Swimming Against The Tide Of Opinion. I-Chiro Sushi Bar, One Utama, PJ.

(no pork served)

The foodie world was recently abuzz with the opening of a Japanese Ramen Shop. Everyone was singing high praises about it and I was intrigued. The unending accolade made out the Ramen Shop to be the elusive spring to cleanse my past sin of eating unworthy Ramen. KL has quite a fair number of Ramen Shops. Right at my door step is Marutama Ramen and Hokkaido Santouka, both reasonably good with it's own fans and detractors.

My curiosity was satiated one hot, sunny afternoon with it's thick and full bodied, almost al dente noodles, but here is where the compliments end. The broth was too salty and muddled and the pork slices insipid. They served the most shameless, thick skinned gyoza in town with it's skin thicker than the face of most Malaysian Politicians but thankfully less pock marked than our most politically incorrect Minister. The eggs were overcooked with the whites as hard as marbles (not referring to the anatomical marbles which are much softer in comparison) with the yolk more powdery than a Geisha's face. A repeat visit a week later did not reveal much improvement to their offerings.

I pitied my dining companion who paid for the meal for committing and act of senseless fiduciary self immolation, just like the Communist Government who probably laughed gleefully at the charred bodies recalling the amount of money saved from bullets and incarceration.

One afternoon, we ventured beyond the hype and visited a small little Sushi bar hidden right at the back of Isetan One Utama. I-Chiro, as with most sushi bars, has almost a clinical approach to it's interior with a sushi counter and a few smaller tables for those who prefer some privacy. Patrons use ipads located at the side of the table to select their food and do their ordering. It was a novel experience but most importantly their food did not disappoint. All the cuts were fresh and flavorful and came beautifully plated.

Service was top notched and the price was slightly on the high side compared to chain Sushi joints, about RM 180 (including taxes) for a lunch for two but worth every penny.

As for the all the hype? Of course one is entitled to their opinion and especially for food, there is no right and wrong opinion. But probably as with any promises made by politicians regarding transforming the society, the bigger the hype, the lesser the chance of it succeeding. Maybe they needed the hype to convince themselves in the first place and to those who succumb to the hype, the only outcome is disappointment.

I did not bring my camera there that day and decided to use my Mobile and tested if I could do a post with it. You can view it below.

I-Chiro Sushi Bar
Level 2
Isetan Eat Paradise
One Utama
PJ

Love In The Time Of Viraemia. A Thank You Note to Sungai Buluh Hospital and the Selangor State Health Department.

A view from Sungai Buluh Hospital's ID Clinic. -taken with Hisptamatic for iphone-

Prologue.

“I have been admitted to the hospital,” I croaked weakly into my phone. I had just fainted at work, with a buzzing sound in my left ear and intermittent weakness on the right side of my arm and leg. I could hardly stand up, my head spinning around as if I had too many shots of Tequila. This was in 2007, and I had called Adam. 

“What? What happened?” Adam asked anxiously.

“The Doctors think I have had some kind of stroke and they are arranging for an emergency MRI now.”

“Oh My God! Where are you?”

“Sunway Hospital.”

“I’m coming now!”

Adam was the only person I called throughout my stay at Sunway. He came immediately as promised, relieved my apartment keys from my Driver, and came back with my cellphone chargers, two half read books I had left on my bedside table, my sarong and undergarments, my beloved Spiderman T’s, my plush Egyptian Cotton bath sheet, a bottle of Anteus and toiletries from my bathroom. In short, everything I needed to survive an ordeal in the Hospital. All this happened while I was having my 2 hour long MRI, without me having to tell him anything. It was done instinctively because I never told him anything that personal about my life before.

What would you do if life just dealt you lemons? -Vegepai, taken with Canon 550D-

I was discharged after 3 days, after being prodded, poked, scanned, echoed, referred by the Neurologist to the Ophthalmologist, the Cardiologist and the Rheumatologist. I had vasculitis of my cerebral arteries, but nobody could tell me why. Blood Pressure was borderline, Biochemistry was normal and all the tests were normal except for a through the roof Rheumatoid Factor levels.

Me and Adam, our friendship can be labeled as dysfunctional. One which blossomed amidst Hospital stays and trying circumstances. A friendship that grew stronger under the cold, bright glow of fluorescent tubes, pungent disinfectant, flurry of white uniforms and a constant reminder of our impermanence amidst disease, death and decay. Life slows down lying on a hospital bed. We opened up to one another undistracted by the barrage of calls and emails which will assail us other wise. We talked about our failures, our hopes, our dreams and snuck out after removing the infusion pump that propelled a steady dose of heparin into my circulation to have some clandestine nicotine beyond the hospital compound.

Sesame Covered Kuih Bakul from Gu Yue Tien -taken with Canon 500d-

Paradise Lost.

A year before, in 2006, he had called me up after a night of binge drinking complaining of severe abdominal pain and asked me whom he should consult. I dropped whatever I was doing and drove him to the nearest clinic. His stomach was very tender and the Doctor noted that his Blood Pressure was slightly lower. He immediately referred him to the hospital, and being in Kepong an unfamiliar terrain for me, I opted for Sungai Buluh Hospital as it is the nearest.

Armed with a letter to the Emergency Room Physician, I drove up to the Emergency Unit of the then spanking new hospital. A Medical Assistant manning the counter outside the ER read the letter, without as much as glancing at Adam, refused to register Adam at the ER and directed us to the Outpatient’s Department. He said the case was not an emergency, despite a letter written by a Doctor with more than 30 years experience running a successful practice saying otherwise.

We drove off to the Outpatient’s Clinic, dropped Adam off at the entrance with his fiancee and tried searching for an available parking space. At the registration counter, Adam was looking very pale and had cold sweats. The Nurse at the counter looked at the referral letter and looked at him. She was shocked. She told us that Adam was way too sick and is about to collapse soon. She quickly got a wheelchair for us and said that he must be seen immediately at the ER.

Sunrise along the East Coast highway -taken with Canon 550D-

Cerberus was there again, guarding the gates of Hades. Again he glanced at the letter and as Adam’s fiancee, Eve, tried to remove a wheelchair from the entrance to wheel it to the car, she was reprimanded. Cerberus said wait. He has not finished reading the letter. Eve shouted back saying that Adam was very sick. I asked Cerberus politely if it was Adam or the letter that was in risk of suffering from impending circulatory collapse, that he was spending too much time reading the same letter he had read just 20 minutes ago, and suggested that he descended from his mini throne to examine Adam instead.

Cerberus got mad, and started barking. Disgusted and extremely worried for Adam, we decided to speed off immediately to PJ for treatment at a Private Facility. There were enough F bombs in my car that afternoon to nuke an entire episode of Hell’s Kitchen. At the Private Hospital, Adam was immediately infused with some colloid expanders and a diagnosis of Bleeding Peptic Ulcer was made. He was transfused with 4 pints of blood and an Endoscope done two days later confirmed the diagnosis.

