Unseasoned Joy

I didn't write anymore for Fried Chillies after this, because my new job began to take its toll, stress-wise. The warnings I got, including one from the Fried Chillies editor, were completely ignored.

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Joy Cafe

This unassuming cafe tries to keep everything healthy. And guess what? It takes nothing away from the taste, proving that you need not sacrifice taste for the sake of health.

first published in Fried Chillies, 30 June 2008


"No salt?!"

My jaw hit the table with a thud.

"Not a grain," says Mr. Dennis Ng, of Joy Café, a place he runs with his wife, Joyce. "People from far away as Subang, Damansara, KL, Shah Alam all travel here for the food." The passion isn't just in their cooking; it's also in its preparation and serving. Their big bowls aren't for the portions, or for show - it's to prevent the waiters' thumbs from dipping into the food. Nor do the cooks grab noodles with their bare hands - each serving-sized portion is wrapped in plastic, to be used only when needed. And they're organic noodles.

This was only my second time in Joy Café. During the first time I had their toast bread and chicken curry. They also have it served with kaya and butter which you have to spread it on yourself. I also had the orange white coffee; it was my first encounter with the fruity variant of my favourite brew. The taste had me begging for more. Another interesting flavour is the blackcurrant white coffee - a full-bodied concoction with a blackcurrant taste.

The menu of the months-old café is packed with the usual fare kopitiam fare: nasi lemak, "special fried rice, laksa with the addition of their braised dishes and a few other items. They also have brewed Chinese tea, and at least one dessert for each day of the week: double-boiled lotus root, red bean, etc - all served in a green-painted environment that instills a Zen-like calm while you wait. You wouldn't need to go anywhere else for breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner and supper.

I took another look at my half-eaten bowl of lamb brisket. Nice, tender chunks of lamb brisket (what else?), swimming in delicious brown gravy with a bevy of ginger and water chestnut slices. The gamey smell that gave it character was subtle enough not to offend. Such a flavourful dish - and no salt was involved? That's like hearing "no, there's no MSG in our kway teow soup".

Lamb brisket isn’t the only dish in this category – there’s also beef brisket, which can either be served with rice or noodles. I opted for the rice version. My brisket came in a separate bowl; on the plate, the mound of rice is dotted with black sesame seeds at the top, accompanied by a single fried egg (sunny side up) and some stir-fried lettuce.

My makan buddy for the day meanwhile, found her fried rice intriguing. It looked absolutely packed with goodness: finely sliced spring onions, long beans, fried egg, bits of minced pork and preserved radish which brightened up an otherwise mundane dish. And not a single ear of corn, green pea or diced carrot anywhere.

Again, Mr Ng satisfied our curiosity. "The fried rice is made from freshly-cooked rice," he explained. "Overnight rice is not fragrant enough. The pork is braised for three hours in a stock made from over a dozen different herbs and spices, before it's minced and added to the rice during cooking." And yes, no additional salt is used in their braised dishes.

We looked at each other and shrugged. Isn't it the nature of proprietors to sing praises of their own food? Still, I'd rather let my food do the talking. I took a bite of a lamb brisket. It talked, alright - like Barack Obama. With the water-chestnut pieces, the meat and gravy was a hearty dish that went great with rice or noodles.

My friend’s fried rice was also telling her things as well, something to the tune of "Yes, we can! Yes, we can!" She gave me some. Not only was it flavourful, there was also texture. A welcome departure from the boring old frozen peas-carrots-corn variety.

"So how was it?" I asked her, actually doubting my tastebuds. Hailing from Ipoh, another great food capital, she would know better.

"Very good," she said, emphasising each word for effect.

Our vote was unanimous. Joy Café is a shoo-in - and we barely even scratched the surface.

---

Joy Café

540, Jalan Riang 11,
Happy Garden,
58200 Kuala Lumpur

CLOSED FOR GOOD

Flying High With Elmo, et al

After an absence of a few months, I returned to Seksan for a Readings session. There was my resignation, red tape at the old workplace, a two-week pseudo-sabbatical and the adjustment period after my job switch.

Yes. I'd been busy. I needed a break - and an excuse to take my digital camera out for a spin. It couldn't have happened at a better time. The June session featured a star-studded line-up which included ex-airliner captain Elmo Jayawardena (picture, right), Lydia Teh, Jacqueline-Ann Surin and Kam Raslan. Other surprises included the presence of Farish Noor, Eric Forbes of MPH Publishing and Shahril Nizam... .

I've read quite a few of Farish Noor's articles; his Egyptian travelogues were particularly intriguing. He had emerged from a heated exchange of words with a bunch of UMNO people, and he'll be on his way to Indonesia. What? The Indons will be voting soon?

There was supposed to be a book sale or something, but that never materialised. Pity. I did want an autographed copy of Shape of A Pocket (Surin wanted to talk about an MPH readings - wonder if it'll happen?). A lucky draw was held during the intermission, where books were given away. Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children was among the prizes, the so-called Best of Booker.

(I'd withhold judgement until I've read it, but I think it got BoB because it's Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie.)

The intermission was special because we had a live band. The boys of Dewangga Sakti put on a great mid-Readings performance, and an encore when the session concluded. Their CDs were also available for sale.

But it didn't exactly get off on a good start. The roar of buzzsaws and a shower of sawdust from the KL Municipal Council's tree-trimmers' work ruined the generally calm Bangsar atmosphere. Sharon tried in vain to get them to buzz off. Although I repeated Sharon's request in a less-civilised tone, they wouldn't budge. They even had the cojones to pose when I brought out the shooter.

I was so loud I surprised myself.

Anyway:

• The afternoon's Readings took off with Captain Elmo J. He'd written his novels between flights; nowadays he's training other pilots. He read an excerpt from his book, Sam's Story.
• Lydia Teh read a piece of fiction from a soon-to-be-released work - a departure from her usual brand of non-fiction.
• Jacqueline Ann-Surin read one of her spiked articles on the controversial topics of religion and Lina Joy from Shape of A Pocket.
• The author Shahriza Hussein wasn't feeling well, so his friend read an excerpt from his novel, Legacy. Before starting, however, he took some time to add a disclaimer: Legacy is "fiction".
• Clarissa Tan crossed the Causeway to be here. She took her time with her piece, while - curiously - doing some kind of shuffle. It was hard to focus for a clean shot. There's more good stuff being read this time around.
• Unfortunately, I couldn't get a single sharp shot of Kam Raslan on the mic with optical zoom; zooming affects the photos, apparently, Only the shots I took without zooming were relatively OK. Much hilarity ensued as Kam recounted a chapter in the Datuk's tales. It does sound funnier when he reads it.

Overall results from my digicam were mixed; light was a major factor, not to mention my unsteady palsied hands. Despite all the homework and research I've done, my sharpshooting attempts were thwarted by my coffee habit. Maybe I should have waited a while more, spent a bit more to get the Powershot A570IS or Lumix FS3 instead.

Never again shall I scorn optical image stabilisation features.

Going Green By Going "E"

An offer to sign up for electronic monthly statements came with my latest Citibank snail-mailed statement. "Go Green, Go Paperless". It's secure, fast, no late delivery worries, and most of all, signing up before 30 June gets you 888 Rewards points.

Hmm. Well, with the exception of the 888 Rewards points it does sort of appeal to me. I've had mail victimised by inept postmen, or drenched by the rain. And I can look it up in any place that has a computer and an internet connection. And I'll be saving trees. Mmm, how about a hug, tree?

And that's the problem right there.

Barring old Webzilla here at home or the PC at the office, there aren't a lot of times I can get my hands on a wired computer - which also applies to a lot of people. What about computer glitches? Like power outages, they have the predatory instinct to pounce when they're least expected.

The "Go Green" exhortation is also misleading. You need electricity to get connected, and electricity burns coal or gas. How much CO₂ will I be burning while checking my swanky, clean and earth-saving monthly e-statements?

Let's not forget that the PC and electronic hardware industry is a major polluter. Mercury, dioxins, plastics, you name it. The gold contacts on your RAM? You don't want to know how they pull the stuff out of the ground.

See? I can look at the bright side.

But the eternal question remains. Pollute or denude? Talk about a rock and a hard place. Maybe I should just cancel the card... .

Shiny, Shiny India

I absolutely hated this book. The polemics. The dogma. The ivory-tower arrogance. The author tries to be balanced, but I can't help feeling that the overall argument was, well, one-sided. I suppose I should offer thanks that the original copy is lost. The paper kindly provided the heading.

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The next super power of the world

first published in The Star, 22 June 2008


A big budget production boasting seven- or eight-digit figures. A star-studded cast supported by legions of extras. Theme-park-sized sets and stunning panoramic backdrops. An epic-length script with the promise of a fairy-tale ending.

The latest Yash Chopra blockbuster? Hardly. It's Mira Kamdar's Planet India. A quick peek at the Web (Mira who?) made me realise that Planet India is the well-researched, painstakingly documented work of a renowned, well-published Indian-American intellectual who's affiliated with a couple of think-tanks and regularly speaks at high-powered gatherings on world affairs.

Some books inform, others entertain. Planet India is mostly information. India's successes on the international stage are well-catalogued in this volume; even the list of notes and indices are long enough to warrant their own chapters. Kamdar portrays India as an awakening juggernaut in language that calls to mind the phrase, "shock and awe". 1.2 billion Indians at home; 20 million overseas. Eight-figure investments by software giants. Growth by percentages by so-and-so year.

She enthusiastically throws facts, numbers and platitudes about her beloved India with heavy-handed determination of, say, presidential candidates from the US.

