Changes... and Bad Drama

Change. It's in my pocket, my drawers, in cash registers, safe deposit boxes, and election campaign promises. Most of all, it's in the air. It's happened in my life, and now, it'll happen to this space.

I have a dream. Something I hope will be a life-long pursuit.

In shedding an old image, some things will have to go. There'll be a clean-up - many entries will be gone, but there will also be additions, transplants from a more private space. Some existing entries will be updated, changed to reflect the person who owns this place now, rather than who wrote it then. Much of the layout will remain - for now.

And perhaps, finally, the real name behind this space will see the light of day.

Readings' Fifth

I've been missing a few Readings sessions due to personal problems, but things got a little better for me to attend the latest one, and a milestone of a session at that. It's Readings' fifth anniversary.

Three cakes were brought for the occasion, including two evidently home-made Red Velvets with lovely white butter-cream.

But it was one session where I was never more ill-prepared. I left home late. I forgot my camera's tripod. I didn't make enough room in the camera's 8GB SDHC card for footage. I was afraid of not having enough batteries. And there wasn't a single thing of suitable height for my camera to stand on.

Readings' fifth had an impressive line-up with a mix of two or more of the following: poets, authors, performers and rebels. Almost everyone spent their allotted 15 minutes, some stretching into 16 or 17, including commentaries. Hearing authors read their own works is a delight, but not as much as when they talk about themselves and their work, as evidenced by Shamini Flint's monologue.

The loud and forthright Elaine Foster said she wouldn't perform, but there was still a bit of drama in her recital of a poem where "the revolution will not be brought to you by Celcom, DiGi and Maxis, nor is it Malaysia Truly Asia," and so on. She would find good company with Peter Hassan Brown, whose voice also carries a long way.

Jo Kukathas read a sombre tale of a loner who lives in a dark room and is fond of his dogs. Readings' founder Bernice Chauly gives us a hint of her roots as she reads from what will be her work of "faction".

From the Little Red Dot comes O Thiam Chin, whose collection of short stories (Never Been Better) is available for sale here. He read a passage from that book (naturally), copies of which were on sale at the venue (ditto). Too bad they weren't offering discounts.

When Kam Raslan reads, it's almost certain that he'll entertain. Especially with a sneak peek at the continuing (mis)adventures of the irrepressible MCKK old boy, Dato' Hamid. Being ambushed by fragrance salesladies is as frightening as he tells it, and hilarious too - as long as it happens to other people.

The dreadlocked and tattooed rebel poet Rahmat Harun was a sight to behold as he greets the audience, "Hi, bro!", waxes lyrical of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon in two languages (with some help from Hishamuddin Rais), and shows us how to fly a kite.

The fifth anniversary event ended with a couple of announcements: NST's Umapagan Ampikaipakan trumpeted (sort of) a book club at BFM89.9, and Bernice's call for help with some charity - I think.

There has also been talk of compiling the prose that has been read on all five years of Readings and CeritaKu (a sister event of Readings at No Black Tie) into a series of books, and a shout-out for contributions has been made. The deadline is 31 March.

Here's to five more years of Readings.

Small-Town Roast Duck, Big On Heart

I think this encounter happened during a Christmas weekend getaway in Ipoh last year. After hearing Alex brag about her hometown's cuisine for ages, I finally took the leap to see what the fuss was all about.

And what a fuss it was.

Almost everything written in the piece happened: the food, the hospitality, and generosity of the owner. The duck was divine.

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Divine roast duck in Canning Garden, Ipoh

by Alexandra and KW Wong

first published in The Malaysian Insider, 23 January 2010


"Is it my imagination, or is the Ipoh food scene ostensibly divided into two camps?" KW asks thoughtfully.

"What do you mean?" I furrow my eyebrows distractedly, trying to search for an empty lot.

"For dim sum, you have Foh San vs Ming Court," he begins.

"Ming Court!" I pipe up.

"For bean sprouts chicken, there's Loe Wong Wong vs Cowan Street bean …" he continues.

"And now Restaurant Hong Kong vs Restaurant Hong Kong Oil? Amazingly, not only do they sell the same thing, their shop names are only different by one word! Which is better, in your opinion?"