I contacted the Hospital to lodge a complaint and made a call to the State Medical Services Department. Persnickety Me followed up with a fax plus a copy of the referral letter. Dr Ang, the Deputy Director of State health Services then, promised that she would keep me followed up but the promise was not kept.  We carried on with our routine forever filled with a bitter memory of Sungai Buluh Hospital. There is nothing more exasperating than to be on the verge of death, arriving at the door for treatment and refused entry, knowing that all the resources that can make you fell better immediately was just 10 feet away. A pity, really because the structure was impressive and the surroundings green and pristine. As in big Acronyms and promises of transformation, all the best intentions are thwarted by unwilling foot soldiers. 

Oriental Building, my favourite Art-Deco Building in KL -Taken with Olympus EPL-2-

The Humans.

I have known Adam for 13 years and ours was not a friendship at first sight. He was everything I wasn’t. Loud, verbose and extremely sociable with a penchant for women and wine. That was until he found Eve, a no nonsense disciplinarian who managed to tame Adam's excesses. He and his business partners were thinking of expanding in 2005, and I was approached to write a proposal for them to obtain further funding for their fledging business but was told outright he wold not be able to pay me outright. I obliged not because I liked him, but I needed some distraction from my ailing mother and messed up personal life. Writing Business Proposals was not how I earned a living anyway.

When I relocated to KL in late 2006, he looked me up, bringing along a thick wad of cash to repay me. I refused it saying that the work done was gratis and I have already forgotten about it. He insisted and said that business had been extremely good since the cash injection and asked me if I wanted a share in the company instead. I again refused and laughed and told him to donate the money to my favourite charity. It was during his stay in the hospital that I truly got to know him and Eve and became firm friends, meeting up whenever time allowed.

Adam and Eve got married in 2008. I was not invited to the wedding, because he knows I hated big crowds, the fuss and ceremony. Instead, he threw a small dinner for me and introduced me to his parents and in laws. The following years have been good to them. They shifted to an envied post code and drove around in a German marquee, had a daughter in 2009 and moved up the middle class dream.

Turbot from Millisime -taken with Canon 550D-

The Villain.

“Can you come tonight? I have something to discuss with you.”

“Drats. I have a long day. Can we talk over the phone? Otherwise, it has to be very late,” I replied tersely distracted by my ringing mobile phone. 

“OK. Whenever you are free. Please drop by. It’s regarding Eve.”

Eve was pregnant with their second child in 2011 and Adam sounded strained. I grudgingly cancelled everything for the afternoon and evening. The effort took more than 30 phone calls, 2 hours and a bad headache. 

When I arrived, their home was abnormally quiet and still. The evening traffic and it’s occasional honking downstairs seemed loud against the background hum of air conditioning. These sounds have never been associated with their home, which is usually filled with voices murmuring and laughter plus the sound of TV playing in the background. Eve was sitting in a corner hugging their daughter. She did not look at me when I entered the living room. My heart sank. This had to be bad.

Adam handed me a piece of paper. It was Eve’s lab report.

Flower outside Cilantro Deli -taken with Canon 550D-

HIV ANTIBODIES ELISA TEST: REACTIVE

My eyes must scanned through that sheet about a million times, each time wishing that I have misread and hoping for a miracle, for 3 magical alphabets to appear before the word reactive. The elusive Monosyllable. NON. I felt giddy. I couldn’t say a thing. 

The roar of an avalanche followed by a chilling calm.

It took me about 5 minutes to regain my composure. Let’s do a repeat test and a Western Blot to confirm the diagnosis, I said. Sometimes, pregnancy itself causes a false positive ELISA.

Eve was referred by her Gynaecologist to Sungai Buluh Hospital. My heart sank. Bitter memories of our virginal experience there resurfaced. I called Eve’s Gynaecologist immediately but I was reassured that Sungai Buluh's Infectious Diseases Team was the best in town and it would be in Eve’s best interested to be seen there.

L'Aveline from Les Deux Garçons -taken with Olympus EPL-2-

Paradise Regained.

Not wishing to delay treatment for the baby who was in Eve’s womb, we rushed to Sungai Buluh Hospital to make an appointment. It was a trip made grudgingly under duress.

The Infectious Diseases  Clinic (ID Clinic) was busting its seams when we arrived. There were matronly aunts with anti-gravity coiffure and thin bald young men with shaven heads. Screaming kids watched over by their harassed mother accompanied their grand fathers in wheelchair. The air was thick with hope, expectation, fear and acceptance.

Every patient at the clinic was seeking a cure for the travesty of having their health violated by microorganisms. Tuberculosis and Leprosy bacteria with it’s fortress like walls. The HIV virus, which is composed of simple strands of protein. It hardly can be hardly classified as a living organism but is able to trick the host’s cells into producing more strands of viral proteins. The perfect enemy which kills its host as it commits a defiant hara kiri.

Mushroom Sandwich from Cilantro Deli -taken with Canon 550D-

We were expecting the nurses manning the clinic to be sullen and curt, but were instead greeted courteously with a smile at the counter. The Nurse said that Eve would be seen immediately because of her pregnancy. We were prepared for a long wait. Cellular network coverage was sparse. I was temporarily disconnected from the internet and the outside world.

The generally despondent mood of clinic was elevated by the calm nurses directing the patients around the maze of consultation rooms, blood drawing rooms and treatment rooms. One nurse in particular stood out, she spoke with a lisp and probably had some palate repair surgery before. She noticed that Eve was pregnant and asked if Eve was tired or hungry and wanted to have a quick lunch at the canteen. She would watch out for Eve’s queue number and hold it until Eve comes back.

I was extremely touched by this little gesture of empathy. Whatever misgivings I had about Sungai Buluh Hospital vanished and paradise has been regained.

Details from a flower at Lancang R and R on East Coast Highway -taken with Canon 550D-

Angels and Archangels.

We finally got to see Dr. Maslisa, the infectious diseases specialist at about 1:45 PM. She had been working through lunch and I had foolishly arranged a meeting with clients at 3 PM and was a bit irritated by then. She was what we envisioned as an angel sent from heaven to give us hope in an otherwise calamitous landscape wreaked with fear, desperation and hopelessness. 

Calm, knowledgeable and courteous she was empathic to my friends and went into great detail about what the disease was all about, and prepared us for what to expect. She emphasized on the importance of keeping a disciplined dosing schedule and which side effects to anticipate. She consoled my friends and prepared them for what will be a long journey and reassured that the current cocktail of anti retroviral drugs were very effective and that they would be looking forward to many, many years ahead with proper medication and monitoring.

Bearing in mind that it was well past lunch hour, we really appreciated her dedication to her vocation. Vast knowledge alone does not make a great doctor. She also had a very special gift, the ability to put patients at ease and also able to convey all the important messages firmly yet instill hope and exude warmth and empathy.

Bread selection from Millisime -Taken with Canon 550D-

We have met a very special doctor that day and received excellent and dignified treatment from the staff at the ID clinic. I wrote an email to thank the Hospital Director and included the Selangor State Director of Health Services as a recipient of the mail. Within 2 hours, I got a personal reply from Dr Azman Abu Bakar, the State Director himself, thanking me for the feedback.

There was a great transformation at Sungai Buluh Hospital and I am sure it is due to the efforts of both the administrative and clinical staff, and it wasn’t surprising at all, seeing that the State Director himself leads by example.