"...as goes India, so goes the world."

"No other country matters more to the future of our planet than India."

"...actually, we are already living on Planet India."

Thankfully the author stops short of saying "the rupee will replace the dollar as the international currency".

However, Kamdar doesn't simply wax lyrical over India's enormous potential to rock the world. About halfway through, India the gold and silicon-chip-paved utopia gave way to India of 600,000 villages, home to the detritus left behind by the leaders of the pack in the race towards wealth, progress and knowledge: the hard-core poor, the dispossessed, uneducated who are left to fend for themselves in backwaters and slums ruled by criminals, corrupt officials and tyrannical landlords. There's also a glimpse into its volatile political scene, deep religious divides and long-running feud with Pakistan. The India of Kamdar's fevered imagination seems so far away - but still within reach, she says. Apparently, they even have their own Vision 2020 (so it's a race, then? May the best country win).

Of course, this is a sales pitch for India the world power and center of enlightenment, not India the land of superstition, outdated customs and temperamental nationalism. I suppose I can't fault the author for her optimism, not when so many others feel the same way. For instance, the slogan of a budget airline reflects the light on the horizon: "Every time we take off, the whole economy looks up." It's so bright, it blinds.

Buried somewhere underneath the pile of numbers thrown so liberally into the manuscript, are morals, lessons and interesting anecdotes that help salvage the book from becoming a mere paperweight. There are wise words by Deepak Chopra, as well as uplifting ones by the students for whom things can only get better. I wouldn't have felt so annoyed had she given more prominence to the ordinary people of India, instead of blinged-up executives, socialites and crorepatis (millionaires).

Reading Planet India is like panning for gold in the Ganges. It's hard work, going through the facts, numbers, and feel-good slogans to find the little nuggets that enlighten, enrich and inspire.

---

Planet India

The Turbulent Rise of The World’s Largest Democracy

Mira Kamdar
Simon & Schuster UK, Ltd
320 pages
Non-Fiction
ISBN: 978-1-84737-068-6

Stop and Stare

Sitting in my room for most of the day yielded little. One book review, polished and sent - that was it. The rest was spent idling, reading blogs and waiting for the virus scanner to finish.

Not a productive day.

Yet I've been up and about so much during my sabbatical it no longer feels like one. I start my new job next week and this... torpor sets in. Plus, the status of my back-pay is in doubt. There'll be little by way of infusions for at least a month or two.

Screw it. I need a burger.

I left Webzilla running and trooped downstairs. There was a small crowd around the 7-Eleven Burger Stand. It'll take a while before I get mine.

"Two beef burgers, no chilli sauce," I told the vendor. "I'll come back for them later," I added.

"OK."

I went to the petrol station for some POKKA® Lemon 1000®. While I was aware that these will be a luxury in the coming months, I get a couple, which I intend to sip like long-buried vintages - and not drain like moonshine.

An unsettling sight stops me short - a scavenger raiding the 7-Eleven trash bin. He finds a discarded chicken sausage (courtesy of the burger vendor) and breaks it into three. I turned away to avoid the possible sight of him eating the damn thing. A compare-and-contrast mental routine kicked in.

Freaking writer's block, hmm? Soon, writing is going to be the only way I get salt out of the mines. "Writer's block" is another luxury I cannot afford - that is, unless I switch to a lifestyle that involves throw-away sausages out of a trash can.

I can't afford that, either.

I may have experienced and forgotten it many times, so it's always confounding how so much could come from so little. Such is the unparalleled marvel of the wake-up call.

Fest For The Eyes

Monday, May 26, 2008

Popular Bookfest 2008 was a much better book fest - because there was more floor-space at the KL Convention Centre. There was also stationery, computer peripherals, gifts and... tea? The folks at Purple Cane were hawking all sorts of teas, including a three-figure tagged Golden Oolong. Not my cup of tea. I'm a coffee man.

Of course, there were stage events. Teen author Lim May-Zhee, in a slinky purple dress and mile-long lashes spouted inspiring lines to the young listeners about the beauty of being a young author, thus:

"Writing a book is hard work..."

"You have to do lots of editing... you edit again and again and again..."

"You need to deal with pesky editors and printing staff, who'll mess up your work and you have to do it all over..."

"You have to do lots of PR, talking about your book... it's like taking care of children... so yeah, my books are like my children, so help me and buy my children..."

I cringed a lot.

Amir Muhammad's appearance wasn't too spectacular, either. He was just reading some of the quotes that will appear in Malaysian Politicians Say The Darnedest Things #2. Both authors, in fact, looked like they'd rather be somewhere else. I would've liked to hear some interesting back-stories about their works, in the vein of those "The Making of..." documentaries.

Reminds me of my old job, where the developers were excellent problem-solvers, but bad chroniclers of their work - barring their in-code comments. The schedules didn't allow them to. But then, my ex-colleagues wrote code. I didn't expect to see the same thing in authors.

Got +wondermilk?

Weeks after this came out, I was told - to my dismay - that the kids who run this shop are from rather well-to-do families, and that the service was the kind expected from such ilk. And the "two medallions" of chocolate were actually two halves of one chocolate medallion. I could say that my journalistic bent was still being developed then, but still... At least the food was good...

Somehow, credits for my Fried Chillies pieces, written under the alias "Alan W", were lost during their web site makeover.

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+wondermilk shop + café

Wondermilk that dares to be different in the era of cookie cutter bakeries, serves up a welcome eclecticism and an arty vibe. They not only make kitschy cupcakes but hosts gigs and art exhibitions too.

first published in Fried Chillies, 24 May 2008


Sneer all you want at roadside burger stands. Every time I see one, my heart warms to see the usually young proprietors at good honest work instead of illegal racing, mugging and bumming out at shopping malls or Starbucks. Similarly uplifting are stories about young 'uns fresh out of college who are bucking trends in novel, out-of-the-box ways.

That was the one thing about +wondermilk that first struck me. The staff was barely-weened babes who look like they just tossed off their graduation robes and mortars - and yet are exhibiting signs of eccentric, creative and flighty genius. Nothing about the exterior gives any hint of what lays inside.

Fairy-tale whimsy abounds in what looks like a refurbished living room. Bare brickwork. Tables with water-pipe legs. In a corner stands a glass-panelled cabinet with a selection that can be classified as boho grunge. No ornate faux-baroque inspirations ala Casa Impian. These kids are channelling Gauguin and Gaudi into a high-end final year art and design project along the edges of Damansara Uptown.

"We're graduates of an art and design college," the waitress replied when asked. The café, which sells their trademark cuppacakes, is also a showcase of their talents as designers.

Ah. It explains everything, including the constant mini-themes around the place. Reindeer, sparrows, butterflies and the like. Even the cash register has personality; instead of the usual ENTER PRICE or HI, I'M JOE, it exhorts you to DRINK MORE MILK.

It's easy to dismiss the cuppacakes as little more than fluff; they were so small I didn't know there were different sizes. I picked out five, one for each flavour, and a coffee to wash it all down.

Royal Vanilla (rose)
There's nothing plain about the vanilla-based sponge, or the buttercream icing. The cream did not come out of a spraycan. You can feel the sugar grains, the taste and smell of butter among the flavours - evoking childhood memories of licking the mixing bowl. The flowers are masterpieces in themselves, lovingly piped into place by a fine nozzle and the steady hands of a patient, consummate artist.

Chocolove Orange (spiral)
Orange and chocolate are flavours Jamie Oliver would call "best mates". It's a combo that rarely goes wrong; the rich chocolate topping goes well with the orange-tinged cake sponge.

Cookie & Cream Dream (Oreo on top)
Ah, another Oreo-inspired winner. Bits of moist, cookie pieces are embedded into the cake, with a chocolate-flecked Oreo-like cream topping.

Hola! Piña Colada (white with lime rind)
It's supposed to be pineapple and cream, but my tastebuds registered "tropical ambrosia". Just enough pineapple to tease the palate with suggestions of a Hawaiian vacation.

Oh My Choc (two buttons on top)
Chocolate upon chocolate - upon chocolate. Two chocolate medallions wedged into a crown of what I suspect is Nutella, with a soft, moist chocolate sponge below. Just one bite during your chat session and you'll be typing OMCs instead of OMGs for the rest of the day.

With prices between RM3 to RM4 per cuppacake, you indulge, but indulge judiciously. New varieties are always being cooked up in the kitchen ("Elves at Work - No Entry", says the door). It also got me curious about their other offerings.

Their Sloppy Joes - a kind of carelessly-assembled burger - looks different, but not very special in terms of taste: minced chicken, button mushrooms in a mystery brown sauce between two halves of a bun. The Beef Rashers sandwich though was a warm, crispy toasted bread hugging flavourful beef ham and fresh crunchy lettuce.

Yes, "+wondermilk" is actually on the menu. A "secret" blend of fresh milk and a few other ingredients that doesn't trigger any emotional fireworks, but makes a tasty thirst-quencher. In keeping with the boho grunge vibe, ceramic and stainless steel have been replaced with custom-designed cardboard half-boxes, paper cups and plastic cutlery. Even their cupcake takeaway boxes bears their distinct hallmarks.

I am so hooked. I am so coming back. I am so going to go through the menu like a tornado across the American Midwest.

Before leaving, I made an inquiry.

"I'm sorry, sir," the proprietor/waitress replied. "The 'Trespassers' sign is not for sale."

Ah, well. You can't always have your cuppacake and eat it, too.

