The Birdwoman's Palate Read online

  But it’s impossible not to be drawn in by Bono’s energy. It’s as if we’re stranded on another planet, a space with its own gravitational pull, with its own air pressure, that demands its own language and tone.

  Bono is still preoccupied by the rujak soto in front of him.

  “Hmm. Interesting. Very interesting. Try some, Run. There are soybeans, bean sprouts, cucumbers, water spinach, and—get this—there’s fucking tripe broth in the sauce. Tripe broth!”

  He lets the moment swell and deepen.

  Then he goes on. “What do you think are the three or four most important ingredients in this dish? What do you think makes it so sexy?”

  Easy. “The tripe broth, because it provides body and aroma; the soybeans because they give it an added crunch; the cucumbers because they enhance the fresh zinginess of it.” I pause. “Oh, and the petis, which enhances its oomph.” (Even though I hate the stuff.)

  Beautiful dish, no doubt about it. Layered, sophisticated almost. And no genius from Banyuwangi to credit for it. I’m almost dewy-eyed at the thought of the countless culinary pioneers who have made our nation’s cuisine what it is today, their names and achievements lost to the ages, swallowed up by time. And yet their recipes endure, made a million times over in kitchens throughout the country.

  The other kinds of rujak we sample after this one taste flat. They’re like novices, unseasoned, lacking life experience. After the religious experience that is the rujak soto, it’s hard to enjoy anything as much. But the rujak tolet isn’t half bad. Bono doesn’t share my opinion.

  “Why?” I protest. “It’s so deliciously garlicky.”

  “Ah, but that’s the problem,” says Bono. “Garlic and sweet soy sauce are already the epitome of a perfect combination. Any Indonesian who likes food knows as much—spit-roasted lamb, lamb satay, the sweet soy-sauce-glazed fried chicken dish they serve in Chinese restaurants. Garlic and sweet soy sauce—that’s it. Perfection. But add palm sugar and it goes blech.”

  And damn it, he does it again, the thing he often does—making me doubt my own palate. Should I order another bowl of rujak soto? As Bono flits from rujak to rujak, I listen to him clucking in dismay.

  “Hmm, too thick, too spicy, not salty enough, not sweet enough, too much coconut . . .”

  “So, Mr. Bono . . .” It’s Inda. She looks confused about how to address him. They’ve only just met, but “Mister” seems too formal, and besides, they’re the same age. “Um, B-B-Bono,” she tries again, “try the botok pakis. I think it’s delicious. The best kind of pepes. Maybe even the best dish here.”

  Bono, as if suddenly aware that there are two other people at our table, slowly picks up one of the botok pakis. I see the change in his expression as he unwraps the fiddlehead botok, removing it from its banana leaf covering. The texture and fragrance is promising. He bites and chews. He does this again. And again.

  “Hey, you’re right,” he says to Inda. “What’s your name again? Inda? Wow. This really is very good. Very refined.”

  Hastily, I snatch a Pepes Jangkang from under Farish’s nose. (He’s spent this whole time just staring at us.) I bet it’s just as good. More importantly, I’m not willing to let Inda suddenly become the center of attention. She may be sexy, and she may have an okay sense of taste, but tell me, what great contribution has she made to the culinary world thus far? (Then again, what great contribution have I made to the culinary world thus far?)

  Not wanting to lose momentum, I quickly thrust my crabmeat pepes at Bono before tasting it myself.

  “Try this,” I say.

  But Bono’s not impressed. “Hmm. Well, it’s okay, I guess. Texture’s decent. It’s dense, but it’s also moist. The soft-shell crab has a nice kick, too. But I don’t know. For some reason, it just can’t compare to this botok.” He pushes my pepes away, as if ordering a Master Chef contestant who’s failed to make it to the next round to pack her bags and get out. Good-bye. See you in the next life.

