, can I come too?”
“Sure, Bill. The more the CRAZIER!!”
[Insert wacky “Crazy Sandwich” jingle]
“Actually, Bill, I’ve got a hankerin’ for a sandwich.”
“What kind of sandwich? A toasted sandwich?”
“Nope”
“A club sandwich?”
“Nope”
“A knuckle sandwich?”
“Nah mate. A Crazy Sandwich!!”
“Oooh, can I come too?”
“Sure, Bill. The more the CRAZIER!!”
[Insert wacky “Crazy Sandwich” jingle]
Monday, September 14, 2009
It was a day of culinary ups and downs...
It was my first trip to a mountain village. After a long and winding drive up a mountain, we arrived to find the smiling village chief and a couple of others waiting for us, bearing gifts...
1. Green coconut water followed by jelly-like coconut flesh.
Upon arrival, we were presented with a green coconut, complete with hole cut ou
t for drinking. There is a slight fizz to coconut water, and it was very thirst-quenching. It also cools you down when you spill the liquid down your chin and onto your t-shirt. Upon completion of the liquid, we handed our coconuts back to the men bearing machetes, to be prepared for the next stage – a few swift motions with the knife and we had two coconut halves and a little spoon, made from husk, to scoop out the soft flesh. Wade had been side-tracked, looking at some bamboo nearby, so the men just kept feeding me the coconut halves. I was getting full, but I liked it.
2. Pig in broth with eyes
For lunch, we went to the village chief’s house; a lovely spot on the side of the mountain with a gorgeous breeze and shady trees. On the table a big bowl of rice accompanied another bowl , the contents of which reminded me of the “gravy beef” dish that my mum makes, although it wasn’t so much “gravy” as “meaty water”. There were small pieces of flesh floating around, and I’m relatively certain one of them was an eye. I piled my plate high with rice and slopped on some water and a couple of little bits of meat. As I ate, I discovered that one of the pieces was pure, congealed fat, and the other was meat, with skin and hair still attached. It was a bit like eating a piece of cheek with a five o’clock shadow... I would IMAGINE. I couldn’t really know for sure.
3. Popcorn
I must admit, I was still a little hungry on the way back down the mountain. Luckily for me, we were stopped half way down by Tia Maria – the local medicine woman. She offered us sweet tea and coffee, and then brought out two huge bowls of organic, lip-smackingly salty, crunchy, puffy popcorn! Now, I don’t often use the word “gobbled”, but I’m telling you - there were four of us - and we literally GOBBLED that popcorn down. Too quickly, it would seem, because no sooner had we polished off those two huge bowls than Tia Maria had put down another two bowls. A thought flashed through my head as I looked at this strange medicine woman, gums shining bright red with betel nut, her fiery eyes excitedly watching us gobbling her popcorn down: Maybe she’s put a curse on us!!! And we’re doomed to eat popcorn on the side of a mountain for evermore!!!!! But then I realised: she’s a medicine woman, not a witch. I took another handful and thought no more about it.
1. Green coconut water followed by jelly-like coconut flesh.
Upon arrival, we were presented with a green coconut, complete with hole cut ou
t for drinking. There is a slight fizz to coconut water, and it was very thirst-quenching. It also cools you down when you spill the liquid down your chin and onto your t-shirt. Upon completion of the liquid, we handed our coconuts back to the men bearing machetes, to be prepared for the next stage – a few swift motions with the knife and we had two coconut halves and a little spoon, made from husk, to scoop out the soft flesh. Wade had been side-tracked, looking at some bamboo nearby, so the men just kept feeding me the coconut halves. I was getting full, but I liked it.2. Pig in broth with eyes
For lunch, we went to the village chief’s house; a lovely spot on the side of the mountain with a gorgeous breeze and shady trees. On the table a big bowl of rice accompanied another bowl , the contents of which reminded me of the “gravy beef” dish that my mum makes, although it wasn’t so much “gravy” as “meaty water”. There were small pieces of flesh floating around, and I’m relatively certain one of them was an eye. I piled my plate high with rice and slopped on some water and a couple of little bits of meat. As I ate, I discovered that one of the pieces was pure, congealed fat, and the other was meat, with skin and hair still attached. It was a bit like eating a piece of cheek with a five o’clock shadow... I would IMAGINE. I couldn’t really know for sure.
3. Popcorn
I must admit, I was still a little hungry on the way back down the mountain. Luckily for me, we were stopped half way down by Tia Maria – the local medicine woman. She offered us sweet tea and coffee, and then brought out two huge bowls of organic, lip-smackingly salty, crunchy, puffy popcorn! Now, I don’t often use the word “gobbled”, but I’m telling you - there were four of us - and we literally GOBBLED that popcorn down. Too quickly, it would seem, because no sooner had we polished off those two huge bowls than Tia Maria had put down another two bowls. A thought flashed through my head as I looked at this strange medicine woman, gums shining bright red with betel nut, her fiery eyes excitedly watching us gobbling her popcorn down: Maybe she’s put a curse on us!!! And we’re doomed to eat popcorn on the side of a mountain for evermore!!!!! But then I realised: she’s a medicine woman, not a witch. I took another handful and thought no more about it.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Corn-on-the-cob
Wade and I went to a local market in Dili. I call it the “Hali Lara” market, because that’s what I was told it was called. But no one else seems to know what I’m talking about when I say that name. I’ve double-checked it with the person who originally told me the name. She confirmed that it was correct. I wonder if she’s playing a joke.
The Hali Lara market (if that is its real name), is set at the foot of the Dili mountains, and is instantly recognisable by the presence of several gigantic banyan fig trees out the front, with their foreboding, veiny trunks that could house a small family, their aerial roots hanging down from the branches like giant windchimes. The market has a lively array of items available, including colourful spices; vegetables arranged in little pyramids of tomatoes, mounds of ginger, baskets of rice; cheap Chinese kitchen gadgets and, surprisingly, second hand clothing.
