I had never tried his food, not for want of trying, but I was still nervous about meeting this man.  For years we had been trying to get a reservation at his restaurant, Tetsuya’s, in Sydney, but because of our inability to commit to holiday plans, and our generally short stay in Sydney at any one time, we had always been unable to lock down a date at this restaurant.  After some time, he became the elusive Chef Tetsuya to us and like most dreams, this one got pushed into the KIV folder, slowly fading into oblivion together with other bits of forgotten items.

Which brings us back to this moment.  Meeting Chef Tetsuya Wakuda in person, in an intimate setting, in his restaurant in Singapore.  As we slowly marched into his private kitchen and lined up against the gleaming stainless steel induction cooking block, it was quite obvious that the cocktails which we had earlier weren’t enough to shake off the nerves at meeting this illustrious man.  Dutch courage is a myth.

I didn’t need to fear a thing, of course.  This man had compassion in his eyes.  When he smiled and talked about the simple foods that made him happy, his eyes sparkled.  Chicken rice and char koay teow are his favourite local dishes, but when he is at home, what makes him happy is Italian food.  A simple spaghetti with bird’s eye chilli and garlic, a heaving bowl of salad and cheese, and good company.

Chef Tetsuya’s expression for his passion for cooking is infectious; his speech picks speed and his voice takes on a pleasant lilt.  ”When you eat, every sense of the body is employed.  It is the same with cooking,” he tells us.  ”A person learns how to cook from a cookbook, but the rest is from experience.  Cooking is giving.  When you like someone, you cook for that person,” he continues.

It is simple philosophy, but it makes perfect sense.   I look back at my own experience, of seeing my mother work joyfully in the kitchen just to be able to feed her family, and then to my own life where I subconsciously replicate the same manner of caring with the people in my life.  My eyes get watery, and it isn’t due to the billowing steam from the Alaskan king crab cooked at 230C on a base of salt with oil and water.  A splash of lime juice brings out the sweetness of the meat and we nibble on it as Chef Tetsuya carries on with his stories.

“Today, if you have knowledge, say as a sommelier or as a cook, you can live anywhere in the world,” he says.

“What makes a good restaurant?” someone asks him.  ”It’s the people,” he says without hesitation.  ”People greet you when you enter a restaurant, and chefs cook for you.  When service is good, customers return.”  Waku Ghin’s chef, Sia Kok Hong, nods in agreement.  ”He’s a kind boss,” the man from Malacca says shyly.  ”I’ve never seen Chef Tetsuya scold anyone before.”  The answer doesn’t seem rehearsed.

Chef Tetsuya helps plate the next dish.  While one of the chefs grates fresh wasabi with determined concentration, Chef Tetsuya picks up a slice of lightly grilled incredibly marbled Grade A5 Kobe beef and proceeds to pile on the freshly grated wasabi on the beef followed by a dash of citrus soya sauce.  ”Go ahead and eat it,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.  We expect a sharp hit in our nasal passages, but are surprised with a mellow sensation instead.  ”The wasabi reacts with the fat in the beef and tones down the sensation,” he explains.  As expected, the dish is perfect.

As dish after dish is served to us, I begin to understand why Chef Tetsuya is well loved by his employees and his guests.  Despite his fame, he has no airs and graces.  Food is simply prepared with attention and care to its freshness, quality and chemistry between ingredients.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget meeting Chef Tetsuya Wakuda.

Note: Waku Ghin recently clinched 11th place on the San Pellegrino Asia’s 50 Best Restaurants 2013 list.  Reservations are strongly recommended.

Waku Ghin
The Shoppes, Atrium 2, L2-02, Marina Bay Sands Singapore.

Reservations: +65 6688 8507

Kazuhiro Chii is a man of many talents.

Ask him to show you his tools, and you will agree with me.

The art of hand sculpting ice is uncommon in these parts of the world (and I mean Malaysia, not greater Asia, naturally).   I watched with rapt attention as he took out a block of ice, like an unpolished diamond, and shaved it skillfully with a myriad of rather dangerous looking knives to create a perfect globe that would fit snugly into a whisky glass.

