mardi, octobre 21, 2003 It is quite a nice little place that she brings me to, all tucked away in a corner of the world. Although the shophouse is tiny, the actual (s)eating space traverses the area of the shophouse to across the street, where tables are set up, dimly-lit by the orange street-lamps. As we pass, I thought I saw a guy slouched against the old-fashioned metal sliding grilles, pipe trailing from his mouth, smoke coming from his nostrils and a daze glazing in his unperturbed eyes. Beside him, a sheesha-bong."I've always wanted to eat here," she says to me. Why, I wonder. Vic and Az have been trying to drag me to this place for months, but their greater motivation wasn't food, that's for sure. "Come lah, come lah May, you have to try! Can't beat the shit we tried in KL (10 ringgit only okay!), but still passable! Anyway beggars can't be choosers," Az would say. I smile as I remember the time when they first discovered their mutual sheesha habit. It was during the thesis-writing period of honours year. It's good thesis-relief, like breathing in flavoured air, Vic told me once, trying again (unsuccessfully) to get me to go sheesha-ing with them. Perfectly healthy, Az said. Then, the discovery of tobacco. http://www.tobacco.org/news/132360.html "I always come after I've eaten my dinner already, so I never get to try their food, and I've always wanted to," she said, breaking my reverie. "I don't want to sheesha though," I said quickly. "It's okay, neither do I; we'll just eat," she said, looking around for a seat. We sat down and ordered, and I took a look around. So this was what the noise was all about. Grimy floors. Turkish-Arabic-local food. Single unisex toilet (thankfully clean.) Stoned-looking people. And a news crew. Apparently, the place is getting famous : famous enough for channelnewsasia to send a team down to cover the story. I watched them interview someone who seemed to be the owner as she and I chatted about the inconsequential. "How late is this place open until?" I suddenly asked. "24 hours," she said smugly. "Amazing right?" No kidding. A good 24-hour hour place to eat is hard to find. Just ask me and my neighbour. Sometimes on the weekend, we cruise around the place, thinking hard of a good nice place just to chill without seeming too poseur about it. We always seem to end up at Holland V's NYDC. Pathetic does not even seem to cover it. Suddenly, a flash of green catches my eye. Think of the devil, I grinned. The fish-head has arrived to police the place. I run out, we greet each other, and then he tells me, "Eh, later Vic coming leh." I tell him I will join them later, and rejoin her at our table. Our conversation ends for the night, and we wish each other well, till we meet again. I walk to the tables across the road (who was the first one to start asking that chicken joke?), and see Vic's contented face. He presses me to try his sheesha, and I finally do. Double coke and mint? Cough mixture. In for a penny, in for a pound : no longer a sheesha virgin, I try Az's hubbly bubbly too (is that what they're calling it these days?). Apple? Apricot? Orange? I can't remember, but in any case, it was better than the medicine. Again, the waxing lyrical about the sheesha in KL by Az. I watch his animated gestures with amusement. The sheesha must have been either very damn good, or it was laced with a controlled substance, I thought to myself. I might have said it out loud. It doesn't matter. Nothing really seems to matter much in a place like this, where BMWs are not beemers but an order for a Big Mineral Water, where the waiters carry around hot pans half-filled with glowing embers, where the floor is grimy but the stores open 24-7, when you're just chilling with your friends. [ sheesha@arab.st] |
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