Cursed Coin

Pretty bland. Egg bryani was rice with a boiled egg on the side. Three veg. small serve @ RM3 ea. kept the intake low. The waiter who served the food seemed to understand removing the egg was to save it, not let it go to waste. When he came up for the operation he brought a small stainless dish like surgeons use in theatre, delicately cupping with a spoon out it went. When the original waiter came by later quizzical looks, a wordless question, eventually articulated properly when he showed the size of the missing article with thumb and forefinger. Presumably he had placed it on the platter himself. Yeah, well. Thought it would be poached or fried on top, not like that…. Ah. OK. You want more rice? (In order to make up the calorie shortfall chap meant.) Nah. Sweet. All good. Not more rice. Earlier Western kool cafe August at the top end of Tan Hiok Nee had been tried for its broccoli salad minus the salmon, reconnoitred couple days before. Too busy in the downstairs area along the bench seat. The former place opposite the teahouse at the other end of Tan Hiok turned out had changed hands recently and now did nothing but meat—duck, pork, chicken, chicken, chicken. Footslog down the other end of Jalan Trus to the Indian up opposite the fertility clinic. Whilst waiting for the bryani to be delivered another young lad with markings on his forehead was caught making eyes at a little girl on the end of the table at the rear. There had not been sufficient savings as yet for him to marry the girl back in the village. One day by god’s grace he would have his own little daughter loving her daddy more than anyone else in the world. Finest array of lads as usual at these places, all young here, the eldest manning the till, familiar from a couple of years ago, was only in his mid-thirties. Lad taking the initial order looked familiar too: he would be the one chosen for a little inquisition. The itch had come on. Could he ID then this Tamil movie star in the sticker bought the previous evening at the nightmarket? HERO TAMIL. APA MACAM? the tags. (Google had “like what” for the latter.) Good looking mid-aged dude in sunnies with a practiced fan portrait smile. Four stickers for RM10 from the nice young Malay graphic artist trading in Tan Hiok most nights. A second for the front of the same journal that the lad had obliged in sticking properly himself read CASH IS NOT KING. Yeah, sure. Waiter knew the actor. Of course. Wasn’t he a Tamil too!... In film he was OK that guy, not bad. But in life he was bad. In politics. Take wrong way, explained the young critic. And the cash insight was perfectly intelligible too. Well understood. Only a good devout Tamil boy knew it could never be ultimate king. How could it? The local context here with the former PM, Man of Steal, Malaysian Official 1, who had billions routed through his private bank accounts, could not be understood by a lad out here only a year. (Not the two or three years that had been thought. He was a newcomer.) Ahma resto, but not spelt in pinyin—AMMA a tee later revealed.