The bar at Waku Ghin in Singapore is the restaurant’s alpha and omega.  This is the place to have your apéritifs and digestifs before feasting at the restaurant which was recently ranked No.11 on San Pellegrino Asia’s 50 Best Restaurants 2013 list.  And even if you are unable to secure a reservation at the much acclaimed restaurant, it is an experience in itself to sit at the bar and watch the bartenders work their magic.

Even the best chefs take inspiration from others.  The idea of starting the Japanese bar came about when Chef Tetsuya Wakuda, the owner of Waku Ghin and Tetsuya’s (in Sydney), spent some time in Ginza, Tokyo in a bar called Star Bar.  There, he became good friends with the owner and bartender extraordinaire, Hisashi Kishi, and after several drinks and conversations later, decided to open his own classic Japanese bar in Singapore.  The style and decor of his new bar had to be elegant and muted.  He wanted to be able to showcase Japanese-style cocktails and encourage a finer appreciation for the cocktails.

The best seat is at the bar, of course.  This is where one can observe the skill and concentration that goes into making the perfect cocktail.  Kazuhiro Chii placed a couple of bottles of alcohol – vermouth and gin – before us before he proceeded to make us a martini.  What looked like a dry martini turned out to be something quite different.  The first scent to tickle the senses was the heady smell of truffles.  We later discovered, upon biting into our “olive”, that the olive was, in fact, a baby peach soaked in truffle oil.

Bar nibbles are not your typical nuts and crackers.  Here, you can get iberico ham, caviar, oysters, cheese and other meat dishes, all worthy of Waku Ghin’s name, at prices starting from S$35++.  Servings are big enough to be shared among several friends.  The bar menu features 85 cocktails (and counting) from S$20++ onwards.  There is also an extensive selection of sakes and whiskies.

This is the place to get a drink in an environment that encourages quiet contemplation and an appreciation for an art that deserves to be revered.   And it doesn’t hurt to see that dimpled smile behind the bar as you take a sip of your cocktail and look heavenward in wonderment and gratitude for the glass of liquid happiness.

Signed, An Almost Alcoholic.

The Bar at Waku Ghin
Marina Bay Sands
Singapore

Tel: +65 6688 8507

Open daily from 6pm until late. No reservations required.

Note:  This review was at the invitation of Marina Bay Sands, Singapore.

I never had a doll when I was a child.  My father, having lived in severe conditions in his youth, never knew what a doll was and consequently never realised its importance in a little girl’s life.  Instead, he gave me things which he craved for in his childhood.  He built a library for me and my brothers, and every time he received his paycheck we made a visit to the bookshop and purchased hundreds of ringgit worth of books.  Enid Blyton when I was five, engineering and mathematical solutions when I was ten, and chess endgame analyses when I was twelve.  I discovered Agatha Christie when I was fourteen and found the entire collection of her writings, silverfish et al,  in my school library where I spent hours on end crouched amidst the bookshelves, relishing in the musty scent that became my comfort then and in the years after.

When I received an invitation from YTL Hotels to spend a long weekend at its property, the Cameron Highlands Resort, and to participate in its activities, themed A Curious Twist In Christmas Tradition, my heretofore repressed Poirot-ish instincts were stirred.  After decades of studious research (fiction only) in the art of committing (and solving) the perfect murder, I knew that my moment had arrived.  We were to play a grown up role-playing game, a murder mystery game to be precise, where every guest had a part to play and the ultimate goal was to identify the murderer.  And while we were running around the astoundingly beautiful property looking for clues and dead bodies, the kitchen staff and wait staff slaved laboriously to ensure that we did not go hungry or thirsty.  The game went well into the night, and sadly with every passing minute, I transitioned from Poirot to Piggy.  All things Christie and Marple vanished with the appearance of each sumptuous dish.  I wish I could tell you the moral of the story, the point of being well informed about the intricacies of committing a murder, but I’m afraid that the only benefit I have derived from all that reading is an active imagination and little sleep.