Malaysia’s leaders are looking for a way to transform the country, and if they wish to remain true to their objective, they should just look at Sungai Buluh Hospital and the Selangor Health Department. Forget about big acronyms, forget about appeasing the fat cats and warlords with cash. What we really need is a big dose of empathy and encouragement, plus leaders who are really committed to improving the services and are really dedicated to their resolve of putting the welfare of others before themselves.

Salmon Sandwich from Cilantro Deli -taken with Olympus EPL-2-

Epilogue

This story does not have a happy ending yet. Adam has been tested positive and their first daughter who was breast fed until Eve got pregnant has also been tested positive. The newborn is currently on antivirals pending confirmatory tests. I had explained in the previous that I have been very busy, too busy to blog. This is the reason.

It is not easy keeping so many appointments with the doctors. Not that I can be of much help, but I just want to be there when they get their test results, to be there during times of recrimination and anger. I try to console and encourage and try to remind them to honor appointments made with the Doctors despite their exacting schedule and also lethargy from the side effects of their medication which includes nausea and vertigo. I am sure millions of other people would be capable of doing more than what I did for a them as a friend.

Flying Dragon Fish Yee Sang from Gu Yue Tien -taken with Canon 550D-

A Digression.

I am not a perfect friend, nor do I pretend to be one. I have too many eccentricities and hang ups to function as one. Those who know me will know that I have more vices than virtues and impatience is one of them. I have also blogged a few months back that I have decided to drop some friends due their inability to respect my time, being limited enough as it is. There is a little piece at TMI that caught my attention. I disagree with the views of the author because I am one of those who with a little bit of contemplation, would remove contacts from my BB, twitter, email and social networking sites. I am ruthless at that. 

First of all I do not take my “friends” at social networking sites seriously, unless I have had a meaningful conversation or met them personally. And if I  decide to delete or unfriend you, it is usually because I feel you are an irredeemable failure at being a friend. 

One should never work at being a friend, it should be natural and effortless. It should be accepting your friend’s faults and not just tolerating them. I can’t accept time wasters. Get on with life and grow up. As for hating my enemies because you are my friend, don’t insult me. I can fight my own battles. That is not a sign of friendship. At best, it is psychotic. But in most cases, it is just drawing attention to yourself and to the fact that you have nothing better to offer at being a friend. 

Seared Scallop from Opika. -taken with Olympus EPL-2-

The world out there is filled with deluded people who think they make good friends and should never be dumped. What they really need is to take a good look at themselves in the mirror and give themselves a good reality check. Somebody unfriends you on Facebook and it's the end of the world? Call up other friends to ask for advice? Act like a kindergarten kid who complains to teacher that little Thomas doesn't want to be friends with her? Life is too good to you. Hey, there are Billions of people out there who have much bigger problems, and if you are that desirable as friend, it's their loss and not yours. Somebody does not want to befriend you because you acted like an ass wipe and couldn't muster a proper apology? Fine. Go around whining about  how uncommunicative people are nowadays and not being able to talk about problems.

The good “old fashioned” way of talking over a problem only works when there is a semblance of friendship to salvage and not to satisfy a bruised ego. To talk to a fifty year old about basic courtesies like respecting other people’s privacy and time? You are right that it is too much work. That is not working on friendship. It’s psychological counseling. Go get professional help.

All of us have different notions of friendship and sometimes when these notions collide, it is time to call it a day. For instance, some friends would require you to divulge all your information about yourself to them. They would not understand why some friends get to know your birthday or your office address and others don’t. It took Adam 6 years before I was comfortable enough to allow him into my house and knowing me for 6 months doesn’t accord you that privilege. To me that is my prerogative and it’s my own personal decision. We are just sharing a dining table and not my bed and friends should respect the boundaries I set until I feel that it is time for them to be privy to certain personal details about my life. Friendship should never be based on presumptions, and certainly not on notions of friendship based on sitcoms and TV shows.

I have absolutely no regrets for deleting people from my BBM and Twitter timeline when they cross a certain threshold. Can't get the drift and still want to whine? Fine. I tried to be subtle, now I'll say it out loud if you are really that dense. “Sod off, and go waste some other people’s time.” I have better things to do with mine.

Eggplant Salad from Erawan. -taken with Canon 550D-

Love in the time of viraemia.

Until today, I have not tried to discover where the infection was from. It must have been sometime between the conception of their first daughter until the second pregnancy. Adam and Eve passed their prenuptial blood test and Eve tested negative while conceiving their first. It does not matter to me because whatever it is, their life has changed forever. It is heart wrenching for me as a bystander to watch the unfolding events and how the virus has affected their child and totaly turned their life upside down.

My leisure time used to be filled with literary books but now it is filled with books on immunology and virology. There is no more time for lazy afternoons filled with magical realism. Instead it is filled up by dealing with facts to arm myself with enough knowledge to understand what is going on in my friends' body as they try to stave off the virus. Thanks to our recent encounters with healthcare providers at both the Infectious Diseases Clinic and Paediatrics Clinic of Sungai Buluh Hospital, I know that they are in good hands and for this I am forever grateful.

Homeless man along Jalan Tunku Abdul Rahman -taken with Canon 550d-
Malaysia is filled with people who will fight for the dignity of an omniscient, omnipresent and omnipotent supernatural being. Where are the voices for those at the finges of society? The homeless, the infirm, the oppressed and those infected by HIV?

I have over written as usual, and to those who read this post to its completion, I thank you for you indulgence in listening to me rant. I would just like to end this with a note on the title of the post.

One book struck my mind when these events unfolded. Love in the time of Cholera by Marquez. This is a breathtakingly complex book and dissects love with passion and insight, right down to the core. Love is always described as eternal. What happens when the promise of eternal love is confronted with the finiteness of human life, when it is confronted with age, disease and death? It is a very relevant book as more people are inflicted with the HIV virus by the day. 

Adam and Eve remains a loving couple despite their tribulation and I could imagine them holding hands and sailing up and down the Magdelena River against the backdrop of a magnificent sunset. Just like an aging Florentino and Fermina did, discovering their love after 51 years, 5 months and 4 days, and doomed to stay onboard a ship forever after being quarantined aboard as people infected by Cholera.

Note: The characters and events are non fictional, but I have taken some liberties as needed to protect their identity.

Melancholia and Truffles.

Fedillini Pasta with Parmesan and Black Winter Truffles.

Firstly, apologies for my prolonged absence are in order. The past few months have been very tiring for me. Work and it’s implacable appetite for my attention  and time was partly to be blamed. I have grown accustomed to its tedium and its abject disregard for my spiritual well being and sometimes, even my sanity. I’ve somehow managed to hunt down that elusive “me” time previously, to edit some photos, reading a few snatches from literature not related to work and to write something in my blog, which is my form of emotional catharsis.

New Year Greetings to those celebrating Chinese Lunar Year.

Since November, the already elusive “me” time has been forced into extinction by a series of cataclysmic events, not happening to me, but to some people who are very close to me. I will talk about it one day when I am well and ready, but for the time being I am still shell shocked and am still totally devastated.

