Old-School Writing

This review, my suggestion for a pre-Merdeka thing, was a bit hard to write because I had quite a bit to say about each book, and I was mentally doing the trimming, before getting it on paper. It was also the first time I've done anything like this. I'm glad it all worked out.

I bought a copy for archiving, of course. So, who wants a cut-out coupon?

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Old-school writing

These three books set before Merdeka are still relevant to today's Malaysia

first published in The Star, 29 August 2010


AS the 53rd anniversary of our independence approaches, I wonder, given how technological advances have forced drastic changes in our reading and writing habits, if Malaysia will see the death of books by Aug 31, 2020.

What brought this question to mind was the rather serendipitous discovery of several books written by foreigners, set in the Malay Peninsula before Merdeka, all re-issued or published by Singapore's Monsoon Books.

Monsoon's Merdeka reads:The Golden Chersonese, And The Rain
My Drink and The Malayan Life of Ferdach O'Haney

The first one to catch my eye was The Golden Chersonese: A 19th-Century Englishwoman's Travels in Singapore and The Malay Peninsula by Isabella Bird, the renowned British travel writer.

The name "Golden Chersonese", or Aurea Chersonesus, was bequeathed by Roman-Egyptian mathematician and scientist Ptolemy and alluded to the wealth in gold thought to be found on the Malay Peninsula in ancient times. (Either Ptolemy was just being dramatic or some rapacious pirate back then took all that gold away, leaving us to depend on Petronas' dwindling annual profits.)

The book records Bird's travels in Hong Kong, Singapore and Tanah Melayu (an early version of 1Malaysia) in 1879, and like most of her works, was written as a bunch of letters to her sister back in Britain.

Unusually for a woman of her time and place, her case of wanderlust was said to be so severe that she would get sick if she stayed home. Her travel writing made her famous, and in 1892, she became the first female member of Britain's venerable Royal Geographical Society.

Her very scholarly, emotionally distant writing is accompanied by her own finely-detailed sketches. Of course, she's not without her conceits. She abhors, for instance the use of "pidjun English" by the Chinese she encounters in Hong Kong. Most of the time, though, she tells it like it is, as she attests in the preface.

One can feel the cockles of one's heart warm with familiarity at her mention of local delicacies, landmarks and people, even though she describes the Peninsula as "very hot, and much infested by things that bite and sting".

Eighty years after Ms Bird's departure from the Not-So-Golden-Anymore Chersonese – now called Malaya – the Emergency (the Communist insurgency that lasted from 1948 to 1960) descends on a more developed and cosmopolitan Peninsula.

Author Han Suyin was a Chinese doctor from Henan who practised in Malaya during the Emergency. The title of her book, And the Rain My Drink, comes from an old Chinese ballad and refers to what the Communists were willing to endure do create their idea of a just country.

This book features a large cast (all conveniently listed at the beginning of the book). Among the Malays, Indians and gwailos are many Chinese: tycoons and their scions, Communist insurgents and sympathisers, and innocent bystanders who get caught up in the mess.

The focus of the story shifts among the various dramas being played out among these people, though one common thread is a girl, a Communist-turned-informer, who survives through betrayal.

The prose is vivid, almost poetic, and meanders like the long strokes by a Chinese calligrapher's brush, but that feeling tapers off towards the end of the tale. Except for one chapter, taken out of a hardened, jungle-dwelling insurgent's diary, the whole thing has the feel of a classic Chinese painting, which takes time and a poetic soul to appreciate. Tweeting, iPad-carrying Gen-Y-ers might not get this one.

One character who could very well have appeared in Han's timeline would be Frederick Lees' protagonist in The Malayan Life of Ferdach O'Haney. Known as Ferdie to his friends, the protagonist is a young Anglo-Irish fellow who, like the author, left Britain to serve in the British Colonial Service in Malaya in 1950.

Even before the boat leaves Britain, we get the idea that O'Haney is a flawed character. Opinionated, self-righteous, over-analytical though honest to a fault, he nevertheless tries his best at whatever he's given – when he's not, among other things, banging other people's wives and sisters-in-law, rolling in the hay with young local men (yes, you read right), getting mixed up with Communists and spies, and telling us how well-read he is. He also becomes the "postman" for peace talks between Communist insurgents and British High Commissioner Sir Henry Gurney, with terrible results.

