Table For One

It's Friday night. There are families and couples and bands of friends seated at various tables in the crowded restaurant. The lights are dim enough to obscure faces, but remain bright enough for me to recognize the flash of smiles, the opening of mouths, the tilting of heads and wine glasses. There is an unceasing background orchestra: the quiet staccato of plate against cutlery, the crescendo and diminuendo of conversations rising and fading, the chords of polite laughter and the occasional chuckle.

I am an island of silence in such a sea of conversational symphonies. There is one set of cutlery, one wine glass, one napkin at my table. I dine alone tonight.

I do this occasionally, taking time off to dine on my own. I am the only person in the fifty table restaurant dining sans companions. The waiter who showed me to my seat most definitely had a look of confusion, then politely masked pity after he asked me: "How many are you dining with today sir?" Some diners' gazes wander to the empty chair in front of me, probably wondering if my date had abandoned me. Little do they know I do this out of choice. 

At first, years ago, it was out of necessity, the consequences of odd hours, a fussy palate and the absence of friends, most of them studying overseas. Why would anyone choose to eat alone?

True, eating alone is, initially, a deeply uncomfortable experience. A seeping loneliness tends to drench you, like a raw egg cracked over your head, cold and cloying and all over you. You drain your bowl of soup only to realize that slowly as you hear the laughter and the multitude of conversations that the clientele is emptying your heart as well, absorbing your silence and turning it into oh so vacuous alienation.

The irony of such solitude is that it occurs in the midst of so many people. It is quite unlike any other sort of being alone. Driving alone tends to be distracted by music, the bastard who overtook you without signalling, the flurry of motorcycles weaving in left and right. Constant vigilance is required. Reading, watching TV or playing video games is a profoundly connective sort of seclusion, for while we are by ourselves we constantly feel, relate, attempt to understand and follow the lives of those others. And then all the rest of the solo activity list can be checked off as either necessity or distraction.

A meal with oneself is different. Precisely because you are in the midst of so many others, you are constantly being reminded of the companionship you are missing out on. You are forced to reckon with the fact that you are truly alone. It is perhaps an event of true loneliness.

Of course, most people resort to distraction. Always the iPhone to cook up some Instagram photo and Facebook status, garnished with an excess of hashtags and sprinkled with a selfie or two to assuage the asinine ego. Or the absent minded turning of a coffee stained newspaper, pretending to pore over the news that reports the same corruption, same celebrities, same old circus of a country over and over again. And if idle pursuits fail then comes haste, a swift devouring of the required sustenance without tasting, and an impatient tapping on the table as the bill comes far too slowly, before beating a retreat back into the world of known people, however fickle and superficial those interactions may be. 

"Ah yes John, how are you? I'm fine hope you're good too! Oh that thing... Oh that was Leonard's project, not mine. Oh no, it's quite alright, how are the er... ah yes, the two girls! Oh, in primary school already? Jessica must be proud. Oh right, sorry, I always get your ex and her mixed up, so sorry! Myself I'm doing fine...er yes I'm still at that company, all is good and well! (but really I just got fired but I'm not going to waste your time, you don't really want to know)"

So yes, deeply uncomfortable. But I have learned to enjoy these moments. I come from a family that has always insisted on meal time as a communal act with all the force of tradition, and a circle of friends that has always pitied the poor sod eating alone in a crowded restaurant. My friends are puzzled over the fact that I do in fact enjoy eating alone, and insist that I call them along to the next meal so I need not dine solo. It's understandable. 

Now I enjoy company as much as any other person, but there is a certain... peace of mind that comes when I dine alone. Over time, I've learned to discard the distractions, the expectations, the stares. And what is left is something that gives me a profound grounding.

Dining alone is one of the few activities that allows myself to simply be. I am in the moment. The here and now. There is a certain hyper-awareness that washes over me. Colours and smells become more vibrant. The ever so slight vibrations in my knife as I slice into a steak. The hint of herbs in the spagghetti before me. The firm but moist texture of risotto as I slowly chew and savor. Actions become more deliberate, movements measured.

Then there is the observing. To look around a restaurant, and realize it's like an exhibition of so many worlds, little bubbles of society that are so evanescent and fragile they only last as long as the food continue and is popped at the ding of the cash register. To see the sweat on the brows of waiters scurrying back and forth, the hidden scowls of waitresses as they deal with yet another change of mind, the bemused expression on a bartender as he indulges a child demanding to know why she cannot drink the beverages on display, as a hapless papa hovers protectively. I suppose it is almost voyeuristic. But a writer thrives on such observations.

By far the most observed is the self. When I eat alone, I am left with only myself as company. It is a ritual of self examination that I withdraw into in moments of confusion or crisis. The restaurant becomes a hall of mirrors, with every customer, waiter, and chef metamorphosing into reflecting glasses. I see myself through them. Perhaps this is the true reason why dining alone is so uncomfortable. Because everybody is to a certain degree insecure with themselves ... and you are never truly alone even when nobody is around, you are always facing your own demons and personalities and dreams and frustrations and perversions. 