Beef Crusted Wagyu from their Lunch Menu

I had the opportunity to watch “Melancholia” recently and it spoiled my entire weekend, not because it was a bad movie. On the contrary, it was morose, spartan, haunting and beautifully acted by Kirsten Dunst, whom I had little regard for as an actress until this movie. Confronted with the looming specter of earth’s destruction by a rogue planet aptly named Melancholia, the clairvoyant yet cripplingly depressed Justine was portrayed as the “sanest” and the calmest in accepting the inevitable. 

Petite Threes...

Her reaction was idoneous, being chronically depressed, she has no more expectations out of life and probably welcomed the impending apocalypse as an end to her physical existence. As she prepares her young nephew for the event, she creates the illusion of a “magic tent”. A place where they can hide and escape the calamity. In the final scene, a calm Justine, her equally calm nephew, Leo and her whimpering sister, Claire sit and hold hands in a stick tent against a backdrop of an approaching planet in the Horizon with Wagner’s Prelude to Tristan and Isolde in the background. von Trier’s vision of the Apocalypse is oppressively nihilistic, yet beautifully calm and undistracted. The increasing brightness and deafening roar of the approaching planet ends with darkness and total silence.

Hokkaido Scallop Carpaccio with Black Winter Truffles

I too required a magic tent to gain a temporary respite from the inevitable calamity that will encroach on the life of my friend. It takes very special people to make me ebullient again, and my fellow diners at Sage were just that.

Perfectly Twirled Pasta... Topped with Truffles. Food Styling courtesy of CS

Dinner began with an amuse bouche of Chicken Roulade with Katsu Sauce, delightfully presented and refreshed my plate with it’s pristine taste.

Chicken Roulade with Katsu Sauce

Unlike the austere stick tent in Melancholia, mine was unabashedly hedonistic. All of the dishes came generously tented in a brownish brocade of truffles with it’s lacy grey veins. These were Himalayan Truffles which is the antonym of Chinese Truffles, which is less pungent and aromatic than the Perigords but nonetheless satisfying.

The Carpaccio of Hokaido Scallops was a beautifully rendered cold starter. Slivers of perfectly textured scallops bathed in slightly sharp and sweetish shoyu vinegar showered with winter truffles set the mood for dinner. Austere, yet satisfying without being crass, it was a reflective starter offering a tranquil repose for the agitated mind.

Boo's Pan Roasted pink Snapper with Sauce Périgueux

The pasta was breathtaking in it’s simplicity and the warmth of the cheese based sauce enhanced the beautiful aroma of the truffles. As we were seduced by this overture of beautiful aroma, we bit into the pasta with reverence, in homage to the perfect texture. The silky creaminess of the sauce was jarred by the slightly rougher texture of the truffles which reveled and continued to tease my tastebud as it made it’s way down the throat and ultimately filled my breath with it’s earthy aroma. 

The Aged Angus was a reaffirmation of my carnivorous conviction. It was the best piece of bovine pleasure I have been able to indulge in for a very long time. It was buttery soft, flavorful and perfectly medium rare. 

Aged Angus Tenderloin

The perfect ending of the meal was Mango Feuilletine that was served with Phyllo and not feuilletine flakes, served with Vanilla Ice cream and Truffles. I was surprised to find out from the owners of Deux Garçons that their beautiful Truffle Marscapone Tart was not well received by certain clients. I guess it will take some time for Malaysians to be accustomed with the idea that truffles can go well with both sweets and savories.

Mango Feulleteine with Ice Cream and Truffles

I knew long ago that life is never just a bed of roses. It will be riddled with loads of disappointments and heartaches. No matter what happens, there will be truffles and friends to cheer me up and encourage me to forge on. The Truffle Dinner at Sage will be inked into my memory forever.

N.B. I am blogging from my MacBook and am having trouble calibrating the screen’s color. If the pictures turn out funny, ping me.

Food from Sage's excellent value Truffle Tasting Menu, available till end of February.

Being Comfortable in My Own Skin. Diet Cafe, Cheras Business Centre, KL.

(halal)

Each of us is several, is many, is a profusion of selves. So that the self who disdains his surroundings is not the same self who suffers or takes joy in them. In the vast colony of our being there are many species of people who think and feel in different ways. 

~Pessoa, from the Book of Disquiet~

Diet. Do I Eat Today?

“It’s your Birthday!” the Bank Teller proclaimed loudly as she returned my identity card, which was held hostage during my application for a new account.

I forced an insincere smile and hurried her along and muttered an expletive under my breath. 

Birthdays.

I never celebrate them voluntarily. At least not in the conventional way. The last birthday bash I had, was in Bangkok. A merit making ceremony by donating food early in the morning as the Monks from a nearby Buddhist temple walked around my neighborhood to collect alms followed by lunch at an orphanage where kids are treated to fried chicken and ice cream plus toys.

No boozing, no gifts, no expensive dinners for friends who can jolly well afford to feed themselves better than I can feed them, and none of the obligatory social canoodling and the superficial niceness that reeks of hypocrisy and affectedness. Laugh if you may, at the thought of a cynical, irritable yet servile android being dragged by friends to kneel and offer alms to a monk. The ultimate snigger will be the thought of a torpid me, spending lunch in a room filled with screaming kids trying to blend in with the spartan furniture in an orphanage.

It seemed like a brilliant idea at that time. Shamanism is rampant in Thailand, attested by the ubiquitous Spirit Houses. Maybe a benevolent Spirit possessed me at that time, or I just wanted to please my two Thai friends who always celebrated their birthdays that way. The lunch ended with a repeating chant playing in my head, which said, “Next time, just give cash.” My friends of course had a good laugh when I told them how uncomfortable I felt throughout the ordeal. It could be worse than that. In an effort to blend in with friends during schooldays, I couldn’t say I want to keep my birth date a secret. That would be termed “antisocial”, (a misnomer actually, because the proper term for is actually asocial). 

Apple Crumble

After a miserable 21st birthday spent with a lot of people I didn’t like but was obliged to invite to my birthday because they were a part of my “social circle”, I made a firm resolve not to divulge my birthday except to those who reside in my sanctus sanctorum of my heart, a pledge I kept from the day I graduated from University until now. 

My birthday has only been celebrated with a few people in my lifetime. I celebrated some birthdays with my family mainly out of obligation too, but that stopped following the death of my mother. Even then, with my own family, I felt a bit embarrassed by the cake and candles and the usual rites and rituals associated with birthdays. I suppose I could tolerate the discomfort of being the center of attention for my Mum, who used the occasion to show me how much she loved me. She had done so much for me, and that was the least I could do for her and would love to endure many, many more hours more uncomfortable cake blowing if she could still be around.

I guarded my birth date like a national secret and hate it if somebody tried to pry this bit of privy information from me.

Unfortunately, this is the least of my peculiarities. 

Bread and Butter Pudding

There is always some music running in the background in my head, and my favorite past time is matching music to some situation that I am facing, living my life in a soundtrack of my own creation. I am obsessive about my books. A crease in a page or the cover of my book gives me goose bumps just like listening to someone scratching on a blackboard. I hate yellowing pages in my novels and have given away and re bought many copies of my favorite books. 