After Bird's genteel jottings and Han's lyrical pen-strokes, Lees' journalistic, in-your-face style jars the senses like an air-raid alarm. Though realistic and colourful, the narrative is a little long in some places.

The author's attempt, I think, to blend autobiography with fiction has resulted in a collision: the soliloquies tend to get in the way of an entertaining story. But fans of cranky, opinionated, grizzled veterans of their profession will find reason to like it, quite apart from the juicy bits and conspiracy theories.

These books are clearly products of their authors' lives and times, to be read and enjoyed the way books were back then. Though I must say that the social commentary in the two Emergency-era novels, parroted by the authors' alter-egos, is still relevant today, and still being echoed by ... virtually everyone.

Narratives that don't walk on eggshells make refreshing reads, but I also worry: For instance, will Bird's use of the word "kling" (in reference to Indians, now considered derogatory), and the stereotypes in these books, kick these books off the shelves? Will people talk about them instead of sitting down to enjoy three good stories?

Ah, well, I'll leave the debates to others. Myself, I'm curling up with this lovely set of reads for a long Merdeka weekend. Better hurry before paper books and old-school writing go out of fashion.

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The Golden Chersonese

A 19th-century Englishwoman's Travels in Singapore and the Malay Peninsula

Isabella Bird
Monsoon Books Pte Ltd
Non-fiction
352 pages
ISBN: 978-981-08-4484-4

And The Rain My Drink

Han Suyin
Monsoon Books Pte Ltd
Fiction
260 pages
ISBN: 978-981-08-4485-1

The Malayan Life of Ferdach O'Haney

Frederick Lees
Monsoon Books Pte Ltd
Fiction
572 pages
ISBN: 978-981-08-2382-5

Not A Game

It came from beyond the extreme reaches of our reality
It came to laugh at our naive existences

At home: A child's murder. A "fleeing teenage criminal" shot to death by police. Another unwanted baby, left at a doorstep or trash can. Elsewhere: Civil war. Terrorism. Failed states. Slavery. The drug and human trade. Suicide.

Despite the prevalence of international broadcasting, the horrors faced by and involving children don't appear to even pluck at our heartstrings, stretched taut by the weight of our own problems and (oft-misplaced) priorities. Whatever impression made eventually fades, and after a night's sleep - or as soon as the buck hits the bottom of the collection bin, it's as if it never happened.

I am puzzled by the truth that slips through my hands even as I cover my ears

When researching UNICEF for an interview, I came across the frightening statistic that every year, half a million mothers die of various reasons. Many of whom were from the African continent, and many of those die during childbirth.

I remember typing out some questions in a muted rage after that. Half a million? Each year? I can't remember exactly why. As a maternity ward nurse, Mom sometimes relates stories from work (she never mentions names). On occasion, there would be tragedies. Because I can't comprehend what Mom sees at work everyday, let alone fathom how she manages to do double-shifts on most days (she's already in her sixties), I could only imagine.

Which is why when I hear the glib, asinine, or sanctimonious statements made by politicians about baby dumping, child rape, deaths at a National Service camp, hazing or ragging, or the shooting and death-in-custody of a teenager, etc (let's not even start on the pro-lifers in the US, or the Vatican), the red mist descends, and I hear, once again, the words of a former editor: "We don't know how to treat our children right."

Similar emotions were roused recently with the opening theme to the Japanese anime series Bokurano. It opens with a rousing, haunting church hall chanting, followed by the powerful, crystal clear, church hall vocals of Chiaki Ishikawa.

The whole track is rousing, lively, powerful. Then you dig a little deeper and uncover what the series is about, what the Japanese words mean, and the song takes on a new significance. It is a sad, angry composition.

Bokurano is a sci-fi tale of about fifteen children in their early teens, who encounter a strange man in a cave who claims to be a videogame developer, and invites the kids to test the game for him, involving a giant robot and invaders from other dimensions. Eventually the children realise they have been drafted into real duels between giant robots from alternate versions of this world, and they are the pilots of the home team's machine.

Defeat means the utter devastation of the loser's world, so it's do or die. Actually, do and die - since the robot runs on human life force, the pilot expires, regardless of the outcome. Did I mention that the chosen ones are children? And that there's apparently no way they can opt out of the "game"?

