Jalan-Jalan di Kota-Ku

So before I start this blog now of coming home and other news, I know I owe a much delayed update of many matters of my life and of Cape Town, though I do give word that it will come soon, so those proverbial horses have to be held, but not for too long.

So finally last wek, on Wednesday, 11th July at 8:00pm I took off on SQ 491 bound for Singapore, away for approximately 12 days of rest and relaxation. And for all those who know me, it’s been a turmulous year of work, life, and general matters of the heart for me.

I need this break more than the Pope needs his zucchetto.

I’ve always been an advocate of Singapore Airlines, and this trip is no different as I decided to fly with them home. The business class cabin seats a 2-3-2 configuration, so I opted for 14A, a window seat which I wanted near the front of the cabin. This would at least ensure that I only had one person next to me, for I’ve had more than enough flights being sandwiched between people. My “ATR Theory” was proved again, where a gentlemen in his late 50s was sitting in 14B when I arrived on the plane, and with a gruff “Hello”, he established the realm of non-conversation we would be having. I was more then happy with more than enough voices having been in my head for a long time one from a stranger was a voice I didn’t need to hear. For myself I’ve never felt that I’m actually going home until I sit on the plane, and this time was no different. Sipping on a very generous pour of malt, I’m staring out the window of the as the night falls deeper into black and I drift into sleep. A few hours later I am awake, as we near closer to our destination.

Staring out the window it is a fantastic blend of blue and light burgundy, melting together in a sight that reminds me gently again that life is indeed beautiful. Of all the blues in the world, that of the sky is the most remarkable. Sadly, so few notice it: we ignore the familiar. Always there, and not just blue, but blues that take on an infinite variety of shades, changing with elevation and the time of day. If one usually looks high up, away from the Sun, a dark blue, from the mountain top becomes an almost blue-violet, where near the horizon the light blue is one of pretty eyes. You can lie on a sleepy hillside and fill your eyes with nothing but blue, and you can simply lose yourself in it. Near sundown, the blue near the horizon becomes blue-green, an ocean of color matching a sea-washed shore, but deeper, cleaner. Blue, a symbol of purity, of the spirit, of heaven itself. Enhanced by the whiteness of clouds, blue through the broken cover of white becomes intensified. I’ve always found it interesting that when you fly and note the other passengers staring blankly at the seat backs, their magazines, or computers. From 30,000 feet, sunlight passing through higher icy cirrus clouds brings about spectacularly bright halos and sundogs. As your plane passes over a layer of ice-cirrus below, you may see the sun reflected from it, an oval "subsun" that is sometimes so bright you cannot bear to look. It's another celestial analogue to the romantic "setting sun over the ocean" motif.

It was one of those rare moments in life that we’re just spellbound of how small we are in this world, and on this occasion made me think of someone.

I landed in Singapore at approximately 7:30am, and met up with Dheeraj for a small breakfast, after having cabbed it into the city for a quick shower to freshen up. It’s been a year since we met, but one of the things I cherish about our friendship is our inherent understanding of each other and ability to pick up where we left off. After a good chat I jumped on a 10:45am AdamAir shuttle to Jakarta, which was delayed by (lovely, lovely, lovely) rain. I was very happy during the 30 minute wait, sitting in the plane watching the rain fall . . . it’s funny how sometimes the simple things are really all we need. Mom & Dad were there to get me from the airport, and heading home it was so good to see them and hug them again. Family really is the backbone of our lives, and I can’t believe how much I’ve missed them. After a truly, truly fantastic lunch of fried chicken, tahu, tempe, kangkung and fresh sambal (you just CANNOT beat home cooked food), I took a much deserved nap. Now for those who know me know I don’t nap, I just do it. Not in my lifestyle, but I actually enjoyed this little slumber with a cool afternoon breeze teasing the curtains. Mind you, I am however a big advocate of the mini power-nap at work, a small 15 minute breather which refreshes the mind and snaps you back into clarity.

We also have a new kitten to add to our family, named Happy, that my dad rescued drowning from a ditch near our house. He's 5 months old now, and it quite content at this new home and love and affection that he recieves. He's remeniscent of a cat we had that passed out, but I particulary like his eyes. He's very cool still being young, and t's a blast to watch attack the evil falling leaves that slowly drop to the ground from the chilli tree. Friday was a relaxed day of shopping, Kelapa Gading Mall, stopping at Carrefour, and general day to day activities with the parents. It’s funny though, that even the most mundane events are fun when you’re with people who mean a lot to you. I loved anyways being in Carrefour, and sadly didn’t have my phone or camera on me to snap up pics of some very bizarre items. I did enjoy though perusing through the isles picking up all the things I wanted to cook and have cooked over the next few days.

Now, before this argument gets too deep, I must place a statement in here. The only one TRUE Hainan Chicken Rice place was Swee Kee, near Bugis/Seah Street, which so sadly closed down quite some time ago. This was the original and only true establishment worthy of true adoration.
Now, in all likelihood, I've ruined enjoying chicken rice anywhere outside of Singapore for myself. The only chicken rice I've had outside of Singapore that could be said as good would be the one from the Grand Café inside Hong Kong's Grand Hyatt. As Singapore's de facto national dish, Hainanese chicken rice (or, as the locals call it, simply "chicken rice") can be enjoyed from literally hundreds of places—from dedicated chicken rice hawkers to fancy restaurants, and everything in between.

