It was too late for them to realise that the waters weren’t too deep after all.
(credits: www.traveljournals.net)

I know I still have those Japan entries to do, and if this dissolves the guilt any better, I think about it everyday. To be quite honest, I haven’t really started on it yet because we’re still sorting out and printing the photos for our own personal album (I have this grand scrapbooking vision - damn you Martha!). To compound things further, I have been busy with my clinical elective, catching up with family and friends and finding some time of my own before I return to Adelaide.

Yesterday, during a busy round at the hospital, I slipped out early (there wasn’t much teaching available) and travelled to nearby Clarke Quay for a late lunch (or early dinner, if it so pleases you). I know it has a vibrant night-life - I’ve barely witnessed it because it just isn’t part of my life - but to me it is an ingredient of this simple ritual of my own. I sit by the riverside and gaze, as the bars and restaurants prepare their tables and chairs for business, while the girls (and guys) scream as the nearby cable bungee ride catapults them into the sky. I’m not there for long, for I suppose the humidity plays such a big part in that. And yet, I feel oddly comforted to sit by the cradle of this country: it was there when the Malay fishermen led their simple lives, it was a channel for migration and commercialisation, it bears the distorted reflection of a claimed democracy that is said to exist in the moonlit skies. It saw what the country could be; now it fringes a nightly act that shakes off our stoical image. Yes, the waters cover well - one can hardly estimate its murky depth - but that is not what it is for. My high school teacher once said that ‘we have no natural beauty, because we change it and ruin it; we fill the swamps to make buildings and we build bricks to control rivers; we’re nothing but land and longkangs.’ It now drains the dreams and ideas that could have been.

I like to sit here and eat sushi; the steady Japan-isation of this area has always attracted me. There is an impressive Japanese supermarket that (and I can gladly confirm this) is the real deal, where I can find my heavenly Haagen-Dazs Green Tea ice-cream and other nostalgic items. Japan is such a beautiful country and I won’t hesitate to return one day should finances permit. I’m thinking of learning the language; not only would it make navigation easier next time, but I can also read Haruki Murakami in his native tongue! I don’t think I’ll ever be a bonafide Japanophile - for example: I still take two bites to eat my sushi, I sometimes prefer the easier route of dipping the rice edge into the soy sauce and (God forbid should a sushi chef ever catch me) I disassemble it at times to create a side portion of ’sashimi’.

Being there reminds me of my travels. Is it not ironic that I find its beauty when, in my mind, I am transported to places so far away; where the concrete confinements of the river edge can barely restrict my imagination. Where my freedom is my own.

I barely had time to breathe the sweet-scented airs of home (!) when I was unjustly whisked away back to The Airport the next day, flying off to a destination that is unravaged by the destructive touches of time. It was perhaps a trip to the past, for that is what Penang is: Singapore in the 60s. My father had once sat me down sometime ago, as I was perusing my acceptance letter to med school, and explained to me that due to the gloomy financial outlook, holidays from now on would only be in locations ‘a stone’s throw away’ which somehow always meant ‘Malaysia’. It hardly bothered me - I have always admired our less pedantic neighbour - but it was not a massive ripple cast because Dad has always loved Malaysia; we had always gone there for holidays anyway.

And it seemed just worthy that we returned to the very same state that had played a significant role in my parents’ life, and to some extent mine, for it was their chosen destination for The Honeymoon; to be blissfully reminded of it countless times when approached by unsuspecting sales staff, informing them that I was indeed unconceived the last time they were here.

skyline and street scenes

Penang would be more of a food haven for the non-Muslim, seeing that it is after all, a massive Chinatown. We were surrounded by Nasi Kandar shops, tucked in every nook and cranny, bursting at the seams of every foodcourt imaginable, and were thus inexcusably chosen as our bread-and-butter for the week. It was quite a surprise that Malay food was lacking in presence, but my deprived tastebuds were keen to just eat anything remotely Asian; the Kandar Cuisine was no monotony.

nuts for Kandar

We did the prerequisite cheesy touristy things, including the tram ride up Penang Hill (in which the above image of the famous Penang Bridge was taken from) and visiting the Penang Museum, but I won’t bore you with the fine details of our excursions. It was wonderful, not only because it was a different environment than Adelaide and to some extent Singapore, but I spent a great week with Mom and Dad in a place that they somehow regard unabashedly as The City of Love…

…which brings me to the picture above. A witty local book ‘No Money, No Honey’ claims that sex houses (or Houses of Pleasure for you euphemists) are indiscreetly labelled with red numbers plastered against a white background. I remembered those times when I showed off my newfound knowledge to high school friends, brazenly pointing at said homes and peering from the corners to see eager-faced apeks queuing for their Afternoon Delight. Chicks and furniture would perhaps stretch the deal, sweetening the dessert a little with promises of ‘a fiery girl with red hair, sitting astride that smashing wicker chair’..all at a special price of course.