Where in this thin body do I find the strength to stand?

As their numbers dwindle, the chosen are forced to grow up real quick, and search for the meaning of their lives. Time however, is short, and there's no way of telling how long they have before another of their number is summoned to battle, indicated by the markings that appear on the face and body. The fact that they end their lives as mass murderers on a galactic scale doesn't make things better.

I am devoid of any feelings
Except an impulse to destroy everything and anything
Since I can't even choose the season of my passing...

I have not watched the series, nor do I plan to - the shock would be too much. At first one is inclined to railroad the producers for coming up with something so disturbing, but how is it any different from the drama we're witnessing on the news channels?

I was told that I am but one of the countless specks of dust on this planet
But that is something I cannot yet comprehend

Like the chosen children, not all are born into nice families, environments, or completely protected from harm. There's parental abandonment, physical and sexual abuse, and after their identities as pilots are leaked, one of them is even assassinated by a paranoid government.

I have no choice but to pretend that I am a warrior who knows no fear

At times, I think I'm angry because whatever it is behind the bad news - bureaucracies, theocracies, or ideologues - seems to be laughing at our naive existences, before setting in motion the plans that reap such heavy tolls: war against terror, war against drugs, war against tyranny, war against poverty, and so on. When these "leaders" try to justify their means, that sinister, mocking laughter seems to echo from behind.

It makes me want to end everything with these hands
It's not a bad thing to uninstall

This reality is no videogame. There are no save points. No character files to back up. No extra lives, no pauses, no restarts. At times when the metaphor fits, the players go their merry way, regardless of the collateral damage incurred. Ruined livelihoods, broken families, ruined environments, failed states. Orphans, widows, widowers. Dead children. How long can such outcomes be accepted as "part of the game"?

____________________

"Uninstall" by Chiaki Ishikawa
僕はまだ何も知らない | I Still Know Nothing (2007)
Victor Entertainment
Lyrics translated by DarkMirage

Japanese Kitchen Tales

After a fruitless search for the latest issue of MPH Quill, MPH called to tell me that they saved two complimentary copies for me.

A Cook's Journey to Japan, reviewed in MPH Quill July - Sep 2010

Though I'd hoped the author would demonstrate more of her knowledge and experience in her field for the e-mail interview, it all turned out okay. The editorial team did a great job with the piece and the magazine in general, which looks more lifestylish now. A few good articles, particularly one from Ellen Whyte.

Do pick up a copy, but don't rush. As of now it seems they haven't gotten the issue to all their stores yet.

I'm still in the middle of getting snapshots of nearly every print article, write-up or mildly interesting listings I've worked on. Each item will be categorised and backdated to the day or month it was published.

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Japanese kitchen tales

KW Wong reviews A Cook's Journey to Japan by Sarah Marx Feldner and interviews the cook about her long, heart-warming homecoming

original text; edited version published in MPH Quill, Jul-Sep 2010


Since he left the kitchen, trash-talking celeb chef Tony Bourdain has been hoisting his saucepan about a number of things: the US foie gras ban, radical vegans, factory farming and the fast food industry. Now, it’s people who can’t even fry an egg.

In one episode of No Reservations, he got some big name chefs to demonstrate how to roast chicken, make omelettes and prepare spaghetti in red sauce; Tony B himself showed us how to cut onions and make beef stew. Why? Because Bourdain claimed that Americans (and perhaps people in general) can’t seem to cook a thing right nowadays.

However, not all of us can ring up the likes of Thomas Keller or Jacques Pépin to arrange cooking lessons. And if I’m right, you might be tired of the usual Western-style classics of steak, pasta and English breakfasts.

May I suggest an alternative, such as, say, Sarah Marx Feldner’s cookbook, A Cook’s Journey to Japan: Fish Tales and Rice Paddies - 100 Homestyle Recipes from Japanese Kitchens?

“A cookbook?” you would probably scream. “How cheap! And is she even a cook?” you might ask. Well, she spent some time as a pastry chef, has a master’s degree in the art of collecting recipes and food research, and from what I’ve read, also tried her hand at many of the book’s dishes. Also, her mentor for the project and cookbook writer Elizabeth Andoh gushed at Feldner’s “passion of purpose” and “commitment to ‘doing it right’ (no haphazard shortcuts)”, so I suppose readers will be in pretty good hands.

