Singapore Swing Read Free Page B

Jewish mother’s chicken broth – the healing power of female cooking is part of Chinese whimsy. The Samsui women were famous for their herbal, healing soups, so every dish on the menu comes with claims of its medicinal value. Everything is double-boiled: the ling zhi and pork soup, the waisan and ginseng chicken broth, the steamed pork with salted fish. I have no idea what a tien chee is or whether it is vegetable, animal or mineral, but it is supposed to be good for my blood circulation. The ginger chicken itself is associated with the relief of wind; well, I did mention that it was a dish served to old women.
    The waitress looks at my sling and gives me a golden-toothed grin. She points at the double-boiled American ginseng with San-Yu soup and then at my arm. Thinking that, hey, two billion Chinese can’t be wrong, I agree, praying that the dish does not include any reptilian parts. Her choice returns to haunt me in a soup with half an eel in it – at least I hope it’s not a snake – complete with scales and bones. If after this my arm does not improve, I’ll sue the chef.
    A Chinese family of eight that comprises three generations
    â€“ from a grandma to a pre-teen boy – is dining at a round, shiny wooden table opposite me. My gaze lingers on the grandmother, the Great Matriarch, who sits there, immobile and inscrutable. I don’t know how old she is but, like most Chinese grandmothers, she looks as if she knew Confucius in person. Her expression is blank and she appears physically embalmed; I wonder whether those sweat beads on her brow are natural formalin secretions. She is impervious to the activity of the rest of her clan who are flapping animatedly to reach every small dish and sauce plate around the table. The most agile is the father who chopsticks his way assiduously, picking up the optimum amount of spinach and ginger for his rice bowl to balance the yin and the yang of the flavours. Bless.
    There is a non-functioning pendulum clock on the wall surrounded by a number of old sepia photographs. They are all personal: a couple at their wedding; a family of thirteen flanking the gaunt bodies of their barely smiling grandparents; a youth looking forward with that vacant look only teenagers can perfect. They look like snippets out of any household’s empire album but, although the clothes are all Western, the faces are Chinese. The father opposite exchanges glances with me, bows in recognition of our mutual, investigative stare and follows my gaze to the pictures on the wall. He examines the photos, shrugs his shoulders and immediately chokes on his fish. He receives a mighty slap on the back from the embalmed grandmother – who sure moved fast there – but in vain. He never recovers from his cough, still clearing his throat half an hour later, as he pays for the bill. Just before he leaves, he gives me a second, accusing look to make me feel guilty for his predicament.
    The old waitress comes to me and asks: ‘Good?’
    I look at my half-eaten eel and lie: ‘Good’.
    â€˜Bill?’
    â€˜Erm, no I’m still eating.’ Strange, that. I thought the Chinese were more respectful of other people’s prandial enjoyment.
    Maybe not, for as soon as I finish and put the spoon down, she smiles and asks me ‘ Bill ?’ again. I look around. I am the only one left. It is probably closing time. The streets outside are heaving, but these old Samsui ladies must need their sleep. ‘OK,’ I reply.
    It is only when she brings me a Tiger beer instead of the tab that I realise what she really meant to say.

    Right. Before I proceed any further: this is first and last time I will allude to oriental rhotacism, that indistinction between the ‘r’ and the ‘l’ on which so many cheap jokes have been based and not just those that play with elections and erections. The liquid ‘r’ sound is an odd one and spans a continuum