"Parking!" I yelp, ramming my Charade aggressively into an empty lot. Parking can be a devil in Canning Garden, this deceptively laidback-looking enclave in Ipoh shaded by ancient giant trees. It is also home to some of the best grub around, including chee cheong fun, Siamese laksa, nasi lemak... but that's a story for another day.

I opt for political correctness. "I've tried both and they are nice. But for some reason, I've always found myself gravitating back to Madam Heng's. The personalised intimacy keeps me coming back like a magnet."

And then, there's the supremely-addictive duck, of course. Which is why, on this food tour, I'm whisking duck-mad KW to my "favouritest" place in Ipoh for a gamey poultry fix.

"That's the madam of the manor, bubbly, personable and generous almost to a fault," I whisper, pointing to a middle-aged lady dressed in a flowy batik caftan, with a soft wavy updo and perpetually Manga-esque wide eyes.

"Miss Wong! Lei hoe moe (how are you?)? So long never see, kam leng chor keh (become so pretty already)?" Uh huh. That's Madam Heng, all right: a bundle of smiles, conviviality and outrageous flattery.

I ask for the usual — duck leg with a side order of curry chicken and acar. "Make sure you impress," I say with a wink.

Not that there's any doubt she will.

Fans rave about its signature crispy skin duck, the result of a six-hour labour of love. First, more than ten herbs are rubbed inside the bird to remove excessive gaminess, while retaining the trademark robustness that duck lovers go ape over.

Another eight herbs are slathered over the skin for flavour enhancement. Then, the bird is allowed to dry naturally for a few hours before it is roasted in a charcoal-powered Apollo stove for 40 minutes and finally fanned to cool.

Just before it is delivered to your table, the duck is drizzled with lashings of boiling oil to create that paper-thin, crackling-crispy skin that melts on your tongue.

Madam Heng once told me they use "jeli-weli" (Cherry Valley, actually -BP) duck, a specially bred duck of English origin, chosen by virtue of its leaner meat. In my first visit here, she actually lifted the glistening reddish-brown skin to prove her point. Look ma, no fat. (She didn't say that, I did.)

I'll let KW describe the results: "Simply one of the best roast ducks I've ever had, while making allowances for ducks consumed in the past and the future. The sweet plum sauce is nice but not necessary. Skill, technique, recipe and love went into this creation, and it clamped my mouth shut for most of the meal."

There is a bit of to-and-fro at the cash register when we're done. By our reckoning, the meal is worth every hard-earned sen: a plate of dry curry, acar, a gargantuan duck leg, two bowls of rice, three iced herbal teas, plus half a dozen mandarin oranges on the house.

What comes back as change for RM50 is... let's just say a KL-ite would think it's a steal.

We think so, too — us stealing from Madam Heng, if we leave it there.

"Go on, take it," Madam Heng implores.

"No, no," I protest. "It's way too much change. If you keep insisting I'll drop it and run off."

"Please don't fight with me! I'm old and I can't catch up with you."

What the hell can any decent upstanding person say to a water-tight argument like that?

After I thank her reluctantly, KW and I lumber out of the shop.

"Sai lei (fantastic) these small towners," he sums it up.

"Yes, I observed, the yan ching mei (interpersonal factor) is very strong," I add with a sigh that is half a complaint and half an affectionate observation.

Revisiting mom and pop shops like Restaurant Hong Kong reminds me why I'd rather review small-time entrepreneurs than big-boy chains.

Because.

Beyond the paper-thin crispy-as-Peking-duck skin...

Beyond the lean yet luscious meat, infused with heady, aromatic flavours...

Beyond the leisurely and cosy level of service...

...they remember – and appreciate you.

For life.

---

Restoran Hong Kong

60 Jalan Lee Kwee Foh
Canning Garden
Ipoh, Perak

CLOSED FOR GOOD

One Reason Why I Stayed Away So Long

Months ago, a new writer barely twenty years old published a book. She was feted (sort of) at the anniversary celebration of some literary institution. Just a few weeks ago, that book disappeared from shelves everywhere; it had to be pulped because it had at least one plagiarised story. The news has gotten out, and the writer has issued an apology (sort of).