Thank you, YTL Hotels, for allowing me to indulge in a spot of amateur acting (sans porn and with a totally contrived French accent) and for the hours of fun and camaraderie, but more importantly, for showing me that paradise exists in Cameron Highlands.  The weather was less than perfect; unbearably hot one day and wet the next, but I sought cover within the walls of the resort, and while the visitors at the market were sloshing through puddles in their cheap japanese slippers smelling of mud, sweat and vegetables, I was wearing my cheap japanese slippers in the resort beside the koi pond, my tush firmly planted on a rattan chair, my left hand grasping a flute of champagne and my right, some freshly plucked strawberries with chocolate and cream.

The air is different here; the quiet pitter patter of the rain on the koi pond and the tinkling of Christmas decorations from the gentle breeze brings about a renewed sense of spirit and purpose and an assurance that everything will be alright.

Giant strawberries

Afternoon tea at the resort

Lovely Boh tea – proudly Malaysian

Serene and peaceful

Play money

Let the games begin

A “murder victim” is found

Best actress, Chelsia Ng

Tree lighting ceremony

They cleaned up well

More beautiful people

Singing Christmas carols

Photo credit: Final seven pictures – Chelsia Ng (Thanks for letting me use them!)

Episode 1 of Chef Edward Lee’s travelogue focuses on his visit to the Selayang wholesale market.  In this episode, he is introduced to a variety of local produce and ingredients including our very own petai (fondly known as stinkbean for obvious reasons), cili padi (bird’s eye chili) and galangal.  It’s interesting that the things we take for granted in our Malaysian kitchen, like turmeric root, are quite alien to Chef Edward Lee but he takes it all in stride.  Malaysian host, Will Quah, shows him around and seems quite at home in the market.  My favourite part is at 1:13 where Will Quah says kacang botol with such panache that I’m totally blown away. *grin*

It was the period of Al Jarreau, Journey and The Police.  I was 13 years old.  I had just come back from school with a message for my parents.

“They’re not offering Commerce in my school,” I said, and promptly burst into tears.

My parents didn’t understand the intensity of my emotions and dismissed it as a phase all teenage girls go through.  After all, what could possibly be so terrifying about cooking classes?

In the old days, female students were streamlined into “Commerce” and “Home Science” depending on their inclination.  Having grown up in a predominantly male environment, I had an aversion for cooking, sewing and cleaning, all of which were covered in the Home Science stream.  As I scanned through my Home Science text book that night, I shivered.  I read Chapter 1, Safety Measures on Using a Stove.  I burst into tears again.  They’re going to marry me off early,  I thought to myself.  When I eventually nodded off to sleep, my dreams were filled with visions of child brides, toothless husbands and exploding stoves.

As fate would have it, within a week, the school had a new teacher who could teach Commerce, and all students were quickly segregated to the respective streams based on their primary school grades.  It was a simplistic method and an overly easy way out for the administrative office – the ones in the first two classes were put in Commerce, while the rest were put in Home Science, presumably so that they could be married off easily upon completion of high school.  As a naive 13-year-old, I didn’t think too much of it.  All that mattered to me was that I didn’t have to study Home Science.  In one careless, uncomplicated decision, my fate was sealed.  I studied Commerce, went on to become an accountant, and got married at the ripe old age of 32.  I also did not encounter any exploding stoves.

******

My friend, Adle, who currently lives in Canada, initiated our class reunion.  Once she got the ball rolling, Janice and Ivy managed to get flight tickets from Australia and France, and soon after that, we got the locals to commit to a date.  Other than a grand get-together at Simply Mel’s, a smaller group of us decided to spend the day cooking at Bayan Indah.  With the help of Yvonne, our Malaysian liaison, we locked in a date with Rohani Jelani and gave her a list of dishes we wanted to learn how to cook.  Over the years, we had all developed a mutual appreciation for good food and, via Facebook, we shared our love for it.  As such, it made perfect sense to consolidate our discussions and organise a private class with the affable Rohani Jelani.  I have said so much of her and her classes in previous posts (see links below), and I will not hesitate in recommending Bayan Indah to those who want to learn hands-on cooking in a warm, friendly environment.