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+wondermilk shop + café

41 Jalan SS 21/1A
Damansara Utama
47400 Petaling Jaya
Selangor Darul Ehsan

Halal

Mon-Sat: 9am-9pm
Sun: 2pm-6pm

+603-7725 8930

info@ilovewondermilk.com

Facebook page

Eating For Disaster Victims

"So part of today's proceeds will go to the disaster victims in Burma and China?" I asked the waitress who gave me the change.

"Not part of," she replied. "All of it."

That caught me off-guard. "All the proceeds?"

"Yes."

Patrick Teoh for Prime Minister.

Then I remembered another thing. "There was a little girl going around collecting donations," I said. "Is she authorised to do that?"

The waitress laughed. "Yes, she's been approved by the management."

It started out rather poorly. I thought I memorised the map well enough, but I ended up loitering around The Atria for half an hour. By the time I reached the venue, I was sick with fatigue and hunger, and really damned thirsty.

Patrick Teoh's Damansara Village was holding a charity-drive for the disaster victims in Burmyan and China (I didn't know how it was done until I picked up the tab). Patrons can satisfy their physical, spiritual and emotional hungers in one sitting.

Amazing, the kind of info you pick up from blog aggregators. Previously, FunnyBunny's panic over a disrupted DiGi line was calmed by news of a nation-wide DiGi outage from Project Petaling Street.

I thought things were starting to look up until I saw the words "Steamboat" and "Pulau Ketam seafood".

Typically, a steamboat dinner revolves around a constantly boiling pot of stock and people throwing raw ingredients into it, preferably seafood and stuff you can quickly boil and eat. Eventually, noodles go into the now flavour-rich stock for a satisfying conclusion to a good meal. Nothing is fried, so it's also healthier.

Let me emphasise: people. Steamboat meals are rarely singleton affairs. My lone presence caught the attention of The Man himself. "You should put it all into the pot," he said, indicating the plate of veggies, quail eggs, assorted fishballs and bean curd products. "You can continue to eat as they cook."

The one thing that grabbed my attention was the single live and twitching prawn; too bad it died before I could cook the sucker. Despite my sorry skills, I didn't manage to make my seafood taste like old tennis shoes. Freshly-dead shellfish are a tad firmer and juicier than those from my old memories. Maybe I should do Pulau Ketam again - and do it right this time.

(I've never had boiled tennis shoes, but it's good to know other palatable substitutes are available if I ever get curious.)

Too bad I couldn't order the seafood. I suck at dissecting crabs, and fish heads can be challenging. And it was just little old me at the table.

However, I would suggest sprucing up the bathrooms, and mosquito repellents. And they should have let KY draw the map.

Looove the décor.

One East-West Train Wreck

To my frustration, I could say nothing nice about this book - nor could I say anything bad about it. It's a depressing read that the Internal Security Ministry would pass; everybody depicted here more or less fits the more popular stereotypes. The British are degenerate, amoral snobs; the Communist Chinese are bloodthirsty and ruthless, their sympathisers untrustworthy and cunning; and all Opposition party members are firestarters.

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When the past and present collide...

first published in The Star, 18 May 2008


One year ago, this book might not have reached the shelves. Contents include British colonialists, Communist insurgents, May 13 rioteers and the DAP. Who would've thought so much could happen in 365 days?

But is it a ghost story, or not? While "ghost" is in the title, the ambiguity of The Orientalist and the Ghost is guaranteed to titillate, or irritate.

Here, Susan Barker delivers a Lemony-Snicketish tale of a dysfunctional British-Chinese family forged in the fires of the Malayan Emergency that crumbles as time marches on.

Young Christopher Milnar is an adventurous and somewhat naïve scholar enamoured with all things Chinese who gets shipped to insurgent-era Malaya as an assistant administrator of a Chinese relocation settlement in Yong Peng, Johore. Translated, Yong Peng means "Everlasting Peace"; he would later find out that the British aren't the only ones with a sardonic sense of humour. He gets no welcome from the locals, especially the resentful Chinese who have been separated from relatives and loved ones under the Communist insurgents.

As the harsh reality whittles down his romanticism, love and hate come in the emaciated form of Evangeline Lim, an older half-Chinese woman with whom Chris has a May-December fling. Evangeline unwillingly betrays Chris' trust in her and ends up in court where she is sentenced to death, but not before leaving behind a daughter. Chris takes it upon himself to look after the child, named Frances, but the "Yong Peng Irony" continues as Frances becomes estranged from her "foreign devil" father and commits suicide years later, saddling Chris with her children, Adam and Julia. Like mother, like daughter.

However, this tale of woe begins with an ageing Chris being visited by phantoms of his past: his superior officer, colleagues and other memorable individuals from those heady Malayan days. The narration suggests that it's more hallucination than haunting. I don't blame him. He's counting his days, and his grandchildren have inherited that psychological Great Wall of China from their grandmother's side of the family. Plus, he's no Jamie Oliver.

It's not long before Chris himself crosses over, and suddenly, the grandchildren are adults. While Adam becomes a lab technician, Julia falls in with the wrong crowd and ends up a heroine junkie, too stoned to care when a letter from her mother's old school-friend arrives, asking for a meeting. As Adam sets off to meet the sender, the rest of the Milnars' sad tale unfolds.

I'm not a fan of non-linear plotlines, even though some stories read well when written this way. I didn't like the way The Orientalist leaps back and forth between the present and the tumultuous Malayan days. The aged Chris Milnar narrates the beginning, but then someone else tells us that he's dead, and Adam has the keys to his flat. A couple of chapters later, it’s good old Chris prattling on again, as if he never left. All that bouncing around gave me motion sickness.

Another gripe I had with it was the (perceived) interactivity. OK, there are plenty of clues as to why Frances became estranged from her father, but I had to dig. Surely it wasn't simply because of her conviction that her dad betrayed her mum? What really happened when she went searching for the teacher she had a crush on in the riot-racked city? Who really was the assailant that drove a rift between Chris and Evangeline? It's supposed to be literary fiction. If I wanted intellectual stimulation, I'd have done a Sudoku puzzle.

Storywise, it's pretty authentic. The sounds, emotions and atmosphere of those bygone times are captured very well. In Chris' narration, there are flashes of Shakespearean melodrama and the famous British wit; too bad his performance couldn't save this sad tale. And the only ghosts in the book are probably in Chris Milnar's head all along.

Should I feel cheated, or not?

---

The Orientalist and The Ghost

Susan Barker
Doubleday
346 pages
Fiction
ISBN: 978-0-385-60980-7

Jumping My First Ship

Quote of the day: "Correct, correct, correct." It's so succinct, even he can't
comment on it.

So much is happening lately, it's hard to recall it all. The interviews, phone calls, assignments, and the island day trip.

After eight years and three months, I'm finally moving on. There are no comfort zones where I'll be going, and I'd be lying if I said I'm approaching this with little trepidation and doubt. What's unfortunate is that my schedule will be packed before my departure, which is just days from now. I just can't get a break.

Not many outside the company (or inside, for that matter) know I'm leaving. People change jobs all the time. It's not something worth dwelling over.

But it's going to be tough being the greenhorn again, after eight-plus years of seniority.

West Bashes West

After the hilariously entertaining Talk to The Snail, this was a bit of a disappointment - but I had fun reviewing it. I think the book speaks for itself.

---

Sardonic mirth

first published in The Star, 09 May 2008


Just how long can an Anglo-Saxon comedy writer spin humour out of cultural clashes? If you are Stephen Clarke, "as long as it pays the bills".

Following the runaway success of A Year in The Merde, Clarke produced the sequel Merde, Actually and Talk to the Snail, a comprehensive and hilarious guide to surviving France. So far, all of his books are based on his own experiences in the country. The next chapter in the comedy of errors that is British expatriate Paul West’s life is Merde (Shit) Happens.

And boy, does shit happen here. Not long after he sets up his English tea room in Paris, West is heavily fined by the local authorities – for having English words in the menu. His attempts to weasel his way out of the penalty fail, placing him in deep financial merde. On top of that, his English-speaking French girlfriend Alexa is hinting that the relationship is going nowhere – the same as West.

So he returns to London and secures a gig with a dodgy outfit to promote England as a premiere tourist destination, which he hopes will help him settle the fine and win Alexa’s admiration. The catch is – OK, make that catches are – he has to tour the United States in a Mini Cooper; organise and emcee the related promotional events at each stop; compete with representatives from other countries (including France); and do all that wearing a kilt (which is typically Scottish, but hey, since when has semantics ever stood in the way of an impetuous British venture?)

West extends Alexa an invitation to come along, and she accepts the deal with typical French grace – so she could make a documentary about the "real" (read: ugly) America. Her contempt for the US and its denizens becomes material for some of the jokes and punchlines.

Further mayhem ensues upon their arrival at the former British colony. Their transport is delayed, nobody knows they were coming and what they were coming for, and their link to London is an attendant from a call centre in India. Halfway through their journey, they are joined by West's linguistically challenged American friend and a Hispanic hottie. The "West Goes West" roadshow continues its downward spiral into oblivion while the merry band salvages what they can from it. Snafus haunt the party like monsters in pursuit, hinting at possible attempts at sabotage.

After writing two books that caricaturise his adopted homeland, Clarke broadens his horizons by sending his hero westward. New victims of his dry, scalpel-edged wit includes Americans, Canadians and Indians (not the red variety). Metaphors abound and punchlines are aplenty, making the book feel more like a comic strip than a novel. In no time the plot becomes less and less tangible as Merde Happens evolves into one long, sardonic diatribe by a Brit about the (exaggerated) strangeness of America – when his French girlfriend isn't snarking about it. After each chapter, I was like, "What... was this book about?" It's not just the plot; the author's brand of humour would be lost on less sophisticated readers. Still, that shouldn't discourage others from giving it a try.