What grabs my goat is the need for some commentators to wield the hammer long after the nails have been driven home. Either the hammer makes them feel important, or such is their indignation that they feel the little cheating upstart hasn't really received that much-deserved butt-kicking.

Then comes this comment (emphases mine):

"...basking in the envy of others..."

That's the operative phrase right there, isn't it? That there are some people who can be envious even of a local book that couldn't sell even a thousand copies. So when a teenager makes an extremely bad call, it's time to give vent to all those years of pent-up resentment :-)

— Amir Muhammad puts it where it hurts

The response to that was so childish, I won't bother describing it. Is there some kind of thrill or claim to fame in pushing someone's buttons until they explode or embarrass themselves? Getting someone the likes of Amir Muhammad to lose his cool might be something to brag about, but really...

It can be hard to describe the pain of someone else getting credit for your hard work, that witty, funny, award-winning prose you spent months, even years on. It would hurt heaps more, and be better illustrated, if the plagiarist stole it and beat you to the book launch with it.

If you think I'm just being nice: After an English comprehension exercise when I was in Form 2, the teacher found two identical answers, word for word. My answer was copied by a classmate. I don't think there was any malice intended; he probably just wanted to fill up that nagging little blank. It probably never occurred to him that he could actually hurt someone. To his credit, he owned up and I avoided being mistaken for a copycat. We remained on relatively good terms until we left school. But hell, was I stunned.

Of course, it's perhaps unfair to compare an English test with a book but in essence, both is considered stealing. And copying something that was published years before and passing it off as your own is more stupid than sinister.

All the appropriate steps seem to have been taken by all parties involved. But the troll takes it a step further, and suggests a boycott of sorts on what she writes from now on. What's the point in covering a target with scarlet letters when plagiarism by others continue around us? She'll be the only one end up hurt, scarred - probably for life.

Is that the whole point in condemning plagiarists and plagiarism? Do we have so many new writers that it's okay to bury the careers of one or two who made a mistake as an example to others?

New Adventures In Doctoring, etc

These are but a few pieces that were part of the revamped Off The Edge, which had more pages and cost twice as much. Heaps of good articles in this issue (December 2009), numbering over a hundred pages.

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My first trip to Sabah was a doozy.

As part of a rebranding exercise, UMW invited members of the press to a sponsored Mercy Malaysia mobile clinic to Pagalungan, at the bottom half of the state. Only four journalists from the Peninsula took up their offer.

"New adventures in doctoring" (left), and "Potong gaji!", Off The Edge, December 2009

Of course, things went wrong with the return trip, worthy of its own article. But space is expensive. Needless to say, I developed a healthy respect for rural East Malaysians, and learnt that maybe they are getting a raw deal from the current federal government.

UMW Malaysia, which I referred to as Toyota several times, probably didn't get as much publicity as they'd hoped from my one-pager. The valiant efforts of their PR crew in getting the Peninsula softies out of the jungle never made it into the mag, either.

Rounding up my look East was a Q&A with Bandar Kuching MP Chong Chien Jen of Sarawak. We thought "Potong Gaji!" (Pay Cut!) was a great way to introduce him; the phrase suggested a motion for a RM10 reduction in the salaries of MPs (or ministers, I forgot which) and a battle-cry of sorts for the DAP. Of course the pay cut didn't happen, and probably never will.

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I looked inside Rupert Murdoch's head via this book, and didn't like what I saw - much. While it makes good reading for those in journalism, I didn't like it much.

"I, Rupert" (left), and "Speed/In Praise of Perlahan-lahan", Off The Edge, December 2009

About the other piece: I've been following food trends in the US, which appears to be going locavore in a number of places, helped by celebrity chefs and the food scandals involving bacteria. I wasn't even aware of Terra Madre Day until I looked it up. We even have a Slow food chapter in the Klang Valley.

Singh To Me, Inspector

I did have high expectations for this book, because of the name "Shamini Flint". When they were not met, I sort of used the book for the book reviewer's version of target practice. From what I can see, they tamed the final version.

I also jumped the gun quite a bit. Days after this was submitted, I met and heard the author speak in person. What I gleaned would've made the review kinder, more informed. The paper waited two... three months before finally publishing it, so yeah... . I'd given way too little credit to the author, but I stand by what I felt about the book.

