This was the first time in a long time when I dined at a place where they arranged cutlery and provided you with real napkins made from cotton
ONCE upon a time, before they built a bridge across the Muar River, eating out at a restaurant was a simple thing in our household.
This was mainly because we didn’t eat out, except on special days and once a month when Father got paid.
Father was a teacher, and considering that he had nine mouths to feed, we never had to worry about eating well throughout my childhood.
People didn’t eat out much in those days, at least where I grew up in Bandar Maharani, but thanks to Mom, we sure ate right.
We kept ducks and chickens, and our small government quarters compound gave us things like galangal, herbs, chillies, curry leaves and what else I didn’t know about.
Of course, on many days, Mom would be so flustered from keeping house that we would have the classic fried egg, soy sauce and rice, the very food on which this country was built.
Though we ate simple things all the time, once a month on payday the whole family would meet at a food stall of “mom’s choice”.
Some of us would climb into a trishaw with mom, the rest would ride bicycles and meet there. The first to arrive would make sure the man reserved a table and stools for all nine of us.
The stalls by the riverside tempted us with wonderful-smelling things to eat, but it was always mi bandung and sate for nine at our table. In our eyes, the pinnacle of fine dining.
“Amir, macam biasa,” Father would call out to the sate and mi bandung guy.
“Everyone order your drinks now.”
It saved time and relieved us of difficult choices.
I was contemplating these fond memories the other day when I attended a reunion dinner at a fine dining establishment last week.
The dining room was quiet, except for the soft clinking of cutlery on bone China and polite conversations.
It was miles away from those stalls by the river, I tell you.
“Are we ready to order yet?” said the prim waiter in a black vest.
I was unfamiliar with Pakistani food so of course I wasn’t.
At that moment, I was reading up on menu item HD7, which was “Fried kapooray/goat testicles”, complete with a picture of a couple of uncooked kapoorays on a plate.
Noticing my interest, the waiter said if I was not allergic to goat, kapooray is a good meal for men.
I chickened out and opted for the tandoori.
This was the first time in a long time when I dined at a place where they arranged
cutlery, metal not plastic, and provided you with real napkins made from cotton. None of that toilet paper stuff on a roll hanging from a convenient post that restaurants seem to favour now.
Thank God this place had waiters — humans — to attend to you because I have a deep hatred for those QR menus where you have to squint at a menu and then grapple with the cashless payment programme.
“Your lamb, does it come with gravy?” asked one of my dinner guests.
“Yes, sir, you can see that it comes with gravity.”
“This kebab platter, can I have the lamb changed to chicken, my doctor you know.”
“We’re all having the mandy rice here, three mandy rice for us, “ said the group sitting together.
“Sir, we don’t have mandy rice.”
“OK whatever this is, we’ll have three.” “The grilled goat is nice, but make sure you’re not allergic to it.”
The waiter chimed in.
“Actually, goat is our special tonight. We have whole goat on the spit.”
“It’s not even fully grown goat, baby goat over the fire. Recommended.”
Just as we were being informed about baby goats over coal, Dr Imran reminded everyone that choking was a real hazard for men “our age” and also coronary inconveniences.
“It’s ok because I have just taken a first aid course and know the Heimlich manoeuvre,” said Dr Imran.
“And I have also just taken a refresher course on defibrillators, of which I see one over there.”
To tell the truth, no one remembered the food because we were talking about kids, weddings and funerals much of the time.
At the end of the evening, we were still peckish and I suggested we adjourn to a place in Dengkil where the cook makes the closest approximation to mi bandung Muar this side of Mount Ophir.
- ZB Othman is an editor of The Malaysian Reserve.
- This article first appeared in The Malaysian Reserve weekly print edition
The post Kapooray, anyone? appeared first on The Malaysian Reserve.
