by Tiffany Tsao
SINGAPORE
2004
CHAPTER 5
A mysterious figure crept cautiously from his corner into the open space, enshrouded by a turbid murkiness thick and dense as pea soup. Tilting his head to one side, he appeared to be listening for something in particular: a signal or a warning perhaps. Tonight, he felt instinctively that something was wrong, but he wasn’t quite sure what it was. The area in which he stood was usually terribly packed, with hardly any room to move or space to breathe. But over time, the crowds had thinned, and now he found himself solitary, and actually, a little lonely as well. He would have never called himself a social butterfly, but the sight of the desolate square (well, what he could see of it through the gloom) filled him with sadness. Sadness? Was it sadness? Never having been much of an orator or writer either, he racked his brains for the proper words to describe his feelings. After a while, they came to him. It was not sadness or loneliness that so gripped his heart. It was a feeling of mild terror—not enough to send him screaming into the night, but enough to make the very hairs on his legs quiver ever so slightly in alertness. He must be on his guard.
He stood now before the Great Screen, claiming an enviable spot directly in front of it—a spot which, in the past, he would have never been able to obtain without a great deal of pushing and shoving, and even then he would have been able to hold his position for a few minutes at the most. Long gone were those days, and long gone were the multitudes jostling with each other for the privilege of a glimpse into that other world; although on a night like this, one could only make out their immense figures if one really squinted. That other world would never change. He felt sure of it. Its cycles of alternating illumination and darkness, activity and quietude, would never cease. They would continue long after his own demise, into the far reaches of eternity.
It was the figures’ aura of immortality that had the power to draw the crowds, to hold them mesmerized until they forgot the existence of anything apart from the magnificent creatures before their eyes: strange-looking gods and goddesses who congregated regularly to feast and celebrate, and their servants clad in white and black who spent their lives perpetually setting up and dismantling banquet after banquet after banquet. The lives of these immortals were so vastly different from their own; it helped them to escape their cramped existence spent in the confines of this prison. Even now, he felt a wave of calm washing over him—a wave so strong that he felt as if he were being lifted slowly off his feet and out of the water. He waved his eight legs as frantically as he could, but he was weak from hunger. Summoning the last dregs of his energy, he strained convulsively against the restraints that bound his pincers shut, but to no avail. So this is what happened to the others, he thought sluggishly to himself as he was removed from the tank. Still, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the Great Screen.
“My apologies, madam, but this is the last lobster we have left. If you find him unsuitable, perhaps you would like to choose something else for your main course this evening?”
Murgatroyd held the lobster aloft before the guest so that she could inspect it. He held it firmly so the lobster wouldn’t flick water onto her clothes, but elegantly too, to maintain the ambience of fine dining so assiduously maintained at L’Abattoir. He held it not so close that the guest would be subjected to the fishy stench, but not so far away that the guest couldn’t easily spot any defects that might prompt her to reject the lobster in favour of something else.
Mrs. Tan was a regular patron of L’Abattoir. She took lemon and lime in her water and wore a rouge too pink for her age. She examined the lobster in front of her.
“He looks a bit listless, don’t you think?”
Murgatroyd sensed that this was an opportune time for a light joke.
“He’s resigned to his fate, madam.”
Mrs. Tan laughed and turned to her husband. “Aloysius, what do you think?”
Her husband—a short, plump man who was disconcertingly similar to his wife in appearance and who couldn’t resist a good crème brûlée—peered at the proffered lobster through his spectacles and nodded. “He’ll do, lah.”
“As you may have read in tonight’s menu, madam and sir, the chef will be searing the lobster lightly and serving it over a bed of risotto made from sushi rice and enoki mushrooms, with a dollop of our signature sesame sauce on the side.”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
Murgatroyd bowed slightly and lingered, sensing that Mrs. Tan had something else to say.
“You’ve been working here for quite some time already, is it?” she asked in a friendly tone of voice.
She had acknowledged that she recognized him. Now he could address her with more familiarity to demonstrate his skill and experience on the waitstaff of L’Abattoir.
“Three years now, Mrs. Tan.”
“You’re quite young. How old are you?”
“Twenty-five, madam.”
“Your accent is like a local,” she observed. “But you’re obviously not from here.”