The first thing that struck me as we began weaving our way through the stalls was just how many people didn’t seem to care that we were there. No one was yelling at us to try to get us to buy something, no one was holding things up in our faces saying, “Yes? You want to buy?”, no one was coaxing us into their shop, saying, “Please come in!”. We were just free to browse wherever we liked and everyone just went about their own business.
It was as if we were invisible!
I said to myself, “This has got to be the most relaxing market experience I’ve ever had”.
We slowly wandered towards the food stalls. We bought a packet of peanuts. We didn’t even have to bargain. It was all so relaxed.
We came across a man selling barbequed corn-on-the-cob-on-a-stick. Since I hadn’t had lunch, I thought, “Yeah, I’ll have one of those”.
I chose the one I wanted, gave the man his money and started walking again. I looked down at my corn-on-the-cob-on-a-stick and took a bite. Suddenly I felt like my invisibility cloak had just been yanked from my person. Eyes were staring at me. People were pointing. When I smiled at them, they smiled back, even bigger. When I smiled back at them bigger, they started cracking up laughing and exclaiming things in a language I couldn’t understand.
We kept walking. Everywhere we went, people were looking, pointing, laughing, nudging their neighbours. Busy people walking past would look up as they passed me, and then do a double-take, looking at the corn, and then back at me, then at the corn again, and then break into a smile. Before too long, news of the “malae” (foreigner) with the corn-on-the-cob-on-a-stick was spreading like wildfire, proceeding my every turn, where the locals around the corner were waiting for me with anticipation.
I started to get paranoid, wondering if I was doing something wrong. Maybe it wasn’t actually corn, but some strange animal poo. But then why would a man be barbecuing it and putting it on a stick and then smearing butter all over it?
Although it was a little different to the corn-on-the-cob I’ve had before (ie it was excessively crunchy – not a lot of moisture in the kernels), I still maintained that it was, indeed, edible.
Perhaps I had something in my teeth?
No, Wade confirmed that this wasn’t the problem.
It was a mystery.
For the rest of our market experience we were met with curious, yet friendly, pointing and laughing gestures.
I surmised that they were gestures of approval, rather than ridicule.
I took out the trusty Tetum phrasebook. I looked up “tasty” and found, “kapas los” (this food tastes good). I tried out the phrase on a few people. It was returned with vigorous head-nodding and more smiling.
By the time I’d eaten half of it, my jaws were beginning to ache. But I couldn’t bring myself to throw it in the bin, especially with everyone watching. We walked out to the street and hailed a taxi. The driver gave me and my corn a friendly smile as we got in, and we went home.
The Hali Lara market (if that is its real name), is set at the foot of the Dili mountains, and is instantly recognisable by the presence of several gigantic banyan fig trees out the front, with their foreboding, veiny trunks that could house a small family, their aerial roots hanging down from the branches like giant windchimes. The market has a lively array of items available, including colourful spices; vegetables arranged in little pyramids of tomatoes, mounds of ginger, baskets of rice; cheap Chinese kitchen gadgets and, surprisingly, second hand clothing.
The first thing that struck me as we began weaving our way through the stalls was just how many people didn’t seem to care that we were there. No one was yelling at us to try to get us to buy something, no one was holding things up in our faces saying, “Yes? You want to buy?”, no one was coaxing us into their shop, saying, “Please come in!”. We were just free to browse wherever we liked and everyone just went about their own business.
It was as if we were invisible!
I said to myself, “This has got to be the most relaxing market experience I’ve ever had”.
We slowly wandered towards the food stalls. We bought a packet of peanuts. We didn’t even have to bargain. It was all so relaxed.
We came across a man selling barbequed corn-on-the-cob-on-a-stick. Since I hadn’t had lunch, I thought, “Yeah, I’ll have one of those”.
I chose the one I wanted, gave the man his money and started walking again. I looked down at my corn-on-the-cob-on-a-stick and took a bite. Suddenly I felt like my invisibility cloak had just been yanked from my person. Eyes were staring at me. People were pointing. When I smiled at them, they smiled back, even bigger. When I smiled back at them bigger, they started cracking up laughing and exclaiming things in a language I couldn’t understand.
We kept walking. Everywhere we went, people were looking, pointing, laughing, nudging their neighbours. Busy people walking past would look up as they passed me, and then do a double-take, looking at the corn, and then back at me, then at the corn again, and then break into a smile. Before too long, news of the “malae” (foreigner) with the corn-on-the-cob-on-a-stick was spreading like wildfire, proceeding my every turn, where the locals around the corner were waiting for me with anticipation.
I started to get paranoid, wondering if I was doing something wrong. Maybe it wasn’t actually corn, but some strange animal poo. But then why would a man be barbecuing it and putting it on a stick and then smearing butter all over it?
Although it was a little different to the corn-on-the-cob I’ve had before (ie it was excessively crunchy – not a lot of moisture in the kernels), I still maintained that it was, indeed, edible.
Perhaps I had something in my teeth?
No, Wade confirmed that this wasn’t the problem.
It was a mystery.
For the rest of our market experience we were met with curious, yet friendly, pointing and laughing gestures.
I surmised that they were gestures of approval, rather than ridicule.
I took out the trusty Tetum phrasebook. I looked up “tasty” and found, “kapas los” (this food tastes good). I tried out the phrase on a few people. It was returned with vigorous head-nodding and more smiling.
By the time I’d eaten half of it, my jaws were beginning to ache. But I couldn’t bring myself to throw it in the bin, especially with everyone watching. We walked out to the street and hailed a taxi. The driver gave me and my corn a friendly smile as we got in, and we went home.
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