More than just a repository of food terminology or recipes, A Cook’s Journey is as advertised: a record of Feldner’s personal culinary journey throughout Japan, the continuation of a love affair with the country that began when she first arrived to teach English. It’s like peeking into the kitchens of everyday Japanese, and by extension, their personalities, lives and culture, but without the screaming and flying utensils – always a good thing in anyone’s book.

Feldner calls the book “an act of desperation’, but it’s hardly a harried jumble of text and pictures. The author sticks with people from the smaller towns and rural areas, whom she finds more open, and willing to talk and share. The language speaks of her love for her adopted country – or did it adopt her? The characters she encountered seem to suggest the latter. The aunt of a friend, a friend of said aunt, generous café owners and chefs, a gallant director of an information centre and his fisherman friend, and so on. She also braves such dangers as an old man with “questionable” motives and getting stranded in paddy fields in the middle of nowhere. It is undoubtedly a labour of love.

The inclusive vibe of this culinary journal is somewhat upset by her goal of writing it for other Westerners like herself, scared stiff by more “foreign or difficult” ingredients and presentations found in other Japanese cookbooks. Even the recipes are organised according to how gwailos eat and cook. Curious Asian epicures might feel a bit left out, but that’s a minor hiccup. Already an old hand at Japanese cooking? This book might not be for you.

Home cooking may be less intimidating, but without knives, open flames and hot oil, you won’t accomplish much. Labelled pictures help a lot in introducing the tools and ingredients in Japanese home cooking. Learn how to slice and dice veggies (down to the millimetre in one instance), make real wasabi (grind the root in a slow circular motion with a sharkskin grater for best results), and how to make stock (dashi) and perfect sushi-style rice. The steps also serve as warm-ups for the recipes that follow, from snacks and salads to drinks and desserts.

Each recipe is well-documented; for the more complicated ones, Sarah-san takes you gently by the hand and shows you how to do it, slipping a few tips and trivia about the ingredients, the dishes, and the terrible, terrible things that can happen if you screw up. Of course, the author and publisher won’t be responsible if you happened to use a bad fish, lop off a finger or burn your house down while giving this book a go.

There are other useful appendices as well. Got a party? Can’t think of a menu for a surprise dinner a la Take Home Chef? Some menu suggestions are available. Where’s this Iwaki she stayed in? Nonplussed about Nagano’s location? Lo, at the end of the book, a map of Japan; Iwaki, is somewhere north of Tokyo.

Narrowing down the scope of cuisines and places to cover helps keep the book focused, so there really isn’t much room for improvement. The omission of unagi (eel) may have been deliberate, as none of the ingredients mentioned require special handling; eel blood is toxic.

All in all, a nicely done visual feast and window into the lunchboxes of everyday Japanese, and a gift to anyone who wants to cook different. Like most good cookbooks this is not one to read on an empty stomach. Even pictures of a simple rice-and-peas dish will send you rushing towards the nearest eatery, Japanese or otherwise.

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A Cook's Journey to Japan

Fish Tales and Rice Paddies: 100 Homestyle Recipes from Japanese Kitchens

Sarah Marx-Feldner
Tuttle Publishing (2010)
160 pages
Non-fiction
ISBN: 978-4805310113

More Than Just A Burger King

Some "Motormouth from Ipoh" pointed this place to a friend. After a dinner there, she decided it would be a good idea if I wrote about this place. Which I did. We stopped by after a weekend assignment/getaway - the same day the article was published.

Despite the warnings of "parking hell" and "motorcyclists from hell" people were still flocking to the place; several groups, including families of four to seven, had to be turned away because there were no more seats.

Response to the food was good. My eating buddy even heard a mom with several kids go, "So cheap!"

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Hooked at first bite

The parking is terrible and the double-parking even worse, but the burgers and other offerings at Nambawan Restaurant are just too darn hard to resist

first published in The Star, 03 July 2010


One — OK, two — things about Kuala Lumpur that bug determined gourmands: an apparent scarcity of really good places to eat and the need to travel ungodly distances to reach any such treasures unearthed by those who have gone there before.

While reminiscing our visits to a recently-reviewed restaurant, some Motormouth from Ipoh (at www.j2kfm.com) told Alex about another place that served great pork dishes.

