A brief departure here to Europe, and to Grey Britain in particular, for you to see where your Kwailo’s food attitudes are coming from, quite literally.
Just as Britain and Malaysia’s climates are mirroring opposites – it took over a year for me to get used to it being hotter outside the house than in – so too are food attitudes and habits.
Food as fuel is the UK norm I’m getting at in this first piece below, which is reinforced in the following one. Scousers are people from my hometown, Liverpool, where humour is taken seriously, as it should be; everything comes under humour in its widest sense.
A Scouser in Europe
I was one of nine Europeans on a training programme, sitting round a dinner table in the middle of France.
Respective versions of ‘bon appetit’ ‘guten essen’, the Dutch ‘smakkelijk’ and more were invoked in the various languages.
They all turned to me then and said: “Oh, but you don’t have a word in English for that, do you – except maybe ‘enjoy’?” I had to stand up for my hometown. “Oh yes we do”, I declared; “in Liverpool.” The air was charged with awed expectation.
Pointing at my chicken lasagne, I let them have it: “Get that down yer necchh (neck),” I trawled, rasping the back of my own neck’s throat.
They drew breath in one uniform motion; I had clearly made an impression, even if I hadn’t managed to keep Britain in Europe.
We Need to Talk about Chillies
I get excited about chillies; overheated. Folks tell me to chill. I’ve yet to taste one – don’t get me wrong – when the heat hits those decibels, or whatever chillies' heat is measured in, I can only taste pain and hiccups. Where I come from, not tasting your fuel is a popular approach. In the UK, a funnel and liquidiser would ensure it doesn’t touch the sides, preventing the unthinkable scenario of tasting anything whatsoever.
A woman interviewed on a British radio station, playing in the background in my Malaysian kitchen, has had one meal every day for the last fifty years: veg, chicken and pasta without sauce. Her family call it Chicken Surprise.
That’s how often most Brits and Irish people have been eating chillies until recently – hardly ever. This surprised Easwaran, my local veg shop owner. If you’ve had them every day from childhood onward, I suppose you’d assume the rest of the world does too.
Southern Indian food meant chillies with everything. The hottest meal I’ve ever had, the wallah assured me was chilli-free: “One hundred percent!” he declared, waving his finger. A hundred percent chillies, it felt like.
Chillies were in everything possible there except the water and the toothpaste; my belly grew bored of bananas, plain rice and yoghourt. There was korma too, when korma karma was provident.
No-one had them in England’s frozen north in my childhood especially – contraband, almost. Immigrants harboured them behind closed doors, but I had barely even heard of the red/green divvils.
Don’t get me wrong – I’ve nothing against chillies. As a talking point, that is, or photographic ornament. I just wouldn’t want to put one into otherwise good, suitably bland and therefore edible food.
One Malaysian acquaintance was shocked at my non-consumption of them. “Surely you could train yourself”, he spat out, indignant. Just as I failed to get it, so had he; why would I insert a red emergency into my mouth? Let me think when I last tried to gargle razor blades…
One update here, late 2024: I now actively seek out chilli sauce for my chicken rice in kopitiams; is that progress?! Let me know in comments down below, where you can share and follow this foolery. Anything you tell me that gets into my two forthcoming food books earns a free copy.
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