It's hard to imagine that Merde Happens is actually part of a series. The way it is written gives no hint of a previous connection with the other books, which is both a strength and a weakness. You don't feel compelled to collect the whole set, since it's more of the same anyway (unless you are a fan, or immensely curious about how West ended up in France and acquired his tea room). On the flipside, copies would end up crawling (like a snail) – not flying – off the shelves instead. Which might spell financial trouble for a real Englishman living in France.

I wouldn't call the book a must-have but maybe we should help out by buying a copy, if only to stave off the nightmare vision of a kilt-clad Stephen Clarke, touring countries on behalf of Britain in a Mini Cooper because his books aren't selling.

---

Merde Happens

Stephen Clarke
Transworld Publishers
381 pages
Fiction
ISBN: 978-0-593-05631-8

Island Adventure

No time to wax lyrical over this latest misadventure. I'm tired, and my head is still in sync with the movements of the waves. I won't be walking in a straight line until I wake up tomorrow.


Pulau Ketam (a.k.a Crab Island) Labour Day adventure! In point form.

• Boat rides were OK, but wish they'd play more uplifting music instead of Chinese oldies and karaoke discs.
• It is not so bad when the boats move; it's even worse when they don't.
• The island is apparently the tourist destination for Klang Valley denizens too cheap to fly AirAsia.
• Try not to pay too much attention to the floatsam on the water.
• Who could imagine anything on stilts and concrete pylons could be so secure?
• Oyster and la-la omelette is made the Penang way - but still not up to par.
• Live crabs in plastic drums on display in the market district - animal cruelty.
• The umbrella-hats are real. Resisted the urge to buy one.
• Kim Hoe Restaurant no longer serves the very, very best crab bee hoon. A fact totally lost upon the holidaying rubes from the asphalt jungle. At least the crabs were nice.
• Sewage goes into sea; ocean bounty returns to land. Island-style circle of life. Yum.
• Most locals keep their doors open.
• On the island, Ah Sui is the Tesco of dessicated shrimp and dried seafood.
• When in the bathroom, make judicious use of tap water.
• Tragic to see so many people using the sea as a trash can.
• Eat light - or not at all - before getting onto a boat.
• What kind of maniac would spend days in a chalet that's more like a prison cell atop a floating fish farm, doing nothing but fish?
• Walk slowly and gently on the planks and don't look too closely at the wavelets showing through the gaps and cracks in the timber. Do not run, stomp or jump. Try not to fall in, either. The barramundi (siakap) are not picky eaters.
• Baby tiger garoupas are cute; red snappers are snappy.
• GreenWay fish farm tour was conducted mainly in two Chinese dialects. Not very educational. Maybe because I was in an all-Chinese group.
• Watch your head on boats.
• Weather behaved itself. And sea breezes can be cooler than air-conditioning.
• Next time, don't forget the motion-sickness pills. Maybe some sunscreen, too.

Starbucks and Stories

Coffee and conversation with the indomitable Yvonne Foong - and it's the second time I made her wait. This time, it's because I got lost. I hate Subang Jaya. Like everywhere else in the state, the signboards made no sense.

She has a debilitating disease, but it doesn't stop her at all. Earlier she'd written a masterful response to a journalist's poor professional conduct. There was talk about creating a branded charity foundation-or-whatnot. Discussions about psychology, marketing and, of course, blogs.

You do not want her angry at you.

Next time, I'm studying a map - and then, test-driving the route.

---

There was supposed to be something about this month's LitBloggers' Breakfast with Kunal Basu, but I couldn't be bothered. Besides, I wouldn't want people to think I attend all these meets just so I could post something... .

Some interesting and pertinent points garnered from the meet include:

• 's chemical. Stories are all chemical. Natural ones produced by your body, of course.
• Let the story take centerstage. Don't fit stories into themes.
• Don't give a shit about readers. Write what you want, write what you like. And pray the readers you don't give a shit about will like it too.
• Research is important (and from his tone of voice it could also be fun). If all else fails, fill the gaps with your imagination. Why else would you call it "fiction", duh?
• Most lit-fic readers are women; no woman, all (lit-fic authors) cry. In this case, Bob Marley had it wrong.
• MPH Bangsar can't get their hands on chicken mayo.

Kungfu For Kung Fools

Hearken, voices calling for the Forbidden Kingdom to be... forbidden. From cinemas.

(I wish I was talking about China, too. But I'm not.)

There were complaints about how rip-offish the set pieces were. Words like "silly", "unoriginal", "irreverent" and "sacrilegious" were waved like Tibetan flags in a Beijing '08 Olympics' torch run protest.

(OK, maybe I do want to write about China. Maybe.)

The indignation from kungfu movie afficionados was so thick nobody ever paused to think that it might have been done on purpose. If the directors were poking fun at martial arts culture - or more precisely, certain perceptions about martial arts - they did so with aplomb.

Consider the plot: kungfu-crazed American teen falls through a wormhole into ancient China; to get back, he must learn enough martial arts to survive and complete a mission scriptwriters say only he could accomplish. Right, make some white kid the hero, with two genuine kungfu grandmasters playing sidekick.

Wrong.

After Jackie's and Jet's characters meet halfway through the movie, it all becomes clearer. The on-screen intensity of their initial rivalry, the friction, the repartee. This was what everyone wanted - a Jackie vs Jet showdown - and they got it. Elated over their first collaboration, they take it over the top. But when the reluctant non-Oriental disciple turns on both masters, they both put their pride aside to dish out a dose of discipline.

They look like they're having fun. Why shouldn't they? They've been doing this forever. Jet's is pushing fifty; Jackie, sixty. Retirement beckons - why not have some fun while you're on the way out, even at each other's expense? (and the audience's as well, but since they got half of their movies through pirates and YouTube, they shouldn't complain) A paid vacation. That's what it is.

It is Jackie's admonishment of Michael Angarano's character, however - an extension of the lesson Bruce Lee gave the West - that is the gist of what the movie is about.

"You've watched every martial arts film, played all the video games. You know the moves and their names inside out. Big deal. You can't even swing a stick properly! You're not learning anything because your head's filled with garbage! 'No-Shadow Kick'? 'One-Fingered Death Touch'? You know jack-shit about kungfu, white boy. Now hump those concrete blocks and gimme a hundred! And no supper till you're done!"

You might think that's rather mean of Jackie, but in case you forgot, he did graduate out of a training regime that would unnerve even the Spartans. Jet's own credentials need no elaboration. With regards to teaching neophyte "kungfu" nerds, there is no one else more qualified.

In the movie, Jackie's animated, impatient and fiery temperament is artfully offset by Jet's mountain-like calm. At the lowest point of the white boy's journey while holed up in a desert cave, he has doubts about his chances of success. "What if I freeze?" he asks the meditating Jet, who replies, "Don't forget to breathe." Ooh, how Zen.

The Chosen One may be Caucasian, but the real stars were the so-called token Chinks - and they stole the show.

All of them.

Lost On Ice

This novel, in size and weight, was a real brick. I wasn't exaggerating about its climate control properties - reading over 600 pages of Arctic weather descriptions has a profound effect on the mind. I didn't really hate it, but it's not something I'd recommend.

---

Arctic slaughter

first published in The Star, 18 April 2008


The quest for the Northwest Passage, the fabled naval route across the North Pole to the riches of the East, has long confounded explorers and sailors. In 1845, Englishman Sir John Franklin set sail with two ships, Erebus and Terror, in search of the route – and never returned. The fate of Franklin's exploration team is fictionalised in The Terror.

The novel, which includes real and (possibly) fictional characters, begins months after both ships ran aground in the Arctic. Although Franklin is their de facto leader, the protagonist is Francis Crozier, captain of the HMS Terror and primary witness to the drama on the ice, who struggles to keep his crew in line (one of the novel's many flashbacks pin the blame on Franklin for the mishap). With supplies dwindling, bad weather and little hope of rescue, the crew from both ships face extreme hardship. Compounding the perils is a supernatural presence that is preying on the men.

As if that's not enough, the busy captain also has to keep an eye on a mute Eskimo beauty the crew dubs Lady Silence, who mysteriously blundered into their midst. In no time she's firing up the imaginations of the land-locked sailors, adding to Crozier's growing list of headaches.

Franklin eventually dies, leaving Crozier in command. Betrayal, suicide, murder, cannibalism, disease (scurvy, in particular), the cold and the mystery creature continue to whittle the group down to size. On top of all that, the stoic, no-nonsense officer would later be challenged by mutinous crewmembers led by a snivelling character everybody loves to hate. A typical day in the captain's cabin.

Wait – did I say "drama"? OK, I'm being generous. The promise of a "white-knuckle thriller" evaporates along with the story's glacial progress (mine turned white due to the strain of holding up and turning the pages of the big 769-page novel). In his efforts to entertain us, Simmons reduces the expedition members to crude, one-dimensional versions of their actual selves and serves them to the beast and the wilderness. You feel no pity for any of them as they perish one by one. If not for the Eskimos (apart from Lady Silence), The Terror is nothing more than a weekend slaughterfest at a Roman coliseum featuring foul-mouthed angmoh sailors, with the author in the emperor's seat.

The storyline often drifts between the past and present – or dream and reality, making it hard to follow. The flashbacks do shed some light to the crewmembers' backgrounds but you still can't relate to them enough to empathise with their plight.