Looking at the original copy now, I think I've been trying too hard to recapture my old, snarky day days. In the end the peal of wisdom in the words of a concert manager rang the loudest: "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything."

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Too nice a guy?

first published in The Star, 15 November 2009


I must have been among hundreds of people who were piqued by the message on social networking site Facebook calling all Australians to save some Inspector Singh allegedly trapped on shelves by shelling out A$22.95 (RM73.44) "in ransom money".

Not being Australian I didn’t think too much of it. But it did put the name "Shamini Flint" into my brain, so when I came across the name on a book in Malaysia, I picked it up, no doubt "rescuing" it, too....

In Inspector Singh Investigates: A Most Peculiar Malaysian Murder, the titular inspector, a veteran of the Singapore police force is sent northwards to aid former Singaporean model Chelsea Liew who is accused of murdering her rich but abusive husband while in the midst of a child custody battle.

Try as Flint might to make the hero more "local", the whiff of Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot is still strong. Singh (who has no first name), however, is bigger and nicer than Poirot, and has more facial hair. He’s also a bit old and out of shape, and often outclassed by the supporting Malaysian characters, who seem to come across better-dressed, better-looking, healthier, and in some instances, more professional; Singh tends to take the law into his own hands – in his own nice guy way, that is.

The buzz about the book and the witty Facebook message did inflate my expectations a bit, so I was a bit let down by the first instalment of the Inspector Singh series. High hopes of reading a knuckle-chewing murder mystery were dashed as I flipped through the pages of a rather short police drama. And I’ve seen more – and better – action, twists and turns at the Sepang racing circuit.

There’s so much drama here, I thought I was reading Malaysia Today. Illegal logging and the Penans, complete with a Bruno Manser clone; civil and Syariah legal tussles on conversion; crooked cops, the haze and mistreatment of migrant labour....

Recognisable Malaysian stereotypes include the well-connected nature-thrashing tycoon (said late husband), the attention-seeking lawyer, and one of the many Malaysian judges "whose instincts were conservative and (whose) ... sympathies (were) rarely with the accused in criminal trials".

While it’s nice to get into the characters’ heads and dwellings, it kind of threw me off the chase. There are too many adjectives ("herbivorous" teeth?), a bit too much product placement (Mont Blanc seems to be a favourite), and virtually none of the wit exemplified by the Facebook ransom note.

As a sparring partner for the Royal Malaysian Police, I was left with the impression that Singh just can’t cut it. Because. He’s. Such. A. Nice. Guy. Maybe "Inspektor Pramodya of the Indonesian National Police" would’ve been a better candidate.

Singh’s next stop is Bali, and it sounds like that outing will involve bombs, terrorist cells and cross-border conspiracies, but hopefully no jokes along the lines of "Selamat Datang ke Malaysia". The portly Punjabi inspector may have taken a little tumble in his debut but he isn’t down for the count yet. Or will the nice guy finish last? I can’t wait to find out.

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A Most Peculiar Malaysian Murder

Shamini Flint
Piatkus Books
295 pages
Fiction
ISBN: 978-0-7499-2975-6

Somewhere To Belong

"Somewhere To Belong",
Off The Edge, October
2009

My (slow) flirtation with short story collections continued with Ioannis Gatsiounis' Velvet and Cinder Blocks. Ten short stories, all nicely written by the expat journalist whose work has appeared in numerous publications.

I met the author during a Readings @ Seksan's session, where he read a chapter from the very same book, designed with two different coloured covers. "The Rat Tooth" was the tale of a Jewish boy who found a bit of bone in his lunch, which sparked ideas to sue for millions over a "rat's tooth" in his lunch. A bit of comedy at the end is the boy's dad starting a fusion restaurant that specialises in things such as "tomyam moussaka" and a "durian-based fish head soup".

It was, like all the stories in the book, of identity, belonging, and the odysseys undertaken by the protagonists to find it. Many of the endings are open-ended, leaving room for the readers to ponder the possibilities.

Among the things he told me was that his name is a Greek version of "John" (or something similar), and that it was pronounced as "Yannis". There appeared to be some confusion as to how it was pronounced.

It's a good book, all things considered. But for some strange reason I decided not to keep it.