It was one of the sluggish, rainy afternoons in February when I recalled my mom getting off the couch for the first time in four hours. Other days, she would silently dash straight for the bedroom and take a two-hour nap, before waking up to resume her afternoon ritual: eyes fixed on the screen–not budged at the slightest–the TV speakers blaring nonstop Mandarin. But this time, she emerged from her room in her favorite moss-green shirt, a pair of dark jeans, and a light make-up on. She proceeded to tell me to get changed as well.
For an Asian mom who preferred staying in to watch a string of Chinese TV dramas on the same channel over a casual lunch outing at the mall (which she dubbed as a useless act of splurging. I actually second that notion), I suspected this occasion might be an exception. Whichever place she had in mind must have served a purpose strong enough to successfully peel her off the couch. I was going to assume we were going somewhere lavish, maybe a brunch at the town’s five-star hotel at the downtown. But when she told me to order a Grab car and blurted the destination, I only raised my eyebrows.
Our car weaved through the congested road scenes. The notorious traffic usually steered us from venturing past downtown all the way to the other side of the city. Our family didn’t want to deal much with the road rages and the difficulty of getting a decent parking spot. We eventually found ourselves standing before an entrance to a walkway fitting only for two people, sandwiched between two buildings with battered window frames and worn-out wall paint. As we made our way further into the alley, passing narrow intersections, street parlors shaded under blue and orange tarps came into view. Dry crackers piled on winnowing trays sit right across a row of small beckoning cat figurines, with Chinese lanterns lining up behind them–hung against the fence bordering the strip of asphalt walkway with the looming building. The sensation of being transported into an otherworldly place overwhelmed me as I realized–my trip with mom this time turned a casual outing into a journey of discovering a hidden gem sheltered behind the rows of buildings from the crowded downtown.
The place was getting packed as we went, but mom’s footsteps remained firm and content. Not long after, she led me through a doorway to a restaurant swarmed with people. The interior looked as though it hadn’t been remodeled since the first day it opened, which was when was it? The forties, maybe? I could almost tell the thick tiles had barely been changed, and the outdated menus up on the wall made it seem like the owners had no knowledge of modern printing services (they exist).
So, I wouldn’t say it was the fanciest spot in town, but despite the imperfect features, it definitely posed a charm on its own. A waitress later walked up to our tables with a notepad and a pen.
“One nasi campur.” she muttered then motioned me to recite my order. I wasn’t in the mood for something heavy and fulfilling so a bowl of chicken noodle–bakmi ayam–would do it.
“Are you sure?” mom’s eyes widened. I hinted a little surprise in her tone. “Their nasi campur is a signature here. You could get bakmi ayam anywhere else in town.”
She had a point. I briefly peered at the adjacent tables where plates of richly textured rice dishes served before every customer for as far as my eyes went. There was barely any sight of other menu anywhere else in the room–alright, maybe one bowl or two of bakmi tops.
“It’s alright, I’ll just have the bakmi.” I say, but more to the waitress who later excused herself.
“Suit yourself.” Mom then recoiled in her seat. “Your dad’s not here anyway, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” she paused, looked around, before turning to her phone absentmindedly. Her face bore a look as though she was about to commit a felony, like she could pull out a swiss army knife anytime. “He wouldn’t approve of it anyway.”
I tried connecting the dots, from mom’s sudden impulse of taking literally extra miles to this cramped, outmoded restaurant out of all places in the city, to the chosen menu, and to dad’s absence. I began to notice where our conversation was headed. It only took me back to our previous trips where dad tended to steer us away from restaurants of a sort, especially original ones. One time, when we were vacationing on a tour and during one of our lunch stops, Dad insisted we parted with the rest of the party to look for a safer meal option.
“There was non-pork menu though.” I pointed out, while stealing a glance at Mom. “Or we could just go full vegetarian.”
“But the cutleries could have been contaminated with the oil, the meat from previous servings. We never know how they made the food in the kitchen if the cutleries had made contact with any pork dish–raw, cooked, or in liquid form–”
It wasn’t his first time reciting the same lines, and I knew he did it deliberately. I wouldn’t wonder. Dad had been faithful to his belief for as long as he could remember. Evading a religious’ prohibition as simple as avoiding one particular diet has been a staple that eventually sprouted into an everyday lifestyle. It’s not a strange view to see Dad asking the server whether some specific dishes contain pork. If it did, the choice was to order something else or walk out of the restaurant at all. Such practice of filtering menu may not be foreign to other Muslim families.
I once asked Dad if Mom was exempted from all the way of life Dad implemented in our family. In short, having been raised in a second Chinese-Indonesian generation household, pork had become an important staple in her diet, and that was before she married Dad and converted. In a way, she had to embrace a new lifestyle that drove her to slightly scrape a part of her identity.
“And what if she missed something Ah-ma made to her when she was little? Say like a mapo tofu made of ground pork?” I asked Dad.
“When you have converted, you have to abide by the law and steer clear of His prohibitions. The line to committing sin can’t be any clearer. What’s haram is haram. so there’s that.”
Dad wasn’t wrong. Likely any other faithfuls, Dad held onto what he believed in. On the other hand, I never checked Mom how she felt about it. I would assume she had moved on with her new diet she’s subscribed twenty years prior–until today, or at least to my knowledge.
The long-awaited plate of nasi campur and a bowl of bakmi ayam arrived on the table. We ate quietly, while my mind was still jumbled with the thoughts of Dad catching us gorging on our lunch in the manner of a husband catching his wife cheating on him. I couldn’t help but stare at the fresh red char-shew on Mom’s plate, as it was slowly making its way to her mouth. I could almost see her losing herself. The look of contentment plastered across her face couldn’t be more vivid, in a way she found a missing puzzle piece that finally fit into place and everything was finally coming together. I doubt anyone would dare to rip her apart from her newfound indulgence–downing every lasting bit of sensation in her mouth. A glorious affair in the making.
I wondered if mom actually waited for this day to happen, or if she even orchestrated dad’s absence so she could steal a moment of relishing herself in her ancestral dish.
“You know what day is it?” she paused. I shrugged. “Of course, it wouldn’t matter, but Chinese New Year is a few days from now.”
Her face lit up just as the rice and char-shew were almost disappearing completely this time. I still couldn’t get where she was going for.
“Your Ah-ma loved this dish.” Mom devoured the last bit of her portion.
Now, she was complete. Guilt evaporated from her face. The look on her resembles that of a robber who successfully plundered gold on midday. She threw me a small smile as she called the waitress and ordered another plate. I let her. I even contemplated getting a bite this time, to jump into the euphoria of the lasting, unholy affair. But after all, it was just another lunch.
Carissa Tandiono 