The "supernatural presence" hounding the men? Sounds either like the polar bear from the TV series Lost – or Frosty the Snowman. There are also allusions to the creature's mythical origins and its connection with Crozier's enigmatic guest. It's rare for a reader to cheer for the monster, but that's exactly what I ended up doing.

On the other hand, going through the novel does feel like you're slogging through the Arctic snow, feeling cold, tired and hungry and asking repeatedly, "Are we there yet?" At some point I found myself turning off the air-conditioner. A testament to Simmons' ability to create very realistic backdrops.

Politics, greed, the fear of the unknown, and the fury of the elements – The Terror gives us an idea of the obstacles faced by those who helped open the trade routes leading to the proliferation of spices, tea, Starbucks and KFC. However, it falls short of its lofty goals as a page-turning thriller.


In the early 20th century, Norwegian explorer Roald Amundsen became the first person to fully navigate the Northwest Passage. In 2005, global warming opened up enough of the frozen north for a ship to sail the entire length of the fabled route.

---

The Terror

Dan Simmons
Little, Brown and Company
769 pages
Fiction
ISBN: 978-0-316-11328-1

Pocket-Sized Weekend Drama

I wasn't overly fond of this book, but it was still a good read - short and sweet. Will the author be at Readings someday? One can hope.

---

Foul play

first published in The Star, 11 April 2008


Cerpen is a word I haven't heard of since I left school. It perfectly sums up Lee Su-Ann's The Curse, the second prizewinner in the English Novel Category of the Utusan Group's Young Adult Literature Competition of 2005. It has since been published and ready to enthral sceptics of local literature.

The Curse showcases village girl Azreen, who takes a sabbatical from her studies overseas and returns to her hometown in her sleepy village in an island south of Langkawi. Her homecoming is greeted by the tragic death of her sister Mahduri, the fair blossom of the unnamed village. The incident leaves her parents traumatised, especially her mother, whose senility becomes more pronounced.

In the aftermath of her sister's end, possibly due to foul play, a strange pall hangs over the village. There's the token ghostly figure in white. Making things worse with allusions of a curse is Puan Normala the village gossip, who is guaranteed to get under your skin.

Sinking into that familiar fugue that follows the loss of a loved one, Azreen revisits memories of her youth, good and bad. She finds no comfort from her sullen father or delirious mother. Thankfully, at no point does our heroine go into Nancy Drew mode. Throughout the novel we are informed via flashbacks that our heroine is no typical village girl, even in her younger days: tomboyish, headstrong and not above talking back to her elders. Which might explain her estrangement from her parents.

Main distractions come in the form of Mohd Asraf, the hot-headed village hunk, whom Azreen had a crush on in her younger days. There's also the mysterious outcast, an old lady whom Azreen befriends. Spicing things further is Mahduri's recent marriage to the village headman, the jealous fits of the headman’s first wife, and some livestock that shared the victim's fate.

Was Mahduri murdered? Is there really a vengeful spirit stalking the village? Will Azreen get the guy? Who, or what killed the animals? Will it ever stop raining? Are Mahduri's parents Bollywood fans? And why won't that irritating Puan Normala just shut up? I bet you’d like to know.

At first glance, it doesn't look like much. It is almost pocket-sized, and borrows a lot from existing works. Mahsuri legend? Check. Vengeful spirits? Check. Rip-off of Stephenie Meyer's cover to New Moon, complete with bloodied white flower? Check. Script from a typical Drama Minggu Ini? Check. Compensation for all that comes in the believable portrayal of the rural Malay village and its inhabitants.

The level of suspense is quite credible, but the execution is hardly subtle. Hints pointing to something sinister in Mahduri's demise start falling like ripe durians about halfway through the story. Thankfully, they will all miss their mark, and we are thus spared from a predictable ending.

Lack of originality aside, there aren't a lot of issues with The Curse. Its small size is actually an advantage. It probably kept the author focused on telling the story without any added fluff – all the elements of one good story in one minuscule package. I'm still amazed at how the author pulled it off.

The Curse is further proof that the local literary scene is neither dead nor moribund. This edition is a nice comfortable read for everybody – especially those with short attention span – as opposed to that 700-odd page international award-winning bestseller.

Plus, it's actually readable.

---

The Curse

Lee Su Ann
Utusan Publications & Distributors Sdn Bhd
232 pages
Fiction
ISBN: 978-967-61-1971-7

Who's The Aggressor Here?

Another shark attack victim dies in Australia.

Amongst the polite pleas to not take it out on the sharks - like they did with stingrays after one of them shanked Steve Irwin, were comments calling for a shark hunt, and to "put 'em in their rightful place - a cat-food tin".

And what's this about "making an example of a few of them"? Did I read that right? Did they just compare animals to terrorists? Is there even a United Denizens of the Deep (UDD) we humans can negotiate with? Oh, yeah, like it will so work, well, because... we're, like, the good guys!

Aussie rednecks. They think anything is possible after a dozen beers.

Sharks, like all natural predators, eat the slow, weak, sick and dying (which sheds light on some surfers), leaving the seas to the strong, bright and healthy. They also keep the oceans clean by gobbling dead and decomposing sea creatures, lovely breeding grounds for potentially nasty bacteria. Sharks are also biological wonders whose healing and sensory powers are being investigated by scientific, medical and military agencies.

If they all ended up in cat-food tins, Neptune's realm will see a massive free-for-all that will have bigger fish gobbling up smaller table fish and their young. Unlike us, Ma Nature's hunter-killers don't catch more than what they could eat. We already kill tons of sharks each year - most of them finned, speared and as by-catch. On average, less than twenty fatal attacks are reported annually worldwide.

And so far, no spokesfish for the sharks have approached the UN asking for an audience or offering coral branches of peace.

Sharks may be ugly and uncuddly, but unless we're willing to replace them as the ecosystem's euthanists, garbagemen and biohazard crew, we should shut the hell up, give them a wide berth, and just be extra careful every time we go out to sea.

And It's Only The First Day

I had some hopes for the biggest book fair held this year at the Putra World Trade Center (PWTC). By the time I left the venue they were utterly dashed. Was I too early, or was the whole affair simply not what it was cracked up to be?

(And damn, the web site isn't very helpful either. You'd think that an e-portal for an event promoting literature and reading would have more details)

The timing sucked, for one. The fair coincided with Bank Rakyat's annual general meeting. The mob scene that confronted me was astounding, bringing me back to the days when the annual Microfest was a huge affair - not that it was any more pleasant. No way of telling who was attending what (although I'm sure the bevies of schoolgirls are most likely lured by the promise of cheaper textbooks). It was loud, chaotic, and somehow, vampiric. Fatigue quickly set in even before I reached the entrance.

My jaded worldview discerned a separation of society classes at the "book fair". The lower level was packed, crowds reaching sardine-can densities at the booths hawking textbooks, tabloids and comics. Plenty of religious material as well. The less-crowded upper level was where the more sophisticated choices were: dictionaries, literary fiction, various non-fiction titles and university-level reference materiel to name a few.

Sad. Tragic. I'm trying but I can't find the exact words for what I felt. This glimpse of Malaysia's literary strata paints a very depressing picture.

Sincerest apologies, but hosting multi-national publishing and distribution companies do not an international book fair make.

Oh, I did notice the hastily-corrected buntings:

Books Empowers.

Fear the Red Pen of Sharon Bakar™.

Bangsar Book Talk Brekkie

While I am contemptuous of some mainland Chinese's eating habits and flaunting of wealth, I wouldn't mind trying some dog - it's supposed to be good for my asthma. Relax, no dogs were harmed in this production.

To be repeated 500 times on a chalkboard: A blog is not a message service.


Saturday, 22 March 2008

This month's MPH LitBloggers' Breakfast Club was one I didn't intend to miss. Chuah Guat Eng (whom I saw at last month's Readings) and Wena Poon were the featured authors.

The first thing I did was home in on the buffet table. My heart sank when I failed to spot any chicken mayo sandwiches. It killed the mood for the coffee. The egg and tuna mayo sandwiches were just as nice, but couldn't they do something to prevent the bread from drying up?

Both authors introduced their works and revealed a bit about the creative process and experiences involved, before getting down to reading from their books.

There were definitely two distinct personalities and storytelling modes at the fore. Wena radiated gregarious enthusiasm as she read and voice-acted Dog Hot Pot, a humourous take on responsibilities, morals and cultural differences revolving around exotic canine delicacies. Every detail is carved out and presented in bold, chiselled features.

Chuah, meanwhile, was the paragon of quiet, regal dignity while reading a passage about two pretty men. The ambiguity in the characters and settings allowed some leeway for the reader's imagination, like the pictures in a colouring book.

Did someone say Chuah was from Rembau?

The Q&A session that followed took an odd turn when Wena asked Chuah a question. Now this is how it should be, I thought with approval. Definitely some yin yang mojo at work.

Both draw upon different sources for their works. Wena's experiences during her travels made Lions a very "global" collection of stories about Singaporeans living abroad (like herself). Chuah's Old House was built on memories and images spun out of the air. A nod at Wena's canine hot pot story came in the form of an anecdote about a stray pup that wandered into Chuah's yard and died mysteriously.

When asked about memoirs that aren't memoirs, Chuah expressed dislike, and reckons books like those should be classified as non-fiction. Wena was of the opinion that too much inclusion of real-life experiences into literary fiction lessens the degree of art involved.

That being said, she also voiced her frustrations in warding off reader assumptions that Lions was partly autobiographical, even though some of the narrators were men. Then Chuah chipped in with another anecdote where readers got the gender and race of the narrator wrong - thanks to the way she writes - but thinks it's cool to let their imagination run wild.

