peter e.....

 

Bay of Fires

On Joo Chait road In Geylang, Scanlan steam boated his days away, claypotted many nights all in trying to become a better cook. This was his first stop on a trip around the world of sorts, stepping outside his familiar cooking environment.

Head down, often yelled at for not speaking, what could he say. He did not speak any of the languages and was still surprised that he got hired, for cash as a dishpig.

All he wanted was to absorb, take in this day to day grunt work that would make him a better cook. He hoped, as this was why he left the safety of cheffing in Canada. His job here became a mixture of washing dishes, claypotting and steamboating, as he liked to call these two popular ways of cooking.

On a day off, wandering around the old colonial buildings of this part of Singapore, he came across a small shop, pumping out a salty fragrance that had pulled him inside. Above the counter a sign in English said “Otah”, all the others were he believed in Malay and Chinese.

He quickly recognized these as the snacks he was given back at work. Unable to speak the languages, he pointed at a few different “otahs” and after paying hurried to a small park that offered a bench and shade.

These otahs , fish paste packets wrapped in banana leaves, mainly mackerel, were far better than the dried out leftovers he ate while working. Besides mackerel, he had some kind of whitefish, and another that he thought of as prawn.

With his stomach at ease he walked further up the road and came across something else that he had seen others eating during shift work and now knew where they came from. The only word in English was “popiah”.

Once more he ordered by pointing and received what he guessed were two fresh shrimp popiah and two fried crab popiah. The shop's historical pictures suggested to Scanlan he had hit upon a winner (as the line up suggested) but it was with his first bite that he realized he had.

Walking along he remembered a time many years ago in Vancouver going to cooking school. He would walk up Commercial Drive to a small family run sausage shop. Like a child discovering something new, he pointed at the various hanging sausages, different lengths, some crinkled from curing, others with savoury lustre. Clueless to their names tastes and costs. He would try them all over many trips to the old smokey wooden shop.

In El Boulsen, Argentina, Scanlan became the `asado parilla ` guy. Like many before him he had wanted to try a family style parilla but had no luck. In El Boulsen sitting around the hostel after a day hike up to refugio Linda, he had walked out back to have a beer and to his surprise there was a huge parilla grill pit all ready to go.

Seeing the opportunity he quickly got a few fellow backpackers on board and with a dash to the local carniceria he became the parilla grill guy and his three days lasted two months. He smiled thinking of all the free food, beer and new friends he had met, and would again further south.

In KL, Kuala Lampur, He found himself down and out in a tired, wheezy hostel. Thin walled and nightly awakenings to small babies crying, couples arguing and others doing the complete opposite. It was here that he saw what a cook could do in a very small space. High above the noisy street, as he sat with other guests drinking coffee, he would marvel at how the cook would bang out breakie from Asian to Western all in a space as big as a walk in closet.

One day wandering around the spidery downtown core, a maze of overhead ramps, lanes and so much traffic, Scanlan looking for work in any kitchen found himself standing, watching as a cook was quickly flicking and pulling a thin dough back and forth over a very large flat grill. He would stretch the dough until Scanlan could tell, he knew it was the right moment and then smack, he used the heat of the grill to hinge the dough in place, pull it out and stretch it into a circle on the grill. He then quickly cracked an egg into the centre, a small dash of spices, a ladle of some secret sauce , a few quick folds, plated and passed and it was gone to a table. The cook smiled at Scanlan, pointed at the grill, Scanlan nodded, mouth watering and from then on he was a regular for this cheap yet wonderful roti chanai.

Somehow, in a mix of English, Malay and hand signals, he found himself working at the popular spot a couple days later, not making roti chanai or any other sticky, stretchy dough delights but rather dishpigging twelve hours a day. Eventually he would try many chanai variations but his attempts at mastering the dough would never happen, it just never took hold.

In Tassie, He wandered aimlessly for weeks, until he came upon a small, snug town on the north eastern tip of the island. Down the hill,waving goodbye to the campervan hipsters who dropped him off, he saw a small sun baked sign, cook wanted. He entered a beach side cosy and over coffee had the job and a bunk out back. For six days a week he would cook breakie until eleven and have the afternoons off to himself. Scanlan would hike every inch of the red coated rocks of the bay of fires as it was known. What he thought of as a temporary gig flipping over easies and crispy bacon would last a full seven months before he moved on.

Landing In Mexico City, late in the evening, he found himself in the heart of the city, San Cosme, standing outside a hostel that said it was for Japanese only. He knocked anyhow. They took pity on him, brought him inside and gave him water. One guy spoke English and pointed out the window, `look, look`. Scanlan looked across the road and saw a bright sign in English `Hostel`. He thanked them and scurried across then busy intersection, taking note of so many nook and cranny restos nestled in old dilapidated buildings.

This would be his next day exploration but first a knock, entry, and a long breath as he found travellers and a place to stay.

The next day he stepped outside to a bustle unknown to him back home. The sounds and smells, intoxicating to say the least and on that note he felt his stomach growl and he went in search of breakie. This he noticed was easy at first as there were so many smells, pulling him one way and then the other, but making a decision was a bit harder.

As he turned another corner, he smelled his way to a small opening. Looking in he saw two tables and a small counter. The smell of coffee brewing was enough for him to grab a wobbly stool at the counter. The flat top griddle sputtered and spattered away and Scanlan was greeted by a smiling woman, `buenos dias` she said along with something else he did not recognize.

This would be his first order and recognizing “huevos” and little else, he quickly pointed at the first item, “rancheros”. Later on that night walking the bustling streets again, looking for something to eat, something unknown, and came across another small place with a blinking neon sign with one very long word “chilaquiles”. This time he spoke, a little braver as the day had turned into night, emboldened by his earlier encounter, `buenos noches`. Again a quick reply that he did not understand and in a moment of panic, simply pointed at a picture that looked like tortilla chips, sauce and something else. The young woman behind the counter, smiling, piped back slowly `chilaquiles con pollo`? He nodded yes, not really sure what she had said.

Later as he backpacked around Mexico city and all the way south and east to Merida he would come back to that first day and night. It would also be a story told at his local pub on various occasions. For three months while trying everything on offer he would always come back to huevos and chilaquiles because he quickly learned there were as many versions as there were towns and cooks!

He never found work in Mexico, never really tried a she realized with each new town, each new meal, there were so many people cooking, just trying to get by.

Back home, he walked the hill to his bedsit and the warm greasy smell of fish and chip row reminded him of his last cooking stop, northern Scotland. A seaside chippy, shoulder season with a slow trickle of customers, mostly locals. He battered and dipped fish he had never heard of, never seen. Coley, Whiting, Huss, and Rock Salmon.

One late afternoon he was able to shut down early and head for a pint where a regular told him he should try `sweaty betty`. A cheap fish apparently used near the end of the season. It was also know as `greater forkbeard` and `plus fours`. He would learn that in Scotland and Ireland many fish were used with many local names.

Back home, even in such a large country, cod, haddock, and halibut were the fish of choice for most shops. Sometimes regional specialties like salmon, pickerel or sea bass would land in batter. He remembered the `messy fishwich`, a sandwich he had come up with while at sea. A leftover of battered fish, on a garlic buttered bun, topped with coleslaw, homemade chips, a slab of old cheddar and fresh tartar sauce. It was on the Saguenay, ice bound, dead of winter.