  “Bizarre,” says Bono, in the tone of someone watching television for the first time or who’s just landed on the moon. “I’ve traveled all over the US, and I’ve come across a lot of dishes—West African, Surinamese, Caribbean, even a few versions of crab cake on the East Coast—that were essentially a type of pepes. But none of them were as good, because, truly, only Indonesia has mastered the art of the pepes. Our pepes could go global! We’ve perfected the technique of making the softest, densest, and tastiest pepes possible, in the same way that Neapolitans have perfected the technique of making pizza chewy, crispy, and airy all at once.”

  Inda looks extremely pleased because she’s succeeded in gaining yet another fan. I see Farish is beginning to get annoyed.

  “I agree,” says Inda, as if her expression of support, like the UN Security Council power of veto, will change the course of world events. “I also think how strange it is that pepes, despite being both healthy and delicious, isn’t appreciated more by us as a people, much less known abroad.”

  But Bono doesn’t seem to be listening. It’s as if he’s transfixed by the botok pakis in front of him—it’s already his third one. And all of a sudden I realize: it’s my dream! The details may be different (Inda isn’t Bono’s mother; Farish isn’t Bono’s father, though sometimes he’s just as annoying; this time, I’ve entered the picture not as an observer but as a participant; and Bono is no longer cowering and small), but I’ve seen this same scene in my dream. How crazy is that? I’m not just Aruna the chubby old maid who’s obsessed with food. I’m Aruna the chubby old maid who’s obsessed with food and can see into the past.

  “Sorry, but I’m genuinely confused,” Farish says, rediscovering his voice. “Or amazed. Or maybe a little stressed. I’m not exactly sure. But I’ve never gone out to eat with anyone who’s ordered this much food, and my question is, why do you spend money like this? What’s the point? Are you really doing research? Don’t tell me you always eat like this wherever you go?”

  Bono looks up. “Yes, I do. If I’m genuinely interested in the food being served.”

  “But your restaurant in Jakarta serves mostly international cuisine.”

  “True,” says Bono breezily. “But I still have the right to try whatever I think is interesting.”

  “Um, okay. But do you think quantity is more important than quality?”

  Moron, I hiss in my heart. Feeling clever, I want to point out that it has to do with the theoretical difference between a gourmand and a gourmet—someone who is interested in food per se (whatever, wherever, as much of it as possible) versus someone who is more interested in how something tastes, in the dining experience as an aesthetic act, and who therefore is more discerning about what he puts into his mouth.

  But how can true taste-spotters ascertain which is the tastiest of them all, which food truly ranks several levels above average, if they don’t try everything on offer? Farish, I’m positive, is just shooting off his mouth because he can’t stand the fact that Inda has managed to work her way into Bono’s good graces. I can read his thoughts: What exactly is so great about this guy? He’s not good-looking; he’s not in shape. All he can do is cook, and who knows if he’s the one making the food at that restaurant of his.

  I wait for the explosion.

  It doesn’t come.

  “It’s not about quantity, my man,” Bono says calmly. “It’s about variety. And variety, in this case, is very important in the search for quality.”

  Bono knows he’s right, of course. And what he’s really saying is, “I don’t need to take you seriously. I’m not even competing with you. You don’t have the right to comment on how I live, on how I do things. But since I’m a civilized man . . .”

  Before Farish can respond, Bono turns his gaze on Inda. In the same way he’s able to deal with me, he’s adept at showing interest in the pastimes and pursuits of others, even if it’s usually only after others learn what his own enthusiasms are.

  “So, Miss Inda,” he says sweetly. “What happens next
in this investigation?” He’s even remembered her name. What a champ.

  Inda, surprised that this up-and-coming chef is still paying attention to her, cheerfully explains the rest of our plans. Next stop, the island of Madura, just next door, on the other side of the Madura Strait. More specifically, the towns of Bangkalan and Pamekasan. The original plan was to stop only briefly in Pamekasan for a bite to eat. But it turns out an avian flu case has popped up there as well. We’ll leave after lunch.

  Their conversation flows quickly and smoothly.

  “What’s over there?”