I am fixated on Tristan und Isolde and currently have 5 versions of it in my collection. 

Snakes and reptiles give me nausea and vertigo.

I hate having my photograph taken; I hate to be recognized in the streets or anywhere else. My mobile numbers are seldom given out, and if I give it out, I would expect it never to be divulged before my consent.

My fork and spoon has to match, likewise for chopsticks, otherwise I will be suffering from agitation throughout the meal, fearing something awful will happen that day.

If you think that I am weird, rest assured that you are not alone. I think I am weird too. It took me a long time to come to terms with who I am and what I am.  And if you think I am a difficult person to live with, do consider the fact that I have to live with myself 24 hours a day.  This is compounded by the fact that I am aware of what I am and how difficult it is for me to fit in with others.

I was only truly free after the death of my mother. I no longer had to fulfill her expectations of what I should be, how I should behave and whom I should be nice to. I only have to live for myself and became a total Prick. But I am happy. I no longer had to stifle my annoyance and am ready to snap back at anybody I had hated last time, but kept timid out of respect for my mother.

Outside my working life, I was no longer milquetoast and embarked on a new project to mundify my life of all its annoyances. 

I started with people who had unrealistic expectations on how I had to behave, dress, drive, live and eat. They were not there during my most turbulent period in life. They should not have any expectations from me as I never expected them to be there for me too. They had NO right to judge me or criticize me. I showed them my Middle Finger and purged them from my life.

Warm Chocolate Cake

To them, I will be the chimeral chronic underachiever, the impulsive and eccentric bachelor who dresses shabbily, mixes with the wrong company and curses like a dockyard coolie. But I am happy, and that’s what matters most.  The only place I tried to fit in is only at work. The only reason why I am doing what I am doing is out of gratitude for my Boss, who had been a real brick during my mother’s illness, convalescence and ultimately her death.

I knew after her death, I will not have the drive I once had to excel, to conform and to compete because that was never what I wanted. Previously, I just wanted to live up to my mother’s expectation of me. To be as iconic as my Boss and to be recognized and lose my privacy would mean the eventual loss of my sanity as well.

I wore a mask at work, and I wore it well. I serviced my Bosses and their clients like a whore who utilizes every trick in her book to satisfy her clients, and like the whore, they can have my body, but they will never have my heart. Everyday I battled with my conscience and suppressed my desire to do what I like best, to be free and unencumbered with the constraints of normalcy and redundancy. Nobody noticed that everything I did was rote and passionless and I trudged on until this day.

Next on my list to expunge from my life were people in my contact list that contacted me when they needed something and then leaves the conversation hanging after obtaining the information they require. People who do not even bother to respond to a simple “Hi!”. I don’t know why social interaction behind an electronic screen seems to make people forget the common courtesies. You wouldn’t turn your face away when an acquaintance says, “Hi” to you on the street to you. I used to be almost apologetic when some people ask me why they have been deleted from my Blackberry and try to make up some lame excuse like a change in Blackberry Device or something similar. Nowadays I am more direct. I just tell them straight in the face that I think they are rude, and just do not wish to interact with them via Blackberry.

Mama Panna Cotta

I live my life fully compartmentalized, like separate sets in a Venn diagram. Work, Family and Social. Only rarely and for certain individuals I absolutely trust, are they allowed to come into the intersections between the sets. Social Order in my little obsessive world meant keeping my little circle of contacts in confined, separate mobile phones, separate email accounts and separate Facebook accounts.

After a long while, I started to feel comfortable in my own skin. I learned to accept and even embrace some of my peculiarities. Like most people, when I feel comfortable, I let my guard down and started to feel snug and secure. I felt confident enough to blog and allowed the exposure some of my thoughts and feelings in the big, bad www.

I knew that it would open up another sphere of people and my neat little circles with its beautiful microscopic Reuleaux Triangle residing in the centre would be in dire jeopardy. I took the proverbial plunge and exposed my identity like the virgin exposing her neck to be corrupted by Nosferatu, seduced by the promise of eternal life or in my case, damned to an eternity of bits and bytes in a remote server.

Club Sandwich

Friendship is polysemous. To some, it is an avenue to show off, to gloat, a scratching post or worse still, as something to be used for personal gain. I am unable to define precisely what it means to me, but it has to be something more than that. I was rewarded by my foray into blogging with meeting with some of the most beautiful people I have ever met in my life, but have also gotten to know and meet some of the most soulless, superficial, narcissistic and shameless hacks on the face of earth. Like Malaysian Politics, these hacks will one day will be the big names in cybersphere.  I bear no animosity with them, and treat them like an occasional annoyance that I can swat away by logging out from twitter.

Nothing prepared me to get to know some of the unkindest specimens of mankind. The Time Wasters.

I was invited to a dinner recently but there was a last minute change in the time. It was rescheduled to the next day and the person who changed the day informed everybody but me. Most of you would think that this is just a small matter, and I shouldn’t have gone apeshit. Well, first of all, being the precise, punctilious, obsessive worrier, I had to drive to Hartamas a day before, which is way off where I usually hang out. I arrived early and armed with two bags full of laptop, tablet, phones, gadgets and photography equipment, I sat down and waited in a hot pot restaurant. (Another OCD trait that I posses is I will not leave home without my gadgets, otherwise I will be thinking about them, and I am currently obsessed with Crumpler Bags.)

The 40 Minutes spent waiting at the restaurant was unnerving. I felt that the whole restaurant was staring at me. I felt eyes gnawing into my heart, and exposed the desolate bareness of my internal milleu.  Every laughter emanating from other diners obviously having a good time there, seemed to mock me, and like the percolating soup boiling in the hot pot, my mind was in a raging turmoil. Hurt, anger, dismay and betrayal just like the multiple sauces offered in the restaurant was heaped onto my empty plate and empty stomach, the perfect condiments for an outburst. I called up one of my fellow diners and was surprised to hear that the date has been changed and the person who changed it had told her she would be informing me. I paid up and left and sought comfort with my Burmese Migrant worker friends.

Sauteed Button Mushroom

I awaited for an apology for three days. None came, except for a small little message saying that she changed the date and knew I will not be free and therefor did not inform me. A statement that is very flawed logically. Even if she considers herself to be the Queen of the Fucking Universe, but this little minion is not gonna go down without shoving his middle finger up her nose.

If friendship was going to be my weltschmerz, to hell with it. The suppression of my anger and the desire to give her a shelling on the phone wore me down for days. It would be pointless to confront an idiot. I did the next best thing. I nuked her from my life, starting with emails and trashed and blocked her address. I deleted her from my BB. Entered her phone number into Call Blocker and threw away anything that reminded me of her. It felt good. I was free. If there is something I can do well, is to love and hate something with the equal amount of intensity. 

I can never be sure if it was a sin of commission or omission. All that I knew was that she did send a message on my BB one hour before I left home for the restaurant, yet she didn’t mention anything about canceling the dinner. Either way, death by disembowelment with a dessert fork would be an option to consider as just punishment.

I was jolted out of my comfort zone again. I was feeling out of sorts and started to think if I had made a big mistake by blogging, by sharing my unconventional thoughts with so many strangers.

