Otak otak (fish cakes – my childhood), sayur lodeh (vegetable soup – my favorite, she knows), siu mai dumplings, har gow dumplings, eggplants cooked with sambal, and a bowl of freshly picked mangoes from her garden already waiting on the side when it comes to dessert. This time, the kitchen fell quiet as Oma lifted the mosquito cover revealing about 10 dishes sprawled before me. Often the adults, my parents, uncle, and aunt, fill up the conversation and translate what I say to Oma.
It’s not often my Oma and I get to spend time one on one. (Yes Oma, I’m so hungry)” I’d reply back. Oma doesn’t speak great English, and I don’t speak great Bahasa. “Sit sit, eat, what you want to eat, Bel?” “Halo halo,” my Oma would say, and kissed me firmly on both cheeks. As I walked into my Oma’s home after work, a home littered with memorabilia, or simply pure junk collecting dusk (we never ask), I was immediately greeted with an array of dishes set on the dining table covered by a mosquito basket. Indonesian cuisine stood hand in hand with my childhood, but the capital city itself remains a stranger, a stubborn cousin at best.Īpart from my apparent separation anxiety from Indonesian food, I was also separated from my extended family for three years.
I’m Indonesian, yes, but I grew up in Singapore almost my entire life. Now that I am back working for a dream internship in Jakarta, I took it all in, devoured every dish I’ve been craving over the years because God knows you can’t find even the slightest depth of flavor like this in Boston. I missed the creaminess of spicy peanut sauce mixed together with a salad and rice cakes – gado gado is pretty much the only source of vegetables I have in this chaotic city.
How I missed the springiness of the noodles in mie goreng with a perfectly fried and crispy egg to grace the top. How I missed the taste of sambal burning my tongue, and tempeh doused in a sweet sauce of kecap manis (not how trendy white vegans make their tempeh). Along the pavements are warung stalls selling some seriously slurp-worthy and fragrant bakmie ayam (chicken noodles) or bubur ayam (chicken porridge), all with a healthy dose of sambal chili and an attractive cheap price tag. Motorbikes swarm your vision as you inch and inch down choking traffic. It’s been three years since I’ve been back in stuffy Jakarta, Indonesia.
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