  “More of the same: patients with avian flu. One in Bangkalan and one in Pamekasan. Both of them are young and still being treated at the local health clinic where they were admitted.”

  “Why weren’t they transferred to the hospital in Surabaya?”

  “That’s what we’ll try to find out. Apparently the patients’ families have issues with it. Maybe they can’t afford it. Maybe there are religious reasons. Or maybe the patients themselves don’t want to go to the hospital.”

  “Really? What’s the difference between getting treated at a health clinic and getting treated at a hospital?”

  “They are different. One would be closer to home. The other would be far away, in a big city.”

  I see Bono look at me, eyes gleaming. I don’t oppose him. Of course he’s been dying to go to Madura. Been counting the minutes, even. The guy’s half Madurese, after all.

  9

  THE KING OF DUCK

  This dream is downright weird.

  One morning, several people in uniform come to my house and take me away. I’m a negligent mother, they tell me. One of them spits on the floor in disgust. Then they gag me.

  After several hours in a cramped cell, I’m brought to a courtroom. A grim-faced civil servant reads out the charges I’m facing:

  1. My children eat too much.

  2. My children are unattractive.

  3. My children are vectors of disease.

  4. My children aren’t interested, much less skilled, in anything except eating.

  5. I’ve never disciplined my children. They don’t know what it’s like to be given the strap, to have their allowance reduced, to have their TV-watching privileges revoked, and this means I’ve done nothing to build their character.

  6. I bribe my children with food so they’ll love me.

  7. I didn’t do anything when the staff at Bagel Peres et Filles caught them stealing a sack of salmon from the kitchen. And worse still, I secretly bribed the management so they wouldn’t haul my kids off to the police station.

  8. I also didn’t do anything when, one afternoon, I found them cooking the neighbor’s pet turtle. (“Come on, Ma, I’ve been wanting to try turtle soup for ages!” my eldest said, a pitiful expression on his face.)

  9. I’m afraid of my own children.

  10. I’m a coward who engages in shameless bribery, and the children I’ve brought into the world are no good.

  “Based on the aforementioned charges, this court has decided that you, Ms. Aruna Padmarani Rai, have no right to any defense at all. You are hereby sentenced to five years’ imprisonment, effective immediately.”

  Because I’m a coward and worried they’ll accuse me of attempted bribery, I offer no resistance.

  That night my children pay me a visit. The next day at sunrise, I’m scheduled to be transferred to another prison, who knows where. I probably won’t see them again for a long time. I try not to look sad.

  They’ve brought me a box with a cake inside. They don’t seem upset at all. When I open the box, I find a small chameleon. It looks dazed. Its eyes are bulging out of its sockets. Suddenly, I recall something someone once said to me—animals have souls. It was a person I didn’t particularly like.

  “Here you are, Ma,” my second eldest says happily. “It’ll taste great deep-fried with a little butter sauce, don’t you think?”

  I fall asleep in the passenger seat for who knows how long. The Toyota Avanza zooms across the Suramadu Bridge. We’ve covered 3.3 miles in the blink of an eye, and just like that, we’re in Madura. Madura, technically part of Java, and yet not part of Java at all.

  As usual, whenever I arrive someplace unfamiliar, my eyes and mind open wide, searching for anything that bears traces of history. But moments pass, and all I see is a long stretch of empty buildings, gloomy, weather-beaten, and a little scary, along with fields covered in nothing but wild growth. Everything is so still, like a photograph.

  During the ride, Inda has been telling Bono about Nuraini and the direness of her condition while also stressing the strangeness of the situation we’re facing. Different cases, different cities, all happening at the same time. Because we’re in his territory now, Farish can’t bear to keep quiet. I’m dimly aware of his voice as it fills the car: “Animal health . . . veterinarians are the first line of defense . . . to poultry, viruses . . .”

  “Smooth bastard,” whispers Bono with a snicker.