I remembered a meal I had at Diet Cafe.

Cajun Prawn Sandwich

The interior of Diet Cafe is a bizarre mishmash of bric a bracs, from lights that resembles alien flying saucers to small little kitschy object d’arts that hardly conforms to functional minimalism. Despite the hodgepodge, a sense of calmness prevails especially when one has experienced the harrowing traffic along Jalan Pudu and Jalan Cheras. The menu is fairly extensive for a restaurant that size and a few items stand out.

I have praised their beautiful Risotto which was satisfyingly rich with the prefect texture in another post. Their pesto was youthful and fresh which saved it from being drowned in oleaginous slick like John Travolta’s mop of hair in Grease being saved by the vigorous exuberance of his dance. In this case, the verdant freshness of the Basil did the trick.

Spaghetti with Pesto (Off Menu)

The statuesque Club Sandwich was gloriously thick and could do with a denser bread, though it was slightly overdressed to kill.

Diet Cafe's working class roots was reflected by it’s offering of Bangers and Mash which is usualy only as good as the sausages. Although Diet Cafe uses premium Chicken Sausage, it can never replace the more endowed Cumbria Sausages sheathed sinfully in Pork Intestine and filled with ground Pork Loin and seasonings. The onion gravy was abnormally sweet although the texture of the mash was lovely. Apparently, I was told by my British friend, that the name “Banger” interestingly came up during the Second World War. Food rationing was imposed in Britain, and as a result, sausages had a higher content of water than usual, resulting in the sausages exploding when fried at a high temperature.

Bangers and Mash 

The Chicken Parmaggiana was moist and tender. The effort was commendable but one can only do so much with a piece of breast. 

The entrees were perfunctory. Prawns in Spicy Tomato Sauce was served on a piece of bread that had just ran a marathon through the desert and did nothing much to elevate the juicy, bouncy prawns that just got off a trampoline. The Sauteed Mushrooms were blissfully doing a backstroke in a light, garlicky sauce.

Desserts were more pedestrian but managed to satisfy our desire for a post meal sugar rush.

Lamp

The most captivating quality of Diet Cafe was it lack of pretense and is confident to offer what it does best. Reasonably priced food that is well prepared and served at very welcoming hours. It does not boast to indulge you in fine dining nor boast of using the finest ingredients. The desire to please is evident, service is cheerful and ebullient. Any imperfections or flaws are easily overlooked. This was clearly a restaurant with a character of it's own and the owners and chef are really comfortable being what they are and realistic enough to know what they can offer.

I used to view the world with askance, and isolated and limited myself to interacting with the barest minimum amount of people. Thanks to this unpleasant episode, I am returning back to my little shell. Do forgive me if I insist on asking to the point of paranoia about who is going to be there for our meals. I am just comfortable with knowing the few people I have already known and you know who you are. At this juncture, I have completely no desire to meet anybody new. You are free to disavow me, and unlike the vengeful Abrahamic God, I promise no retribution in this world or in the afterlife.

I am also taking a break from blogging, and may not be updating much here, not that I have been diligent. I have however, started a new neurotic blog to spare all of you from having to read my tiresome descriptions of my neurotic life here. And if I do blog here, it will be to share about food and much happier things. I wish to regain my anonymity.

I love observing people and how they behave, recording their conversation in my mind and observing the little nuances, their accent, their gestures and then form little vignettes of their life on my own and imagining a soundtrack to accompany it. It is as if by silently observing others that I can fill up the gaps in my own life, by experiencing some of the things that I will never encounter. To be a successful voyeur, one has to remain anonymous. 

To those of you who do not know me, I want to be the owner of the pair of slitted Chinky eyes training you from a dark corner in a decrepit coffee shop. Looking at you as you receive a break up text message from your boyfriend, with my eyes tearing, possibly irritated the thick veil of nicotine smoke that separates me from you.

However, I can never put my arms around your shoulder to offer you solace, for it is not me to do so. I am not wired that way. I take a long, long time to warm up to people and some of you are just probably feeling that I am friendlier now after knowing me for 2 years. I will never, never again trust anyone without knowing them for a length of time.

Light Fixture

Some people may think that I am seeking attention by being different, by being aloof. I can assure you, I am not. I can't help being what I am and if you think you know me, you are wrong. I don't even know myself.

When you see me, you will just see fragments of a mutilated me. The government demands me to be lobotomized , my vocal cords cut out and my heels nailed to my butts. Forever forced into a supplicant kneel in gratitude to my oppressors. At work, the corners of my mouth are stitched to my ears to deform my mouth into giving everybody who sees me a macabre smile, my heart ripped from my chest to be a compliant robot. I'll be damned if I need to mutilate myself when I am with friends.

Picking up my own fragments and reassembling myself like a jigsaw puzzle to fit into the mould of what others deem to be sociable is getting to be quite a chore. So is repressing the desire to kick thoughtless buffoons.

All I know is I have to accept who I am, what I am capable of and what I am not, with all my neurosis, my obsessions and flaws. More than a 13 inches macbook air with 256 Gigs of flash drive upgraded with i7 processor, more than owning a complete set of Fellini or a copy of Ulysses signed by Joyce himself, I just want to be myself and  be comfortable in my own skin.

Just like Diet Cafe.

Diet Cafe
27, Jalan 3/101c, Cheras Business Centre,
Cheras, 56100
Kuala Lumpur

Tel: +6.03.91.30.17.00

Hours: Mon-Fri 10–12am; Sat-Sun 8–12am

Civilized Savagery. Chef Choi, Jalan Ampang, KL. Sage, Gardens Mid Valley.

(Rated "R" for Rambling)

Smoked Trout with Ikura and Wasabi Mayonnaise, Sage.

There is a gentle civility that makes Sage one of my favourite places for lunch. The beautifully pristine slabs of protein ornamented with small little leaves of Japanese herbs, form the little notes of a melismatic passage. Together with the accompaniment of resolute pearls Ikura with it's bold briny flavour and the gentle whisper of Wasabi Mayonnaise, it became a thunderous, beautiful symphonic chant to the Sea.

I am resigned to forget I am actually tearing into a piece of meat, a piece of now decaying flesh that used to be a part of the muscle that propels the graceful sway of the beautiful ocean trout as it swims in the ocean.

Home Made Tagliolini Pasta with Seafood and Flat Leaf Parsley. Sage.

Seafood served at Sage with the exception of Oysters are usually filleted or de-shelled, leaving one to eat in comfort without the hassle of having to deal with the mess that usually accompanies a Chinese Seafood Dinner. And their pastas are usually light, rolled into small spools with Oriental inspired sauces.

Civilised Posh Nosh in beautifully assembled morsel sized bites.

Not having to deal with bones means that while imbibing and smacking my lips to a delicious meal, I would not have to be reminded that what I was chewing is something that used to be alive.

Duck with Foie and Daikon, Sage.

The harsh reality is that animal carcasses abound in any kitchen. Eviscerated, decapitated, hacked and skinned prior to be cooked and served, it is a scene right out of a medieval torture chamber . Disguised by beautiful garnishing and excellent plating, the odious idea that a sentient being has been killed and tortured to satisfy my craving is pushed right to the narrow recesses of my mind and lessens the guilt of having to grapple with the ethics of being an omnivore.

