it was an old, run-down coffeeshop. wallpaper yellowing, pure cement columns, a mosaic floor of little green tiles. age and dust don't seem out of place here.
all i needed to do was show up alone, and the wrinkled uncle - 55, maybe 60 - hurriedly prepared the VIP. three pieces of meaty bones, drenched then by soup, chaperoned by a cupped bowl of rice. words were redundant. they're too much of a fuss. one serving, it was.
Very Important Pork, i say.
like the coffeeshop, like the busy stewards, the bak kut teh had a decades-old richness. the flavourful broth transported me to another zone.
as did everything else.
a table away an old patron was having what looked like a daily affair. as he sipped the cultured tea like a veteran connoisseur, it was as if he grew up with the place, nothing looking out of its element.
behind me the wrinkled steward sat smoking. it wasn't unsightly or intruding. it is already a lifestyle, one you don't deny but accept as part of nature.
yet from another course came the whiff of medicated oil. all working together as a pleasurable myriad of smells threatening to yank out memories from before.
how could it be such a luxury, i asked. then you see the grandpa with his grandchild in his arms, and everything becomes crystal.
a love, linked by blood ties, yet also a relationship linked regardless of time. love is the only constant that withstands the storms of time.
life was slow. and simple indulgences were all that was needed. nothing flashy, but trivial talk of the least trivial: a hope that can be bought in dollars and cents. the uncles seem contented with regular 4D / Toto talk.
the haven had no polite, Anglo-speaking service staff. no aircon, nor a multi-storey carpark. be warned if you're contemporary: there's no cashless dining.
but i was happy. and happiness isn't material. it's an emotion, not an action. it's within, not without. it's a smile engaged by the heart, not stretched by botoxed / maybelline-splashed cheeks.
i was sweating, but sweating like i just didn't care. i had to have cash, because cards are like wicked foreigners colonising the indigenous.
scrambles and shouts are the antidote to the visiting parking attendant. it's not about comfort; it's about a spirit of community, fending off a modernising parking system.
the service offered would not pass any quality test. but as much as it was grumpy, it was also oddly excellent. nothing was fanciful, but the quiet service also is service that speaks directly to the heart.
in that luxury modernisation can be ignored. yet it's exploding everywhere around the coffeeshop. the ills we are so used to are nibbling at the old and traditional, our history and roots.
but will it fully vanish? or so enduring we subconsciously defend it?
that's for another day. for now, me, my VIP, the myriad of smells and a story of cliches. who needs company when the situation makes the best there can be?