  I try to remember what I know about Madura. Total population: around 3.7 million. One of the poorest parts of East Java. Composed of four regencies: Bangkalan, Sampang, Pamekasan, and Sumenep. The agricultural sector is weak due to the infertility of the soil, but from the mid-to-late 1800s, it was the largest producer of salt in the Dutch Empire.

  A friend of mine whose family left Madura for Jakarta many years ago says she knows a lot of other people who’d left to seek their fortune elsewhere.

  The reason I remember is that she’s a happy girl. Loves to laugh, makes other people happy, is open-minded. She never criticizes anyone and never gets angry when people criticize her. And I think about how this is no easy feat, for she lives in Jakarta, and Jakarta is in Java, and Javanese people often look down on Madura—poor, filthy, religiously conservative, and incapable of progress because it doesn’t like progress. But right now, from where I’m sitting in this Toyota Avanza, approaching Bangkalan City—Bangkalan’s capital—there really isn’t very much to prove them wrong.

  I focus my attention again on the file in my lap. The official report from the Ministry’s headquarters is a bit disorganized, as if they themselves were still trying to figure out what happened based on conflicting reports.

  Rizki, A. L.: Male, seventeen years old, the son of a Muslim cleric (so reads the report), exhibited classic symptoms associated with avian flu and was eventually permitted by his family to receive treatment at the nearest health clinic. He’s been there for four days now, and his condition is getting worse, but his family still won’t give their permission to transfer him to the public hospital in Surabaya.

  Inda is the most familiar with the case because two days ago she was part of a team from the local Ministry office who tried to explain to the boy’s father that if his son wasn’t given proper treatment right away, he could die. But the kyai remained unmoved. “Life and death are in the hands of God,” he said doggedly.

  “We’ve given up hope,” says Inda. “How do you convince a kyai? We’ve already promised that the son won’t be ‘defiled,’ if that’s what he’s worried about. We promised that he would only be handled by male nurses, that he would be under twenty-four-hour surveillance, that someone would guide him in his prayers, the whole works. But this kyai—he’s so stubborn.”

  “So we’re headed to the health clinic?” I ask.

  “That’s the plan,” says Inda. “It’ll be best if we do a thorough investigation of Bangkalan before moving on to Pamekasan. From Pamekasan, we’ll return to Surabaya.”

  “Shouldn’t we examine the patient’s home first? Before the sun sets? My sense is we won’t get any useful information from the health clinic about probable cause.”

  I watch Inda think this over. Her brow is furrowed, but she still looks as lovely as ever—damn her. Bono and Farish are debating the benefits of eating meat and the importance of not eating meat. (Bono is a first-class butcher. Farish, on the other hand, is trying to adopt a stance as a warrior-defender for all creat
ures with souls.)

  “You don’t eat chicken and duck?” Bono asks.

  “Well, sometimes,” says Farish, a little sheepishly.

  “Do you think chickens and ducks have souls?”

  “Sometimes they do; sometimes they don’t.”

  “Which one is it? They do or they don’t?”

  “I mean, it depends on the context.”

  “Okay. So why don’t we make a quick stop at that famous restaurant—the one that specializes in duck. I forget what it’s called. That way we won’t have to try to squeeze it in this evening. Let’s see how long you can stand sitting with us without eating anything yourself.”

  “Okay,” says Farish, despite the overcast expression on his face. If you all die of the avian flu, good riddance, his eyes seem to say.

  “Okay,” Inda says to me. “I think it does make more sense to go to his house instead. That way we can also examine the surrounding area.” She gives the address to the driver.

  “But we’re stopping at that duck place first, right?” Bono chimes in, his voice ringing urgently from the back of the car. “It shouldn’t be too far from here—fifteen minutes, max.”

  Is there anything more pleasurable than a perfect leg of duck confit? For, at the end of the day, the legendary Nasi Bebek Sinjay, or Sinjay-style fried duck served with rice, whose fame exerts a magnetic pull over those who visit Madura is a specimen of that exact thing, that near impossibility: the perfect duck confit.