It's not that I find indulging in meat particularly objectionable , nor could I find any convincing philosophical arguments that manage to convince me to be a  Vegetarian. As hypocritical as seems, I just don't like to be reminded that what I am chewing was once alive.

Fresh Cherry Fruit with Champagne Sabayon and Vanilla Ice Cream, Sage

Perhaps it is the cartoons I have watched as an impressionable youngster that bestowed emotions, rationality and feelings to animals. Somehow or another I feel uncomfortable with the thought of massacre of animals as a necessity for my pleasure and sustenance. I was never comfortable eating meat with bones stuck on them, and my preferred cut of poultry is still the breast, where there is a minimal chance of confronting fresh blood oozing from the marrow.

I suppose the rest of the English speaking world share some of my queasiness. Pork is never referred to as Pig and Beef never as Cow.

This was my narrow view of what civilized posh nosh should be. Beautifully presented food with minimal reminder of the original state of the victim and it's merciless termination of life.

When it comes to humans, who do we consider to be a civilized person? What are the qualities we deem as pre requisites to be considered civilized?

N's Tattoo

"Is it painful?" I asked N as the Tattooist stroked his skin with a tattooing needle to the accompanying high pitched whir that resembles a Dentist's drill humming in the background. There were splotches of bright red blood on his skin as the needle broke through the epidermal layer of his skin. (Those who follow my misadventures on twitter may recall that he puked and passed out after that.)

I have been asked the same question by him when I visited him and his friends in their mess, invited over for impromptu dinners. Sometimes after a long day at work would leave my neck in spasm and if I arrived with a stooped head or wince slightly while reaching out for something, he would ask, "Pain?". I would just smile.

After dinner, while I read amidst the hive of post dinner activities of migrant foreign workers in the background that involves strumming the guitar, a loud telephone conversation in a foreign language back home or the gentle blare of soap opera from the TV, I will get a pat on my back. This will be followed by a warm towel on my neck and N or H will give me a neck massage. There is no use protesting, they will be adamant and will only stop when they feel that the neck muscles are soft and pliable again.

H's Tattoo

N and his friends are from Myanmar. N is tall, lanky with dry, dark skin marred by splotches of eczema due to chronic exposure to industrial solvents. He is heavily tattooed and pierced. He would be the least likely person one would consider to be civilized. Foreign workers are not very well regarded in Malaysia, especially the semi skilled workers.

It was a chance encounter. I needed to some independent fact checking on Moulmein (known as Mawlamyine now), and asked my friend if he had any workers from that region. He had two, he said and I could meet them. N and H are ethnically Mon, with a distinctive language and script of it's own. Together with V, a Karen tribesman and T, a Shan tribesman, they share the largest room in a double storey terraced house my friend owned and used as a hostel for his Myamar workers.

All four of them have a unique story to tell, and I shall start with the story of N. His father passed away when he was 12, and he left home to work illegally in Thailand with his elder brother at the age of 16 because he did not want to burden his mother who had to take care of 2 other younger siblings. He hasn't used a single dime from home since then.

Tattoo

Working in Thailand was not easy. Thailand shared a long history of warfare with Burma in the olden days. The Siamese Kingdom of Ayutthaya was ended with the sacking and looting of Ayuttaya by the second King of the Burmese Konbaung Dysnasty, Hsinbyushin. Ayutthaya was razed to the ground. Golden statues of the Buddha was melted and more than 90,000 Thais were taken as slaves back to Burma.

The event has been long rallied as a sore point in Thailand's history and many migrant Burmese workers to Thailand face some prejudice from the authorities. After saving enough money to obtain a Visa to Malaysia, N finally escaped the intimidation of Thai Police and made his way to KL.

The past 3 years had been kind to N. With a monthly salary of more than RM1,300 and plus some overtime allowance, he has managed to send approximately RM500 home every month. One of his brothers is attending University in Rangoon and another one to follow suit next summer. But still, his material possessions till today is compared paltry by any standards. 6 t-shirts, 5 pairs of jeans, a mobile phone and his most expensive possession, his tattoos.

I have asked him many times if he needed any financial help. I could easily do without one or two lunches and would be more than glad to help out, obligation free. But the answer was always the same. A squeeze on my shoulder, no, he can manage and if the time comes, he will let me know and every single cent will be paid back in due time.

Skull Motif on H's Arms. The Tattoo has yet to be completed.

Finances are managed prudently. Lunch is taken care of by their factory. Breakfast is simple, bread and coffee and dinners are home cooked. Cigarettes are usually communal, shared out in the room and the last stick belongs to the person who bought the pack. This is their unwritten rule. Read magazines and newsletters from Myanmar are taken out to the living room to be shared out.

Is it easier to share when one has less, while relative wealth makes another hoard and be possessive?

Their only indulgence is to spend about RM50 to 70 each on their weekends, Beer and Myanmar Food at their hangout at Jalan Cheng Lock. Coincidently, that area was also the place where Chinese immigrants like my grandfather congregated at the turn of the 20th century.

If somebody falls asleep in the room, any conversation will be carried out in the living room or the balcony outside as not to disturb the one sleeping.

Tattoo on H's back

What is most amazing about N is despite having gone through so many traumas in life, he is not bitter about life. Our friendship is easy. Minimalist. No superficial hello hugs, no callous "take cares". He does not pretend to understand my job, in fact he never once asked what I do for a living, nor try to estimate my salary. All he knows is I work horrendously long hours and I am usually dead tired at the end of the day.

Messages are always answered all be it in broken English. Calls are always returned, unlike some lofty friends who claim that they are always too busy with their work and family but find time to write a long email or text message when they require some information and advice.

I never fear that I will be taken advantage of. Loans are short term, settled within the same day, after the shopping trip. The cost meals are shared out, unless it is specified that it will be a treat before the meal.

The care and concern is genuine. Although I am sometimes pissed that he and his friends text me at night when I am working and insist I have dinner with them because they cooked something I liked, I always find out later that it is always for my own good. I do need that break and usually leave their house happier and less tired. Freer days are spent reading to their ambient chatter and answering their questions about what I am reading. If I am less chatty, they will know that I am not in the mood and just leave me be for a while. Occasionally, when I am extra quiet and caught up in my own world, they will bring out the guitar and start playing the only Myanmar song I can sing after 4 months of attempting to learn the language. That usually breaks down my wall of ice.

Once a week I have my Myanmar lessons, writing and vocabulary. More about my adventures attempting to learn a polytonal language later. Invariably, the lessons will end up with learning some really wicked curse words and hysterical laughter.

Perfect Tattoo on Imperfect Skin

N does not pretend to be clever or intelligent. He does not pretend to know how tired I am. He is not interested in who my friends are. Life for him is lived at the present. We share a lot of similarities, but he was not as lucky as I was in obtaining some formal education.

He may not fit into one's image of a civilized man, and some may call him a savage. But to me, he is a gentleman and I am proud to call him my friend. Sometimes we want to get to know somebody because of the persona they project, especially through social media. But that is just good marketing skills. I can count with one hand the number of people I have met that lives up to that image.