******

And so we toiled over the stove as we whipped up ayam percik, briyani, rendang, fish curry, char koay teow and tako, not always with the ease of experienced chefs, but with laughter, camaraderie and intimacy that only old friends can understand.

Thirty years later, without the benefit of attending Home Science classes, it feels like we’ve finally come full circle.

Bayan Indah’s website – www.bayanindah.com

Past posts on Bayan Indah:
- Cooking Class with Rohani Jelani at Bayan Indah
- A Second Cooking Class at Bayan Indah

Chicken rendang

Table setting

Ayam percik

Janice working the blender

Char koay teow

Yvonne and Ivy looking chirpy

Fish curry

Easy briyani

Rohani Jelani with Adle

A birthday cake for Rohani

A satisfying labour of love

I was already in bed when Bald Eagle came home from work.  As he reached over to kiss me, I could detect a faint smell of coffee on his breath.  To be specific, it smelled like caramel latte.  To be even more precise, it smelled like the caramel latte macaron I had just bought from Delectable by Su that evening which I hoped to savour the next day.

“Mmmm….the macaron was good,” he murmured.

“Don’t tell me you ate my macaron,” I said.

“Of course I ate it,” he said, nonchalantly.

“But it’s MY macaron,” I exclaimed.

“Yup, ” he replied.

“My macaron.”

“Uh-huh.”

********

An hour later, I nudged him, trying to call his bluff.  ”You really ate my macaron?”

“It’s gone now.”

“You ate my macaron,” I sniffled.

“If it were your macaron, dear, you wouldn’t have displayed it in full prominence in the fridge to tempt me,” he explained, as he would to a child.

And with that, the matter was closed.

********

Having tasted several giant macarons from the shop prior to the case of my disappearing macaron, I can attest to the fact that Su’s macarons have a lovely texture; a crisp outer shell and a fudgy centre, with flavours that are not overly cloying.  The size, easily 6-7 cm in diameter, allows for more consistency in texture.  I do love the lemon raspberry macaron which provides a refreshing contrast in flavours.  The salt in the salted chocolate macaron, on the other hand, is a bit undetectable – I would have liked it more had the flavour been more prominent.  However, I am unable to comment on the caramel latte macaron thanks to a hungry husband, but I’m hoping he’ll read this and return the favour one day.  Soon.

Delectable by Su
Shops in The Gardens Mall and Pavilion KL.

At which point does happiness start and end?

Some time last year, I put up a picture on Facebook, a somewhat unflattering picture of myself sans makeup, my hair messed up, and my face plastered with a wide goofy grin as I leaned back against my husband.  I labelled it simply “Happiest Day of my Life”.  We were at the Iguazu Falls in Argentina and I had experienced a baptism of sorts, a cleansing of the spirit and a reminder that there is a greater hand in control of our lives and our world.  And while Tim went away to enjoy a boat ride to the falls, I opted to sit on a rock near the falls in solitude, my thin clothes offering me little warmth thanks to my hardheadedness at wanting to experience nature up close without a raincoat.  I was a sight – a candidate for a wet t-shirt contest, although my physical aspects were less appealing considering that my competition consisted of buxom Argentinian lasses with boobs spilling out of their bras.  It would be incorrect, though, to say that I didn’t get any attention.  Little old ladies thought it fit to interrupt my reverie by asking me to take photographs of them because I must have looked like I desperately wanted to take photographs of little old ladies at the falls.

I guess my point is that happiness doesn’t start or end.  Each experience, each interaction, each action brings about a different kind of appreciation for blessedness.  And the moment I realised this while sitting on that rock at the falls, I knew that I could count my blessings under any circumstance.