During the schmoozing session that followed, Sharon Bakar told me how she found one of my published articles, and gave me some positive feedback on it. She initially didn't know I wrote the piece; members of her circle know me by my other Internet handle. She also assuaged my doubts on panning a bad book and reservations on reviewing books with objectionable content.

I had to miss out on the Readings later that afternoon because I had other plans. It was a good session, though - a good portent for the rest of the day.

Doraemon, Japanese Cultural Ambassador

Japan's tendency to give in to escapist fetishes every time there's a crisis simply astounds. The ImagiNation has conferred Doraemon the title of Anime Ambassador. The earless technotronic cat with the hammerspace pocket and a phobia of mice was feted by the Japanese Foreign Minister in a ceremony commemorating the occasion. As if babysitting Nobita wasn't enough.

I've always known the Japanese to be kooky, but they break the mould so often it's a cause for concern. And we're buying their cars? Watching their shows? Eating their cuisine? Soon, they'll be voting other notable characters into the Cabinet. Dr Black Jack for Ministry of Health, anyone? What about Initial D's Takumi Fujiwara for Ministry of Transportation? Death Note's Kira would make a great Minister of Justice (Ryuk can be deputy). Ministry of Women and Community? Helloooo, Kitty! And of course - Ultraman for Prime Minister! Which one? They can vote for it.

On the other hand, there are far too many candidates for Ministry of Defence. Oh well, if they can't find one, they can always make one. The Japs are creative, they are. It's not so strange, considering their difficulties in facing reality - and they couldn't even pick a bank chief from a pool of real people.

It'll be interesting if this fad spreads abroad. How would a Mickey Mouse Presidential Campaign look like? "Sarkozy Out, Asterix In?" Probably good for France. Too bad about Malaysia - right now all we have is Cicakman.

Italiannies Does Not Really Suck

Was Antoine de Saint-Exupery, author of The Little Prince, killed by his fan - a WW2 German fighter pilot? If true, it further underscores just what war really does - and why it should not be waged at whim. Too bad all the recent warmongers don't read (much).

The moment we got into the pasta (my salmon fettuccine, to be precise) we knew we'd been hoodwinked. Or maybe we should've asked, "Why does Italiannies suck, anyway?"

FunnyBunny and I have heard lots about why the franchise has garnered so much flak from the general public. Immediate family members and close friends handed out thumbs-down verdicts. They said the same about Singapore hawker food as well, but we found evidence to the contrary. All that was in the background and fading fast as we tucked in with gusto, despite our growing guts.

I suspect that some Italian foods are an acquired taste, with the use of herbs and all. The portions are huge; you won't have room for dessert unless you're really hungry, or if you send back the bread. We made the mistake of eating too much bread (for which we were admonished by the floor manager) and we had to pack the lasagna home.

What we ordered was good. Service was nice. But with its mammoth portions, above average prices and all that cheese and olive oil, Italiannies is not a place for everyday dining.

Come to think of it, maybe something went wrong with my culinary experiences in Malacca, too. I'll have to do more research before making a return trip.

Headlines

Internet connection is slow. Are people hogging up the bandwidth for the latest election results? It appears so. Some web sites were practically bottlenecked to non-existence.

I know I shouldn't be celebrating, being a fence-sitter and all, but I can't shake off the fact that the premonition I had while driving to work on Friday just came true:

Siput Sungai Separa Nilai - HANGUS!¹

That would look good on any paper.

Against the odds, some major "villains" have fallen to the ire of the public. Notable exits include Zainuddin Maidin, the National Front's facsimile of Baghdad Bob. After vilifying the online community for months, some of them decided to show him that bytes do translate into ballots.

To add insult to injury, his biggest bugbear made it into Parliament. Jeff Ooi takes his place as the new Big Cat of Jelutong. It remains to be seen if he's a worthy successor to Karpal Singh. Most notable of wins is Teresa Kok's. Frankly, I wasn't too surprised. The smear campaigns screamed of desperation and failure of imagination.

They had expected some losses. They had dropped some unsavoury candidates. They surrendered their fate to the people and were sent packing. Was it true that the polls were announced early to deprive a certain someone a chance at power? We'll probably never know, because if that was the case, it blew up spectacularly. Losing a few districts is one thing. Losing entire states is a totally different matter.

But winners shouldn't start popping champagne just yet. They did that in '69 and look what happened. Now that you voters put them in this spot, you have to help them deliver - and deliver they must. Otherwise this display of people power will be nothing more than one colossal farce.


¹ Malay, translated means "Semi-Valued River Snails - BURNED!" To be served with a big slice of schadenfreude.

For Me, The Fever Ends Now

Next week, or sometime next month, we're getting a new government. The run-up to the results are heating up the airwaves. But it doesn't affect me, since I'm not a reg-

...I think I just outed myself.

Well, I had written an angry rant about lefties who keep counting down to today with their blogs and generally getting my goat, my cow, my chickens and ducks - not to mention my prize European wild hog - by insinuating that it's the fault of me and my ilk if the government doesn't change next week, because there weren't enough votes to turn the tide against an allegedly rigged election.

I say, if you don't have much faith in a system you're willing to try anyway, you shouldn't complain.

Good luck, anyway.

Reservations On Romania

Romanians take a cue from their national hero Vlad Tepes and thoroughly skewers Tony Bourdain over the draculaean portrayal of the country in an episode of No Reservations. His thoughts on the issue raised the ire of Romanians worldwide (seven-hundred-odd replies(!) and counting), particularly his choice of Russian drinking buddy Zamir as his fixer. Didn't he learn anything from Uzbekistan?

"Disco with bellydancing and flaming margaritas? Not-so-fresh offal barbecue? Shopping for weird wedding presents? Sexual harrassment -slash- Cold War torture routine in a Turkish bath? Quality television!"

Aside from that, I didn't think ZeroPointZero had a choice. Each episode costs money: airfare, luggage, equipment, meds and drugs, bribe money and other expenses - not to mention all the time and effort invested. Scrapping the episode might incur serious financial repercussions. Other questions beg to be answered. What part did the Romanian authorities play in this? Were the locals as surly and hostile?

Perhaps they should've had some reservations when it came to Romania. It would've been better to call it No Expectations.

The expressions of "disappointment" were predictable. He makes the best of another botched episode (Beirut, no thanks to Israel and Hezbollah) and suddenly he's the next Anderson Cooper. No Reservations is a reality sitcom where the surly embittered fifty-something (usually) pokes fun at local customs and abuses himself for our entertainment. Keith Floyd's shows were a more genteel version of it, while Jeremy Clarkson does the same with anything on wheels.

Come back to Malaysia, Tony. We'll promise you a better time. Andrew Zimmern? Angry mob.

See Them Flounder

Carol Chew, the National Front's candidate for Seputeh was hobnobbing with patrons of the OUG night market. She looks much shorter in person... . At least they wised up this time around. They twice pitted a male Confucian-esque chauvinist against this modern-day woman of steel; each ended up like diced shallots. How would this fight shape up, I wonder?

Another thing tonight was the roadworks at the stretch parallel to OUG Plaza. Wasn't that bit paved over a few months ago? And was still okay this morning?

Of course. It's election season. Spread the tarmac. Which only works on unsophisticated hillbillies in the boondocks of Far Far Away. With their abysmal pre-poll performance they're really pulling out all the stops.

For me, it's like watching an enemy drown in quicksand.

Parliament Idol XII

Or Parlimen Fantasia XII, whichever rocks the biggest possible boat.

Tough call, really. Five more years of old guard neo-feudalism, or five rough-and-tumble years under a new crew with no experience in steering the ship?

Makes no difference to me. I'll be stuck with the same people that picked Daniel Lee.

Lots has been said about the infamous son-in-law, most of it bad. I feel the same way about him. For me, it's his smug goateed mug. Something about it just compels me to dislike him. His race, religion and affiliations are completely irrelevant. In fact, those aspects cease to exist every time he wears one of his photo-op expressions. Only the repeated whispers of a sibilant voice remain:

Must • Hate • His • Face...

I don't understand it myself. It defies logic or reason. And I do have other pressing matters to attend to. How do I put it? I feel that he's like Mawi, only with more hair - or Sanjaya, only with less hair.

There's always one in each season of a talent show.

Frittering Away at Silverfish Books

"Im sorry I missed the launch at the Annexe," I said.

"Oh, it's OK," Amir Muhammad assured me, adding that the crowd was so huge that day (about two hundred strong) it spilled out into the surrounding area. That made me sorrier to have missed it. Must've been quite a spectacle.

It didn't seem fair to miss an event I pimped, so I made up for it by attending the reading of New Malaysian Essays 1 at Silverfish Books by Amir and the other contributors. I also thought I would even help out a little by getting more than just one copy.

I'd arrived late and hungry, pausing briefly to take in the eclectic range of materiel on the shelves. Treasures, each and every one. Upon seeing me the lady manning the counter directed me to the tiny reading room at the end of the bookstore. Brian Yap was wrapping up his performance.

Instead of grabbing a seat, I made a beeline for the table where all the snacks were and nicked a banana fritter from a plate. Ah, sweet, sour crunchy succour.

Was it just me, or had I just committed a huge social faux pas? Raman's look certainly said so. There were disapproving glances from a few members of the small audience, who had to make do with a basket of various chips.

Screw politeness. I'm hungry.

I reached for another. These were damn good for bananas that aren't sweet. Aminuddin Mahmud began reading his contribution, a well-researched and entertaining academic paper on the power of branding around the mamak franchise.

