My cousin Mark and I did everything together as kids - summers in the Franciscan convent in Delfin Albano, calligraphy classes, circumcision. We were so similar, we were often mistaken for twins. We were best friends.
On Mark's 13th year, my uncle Henry, Mark's dad, sent him to a preppy private high school in Manila run by the La Salle brothers. Meanwhile, I stayed in Tuguegarao to continue my schooling with the Paulinian sisters. And that's when Mark and I started to develop wildly different personalities. Anyone would have to be blind - or extremely gullible - to mistake us for twins now.
"You're a bear," I explain after Mark expressed annoyance about a gay trolly dolly who was incessantly hitting on him. We are seated on a window table in Chatterbox, a smart eatery in Mandarin Orchard.
"What's a bear...?" he asks carefully. Although he is straight, he is perceptive and should rightfully suspect that when his hyperactive gay cousin says "bear," it means something more than just the eponymous animal or a general decline in the stock market.
"A large mammal," I smack my lips whilst perusing the menu. "Usually carnivorous, therefore, sexy. A hairy guy with an imposing presence. The flight attendant who had a crush on you is called a chub chaser."
Mark laughs, showing me a photo of his girlfriend on his Blackberry.
"Cute girl," I nod approvingly. "How old?"
"24."
"Young."
"But already starting to talk about marriage and kids and..."
"And how does that make you feel?"
Pause.
"I like being single. Too much."
Laughter.
"You are frightful," I scold. "You're exactly the type of guy I warn my girl friends against."
The laksa arrives.
It is served on what looks like a red clay peanut bowl. My heart sinks to the bottom of my empty belly. I am immediately underwhelmed because with laksa, size does matter. But I try to hide my disappointment because I do miss Mark a lot. He's the closest thing I ever had to a male hetero best friend. It's awesome that he happened to be in Singapore on a business trip whilst I was there, too, on an impulsive weekend escape from manic Hong Kong.
"It's... petite," I smile with every ounce of enthusiasm I could muster. "A perfectly portioned starter."
"Look at this," Mark shows me something from his bowl. "Lobster claw."
"A whole lobster claw..." I murmur in disbelief as I dig into my own laksa to find the same. What's more, cholesterrific quail eggs happily swim in the soup instead of a larger but decidedly less glamorous chicken egg.
The flavours are bold and intense yet exquisitely balanced. While the shamelessly decadent ingredients may be dismissed as gimmick, they are prepared with the same level of precision you'd expect from classical cuisines. Chatterbox's laksa is a David amongst Goliaths. I am thoroughly satisfied as my ceramic spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl.
Next we are served Chicken rice on a pretty lacquered tray. Honestly, it's pointless to avoid Singapore's favourite dish.
The chicken thigh is silky and has just the right amount of fat. I wonder whilst chewing: Does the Mandarin Orchard put their chooks on some kind of avian stairmaster?
The ginger dip is so finely pounded, I can't detect a single fibre. The chilli sauce has so much kick, I practically inhale my bowl of rice to douse the fire in my digestive system.
"Yummy," I pronounce with contentment.
Mark and I hook up on BBM before he jumps into a waiting limo en route to Changi International.
There wasn't even enough time for dessert or coffee. Or a Singapore Sling...
Mark works with commodities and travels a lot. I'm hyperactive and therefore can never stay put. It'll be a while before Mark and I see each other again. Adults have a funny way of letting life get in the way.
"Now," I wonder, "where's my private jet?"
"Taxi, sir?" a hotel page in a Nickelodeon-orange uniform snaps me out of my daydream.
With Affection,
James
No comments:
Post a Comment