Such observations were not new to Murgatroyd. “I’m a citizen, Mrs. Tan. My parents are originally from England.”
“Ah, I see. Both of them are Caucasian? You don’t look mixed.”
“No, no. Not mixed.”
Mr. Tan ceased peering at the lobster to peer at Murgatroyd. “Wah. Very interesting, I must say.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tan.”
“Which part of England are they from?”
“I think they both grew up in London.”
“Have you ever been there?” Mr. Tan asked.
Murgatroyd shook his head.
“London’s a lovely city,” Mrs. Tan said, taking a sip of water. “We stayed there for a few days when looking at schools for our son.”
“Oh?”
“He’s at Oxford now. Studying mathematics at St. Peter’s College.”
“You must be very proud of him.”
“We are,” Mr. Tan confirmed. The mobile phone lying next to his dinner plate began to vibrate. As Mr. Tan picked it up, and as Mrs. Tan let her gaze fall abstractedly on the family dining at the next table, Murgatroyd knew that he had become a nonentity once again, and it was time for him to bow and bear the lobster off to the kitchen for its execution. Keeping the lobster a crooked-arm’s length away from his body, he glided away, past the glass-panelled arena at the centre of the restaurant, through the silver swinging doors of the kitchen, and handed the victim over to his fate: to be laid belly-up on a wooden chopping block, to have the point of a knife inserted into its middle to sever its ventral nerve cord, and to have its head and brain split in two. A fast death, and arguably the kindest one possible, but not nearly spectacular enough to merit public viewing in the infamous L’Abattoir arena.
Of course, the Tans never took the arena into consideration when they came to L’Abattoir to dine. They were regular patrons only because they thought the chef a wizard and his food exquisite. In fact, one could say that they came despite what L’Abattoir had become famous for. They always requested the worst table in the house—“the worst” insofar as it was the sole table that offered almost no view of the arena. All the other tables had been positioned so that its occupants could enjoy the spectacle to its fullest, with a few choice seats positioned only metres away from the glass-panelled enclosure. The Tans’ aversion to the spectacle that drew almost all the other clientele made them truly exceptional. Everyone else was out for blood and was willing to pay to see it.
The various bribes that the staff members of L’Abattoir had been offered in exchange for a seating at one of the closer tables bordered on the absurd: sums of money up to thousands of dollars, designer bags and watches, stocks and bonds, fine wines, antiques and artwork. The headwaiter could even boast of having been offered a herd of llamas by the erstwhile dictator of some small Latin American country who had been passing through Singapore on the way to his summer mansion in the Philippines. Almost none of these bribes had been taken, and when they had been,
the accepting party had always been fired. Shakti Vithani stood for no such shenanigans among the staff of any of her restaurants. Apart from the fact that bribery was unprofessional, allowing them to supplement their incomes in this way would have undermined her control over them. Discipline had to be maintained. Besides, such bribes rightfully belonged to the restaurant owner, not to mere employees. After all, how could they properly appreciate the exquisite Sung Dynasty vase that had added such class to her guest bathroom? And where would they find the means to build the kind of stable she had just commissioned to comfortably house her newly acquired trio of beautiful show-quality llamas?
From her position at the far end of the bar, her customary glass of Coca-Cola Light in her hand, Shakti Vithani lovingly surveyed her establishment—the jewel in the crown of her small but successful restaurant empire—and sighed with contentment. At long last, she had finally arrived. Of course, business at L’Abattoir hadn’t always been this good. In fact, there had been a time—an exceptionally dark time—when it had been in very real danger of closing, dragging down with it Shakti’s hopes of becoming a world-famous restaurateur.
She smiled and shook her head at the memory. She could smile now. What a long way she had come since then! How young and inexperienced she had been! The surprisingly easy success of her very first restaurant—an upscale Northern Indian bistro called the Spice Larder—had deceived her into thinking that all a restaurant needed was good ambience and good food. The struggle she’d had with getting her subsequent two restaurants to follow suit had taught her the hard way that eating may have been the national pastime, but winning over the hearts, stomachs, and wallets of the Singaporean people was extraordinarily difficult and took exhaustive amounts of energy, skill, and cunning.
