A new dish and history lesson imparted with it.
There had been no spring rolls for couple days at Huong, the Buddhist nun aunt of the owner who made them buckling under the pressure, perhaps. The place had certainly been packing them in lately.
Not the bun rieu, Viet crab & shrimp tomato rice vermicelli soup, the young Hong Kong waiter ventured. Try the nam vang instead. It had been successfully recommended to many Westerners.
You know, the old Asian capital city?...
Ah...We had played that game before. What was it now?…Hmm. Ah... Oh yes! Nam Vang – Phnom Penh indeed. Which recalled some earlier phase of Viet presence, possibly, one more overt than the current.
Very tasty. George could be introduced to the variation, though that man might be hard pressed to pass on the noodle salad with spring rolls.
At the delivery of the dish the HK-er could be returned a round too, with a trialing of another discovery from the day before, courtesy of Anh Nhi at Abdul Razak’s place.
Listen in now young fella: Ang gum thew?...
Two and three times before proper reception. Ang gum thew?... Ang gum thew?...
Two tables back the neatly dressed lady against the wall had received almost immediately.
HAHA! of delight, swiveling round in her seat.
Tall Westerner in a fine panama trilling like that.
There had been no surprise whatever at Ang gum thew? The counterpart of the Mandarin Ni chile ma? Have you eaten?
Near neighbours sharing the practice could not surprise. No one in China or Vietnam, at least the old Han & Viet generation, would ever come to ask at an encounter how a fellow was faring. Instead, at the first, before anything else, would come enquiry about the possibly empty stomach. After all, if the tummy was grumbling, how could a man be well?
Excellent. Stands to reason. Tenderness & solicitude more than average touching. One wanted to spend one’s final days in those circles where suchlike passed amongst the citizenry. The heat and humidity could be endured, the loss of the footy, backyard BBQs, good coffee, gigs & the beach.
Not unexpectedly, the vowel had not been chewed long enough here.
Anh gum theeeew. OKOKOK.
In Balaclava earlier hemp seed oil (organic) was eventually found on the shelf of the heath food joint, $13 odd. Immediate relief provided from the rash at both wrists that had developed almost certainly from the dirty water in the flooded streets of Johor Bahru late last year. (Such an array of ailments lately storming in.) Following that purchase, across the road a new, achingly lovely geisha girl had replaced the former aching lovely at the sushi counter. (Since moved 50m along the street.)
Teak away?…
If only it were possible.
All softness & liquid movement. Magnificent.
The old roué Kawabata had emphasized how clean were such bewitching compatriots in the teahouses of Nippon, once upon a time. Millions and millions of miles from any hint of dirt, slovenliness and everyday humdrum. Every careful gesture, every word from the other side of the counter, fell well short of effect. It was impossible. Out of court of course, the lass being what, twenty-four, nearly -five?
Miracle creature light as a butterfly and equally evasive, her hand quickly slipping away when the packet was collected.
Finally, the Croat Iraq vet., godly Marko, stopping at the table yesterday and confidently assuming a seat.
The Anglo-Ameri dragon gobbling all before it. The Setan above all Setans. Dominating the former Eastern Bloc, the Mid-East and every place else. (With the Jews wagging the tail of the dog. How many of them were at the topmost ranks in any US admin.?)
If only the put-upon Slavs could unite against them, forming a front that would stretch from the Adriatic to the Northern Pacific.
Back in the day, Bishop Strossmayer had dreamt of just such a brotherly union. The godless communists had presented a perversion of the concept; five hundred thousand Croats alone were slaughtered by them.
Marko had been photocopying NO leaflets for the plebiscite the other day. The ABC’s propaganda for the foul proponents disgusted M. Agitation to maintain abortion rights and introducing euthanasia equally disgusted.
Whether the man was suggesting that the pedophilia white-anting of the religious institutions was orchestrated from the devil’s lair was not perfectly clear; the seat in the Arizonan desert like for the drone HQ was it?
When the quiet St. Pete-burg fellow mustered the courage to join us, drawn by the Slavic, Marko became unsettled by the suspicious South London accent. Such fellows had crept around in the military too, sending good men to their deaths. (Saddam had been a stooge of the Americans, all well known, up until he decided to trade oil for gold, rather than the US greenback.)
More thoughtful and reasoned the Ruski, the St. Pete chap. What that man could not comprehend was Putin’s failure to intro. true democracy, rule of law and freedom of the media. Why did he need to savage all the outlying states so badly, Georgia, Kazakhstan, &etc? Gorbachev had raised such hopes. Lost. Betrayed.
Nice fellow the St. Pete, the junior grade comprehension of power, domination, contest and greed never mind. What had been most interesting about the man had been his name – remarkable to hear the Russian variant of Innocent, like for the lusty old Popes.
An old Russophile had never heard the like. Did the Spanish still give their children such fateful names?
Only in mature adulthood, nay middle-age, had Innocent asked his mother what had possessed her.
NB. Иннокентий
Footscray, Melbourne
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