So on this lovely Friday afternoon after shopping we stopped at Singapore Hainan Chicken Rice, (which oddly enough), was owned by an Indian. Anyways. Mom and Dad said they ate there once and it was quite good, and I trust the careful palate of my parents, they would not mess around with food, especially on things I really like. Now I have to say, their chicken rice is transcendentally good. I almost wept as I ate it. Oh, such tenderness. No chicken breast has any right to be this tender and juicy and so unbelievably full of flavor. The hint of sesame oil in the sauce they drizzle over the chicken gave it just the right flavor contrast to elevate it to another level. Unlike so many other rip-off try-hard places that try to emulate and pretend they have any sense of authenticity, (yes I point at you Shangri-La Dubai), the chicken was so incredibly delicious on its own that I didn't want to "mar" any of it with chili sauce. If we didn’t have to meet my uncle for drinks, I would have gotten another order (or three). And thinking back, as I write this, I regret not just stuffing myself silly right then and there. Who knows when I'll be back in Kelapa Gading again and if this chef is still there making this chicken rice then?

Writing this, I’ve been thinking comparable transcendental eating experiences (where a lucky confluence of mood, setting, and of course, the food create an unforgettable memory) and not many came to mind. There was that plate of grilled Barramundi with thick wedges of lemon and a brash rucola salad in a small café in Northbridge, Western Australia. Or this box of Onigiri, soft riceballs tenderly wrapped in nori with a warm, fresh salmon filling from Tsujiki in Osaka. Perhaps the rich and fragrant Leberknodel, (liver ball soup) in it’s clear beef bouillon, in Mainz, Germany whilst overlooking a stormy flurry of snow fall outside. Mmmmm . . ..

Saturday afternoon I caught up with my cousin Arun, and sitting over at this lakeside café restaurant, we chilled back with some very icy Bintang, (when in Rome . . .), and just caught up. For those who don't know, Bintang means ’star’ in Indonesian, but the origins of Bier Bintang are in Holland. Indonesia as we all know (or you bloody should), used to be a Dutch colony, with the focus of attention being Java. Here’s what the official wbsite says: “The history of PT Multi Bintang Indonesia Tbk. (MBI) dates back to 1929 when the company was founded under the name of NV Nederlandsch Indische Bierbrouwerijen. The first brand of the company was Java Bier. In 1936 Heineken became the major shareholder and the company name changed into Heineken Nederlandsch-Indische Brouwerij Maatschappij. In 1937 the company introduced Heineken beer for the first time on the Indonesian market. During the Second World-war the company ceased the production of Heineken beer. In 1947 Heineken was introduced on the Indonesian market for the 2nd time. During the years of Indonesia’s Guided Democracy (1957-1965), Heineken stopped being technical advisor and prohibited the use of the Heineken brand-name. Heineken beer was changed in Bir Bintang and the company-name changed into Perusahaan Bir Bintang. The label changed step by step from Heineken to Bintang. In 1967 Heineken resumed the activities in Indonesia and – thanks to the renewed technical assistance of the Heineken company – the quality of the beer was again brought up to the international standards. Bir Bintang was relaunched under the name Bintang Baru." So there! It’s odd, the lake is in the area where I live, Sunter, and though it’s very peaceful and chill to sit there, I would never for the life of me enter the water for fear of my skin melting off from god-knows what chemicals preside in the water. I’ve actually seen people water skiing (!) there, though I reaaaally don’t want to know what happens when they fall . . .

Saturday was also dad’s birthday, and I was really stoked that this year and last I’ve been able to be home to celebrate his birthday with him. Sadly I haven’t shared my birthday with my parents in over 12 years, and am just happy that on his 59th this year, I could be there. We went for a fantastic Japanese meal at Shima, with close family friend and ex Nobu chef Akashi-san. A very lovely man, he made some of the most succulent food I have had in a loooong time. A fantastic dish of tiger prawn with pan-fried Foie Gras on a bed of sauteed spinach in rice vinegar and soya. Words really will fail as well my pathetic attempt at a photo to capture the pure subtlety of flavors and nuances of every bite. Neededless to say, it was divine. Here is grilled mussel with crocotte of Halibut with steamed pepper, also absolutely fantastic, with a great use of the combination of textures and raw flavors bursting through. Coupled with a few bottles of extremely good DaiGinjo, it was truly a great evening.

In addition to adding to my waistline, I’ve only been soaking up things I’ve simply missed by stressing too much and putting waaay too much emphasis on other nuances of my life. There’s something very comforting about simply sitting in our garden and breathing, or even just lying on the grass and listening to your heart beat. And no no, I haven’t gone quite off the deep end, maybe sometimes we just need to find out way back onto the path, and remember where we were going in the first place. For me, I look forward to another week of simply immersing myself into everything and nothing.