A new dish and a history lesson imparted with it. There had been
no spring rolls for a couple of days at Huong it seemed, 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 Western newcomers, the lad
encouraged. You know, the old Asian capital city?... Ah, ya. We had
played that game before. What was it now?… Hmm. Ahm. Oh yes. Nam Vang – Phnom
Penh. Which recalled some earlier phase of Viet presence possibly, one more
overt than the current. Very tasty the derived soup. George could be introduced
to the variation, though he might be hard pressed to pass on the noodle salad
with spring rolls. At the delivery of the dish the lad 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 a clear second and perhaps two before the chappie got it.
HAHA! of delight and swiveling around in her seat. A tall Westerner in a fine
panama trilling like that…. There was 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 and Viet, would ever come to ask how a
fellow was faring. Instead, at the encounter, 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 right enough. Tenderness
and solicitude more than average touching. One wanted to spend one’s final days
in those circles where suchlike passed amongst the people, rather than any
lesser exchanges. The heat and humidity could be endured, the loss of the
footy, backyard BBQs, good coffee and gigs and the beach that you never
frequented in any case. Not unexpectedly, the vowel had not been chewed long
enough here: Anh gum theeeew. The mnemonic
contained. 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.) Then across the road from that purchase a new achingly
lovely geisha girl replacing the former aching lovely at that sushi counter.
(Since moved fifty metres up the street.) Teak avay?... If
only she could have been. All softness and 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 and 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 slipping away quickly when the packet
was collected. Finally the Croat Iraq vet., godly Marko stopping at the table
yesterday and indeed 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 that 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 running propaganda for the foul proponents
disgusted Marko. Agitation to maintain abortion rights and introduce euthanasia
equally disgusted. Whether he 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 he was hearing, 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 knew,
up until he decided to trade oil for gold, rather than the $US.) 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
No comments:
Post a Comment