Then Amir rose from his place and took a fritter and a cup of tea. That made me feel better. But I was already going for fritter #4. These were damn good. They haven't even gotten soggy yet.

It was Saharil Hasrin Sanin's turn. According to Amir, he is famous for his short stories (each about half a page long) that still manage to speak volumes. He'd asked for something for this book, and ended up with a 52-page contribution titled Teroris Bahasa, a brilliant and funny memoir-slash-monologue-slash-debate against the policing of language. References to "pert English knockers" raised titters among the crowd, which included a couple of Caucasian women.

'Tis a day for faux pas, it seems, I mused, munching on my fifth fritter.

There were also choice words about another contributor, Burhan Baki who is currently at Aberdeen. "But he has a brilliant piece in this book," Amir concluded. "Real genius. And he's at Aberdeen." Something about that last bit made the crowd chuckle.

Did he just make Aberdeen sound naughty?

I got three copies of the book, which coincidentally read EN-EM-EE 1 when abbreviated - which is how the mainstream (read: government-regulated) publishing scene sees Amir nowadays. I can tell you that it is money well-spent - with or without the autographs.

There was no sixth fritter. I had plans to dine at Sri Nirwana Maju after the event. Unfortunately, I was feeling full before I could polish off the last bit of rice. Maybe I should have stopped at three.

A Visual Feast

A hazard of reviewing a book you bought yourself and actually liked is that the review will never be published, not do the book justice, or both. Thank goodness I liked this one enough to keep it.

---

More or less of the same

Anthony Bourdain certainly has a way with words, as well as with food. Of course, being the bold soul that he is, there’s always another medium he wants to experiment with

first published in The Star, 02 February 2008


When I managed to get my hands on an unwrapped copy, I eagerly went through the pages. Why were they so thick, I wondered. Then, as I encountered page after page after page of pictures, I understood. It didn't help my disappointment, though.

Why, Tony, why? I mean, you used to ... write! You know, making words with a pen or word processor? What's with this glossy Technicolor travel scrapbook? You don't even cook anymore! What went wrong?

To the uninitiated, "Tony" is Anthony Bourdain, that acerbic, trash-talking chef who made a splash in the entertainment biz with his book Kitchen Confidential.

He's currently the host of the travel/food show No Reservations, who has traded his sauté pan for a word processor, occasionally writing articles for food-related publications in between his travels and appearances on other food-related shows.

His latest book, No Reservations: Around the World on an Empty Stomach, is a collection of snapshots from the series of the same name.

Many of the pictures have appeared on the show's web site; the article on his Beirut show (rudely interrupted by the Hizbollah-triggered Israeli invasion of Lebanon) was published earlier on salon.com. It is a departure from his previous works, which he acknowledges and apologises for.

Sorry, Tony. It'll be a while before I can forgive you.

We are introduced to the members of the filming crew, before being taken on a whirlwind tour of the best and worst places of the series. There's even a list of addresses, which includes "The Place Under The Big Tree" (a steamed fish head eatery in Sungai Besi).

Rounding up all that is a travel tip section, food pictures, and a list of essentials for the typical travel show host.

Even though light on words, the commentary still retains its edge. The placement of some pictures also hint at the darker side of his personality.

In one photo he's holding a piglet with a strange smile on his face and a gleam in his eye. On the opposite page is a breakfast platter with eggs, sausage and bacon. "No piglets were harmed in this production." Yeah, right.

Another example of his wit is a helpful tip on finding the absolutely best place for your favourite food: start a flame war in a food forum.

Local fans would be pleased to know Bourdain has nothing but nice words for Malaysia (in addition to neighbouring Indonesia and Singapore).

The Malaysian episode of No Reservations, he enthuses, was among the nicest in the series. He also has nothing but praise for the durian. Who could hate a gwailo like that?

That being said, he is neither shy nor evasive about the things and places he doesn't like. Uzbekistan wasn't particularly pleasant while Iceland was boring. Then there was this one nasty meal he had in Namibia. Graphic examples of hazards encountered while filming (mosquito bites and mysterious welts) have a section of their own, as well as a small sample of bathrooms he and his crew have visited.

For those who appreciate the kind of writing Anthony Bourdain does, this book is a disappointment – at first, anyway. The pictures are nice, as are the captions, commentaries and whatever writing is available.

But, somehow, it still feels ...incomplete. He has voiced his doubts (in another book) about his ability to translate the beauty and sensory wonders he's experienced into words.

No Reservations (the book and the series) feels more like a personal project than a profit-making venture. For all his bluster, sarcasm and profligate use of the f-word, Bourdain's a pretty honest, friendly and sentimental guy.

And, of course, he loves food, and the people who make it. He may have left the kitchen, but his heart's still there.

Never mind that half the material has already been published. If anything, it gives a much clearer picture of Bourdain and his new life’s mission.

So clear in fact, a friend of mine actually felt inspired to follow in his footsteps. Looking at a picture of Bourdain, smiling beatifically with the ruins of Machu Picchu behind him, I couldn't blame her. He looks like he's having the time of his life.

---

No Reservations

Around the World on an Empty Stomach

Anthony Bourdain
Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
288 pages
Non-Fiction
ISBN: 978-0-7475-9412-3

Happy Third, Readings

Saturday, 26 January 2008

I was feeling rather drained at the end of this week, and logic dictated that I should just plant my feet into a pot of soil on the balcony, sprout leaves and photosynthesise. But I couldn't pass up the session of Readings that celebrated its third anniversary.

Many of the regulars where there: Leon, Chet, Dr Shanmugam, Mr and Mrs Ted Mahsun, a few of Sharon Bakar's friends, Animah Kosai and daughter and Readings' own technician, Reza. Luminaries who graced the event included Seksan, owner of the venue, Eric Forbes of MPH Publishing, columnist Daphne Lee, the controversial Amir Muhammad, Shahril Nizam and Jerome Kugan, whom I last saw at La Bodega, KL. Eugene a.ka. Dreamer Idiot, Philipp the Eternal Wanderer and Kenny Mah were glaringly absent, though. And I kind of miss Sharanya Manivannan.

Had a chat with Eric about books and favourite reads (why do I get the feeling I was being interviewed?) Lainie Yeoh sported a stitched wound from an encounter with a snatch thief; the rest of us should be fortunate to encounter them on newsprint. I mistook Catalina Rembuyan for Liyana Yusof (a behemoth of a boo-boo!). Hope she wasn't too offended. Photographer Sufian got much of it on film.

(Ooh, watch me drop names like bad habits - a habit I should also drop, I think.)

But I was late for this month's session. When I stepped into the hall, Shi-Li Kow was reading a funny story from the anthology News From Home, about a deceased pet cat who became the biggest thing since that papaya they said had Lord Ganesh's face.

"...all the aunties, passers-by made offerings to the cat for the next big number ...someone even built one the little red huts (like the ones for the datuks) over Patches' grave... even the DBKL lorry drivers were getting into the act... Don't you miss Malaysia?"

— Shi-Li Kow, describing the only "vision, 2020"
Malaysians are really interested in

Bernice Chauly, one of the Readings' founding mothers, read some pieces from her published collection of poems, The Book of Sins. I swear I've heard some of them before at a previous session last year.

Our own Prince of Darkness, Tunku Halim gave us a peek of his collection of horror stories, Gravedigger's Kiss. And he was, like, sitting next to me during the second half of the Readings. I was beside myself, wondering, "Hey, maybe they aren't all that elitist after all!" - in spite of his feelings about a review of 44 Cemetary Road in The Star a while back.

The other contributor to News From Home, Chua Kok Yee had the audience in stitches with a modern and hilarious yarn about that monster called Progress - and its reluctant sidekick, Intolerance - who spare no one and nothing, not even fairy tales like the Three Little Pigs.

"...you see, we had to make some changes. We had to make the switch to kittens to avoid offending countries where their religion does not allow pigs ...China's OK. They love pigs - I mean, they love to eat pigs, but..."

— Chua Kok Yee, taking a subtle swipe
at censorship and fanaticism

Writer and creative writing guru Chuah Guat Eng (who tutored Sharon once) illustrated the use of language as a weapon with excerpts from her new book The Old House and Other Stories: Penang Hokkien to set up a kill, and Manglish to disarm, or making light conversation. Her rationales for that were quite convincing. I think I should start paying attention to what my parents say from now on.

Gerald Chuah, journalist and Sly Stallone/Rocky Balboa uber-fan came up to the mic to read and ended up giving a dissertation-slash-pep talk on the never-say-die attitude of the underdog, which inspired his book, In the Eye of the Tiger. Although it was a somewhat refreshing and inspiring deviation from the open-your-book-and-read performance expected of in Readings, he was nervous and repeating himself a few times, talking about - instead of reading from the book, and it was nearly six.

"This is Readings, dammit," I mentally fumed, "not a book talk at the Booker Room! Quit quoting Rocky and freaking read something, or I'm kicking you off the podium!"

I was surprised to hear what Rehman Rashid had to say about his book. The excerpt of the review was so inspiring, uplifting and positive. It didn't sound like Rehman Rashid at all.

Did I mention that there a cake-cutting ceremony? Up till now I've never wished a non-person a happy birthday before. First time for everything, I suppose. Books by some of the readers were also on sale. Didn't feel like buying anything, though.

I will be sure to catch Readings' fourth anniversary.

Books, Wind And Water

Finally found the long-awaited download of the infinitely better version of the Will.I.Am "hit". How did they record all that with straight faces? Right now it's the tenth replay of the file. And. I. Still. Can't. Turn. It. Off.

