Following some weighing late afternoon Nilla it was that would be given a try for their nan. An initial look at the veg. counter proving underwhelming, a turn on heel and march out the door almost ensued. What stopped the progress was first the sight of the oven just inside the threshold. Well, that was a start then. But what would one get here with the roti, the baked dough, the nan? What about asking the lad at the CD counter opposite standing there like an advertisement hoeing with convincing relish into the very thing? Good timing my man. Here the platter held two servings, dahl it looked and was that some kind of roasted vegetable? No, not dalh, that was…. Poori.... Really? Didn’t look like, but of course the lad would know better. Blended maybe? The other was no good. Meat. Non-veg. What about they rustle up the poori, dahl and…. Leave it to him, sensible fellow one could see immediately. The young Paki chap who had been at Medina the year previous had reported that the Master Mumbai nan-maker formerly on the corner was now working at a stall in the side lorong off the main drag. A careful look the length of that dark passage had turned up nada. No nan. The fluffy, puffy nan at Reaz Corner ought not to be taken night after night for a fortnight. (Though in fact the stool remained all soft, loose and friable regardless. Excuse the info load those less curious.) Some variation notwithstanding. Muthu may have done a nan; it was uncertain. Immediately before coming out a Trip Advisor item had been posted in answer to a chap attacking the cashier at Muthu,an unjustifiable charge of dark looks, peevishness and ill-manners unable to be let pass. Easy to guess a Chinese up from the Republic. After the dark lorong and the less than inspiring veg. counter at Nilla the thought had been Muthu. Twice in the day was overdoing it, but never mind. The other Indian was a kilometre up Jalan Trus, Straight Road. Past half-eight, No to that. Whereupon the painted faux-clay with the gas bottle beneath and the heat radiating into Nilla's passage; lad bent at his tray advertising &etc. “Two,” the chap assumed. Thin young lad thinking the bigger white…. One enough then? One single disc done just so, dahl, finely diced onion in a milky base and the puthena. Puthena, not poori. The lad was responsible for the spelling. Some printed paper cut into little squares and held together by a clip sat in the drawer below the shelves of CDs. The whole of the four inch square was a waste: lad creased beneath PUTHENA and tore off the half-inch bottom of the sheet. Chap twigged the inquisitor needed his information in clear block lettering. One of the secrets to managing weight was slow consumption, chewing as the manuals advocated and savouring each morsel. Tasty fare helped. Almost a crime a heist like that—RM2.69 (sensibly rounded to 70sen by the Nilla cashier). Clearly under one Australian dollar and well and truly short of the George Wash. An old friend in a mail through the afternoon had reminded of our feasting at Chika Ante the Dalmatian’s Vineyard steakhouse in Acland Street, St. Kilda back in the day, the Texan-sized sides of beef no exaggeration. Made a turned-leaf vegetarian queasy now. There were no pisang at Nilla, nor halia tea either. Indian Indian; not Indian Malaysian. Reaz would fix that.... It really did need reminder: it was the Eve that had brought out the knots of people, for all that the State of Johor ran an Islamic working week, Sunday – Thursday. The day before one of the PAS heads here—the harder core Islamist party—had suggested Muslims not get caught up in their neighbours' Christmas. Even greetings a Muslim ought to keep to a minimum &etc., counselled the Divine. Given the siege in the malls and on all other imaginable fronts, could one really blame the man?
NB. Pudina possibly the received spelling.
Johor Bahru, Malaysia, Christmas Eve, 2018
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