"Do you know where this Nambawan Restaurant is?"

Of course I didn't know.

Ergo, Google Maps — a useful tool. However, we took a few wrong turns along the way to what would be a good meal because I didn't take down the directions. At least I remembered, while researching the place, that the Masak-Masak Lady (at masak-masak.blogspot.com) had noted that Old Town White Coffee was near the premises.

Driving at night didn't help either. There were several hazards, notably the motorcyclists, who tend to ride without lights or helmets on.

Parking at Sri Manja Square was bad — as was the double-parking — the night we were at Nambawan Restaurant and Café for the first time. A family of three and one other patron were the only customers there when we arrived. The whole dining area was open-ended — the 99 Speedmart opposite can be seen at one end.

From where we sat, we could see the blown-up photos of choice menu picks painted on the wall, both featuring bacon, along with some bad copywriting encouraging patrons to "Taste your sense to infinity".

The air-conditioning failed to keep the warm and humid weather outdoors at bay. If some of the menu items look unsettlingly foreign, take a deep breath, calm down, call the waitress or manageress and ask for clarification. They'd be happy to assist.

I settled for the Stone-charbroiled Pork Belly with roasted potatoes and garden salad (RM13.90), and the proudly touted "100% Home Made Pork Burger" (RM6.90).

"Small-town prices," commented Alex but her eyes were city-sized when she realised that I had ordered two dishes.

It appeared that the place has only one chef, who is said to have earned his cooking chops from New Zealand. Nambawan has been around for two years; it turns three next month. No clue as to why they opened shop at a neighbourhood that, at first sight, won't move those pork dishes quickly enough.

The place has its regulars — people who were hooked at first bite, it seems, and braved parking hell for return visits. Can they handle a full house?

By the time the pork belly reached our table we were probably hungry enough to tackle the rest of the pig. Memories of pork bellies past melted like the chunk I'd cut and put inside my mouth.

A little bit salty, but the flavours — oh, how they gushed forth as the molars crushed the firm, glistening fat and the bits of tender, juicy flesh. Every bite was pleasure, with or without the apple sauce, so astringent and tangy it was almost citrus-like.

When the pork burger arrived I took the top half of the bun and wiped the sauce from what was once a plate of grilled pork belly. The patty wasn't really big, but it held a nice surprise. It was tender, juicy and had a nice texture, and most of all, virtually none of that gamey pork smell. A hint of fragrant herb might be responsible, and seemed familiar.

Coriander?

"No, it's parsley," said the manageress.

Yes, I had two dishes, from which Alex stole the occasional bite; she already had dinner prior. Small-town prices mean small-town portions, after all. But every bite was so darn good.

"Dish number three!" I thumped the table, with my sights set on the Pan-fried Chicken and Bacon Roll.

But then Alex spoiled it all by announcing that she was tired and had to go home.

I sneaked back when Alex was out of town over a week later. The manageress did say their "100% Home-made Beef Burger" was also worth a try.

The pan-fried chicken and bacon wasn't really rolled. The centrepiece was one slab of chicken that was butterfly-cut with a slice of bacon folded in. Resting on pieces of roasted potato and garnished with a similar salad, it was a tasty, healthier version of the KFC Double Down "sandwich".

The 100% home-made beef burger?

Upon dissection, I found that like the pork burger, it was rather loosely packed, allowing for a burger that was juicier and easier to chew. Besides flecks of parsley, there were also what looked like black peppercorns.

It's not just charbroiled pork belly, burgers, steaks or pastas — weekend specials may include Lamb Shank in Red Wine Sauce, Barbecued Spare Ribs and Roasted Pork Belly, which is different from the charbroiled version. From what I've eaten so far, they're all worth a try.

Days later, I came back for a third visit and a second go at the charbroiled pork belly. Am I becoming addicted?

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Nambawan Restaurant and Café

10, Jalan PJS3/48
Sri Manja Square One
Taman Sri Manja
6½ Miles, Off Old Klang Road
46000 Petaling Jaya

Non-halal

Lunch: 12pm-3pm
Dinner: 6pm-10pm

Closed every other Monday

+6016-224 1533 (Yap)
+6013-263 2772 (Gilbert)

Facebook page

Change. It's In The...

