Surf ‘n’ Turf, Jungle Style
I don’t dig the food here. The flavours are weak and poorly balanced. There is no heat, no tangyness and too much sweetness and I don’t care to acquire the taste of the dried fish with wich nearly everything is abundandly seasoned. Seems I’ve done nothing wrong when I tried to cook Malaysian/Nyonyan food from a recipe book—it just isn’t very good.
After a few weeks of this, I started to crave Western food; yesterday I almost walked into a KFC. So when I instead found the Indian restaurant which I had passed on my first day in Miri but never located again, I was overjoyed. Sheesh Kebab, alive and kicking in a fragrantly spiced chilli sauce, fresh Naan, sour Lassi—things looked up considerably, despite the drab weather and unreachable beach. And no rice! The owner hadn’t even suggested it—it seems he knows his clientele as well as his food. In the street cafés here, you’ll get a bowl of rice with your soup.
It’s amazing what difference a good meal can make. Body and Soul ‘n’ all.
Still, walking past the shuttered shop fronts in the early evening, I thought if I had to live in Miri, I’d probably cut my own throat. But relief was at hand from the Chinese seafood restaurants opposite he hostel which serve duty-free beer in sets of 3 cans for 10 RM. I went there—I had to make myself tired for the 6 am start tomorrow morning. However, when bed-time came around, I got caught by the monsoon.
The hostel may have been just across the road, but it did not rain as much as the sky ruptured, lashing down silvery sheets of water which drenched everything in a matter of moments. So I didn’t hesitate when a group of Chinese diners beckoned me to join them at their table.
In these restaurants—out of my price range—they do know how to cook. On the table there was an enticing spread of spicy meat stew, a whole steamed fish and a mixed seafood dish—and no rice. Everybody had apparently already eaten and picked at the food with their chopsticks, a pair of which was put in front of me. I declined, still full after my Indian slap-up, but the host insisted.
“You must try this,” he said, pointing at the meat stew: “Flying fox—very good for your health. For asthma!”
This definitely didn’t taste like chicken. It didn’t taste like beef either: slightly gamey, a little bitter, crumbly texture—more like monkey. The long bone on my plate didn’t look like it came from a chicken, either. This was the real thing. The host motioned me not to neglect the seafood: Surf ‘n’ Turf, jungle-style.
The rain intensified as we kept picking at the meal, keeping the beer glasses topped up. One of the waitresses, drenched to her skin, carried a big plastic crate inside. The contents were moving: frogs.
Seems I’m encountering most of the wildlife on this trip on a plate.
Tags: SE Asia, Tag Index
Denni