Don't help me.

"Hello!" went the young lady's enthusiastic greeting. "Are you here for the book talk? This way, please."

I've come to expect some sort of audience at book talks, so you could imagine my shock and dismay to find less than ten people in the Booker Room today: Sharon Bakar, feng shui expert and new author Jason Fong and his two guests, Julie of MPH (the enthusiastic young lady) and myself. A far far cry from the rock-concert crowd during the last Authors' Hi-Tea.

I guess keywords like "book" and "feng shui" aren't exactly crowd-pullers.

Sharon invited me in, and did a double-take when she realised who I was. I was introduced as a friend and blogger. It's an honour to be called a friend, but I didn't really feel like a blogger today. It's like being at a press conference where you're the only journalist.

The show, however, went on.

Fong answered many of Sharon's questions on the science of geomancy, which he backed up with scientific facts. Some of the revelations included the role of running water and granite in causing cancer and other maladies, plus the secret to "Mr Genting" Lim Goh Tong's wealth. We also found out just how difficult it was for the author to take pictures for his book; there was some mention of battling bad weather and traipsing around rooftops for the perfect shot.

Lillian Too, the self-proclaimed Queen of Afflictions was also mentioned, albeit in a less flattering manner. One of Fong's guests - a colleague and traditional feng shui practitioner - dismissed the famously prescribed placings of statuettes, wind chimes and ornaments for more luck and money. "Those things don't work," he scoffed, "and your house will end up looking like an animal farm." We laughed.

I am skeptical of the whole feng shui thing, but never in doubt of the psychological impact it has to those who believe it - something agreed upon to some extent by the rest of the assembly. The talk adjourned about an hour later, after a presentation by Fong's colleague about how the sixty-four transformations of the ba gua - the foundation of the I Jing (Book of Changes) - came about.

After the guests left, there was some talk about another banned-books controversy. The Internal Security Ministry is offended because these books feature bearded men who claim G*d talks to them. I suppose I couldn't fault the Ministry for enforcing such rigid standards (the people there have bills to pay, too), but if that's the case they should also pull publications featuring Nik Aziz Nik Mat, Abubakar Bashir, Osama bin Laden, and to a lesser extent, Pat Robertson, Shoko Asahara and George W Bush.

Then again, what do I know, anyway?

Never Felt Safer, Part II

I don't know which revelation about this is the most unsettling:

• People are surfing the Internet for threats at the Internal Security Ministry.
• Untried, naive and gullible country bumpkins are probably surfing the Internet for threats at the Internal Security Ministry.
• The possibility of untried, naive and gullible country bumpkins being employed at the Internal Security Ministry.
• Surfing the Internet (during office hours) is considered a legitimate full-time job at the Internal Security Ministry.

Oh yeah. I feel, like, really safe.

On the other hand, that sounds like a plum job. I wonder if they're hiring.

Never Felt Safer

Ah, nothing warms the cockles, mussels and oysters of your heart than the knowledge that you can count on our beloved government to take drastic action against depraved homicidal lawbreakers.

Like begging depraved homicidal lawbreakers to release their captives and repent for fear of the collective fury of over twenty million indignant souls. Or installing more electronic eyes as deterrents.

Wow, like, I feel safe already.

If such "drastic" measures actually work, there wouldn't be any depraved homicidal lawbreakers, lecherous kleptomaniacal charlatans or depraved suicidal speed-limit-breakers to begin with. It just goes to show just how much (or how little) criminals think of our authorities - or our anger at their hijinks.

But I just have to wonder: What manner of madness or cunning could compel men to sink to such unfathomable depths? Where and when did all this begin?

Not Really All-Malaysia, But Close

Although I first heard about the gathering from Suanie, I thought it strange that she only stayed there briefly. I guess all the outings and partying during the year-end must have worn her out. Glad I didn't buy any beer.

Why The Gardens at Mid Valley, of all places, the high-end-brand museum disguised as a shopping mall?

I eventually decided to ponder over other important things, like what to have for lunch - and boy, I could use a coffee.

I became evasive at the registration desk; after two-and-a-half years I was still skittish over my blog's flimsy privacy. I retreated to the counter and said hi to Yvonne. I also bumped into Peter Tan (actually, it was the other way around), who told me of Suanie's absence. He was there with long-time friend Wuan, whom he recently married.

All the usual suspects were glaringly absent from the meet. Fresh or unheard-of names were the order of the day. There were, however, some familiar faces.

First was Albert, who is rarely seen without a camera. And there were a lot of cameras there that morning. It's like a press conference where the journalists interview each other. The spectacle did freak out a few shoppers, who gawked and stared as they walked past.

Then there was April Yim, the statuesque Amazon who designs her own trinkets and contributes greatly to Yvonne's fundraising drives. She shared a table with Yvonne, Yvonne's new friend Fiona, and Raj "the Stud", whose enthusiasm and gregariousness bespoke of his experience in PR and event management. Raj had heaps of ideas for the organiser's All-Malaysia Info web site.

Cordelia (Yvonne's other friend) and husband turned up as well. She remembers me as the Big Squid. "I can never remember your real name," she admitted, "because it's so ordinary. Your nickname's more interesting." She also chided my refusal to sign up with Facebook.

Another surprise was the presence of Kurt Low. There was also Skyler, along with Shaz and the Kellster, who were also at the Burger King meet in 2006.

Due to crowd-fatigue, I didn't speak much to most of the attendees, and had to decline Yvonne's invitation to lunch. "Anti-social," she teased. I gave a mental shrug, realising at last why she preferred smaller meetings. What can I say? Some crust was left after this old loaf of bread was trimmed.

Year-End Travails of 2007

My summary of year-end misadventures is delayed because of an after-vacation hangover, so I'm ringing in the new year with it. Friday, 21 December 2007 Fetched FunnyBunny from the office, only to have her drag me shuffling and grumbling (as opposed to kicking and screaming, because I know I won't win) to the nearest cinema to catch Enchanted. Kudos to Disney for this Bollywood-esque hit - and I suggest they keep their cel animation workshops for future projects. On the other hand, the saccharine sweetness made me cringe for about fifteen minutes of the flick. And who would believe in house-cleaning cockroaches?! Rendered in excruciatingly realistic detail. Eww. There was also supper at Cineleisure's Kopi Oh! Café. Their Signature Rice, Special Sandwich and coffee are great after-movie munchies. Monday, 24 December 2007 I hadn't planned to be at the Christmas Eve party at the House with the Koi Pond, but a call from WildGuy changed my mind. Much hilarity ensued when I arrived in time for the Not-So-Secret Santa event. Some of the gifts included a bachelor's "survival kit", chocolates, a do-it-yourself seafood soup (complete with a real fish and a recipe) and a packet of dried meat. The non-halal gift was being passed around haphazardly; I was surprised the contents hadn't disintegrated when the fanfare ended. The Snark Hunter was surprised to know I still remembered him from the 2005 PPS bash. "That was two-and-a-half years ago!" he marvelled. I didn't think it was that long ago. Ever the consummate firestarter, WildGuy suggested baiting curious police officers with magic words like "Reformasi", "Hindraf" and a number of very un-PC, anti-establishment slogans (I probably should add that he has a very warped sense of humour). And the cops actually came; raucous revelries in the past had earned the Koi Pond House a certain eminence among local law enforcement. The police soon left though, thanks to KY's diplomatic skills (and probably the sheer number of camera/phones in the crowd). Weekend, 29 to 30 December 2007 A Malaccan road trip! An important milestone in my life as I packed up for a two-day, one night stop at the historic state. While the neighbourhood I stayed at had that enthralling old-world charm (with the Cheng Hoon Teng temple and Kapitan Kling mosque within walking distance), my fears of encountering a garish low-budget theme park of a tourist destination were realised when I laid eyes on the Stadhuys and Christ Church. Rickshaws posed serious traffic hazards with their supersonic horns, concealed boom-boxes and carnival-parade fixtures. Hawkers peddling souvenirs, knick-knacks, clothes and drinks were everywhere. An old cannon on the grounds was turned into a garbage can. Jonker Walk has morphed into a less-modern Petaling Street. Virtually every stall and shoplot offered the "best" chicken rice balls, durian cendol, pineapple tarts and authentic Peranakan cuisine. Every cup of coffee I had had less kick and character than the average Malaysian soccer player. Attempts to find the best of the "best" failed - abysmally. And all I got out of it was a lousy fridge magnet. The quaint Limau-Limau Café was a nice spot, but if they lowered their prices I could've tried at least three of their drinks. The dragonfruit lassi was flatter than Kate Moss and probably not the best item to measure the strength of their other concoctions. A visit to the Portuguese settlement was equally disappointing, particularly the devil curry (more like devil's advocate curry). The crowds and smoke from the chilli-coated baked fish evoked memories of the recent Hindraf rally. The only memorable food I tried was a fried vege-roll from a mobile popiah seller (who also sold fresh ones) and some wantan noodles at a tiny shop. The mediocrity! The kitsch! It burns, it burns! The final irony of the trip: KOed by nasi lemak, my first taste of real Malaysian flavours upon my return. Monday, 31 December 2007 New Year Eve dinner at FunnyBunny's pad, where the landlord prepared a sumptuous feast for us and his friends. Witnessed a mini-display of fireworks nearby and stayed till 5am to watch a hilariously entertaining mahjong game. The marinated, baked chicken wings were a winner, not to mention the mashed potatoes. The landlord should set up shop - maybe at Malacca's Jonker Street. That'll add some character - and more importantly, flavour - to the place.