Gamelan
"After work today," she said, "get dinner somewhere with a good positive atmosphere. Eat what your body craves to make it feel better. "
"And speaking about Indonesian food," a friend in Jakarta wrote, "I'm surprised there's an Indonesian restaurant there. And I think you should try to eat there . . . Indonesian food is very delicious."
I spent the day in a series of training courses, which ended at a time just early enough to be a break, but too late to warrant a trip back to the office. The return trip involved a change of trains at the Broadway / Commercial Drive station, precisely where I'd seen the Indonesian restaurant, and the brilliant convergence did not escape my attention.
I was greeted by a tranquil silence, broken only my the soft hum of cars outside and the raindrop sounds of soft gamelan music playing in the restaurant. I held in my hands a warm cup of Sosro jasmine tea. It was beautiful. This was indeed the healing experience I needed.
My tea was soon supplemented by Tahu Sayir Isi, fried tofu wedges stuffed with cabbage and carrots. This was followed by Rendang Sapi, a spicy beef dish in an hearty coconut and chili pepper gravy. The jasmine rice it was served with was without contest the most aromatic I'd ever tasted (smelled?). Much dining happiness ensued.
* * *
Speaking of today's food adventures, my lunch was a little less exciting, by comparison. Not being the least bit enticed by the menu at the training facility where I spent the day, I ran across the street to the little shopping mall, whose foodcourt at least offers some variety, if not quality. My stomach had been a little uneasy in the morning, and I wasn't in much of an Asian food mood, which promptly eliminated the Vietnamese, Thai, Japanese, and two Chinese food options. New York Fries didn't sound very wholesome, and I'd had my fill of the Mediterranean restaurant several weeks back when I was there for another class. Not counting the various cinnamon roll, cookie, and pretzel stands, this left Texas BBQ and Taco Time as the only remaining contenders.
I had avoided the Texas restaurant before on general principle (trust me), but I actually got close enough to read the menu this time. When I'd determined that the shops offerings consisted primarily of barbecue sticks (whatever those are, and Lord help me if they actually come from a tree), rotisserie chicken (which looked good, but of which I'm not a fan), and roast beef sandwiches (which were actually a little tempting), none of which seemed like the solution to my hunger issue — any judgments about their classification as Texas BBQ notwithstanding — I concluded that a vegetable burrito meal at Taco Time it was.
It's afternoons like this that I still have to pinch myself to confirm that I'm not dreaming when I perceive that I now live in a place that sincerely considers tater tots Mexican food. I have no objection from a desirability standpoint — tater tots are very yummy representatives of the fried potato kingdom, indeed — but why Mexican and why tater tots? It boggles the mind.
I toyed with the idea of submitting this as a new Canadian motto. Canada:
The Maple Leaf Nation
The Great White North
Land of the Beaver
The Country Where Tater Tots Are Mexican Food
It works, I think.
* * *
This morning, on the journey to work, there was something particularly peculiar that occurred, and I couldn't wait to write about it tonight. And now, as I sit here, I can't for the life of me remember what it was.
I've even been going through possibilities in my head.
Banana midget? No, that was Monday.
Strange conversations on the sidewalk? No, it was a fairly silent walk. No music. I sat on the train and read a book.
There were people in wheelchairs on each of the three train cars I've been in today, but that's not particularly noteworthy — just an odd coincidence. I did get bumped into by a very polite and apologetic blind girl while waiting for my second train, as I suppose I was standing particularly quietly and didn't see her coming behind me.
At any rate, if I remember later on, perhaps I'll add it, and if not, then I suppose it can join the ranks of those ephemeral experiences that are wonderful and thought-provoking and chewy when they happen, and leave me only with a vague but undeniable feeling of disembodied bemusement when they're gone.
"And speaking about Indonesian food," a friend in Jakarta wrote, "I'm surprised there's an Indonesian restaurant there. And I think you should try to eat there . . . Indonesian food is very delicious."
I spent the day in a series of training courses, which ended at a time just early enough to be a break, but too late to warrant a trip back to the office. The return trip involved a change of trains at the Broadway / Commercial Drive station, precisely where I'd seen the Indonesian restaurant, and the brilliant convergence did not escape my attention.
I was greeted by a tranquil silence, broken only my the soft hum of cars outside and the raindrop sounds of soft gamelan music playing in the restaurant. I held in my hands a warm cup of Sosro jasmine tea. It was beautiful. This was indeed the healing experience I needed.
My tea was soon supplemented by Tahu Sayir Isi, fried tofu wedges stuffed with cabbage and carrots. This was followed by Rendang Sapi, a spicy beef dish in an hearty coconut and chili pepper gravy. The jasmine rice it was served with was without contest the most aromatic I'd ever tasted (smelled?). Much dining happiness ensued.
* * *
Speaking of today's food adventures, my lunch was a little less exciting, by comparison. Not being the least bit enticed by the menu at the training facility where I spent the day, I ran across the street to the little shopping mall, whose foodcourt at least offers some variety, if not quality. My stomach had been a little uneasy in the morning, and I wasn't in much of an Asian food mood, which promptly eliminated the Vietnamese, Thai, Japanese, and two Chinese food options. New York Fries didn't sound very wholesome, and I'd had my fill of the Mediterranean restaurant several weeks back when I was there for another class. Not counting the various cinnamon roll, cookie, and pretzel stands, this left Texas BBQ and Taco Time as the only remaining contenders.
I had avoided the Texas restaurant before on general principle (trust me), but I actually got close enough to read the menu this time. When I'd determined that the shops offerings consisted primarily of barbecue sticks (whatever those are, and Lord help me if they actually come from a tree), rotisserie chicken (which looked good, but of which I'm not a fan), and roast beef sandwiches (which were actually a little tempting), none of which seemed like the solution to my hunger issue — any judgments about their classification as Texas BBQ notwithstanding — I concluded that a vegetable burrito meal at Taco Time it was.
It's afternoons like this that I still have to pinch myself to confirm that I'm not dreaming when I perceive that I now live in a place that sincerely considers tater tots Mexican food. I have no objection from a desirability standpoint — tater tots are very yummy representatives of the fried potato kingdom, indeed — but why Mexican and why tater tots? It boggles the mind.
I toyed with the idea of submitting this as a new Canadian motto. Canada:
The Maple Leaf Nation
The Great White North
Land of the Beaver
The Country Where Tater Tots Are Mexican Food
It works, I think.
* * *
This morning, on the journey to work, there was something particularly peculiar that occurred, and I couldn't wait to write about it tonight. And now, as I sit here, I can't for the life of me remember what it was.
I've even been going through possibilities in my head.
Banana midget? No, that was Monday.
Strange conversations on the sidewalk? No, it was a fairly silent walk. No music. I sat on the train and read a book.
There were people in wheelchairs on each of the three train cars I've been in today, but that's not particularly noteworthy — just an odd coincidence. I did get bumped into by a very polite and apologetic blind girl while waiting for my second train, as I suppose I was standing particularly quietly and didn't see her coming behind me.
At any rate, if I remember later on, perhaps I'll add it, and if not, then I suppose it can join the ranks of those ephemeral experiences that are wonderful and thought-provoking and chewy when they happen, and leave me only with a vague but undeniable feeling of disembodied bemusement when they're gone.