Singaporeans loved food, and Singapore was the right place to love it. Food of every variety and suited to any budget was to be found everywhere. Local cuisine was the cheapest, its quality practically guaranteed, and in itself was endlessly diverse. There were noodles any way you wanted them, flat and thick, thin and translucent, yellow and chewy, hand-pulled or knife-cut, in any liquid medium your heart desired—fragrant prawn-pork broth; rich brown sauce; curried coconut gravy; soup bright with tamarind and lime; fish stock, singing sweet and pure, made creamy with a touch of milk. How about rice? Rice flavoured with broth and garlic and ginger served with delicately poached chicken and three sauces—beige ginger, black soy, and red-orange chilli; rich rice boiled in coconut milk and scented with the clean green of pandan leaves; biryani rice flecked yellow and orange with saffron and turmeric, glinting with ghee, disappearing down your gullet and leaving a faint spice trail behind it of cardamom and coriander, cinnamon and ginger. Carnivorous cravings? Duck with skin roasted red-brown and crisp, or stewed pork belly, black and velvety; beef or lamb or chicken slow-cooked in curry, tender meat melting off the bones. Seafood? Brilliant, blushing steamed prawns the size of a grown man’s fist; crab chunks in black pepper gravy or a sweetish chilli sauce that left you licking the bowls and plates clean; whole grouper fish, fried to crunchy perfection on the outside, white flesh delicate and flaky on the inside. Vegetarian? Tofu and boiled eggs deep-fried in shrimp-chilli paste; sweet potato leaves stewed in spicy coconut cream; a salad of pineapple, turnip, water-apple, green mango, and cucumber doused in a spicy-sweet black sauce and christened with crushed peanuts. Snack? Bright yellow egg-custard tarts; flaky pastry puffs stuffed with your choice of curried chicken, curried sardine, apple, yam, pineapple, or durian paste; toast slices spread with butter and glistening green coconut jam. Dessert? Mounds of shaved ice flavoured with rose syrup and condensed milk, concealing a treasure pile of jelly, red beans, and corn kernels; plump glutinous rice balls floating in clear, sweet liquid, waiting for you to sink your teeth into them and release a gushing ooze of buttery peanut or black sesame paste; chewy, porous pancakes rolled around sweet bean filling, gooey chocolate, or strands of orange-dyed grated coconut. Thirsty? Tea or coffee with condensed milk, or the fresh juice of a gingerroot; white milk of the soya bean, green juice of the sugar cane; liquid blends of carrot, pineapple, apple, dragon fruit, mango, cucumber, rose apple, and guava made to your exact specifications.
Those were just a few of the local options. And what about the foreign ones? British and American and Italian and French; Indonesian and Thai and Vietnamese; Northern Indian and Pakistani; Japanese and Korean and Taiwanese: their cuisines flooded the Singaporean marketplace too. From the west: English-style pubs selling fish and chips, bangers and mash; fifties-style diners serving cheeseburgers, hot dogs, and pancakes and waffles; patisseries filled with croissants and pains au chocolat, madeleines and éclairs, and gorgeous macarons in all the colours of the rainbow; trattorias turning out thin-crust pizzas and mounds of delicate house-made orecchiette. From East Asia: ramen noodles and tonkatsu and sushi; kimchi fried rice and bibimbap and soondubu; dim sum and Shanghainese soup dumplings; Taiwanese beef noodle soup and pearl milk tea. From South and Southeast Asian neighbours: steaming hot bowls of pho, shrimp on skewers of sugarcane, fluffy naan bread and chicken vindaloo, green papaya salad and pad thai, gado-gado and otak-otak. Add the food chains that had sprung up all over. Fast food: McDonald’s, Burger King, KFC, and Subway. Coffee: Starbucks, Spinelli’s, Ya Kun Kaya Toast, the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. Bread and pastries: Breadtalk, Four Leaves, Prima Deli, Délifrance.