Now get out of here before you get your drams stuck (see above). Have a great weekend.

I tend to measure experiences by non-specific tools such as flow of thought, easeness of memory retrieval and the passing of time whilst travelling in a crowded bus. It’s amazing how Kenneth and I couldn’t stop talking about food, smiles lit on our faces, as we recalled the best moments of the culinary conquests dotted liberally in our minds. From suburban bus-stop to city centre, walking along North Terrace, we had nothing else to speak of. Ignoring the fact that Kenneth is earning (dental registrar; in medical school for oral-maxillofacial surgery training) and that he drives around from one restaurant to another in a spanking new BMW, whilst mine was more of a discussion of strolls from one rickety stall to a slightly more pimped-up Malaysian shack in frumpily-brown ballet flats, food is a universal language that is understood and loved by all.

One place that we both could rave equally about was (in fact) a Kenneth-recommended joint. Located at the tip of a very long highway, nestled rather discretely beside a generic all-goods store, lies Shira Nui - the gem of Japanese food. When Kenneth told me, with a straight face, that their sushi was beyond the standards of that in Japan, the glistening bubbles of my gastric juices popped in delight - because despite the fact that I must travel to Japan for comparison’s sake, to authentically dispute or agree on Kenneth’s remarkable claim, I’m too gullible culinarily to even care. Getting to Shira Nui was hard enough a journey.

I absolutely adore sushi. There’s something exciting, mildly romantic even, to see these little works of art placed centrally on a massive leaf-shaped plate. My introductory sushi journey, the fillers throughout these years, more or less involved cheap supermarket joints and shameless modifications trumped with classy interior designs but mediocre ingredients. Japanese food is all about fresh seasonal produce, with smallish portions that effectively showcase their brilliant craftsmanship.

We had the Omakase menu - literally leaving everything up to the chef. We had loads and loads of wonderfully made sushi and because we didn’t know what to expect, our mouths were salivating as we watched Yuki-san, the apprentice sushi chef, run around preparing the items, keeping a watchful eye on what topping he was meticulously piling up on the sushi rice.

My absolute favourites were the spicy tuna with raw quail’s egg and the grilled oyster with Japanese mayonnaise (pictured above). They were creamy; the flavours blended so well together. It would perhaps be better to describe them as ‘orgasmic creations’ - my hands instinctively cupped my mouth with each bite, gushing unashamedly in delight, savouring each and every single taste explosion as if it was my last.

It was hard to decide which morsels were more delicious than the other. The effort placed into each item was an experience worth watching and a delight worth consuming. Yuki-san even used a blowtorch to lightly scorch the fish, creating a shiny sheen that not only made it look good, but added a special smoky flavour to an already marvellous piece of sushi. Like icing on a cake.

A sushi chef is an artist - none more pleasant, chatty and (erm) drunk as the owner Hiro-san. He could effortlessly make English sound like Japanese (!), and just as adroitly, could conjur beautifully tasty pieces of sushi while entertaining us with jokes. He made the special ones - they were possibly more difficult to construct - and comically ordered Yuki-san in Japanese to create some more everytime he noticed our empty plates. He lavished all his attention on us because we were the only ones at the counter - we came late. We traded humourous tales, family anecdotes and gossiped about the local celebrities that had walked through his doors.

We were the last customers to leave that night, even unabashedly extending the closing hours a little further because we just had to try the creme brulee (it had an exclusive mention in The Age Good Food Guide). Mine was made with green tea, and it was just luxurious (for lack of a better description). A fitting way to end such a memorable meal.

I cannot stress how wonderful the food is. Because of its immense popularity, the omakase seat (at the counter) demands an early booking. We were pathetic; we had to beg because our reservations were made a couple of days before. I would love to return in the near future, with a fatter wallet and an emptier stomach, simply because I have never tasted anything better than this.

In fact, as a parting note, Kenneth has agreed to bring me back to this place (and more) should there be time for us to make that culinary pilgrimage once again. In the meantime, we can only yearn; re-living it all within the 25 mins it takes to travel from suburbia to culinary heaven.

Shira Nui
247 Springvale Rd
Glen Waverley
VIC
(03) 9886-7755