Lad at Sarbat Asli in the afternoon sat at the shorter bench washing the dishes. The sink was on the other side; the lad sat opposite at the untiled bench covered with plastic sheeting beside a small tub full of his thin dishes of green—ribbed banana leaves. One had wondered over the years at these places was it a new leaf every time, hygiene and all that. There were still banana leaves at KV in Sing. Were they really OK in the Republic with the authorities obsessed as they were to the point of derangement cleaning and re-using leaves? The health inspectors, municipal authorities, environmental police letting this pass? In Singapore?
Such washing-up had not been seen anywhere before, Malaysia and Indonesia included.
At Sarbat Asli they might have taken turns each afternoon after the lunch hour rush. Fairness and principle. The boss here diced the ginger with his workers after all.
In the evening Nilla for a change, where the lad at the appam counter pulled a kind of swifty, the boys at the Footy club might have said back in the day.
Six burners in a row on the stainless top, two pair of three. The cheap dessert was popular: thin, exceedingly thin wafer base, coconut milk and brown sugar spooned on the side. Couple minutes done. Delighted the punters. Chock-full of tradition. The saints when they visited partook these treats. Ads in India showed beefy older chaps licking their chops and winking at the camera.
Lad manning had some job nevertheless, not unlike a modern percussionist in an orchestra leaping across the stage to reach the various instruments in proper time.
Pans remained on burners the while, only covered when the flame beneath was shooting. When the five or six were going at once the percussionist played his clattering lids with some deftness—lifting for a brief look and dropped quick smart. (Wafer thin; easy to stick.)
Now, how might the fellow light the burner for each new order?
There were no buttons or switches here. No electronic gun.
You think a ciggie lighter in the back pocket fished out with sticky fingers? Reach for a matchbox on a ledge or call for assistance?
No, no and thrice times no.
If you must know, beneath one of his banana leaves the man keeps his saviour: a long, perhaps eight or nine inch length white twisted taper. Some kind of cloth or twine it looked. Close on ten inches. Lighting transfers the flame as needed.
Mission accomplished, back it goes between the leaves and a little squeeze, a little pressure administered. Tamping down on the lit end. It could wait there for the next order
Regular relief at that station it appeared, a load needing to be shared. Some of the other tasks around the place were much less taxing.
As in every Tamil eatery frequented here over these six and one half years, a pleasure to be part of the furniture at Nilla. Combination of the lovely lads over the floor, great nutritious tucker, cost that can’t be beat— RM3.20; $AU1.20—and diners of a certain fine, easy temper unlike any Western establishment. This, mind, even within the quite unappealing, echoing Nilla halls with the aluminum chairs, fluro lighting, floor-to-ceiling tiling and no prospect on the street and the temple across the way sunken like that beneath the pavement.
Such washing-up had not been seen anywhere before, Malaysia and Indonesia included.
At Sarbat Asli they might have taken turns each afternoon after the lunch hour rush. Fairness and principle. The boss here diced the ginger with his workers after all.
In the evening Nilla for a change, where the lad at the appam counter pulled a kind of swifty, the boys at the Footy club might have said back in the day.
Six burners in a row on the stainless top, two pair of three. The cheap dessert was popular: thin, exceedingly thin wafer base, coconut milk and brown sugar spooned on the side. Couple minutes done. Delighted the punters. Chock-full of tradition. The saints when they visited partook these treats. Ads in India showed beefy older chaps licking their chops and winking at the camera.
Lad manning had some job nevertheless, not unlike a modern percussionist in an orchestra leaping across the stage to reach the various instruments in proper time.
Pans remained on burners the while, only covered when the flame beneath was shooting. When the five or six were going at once the percussionist played his clattering lids with some deftness—lifting for a brief look and dropped quick smart. (Wafer thin; easy to stick.)
Now, how might the fellow light the burner for each new order?
There were no buttons or switches here. No electronic gun.
You think a ciggie lighter in the back pocket fished out with sticky fingers? Reach for a matchbox on a ledge or call for assistance?
No, no and thrice times no.
If you must know, beneath one of his banana leaves the man keeps his saviour: a long, perhaps eight or nine inch length white twisted taper. Some kind of cloth or twine it looked. Close on ten inches. Lighting transfers the flame as needed.
Mission accomplished, back it goes between the leaves and a little squeeze, a little pressure administered. Tamping down on the lit end. It could wait there for the next order
Regular relief at that station it appeared, a load needing to be shared. Some of the other tasks around the place were much less taxing.
As in every Tamil eatery frequented here over these six and one half years, a pleasure to be part of the furniture at Nilla. Combination of the lovely lads over the floor, great nutritious tucker, cost that can’t be beat— RM3.20; $AU1.20—and diners of a certain fine, easy temper unlike any Western establishment. This, mind, even within the quite unappealing, echoing Nilla halls with the aluminum chairs, fluro lighting, floor-to-ceiling tiling and no prospect on the street and the temple across the way sunken like that beneath the pavement.
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