As if the number of competitors wasn’t enough, there was also the problem of Singaporean stinginess. Ready-made food could be gotten so cheaply that many Singaporeans had stopped cooking all together, preferring to head to the hawker centres for all the family’s meals. If you knew the right places to go, you could pay as little as forty cents for a gloriously greasy prata with curry on the side; eighty cents for a fat popiah roll stuffed with radish, shrimp, egg, and lap cheong sausage; and two dollars for a giant bowl of fish-ball noodle soup. The older and wiser Shakti Vithani now knew that even though Singapore was a nation of food-obsessed individuals, it took something really special to convince the average Singaporean to go for the pricier option—to whip out the credit card rather than the change purse. Even the wealthiest CEO could be found boasting of the tasty bargain he’d just discovered hidden away in the corner of a dingy, no-name hawker centre.
The Spice Larder had been lucky. Shakti’s next restaurant attempt had been disastrous. In all probability, it was the most infamous restaurant in the entirety of Singaporean culinary history. Like its older sibling, the Colonial Table served Indian cuisine, but attempted to add a historical dimension to its diners’ experience by recreating the atmosphere of colonial India during the height of the British Raj. This involved all the waiters not only wearing the garb of Indian servants and addressing the patrons as “sahib” and “memsahib,” but also, if they weren’t naturally of a brownish hue, having their skin painted so from head to toe. Shakti might have been able to get away with even that, but applying white powder to the patrons’ faces upon their entrance into the restaurant sent the whole establishment tumbling into the abyss. The restaurant had been roundly condemned from all quarters as “insensitive,” “bigoted,” and “in poor taste.” She’d merely intended the restaurant to be “kitsch-chic” and hadn’t meant to offend anyone.
“I don’t see what the bloody fuss is all about,” she had said angrily to her husband over breakfast. She had just finished reading an article in the op-ed section of the paper about all the kerfuffle that the Colonial Table was causing. “You’d think we’d all be able to have a good laugh about colonization by now, yaar? After all, the sun has bloody well set on the bloody British Empire.”
Sweeping the pages of the newspaper off the table onto the floor, along with her teacup and saucer, she crossed her arms and sulked.
Mr. Vithani looked up from his breakfast. “Well, dear, I told you that the whole concept might be a bit insensitive.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Years later, Shakti still winced at the memory. She had dared to walk the fine l
ine between tastelessness and fashionably risqué, and, with the Colonial Table, she had fallen on the side of tastelessness. A year later, she had attempted to play it safe with another restaurant venture—the Phoenix—only to produce a thoroughly insipid dining experience. The Phoenix was really nothing special: just one more unremarkable East-meets-West fusion restaurant among the many others. Like so many of its kind, its attempt to blend the wonderful, distinctive flavours of both worlds resulted in a mediocre mish-mash of taste that was neither here nor there. The Straits Times reviewer gave it three stars out of five, which wasn’t bad at all, considering the positively scathing review that appeared in the Singaporean high-society magazine, Prestige. “One can only hope,” concluded the Prestige reviewer, “that after its imminent closure, this Phoenix will not be rising from the ashes anytime soon.” It seemed inevitable that the reviewer’s prediction would come to pass: after taking a nasty tumble from its nest, the fledgling fine-dining establishment was barely clinging to life, fading further with each passing week. The poor thing was only being kept in existence by a twice-weekly busload of unwitting Japanese and German tourists—the victims of a deal Shakti had struck with a local tour-group company in exchange for a small share of the profits.
At the time, Shakti Vithani had been distressed beyond measure. But with the prospect of a second failure looming on the horizon, Mrs. Vithani had summoned all her energy and courage to yet again walk that fine line, and this time, found that it was indeed possible to find her balance. The idea for L’Abattoir’s signature arena had come to Mrs. Vithani as she was sitting at the sushi counter of a Japanese restaurant at the Fullerton Hotel. Watching the sushi chef at work, deftly slicing up sea creatures, shaping rice, and rolling maki, it dawned on her that the Japanese were very clever people indeed—perhaps it was all the fish they ate, fish being good for the brain and all that. Instead of hiding the workings of food preparation away in a back kitchen, they had managed to make it an integral part of the dining experience. Not just the maki-rolling sushi chefs! Think of the knife-juggling, steak-dicing culinary acrobats of the teppanyaki grills! Chefs who could dice a carrot in midair and toss spatulafuls of fried rice into bowls blindfolded without spilling a single grain! The wheels of her mind began to turn. Then again, why resort to cheap circus tricks? Shouldn’t the diner rest easy about the freshness not only of his seafood, but of his poultry and red meat as well?