G*d, Blogger keeps rolling out all these bells and whistles, and I unwisely switched to the templates editable with the "new" Template Designer. Now my Dark, Dreary Corner of Cyberspace™ looks like someone dumped Clorox bleach on it.

My old template had so many style sheet customisations the CSS code is half the length of the actual template code. Feels like I'm starting all over again.

Maybe that's what I need. What this place needs. Perhaps a less-is-more style scheme would be better for the future. ...Maybe not for now.

Has it really been about four months since this declaration? Better late than never. Only thing is, I'll also be tweaking the layout as well.

Knuckle Up For Pasta

When I called the restaurant yesterday afternoon, the lady expressed surprise. Apparently they've been looking for someone to write up the place in The Star in the two years since they opened. What concerned me was that the kitchen is also short-handed. Can they keep up?

Apparently not.

Many irate customers waiting for their food. The kitchen was cooking by table, which was probably not a good idea when the dining room is packed with people who may be ordering three or more plates of of the same, time-consuming and hard-to-prepare dish (the pork knuckle). At least two tables cancelled.

Somehow, I ended up sharing a table with two ex-colleagues. "We came here because someone wrote about it in The Star," one of them said. "The writer wrote so nicely about the pork knuckle, we just had to try it." At least they felt I was spot-on about the "dry" meat and the lovely skin.

But I knew now that restaurant reviews aren't just about the food, business hours, or kosher status. A bit more curiosity would also have revealed the situation in the kitchen. Lesson learnt.

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Vary good food

A small nondescript outlet, an unusual name, not many people about — first impressions can be deceiving.

first published in The Star, 05 June 2010


The drive to The Atria that day was uneventful. As I pulled over to the side of the road, my friend Alex suggested KFC. Then she remembered a pasta joint nearby.

Mass-market multinationals? No. Private mom-and-pop enterprises? Yes.

After a "Shop Closed" false alarm, we found the place. Vary Pasta, eh? Very unusual, very dodgy-looking. But many mom-and-pops are like that, and not a few managed to shut me up with their food, so we stepped in.

The décor at Vary Pasta had some semblance of a Tuscan establishment. Dominating the rather small dining area was a huge round table placed near a section of wall painted with a banquet scene. However, the place was empty. Not very good.

No matter. We were thirsty and ordered drinks. Then we saw the whimsical-sounding items on the menu. Reuban Bread Set?

"Made by Reu-Ban, son of Ray-Ban?" I snarked to Alex. Again, very strange. Then again, not quite. Reuban, if that's the chef's name, ranks right up there with such names as Oxide, Hacken and Fish. We ended up picking some itty-bitty bites to pass the time: a fettuccine carbonara with ham and some deep-fried pork ribs.

The carbonara was beyond expectation — not salty, not overly creamy and the pasta was not drowned in sauce. The bits of ham, fried but not stiff as tree bark, added more flavour and depth to the dish. The ribs? Deep-fried, certainly, but still juicy inside, and not salty, either. The prices? Quite competitive, given the neighbourhood.

Oohs, aahs and mmms were liberally thrown about as we exchanged notes. Words flowed freely between us. Like Hunter S Thompson, in Kingdom of Fear — or Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas, I volunteered, or Anthony Bourdain. In a restaurant, no less. It seemed appropriate.

After all that talking, I was hungry again. This time, we were more adventurous and went for the Reuban.

What arrived was a pile of chicken ham, bacon, gherkin, tomato, lettuce, cheese and sauerkraut placed between two slices of de-crusted toasted bread, with a scoop of potato salad cradled in lettuce leaves. I didn't know where the spicy bite came from, but the flavour combination was tops.

OK, so I'll bite what Reuban has to offer. But perhaps Oxide can benefit from a stint in cooking school after the debacle known as The Storm Warriors.

When we returned to the place for more, we were surprised to find all the tables taken, except for a two-seater close to the kitchen. Now why did we think this place was in trouble?

At RM46++, the roasted pork knuckle dish was among Vary's most expensive offerings. The over-20 minute wait for the dish was excruciating; neither of us had a proper lunch prior. The procession of dishes emerging from the kitchen didn't help much.

Plate after plate drifted towards eagerly waiting tables like teasing mirages: piles of spaghetti covered in red sauce; chicken chops wearing coats of black pepper-speckled brown gravy; spaghetti tossed in olive oil and herbs; a monstrous mixed sausage platter with an obscene-looking centrepiece; and a mouth-watering pile of butter sauce-covered "Dijon mushrooms".