Many times I have gone through my life with this preconceived notion of how a person should behave and food be presented. I dread to think how many people I have shut out from my life through this fault. This is one unforgettable lesson that N has taught me.

Both N and H will be going back to Myanmar in 5 days time for six weeks. It will be their first time seeing their family members after 3 years. I sincerely wish them Bon Voyage and a safe trip home.

Seafood Paella from Chef Choi

In the same vein, I was quick to dismiss Chef Choi's as an uninteresting restaurant serving the same, uninspiring Chinese Cuisine found elsewhere in KL. I was wrong. It is a gem, helmed by an enthusiastic Chef with an encyclopaedic knowledge of food and culinary arts.

When a friend invited me over for dinner, I was thrilled to find one of the most perfect paella in KL. Beautiful plump slightly al dente Arborio rice soaked with a generous amount of Saffron in the stock and served with prawns, squid, mussels and bits of Serrano ham, it was a delightful paella, much better than I have tasted in some Spanish Restaurants in KL.

Perfect Paella in a Chinese Restaurant. Almost unimaginable.

Roasted Pork Belly

The theme for dinner was Barbecue. It is such a primitive way of cooking meat. I could imagine cavemen huddling together in a cave while they roast their catch from the forest in an open fire. Worse of all, body parts abound, complete with bones and the form of carcass.

It was an invite that was very hard to refuse. CS had been so generous and is a treasure trove of culinary knowledge. Gregarious and witty, she could rattle on about food for hours and had been exposed to some of the most famous restaurants in the world.

I prepared myself for a bit of blood, gore and carnage as I made it to Chef Choi's.

Spaghetti Vongole

The traffic was mercifully light during the fasting month. This was not the first time I was at Chef Choi's. I was there a few months back for a noodles inspired dinner. I saw glimpses of Chef Choi's creativity and skill back then, but was not prepared for his versatility in the kitchen.

If the Paella was magnificent, but the Spaghetti Vongole was subdued and meek in comparison. It just couldn't compete with the resolute saffron. The attraction of the day was the meat in all it's bloody gory. Humongous slabs of meat with crimson blood trickling by the side with bloodied marrow like a scene out of a B grade horror movie.

I cringed.

Steak Florentine

It was precisely the moment when the Barbecued Lamb Shank was served that I received a text message from N. My car battery had stalled after I arrived at Chef Choi's and I had texted N informing him that I will be late for our weekly Burmese Lesson. N wanted to come over with his friends to keep watch over my car while the mechanic from AAM replaced the battery. He was worried that I wouldn't be able to enjoy my meal while worrying about my car.

This was followed by another text message from H asking if I needed help from his cousin who is a mechanic at Chan Sow Lin, a skip away from Jalan Ampang. T called and wanted to preform CPR on the car. He just attended a CPR demonstration at his factory.

After a flurry of text messages reassuring them that everything was fine and taken care of and their text messages were distracting me from my meal more than my stalled car, my moment of epiphany arrived.

Yorkshire Pudding

If I was able to enjoy their friendship in the most primitive form without the trappings of superficiality and decorum as society expects, why should I be distracted by garnishing and beautiful plating when I am enjoying a piece of meat?

I tore into into the lamb with relish.

It was one of the most beautiful piece of lamb meat I have ever tasted. The texture was tender, almost creamy with the wonderful aroma of Rosemary and garlic steeped into every fibre of the meat. The most basic cooking technique had rendered the meat perfect.

One does not need anything else to enjoy meat. Just a really good piece of meat, marinated well and cook at the right temperature for the correct duration of time.

Fried Fan Pei

The meal kicked off with some basic salad to balance out the meat, interestingly served with the slightly salty shoyu sesame dressing and the wonderfully tart and fragrant lemon cilantro dressing.

The roasted pork belly came with the crackling detached. I am not a big fan of pork and perhaps not qualified to pass any comments on it, but thought that the meat was tender and juicy though I found the crackling slightly too chewy.

Pan Fried Matsusaka Beef on Glutinous Rice

Bovine indulgence came in two forms, Roasted Prime Rib on Bone and Steak Florentine. Both were exemplary in both the meat texture and taste. I couldn't decide which was better as I have eaten more red meat in that meal than I have for the entire year.

 Carbohydrate relief was Potato Boulangre and Yorkshire Pudding which had the weight watchers commiting the sin of wanton stuffing with carbohydrate without feeling a single ounce of remorse.

Boston Lobster Yee Mee

That dinner was not my virginal experience of being seduced by Chef Choi's food. On a previous occasion, another palate orgy was organised and involved lashings with strands of noodles and scalding with almond milk with giant lobster pincers creatively used to induce orgasm.

Almond Milk with Papaya

Chef Choi is also a dessert genius. The gorgeous Almond Milk with papaya is a work of sheer genius. I am not sure if any of you are partial towards Almond Milk like I am because if you do, then Chef Choi's is the promised land and this beautiful dish will be the Manna from heaven.

Lush and thick, with the distinctive taste of ground almond, it was served warm with bits of papaya and lotus seed.

His "western" desserts are equally delectable. The tart tartin was praiseworthy, served with fresh cream with crushed vanilla pods inside.

Apple Tartin

Sometimes I do need a good slap of honesty to wake me up. Meat is meat and no amount of dressing up can hide the fact that I am chewing into a piece of flesh. What I thought was savagery in devouring a prey with the body parts intact at a barbecue was just enjoying meat in it's purest form and Chef Choi was an excellent place to be introduced to it.

Like wise in my personal life. The boys remind me that one does not need much to be happy, and they are indeed some of the happiest people I have met in life. Much happier than morose intellectual wannabes trying to rationalize through their empty lives molly cuddled by a false sense of being superior to everyone around them.

Happier than some bloggers competing for hits and beautiful photos and bragging about their lives when all they expose is a empty hole where the brain is supposed to be and a huge emptiness in their soul trying to live out the persona they try to portray.

Much happier than the handsomely paid executives in multinationals who live in the fear of making a wrong decision and being stabbed in the back.

Much much happier than I am, stuck in a job that I loath, but happen to do be competent in.

Mooncake

They boys live their lives devoid of pretence and they are completely comfortable with who they are. The sure as hell will not pick up a passage from Proust, looking it up in wikipedia and try to impress me. It's unimaginable.

They have never stood me up and in fact provide relief for me when I am left dangling from last minute dinner cancellations. There were always there for me when I needed some comic relief.

After spending more than 12 hours of a working day pretending to fit in to a job that demands that I forsake my entire persona and ideals, the last thing I need is more pretence. I just want to enjoy my time being who I really am in the company of people who are being their real selves.

Just like biting into some juicy unadorned barbecued meat at Chef Choi's.

Snow Skin Mooncake

Pictures at Sage (no pork served) is from their daily lunch sets at RM 100.

Barbecue Dinner available at Chef Choi (non halal) is available upon advanced order. Please call +60 3 2163 5866 for reservation and prices. It is located at 159, Jalan Ampang, in between the MCA building and Pelita Nasi Kandar.