It's Friday night, and I am dining on my own, but not alone.

Mmm. That piece of meat was really juicy. 

"Meeting" Taken December 2013, NY. OKJ.
Click for larger image.

City of Cutlery

The canteen is a place of moderated chaos – students walking, moving, laughing, munching, chomping, grabbing, laughing, shouting.

The bell rings. The buzz dies down gradually, crowds, heading like sharks to blood to the end of the hall.

Students push, pull, squeeze, walk, shuffle. A bottleneck towards their destination. There is a presence, tension rising as it awaits in anticipation.

Plates are thrown, unfinished food is dumped, forks and spoons clang against yolk yellow plastic trays. There is a blur spot in the background.

Spaghetti sauce splatters, drops of curry ooze into bins, bones with bits of meat slide down from plate to tray,  an oily surface acting like a slime ski. The entity is now actively reaching in, turning the messy into the orderly.

Cities begin to form – metal foundations of clanging cutlery, towers of plates, built on the soil of meat and rice, interspersed with rivers of tom yam. The architect, the builder, and demolisher are at work.

A rogue plate is thrown instead of placed. The character shouts an undignified ‘Oi!’. The perpetrator walks away, hands stained with the curry of his crime, continues laughing, chatting, talking, sparing one thought for the presence: Bitch.

The city has crumbled. And the pieces have to be picked up.

I walk toward the ruins. And I pick up the plates. I look up, and hand them to her. She smiles for the first time that day.

‘Terima kasih, adik.’

Walking away, I half whisper, ‘No, thank you mak cik.’

My First Love

"Eat to live, live to eat."
I am one of those people who will say, without a doubt, I live to eat. In fact, I'd venture so far as to say that living to eat doesn't quite sum it up, because to me, living IS eating. If I had to rephrase that, it'd be:

" Eat to live or live to eat. To live is to eat." 

As you can tell so far, and if you've read my blog posts, i'm pretty obsessed with food. Today, I'd just like to share with you my love of food, and perhaps tell an interesting story or two.

It is rather embarassing, but my earliest memory of my father is one of me and him at a hotel lobby in Italy, just waiting around and chilling. And yes, we were eating. I must have been about three years old or so, and I vaguely remember a hotel with black marble and glass doors, sitting in a cafe. But what I can remember very distinctly though, was the food we were having. We were having plain and simple, but fresh bread, with crushed olive and olive oil. That taste somehow lingers in my mind today, sixteen years later. 

The second earliest memory I can recall is of me in a restaurant in Australia ( I think I was four or five), eating ( yet again) rice. I remember being disgusted by the unfamiliar texture and feel of Australian cooked rice, and wanting a bowl of nasi instead. Haha. And then another memory, of me in China ( 8 years old?) pointing at a Beijing barbecued dog meat restaurant, wanting to give it a try. Haha.

Somehow or rather, all my childhood memories are about food. I find it amazing that I do not remember Disneyland ( Paris, where I apparently kissed a random French girl), Waterworld ( Australia), or the Forbidden City. Food, glorious food always. The Elvis Presley song comes to mind:

Maybe I didn't treat you 
Quite as good as I should have
Maybe I didn't love you 
Quite as often as I could have
Little things I should have said and done
I just never took the time


You were Food was always on my mind
You were Food was always on my mind

Food creeps into my daily life. I think 80% of all arguments in my family are about food, usually about where to eat, what to eat, how much to order, who gets what portion. My mother says I will end up marrying whoever can cook well. Hmph. When I meet up with friends, it usually goes something like this:

Before the meeting

Ring ring!

Me: Hey! What's up?

K: Nothing much. You wanna catch lunch?

Me: Sure, where? 

K: Ah I have a new place to recommend, this place called "Ridiculously Yummy and Cheap Food"

Me: Are you sure it's any good? I remember the last restaurant you recommended, so much hype and so disappointing.

K: No no no, this time it's for real. They have this dish.... check this blog... food review... 4 stars...

( half an hour later)

Me: Ok fine then, see you there!

During the meeting

munch munch chomp chomp

Me: This dish is really good. But the food at "Even more ridiculously cheap and yummy food" restuarant is even better.

K: No no no. I know this other place, which is even better...

( eating lunch while comparing other lunches at other places)

One hour later...

After meeting

Me: Mmm that was pretty good. But the next time we must try this other restaurant at this other place...

K: Oh yes and the next next time we must eat this dish at this place...

( one hour later of talking about the next next next next dinner/ lunch/ breakfast/ tea).

Hehe.. I talk about food all the time, and think about it all the time because I love food. They say the kingdom of heaven is in every man, and well not so sound blasphemous but I completely agree- once that piece of the kingdom is in my belly! 

My mother also said that my wife will be a sad woman, even if she can cook well, because her food will be my first love. ( my mom says many things, not all of them true). While I think this is a case of exaggeration, I can't deny that in this material world- food keeps me happy. Whenever I am in a bad mood, no matter how bad things get, all I need to do is eat some good food at my favourite restaurant, and voila! The world is alright once more!

So there you have it, my raison d'être, my love, my life. Long live food!