Finally, a huge pile of pork, lightly garnished with greens materialised at our table. The knuckle came all carved and cut up for us. We dug in.

The roasted skin — bits of blistered, charred, caramelised goodness — had the crispness and flavour expected of it. The meat was largely devoid of extra fat, unlike braised pork knuckles, and a bit dry (we did take five minutes to photograph that plate beforehand). There were more oohs, aahs and mmms as we dipped skin and meat into the brown sauce and ate.

Beneath the pile of porcine goodness were two bones with almost nothing clinging to them, and a sparse bed of sauerkraut with a few bits of potato — an attempt at making the dish more German, perhaps? I took the much larger bone and peeled off the remaining bit of flesh, fat and connecting tissue with my teeth.

The pork knuckle was wonderful. It had flavour. It had texture. It had us at "Hello".

It also made us want dessert, in the form of a tiramisu. Alex has her standards, though: "If it's not real coffee liqueur, I don't want it."

She need not have worried. It tasted nothing like a thawed out dessert, not overpoweringly sweet or rich, and the sponge was absolutely drenched in coffee liqueur. While I went over the bill, Alex called me over. "You've got to see this...!"

She was riveted to a bunch of photos on the wall, closest to the door. She pointed to one and my eyes widened. In a framed photograph posing with an arm draped on (presumably) the chef's shoulder was St Anthony himself, the profane but profound Hunter S Thompson of Discovery Travel And Living.

Weren't we talking about both of them the last time we were here?

We asked about the photo. Vary Pasta's chef worked at a hotel, explained the woman behind the counter. It seems the chef was at the right place at the right time when Tony B dropped by.

"Is this your first time here?" she asked.

"Second," I said. "And we'll be back for a third, fourth, fifth..."

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Vary Pasta

21 Jalan SS22/23
Damanasara Jaya
47400 Petaling Jaya

Non-halal

+603-7710 6100

Lunch: 11am-3pm
Dinner: 5pm-10pm

Closed on 2nd and 4th Thursdays of the month

Wading Through Time

The request came out of the blue. I'd sent samples of my writing to The Star, including something about time and an old clock. The editor of Starmag felt it was good enough for publication in the Heart & Soul section.

And so it was published - on Teacher's Day, no less. I can tell you that I owe my current mastery of the English language to my folks and not a few teachers. I suppose this can count as a kind-of thank-you to them.

I'd been feeling down after reading about some writers who'd become authors (one of whom had her first book pulped due to plagiarism), and that piece was the result. Making writing a viable career feels like a long hard slog, but like a shovel that keeps working, maybe I'll reach China someday if I keep at it long enough.

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Time takes no sides
first published in The Star, 16 May 2010

There's a clock that sits on my multi-shelved, self-assembled computer table. It came with me when I migrated to Kuala Lumpur. Mum bought it for me, along with other things, at Gama Supermarket in Penang.

It's an alarm clock but it has been mute for a very long time. The shop assistant who looked at it thought it could have been the continued use of full alkaline batteries.

For telling the time, however, it's still very useful. I have another alarm clock now, but its presence is calming, reassuring. It's been with me through a lot. College, mostly. But I think, sadly, that it became silent before I started working for a living.

The day I first started college should have been the day a boy became a man. Layers of dust and numerous batteries came and went, but the clock kept ticking. The boy, however, never really grew up. He probably spent too much time enjoying being a boy, or lamenting the passing of time – a strange irony – and not enough of it finding his way in life and preparing for it.

Mum's a lot older now, and in light of this the clock she bought me has taken on another kind of significance. Our time will be up someday, like the clock. The springs and whatnot will wear out eventually, even if they outlast us both, mother and son. And as I stare into the wake of those who have gone far ahead of me, is it too late?

"Time is on our side," goes an old song. Like those who sang it, that axiom is old, perhaps a romantic notion used to sell songs. Time takes no sides. It goes along its merry way regardless of who we are and what we strive for and accomplish.

So why should I be bothered about other people's accomplishments? Time to make tracks of my own.

In the infinite realm of possibilities, even time itself may end one day. Like the old clock in my room, that thought is strangely comforting.