***********

I’m doing this as a favour to my friend who owns Tanamera.  It isn’t food related, but you can definitely get a whiff of lemongrass in some of their products.   I’ve been using Tanamera products for a couple of years already and I am absolutely in love with their products.  The bath products, body lotions and skincare smell heavenly.  My favourite products are the Spa Jerneh bodywash which, naturally, smells of lemongrass, lemon, lime and ginger, and the complementary body moisturizer with similarly refreshing scents.  I carry these items with me when I am on holiday as a little reminder of the tropics.

If you’re keen to know more, or you’d like to grab Tanamera products at discounted prices, do drop by at Central Market this Sunday, 25 March, between 11am and 5pm.  Tanamera is also working with EcoKnights on a recycling programme, so bring your old clothes along and exchange them for free Tanamera goodies.

Check out these links: http://www.tanamera.com.my/ and http://www.tanameraspa.com.my/ as well as http://www.facebook.com/TanameraSpa  and http://www.facebook.com/events/233766183379511/  on Facebook.

See you at Central Market!

But enough about the accident.  We spent Christmas and New Year in Los Angeles with Tim’s family and it was just so relaxing and fulfilling to be able to enjoy the celebrations with such wonderful people.

And before we know it, Chinese New Year is upon us.  I don’t know about you, but I can barely breathe now.  Unlike my yearly record of partaking in at least 10 yee sang sessions before CNY, I’ve had only one at a reunion dinner with ex-colleagues.  So this year, I plan to take it easy and embrace CNY hopefully before the end of the 15 days!

If you’re planning on giving gifts to friends during the CNY period, perhaps you’d like to consider the delicious treats that my friends at Just Heavenly have come up with.  Their cakes are to die for!

Note that the final slide is for Valentine’s Day but that’s in just 3 weeks so it isn’t too early to start planning.  The roses look so pretty, I wouldn’t have the heart to eat them!

Happy Chinese New Year, dear readers.  Enjoy the holidays and remember to drink lots of water coz it’s gonna be hot hot hot!

]]> http://www.awhiffoflemongrass.com/?feed=rss2&p=1774 7 http://www.awhiffoflemongrass.com/?p=1758 http://www.awhiffoflemongrass.com/?p=1758#comments Tue, 29 Nov 2011 16:05:39 +0000 Lyrical Lemongrass http://www.awhiffoflemongrass.com/?p=1758 Six of us squeezed into Bald Eagle’s Audi last weekend and headed off towards Kapar, armed with just a GPS and a lot of faith, on a quest for some “pretty awesome seafood”.  Only Jun had been there before in his much younger days while riding in the backseat of his mummy’s car, so his only recollection of the place was:

1. The food is damn good

2. The restaurant is located just off the main Kapar road

3. Make the first right turn after the masjid/surau

4. Don’t expect much, it’s just a shack.

For the most part of the journey it was a rather pleasant drive thanks to the various super highways leading from our homes in Shah Alam to that little town beyond Klang.  Our GPS was keyed in with the address, 162 Kampung Perapat – information we had lifted from the only blog that had a write-up on this restaurant.  Prompted by the GPS, we turned off Jalan Kapar into Jalan Kampung Perapat, counting down the distance with the enthusiasm of a herd of ravenous pigs.  As we drove deeper and deeper into the kampung with nary a restaurant in sight, the manifestation of yet another banana tree didn’t seem reassuring.  The surroundings were eerie, like a scene from a Malay pontianak movie.  Finally Jun spoke up.

“Hey guys, this doesn’t look right,” he said. “It should be just off the main road.” (refer point two above)

“Well, we’re following the GPS.  Let’s just see where it leads us to,” I said.

We learnt, within seconds, that 162 Kampung Perapat was a dilapidated factory, situated in the middle of an overgrown thicket, with wooden gates that were carelessly held together with a rusty lock.

“Meena, did you see a masjid/surau when we were coming in?” Jun asked me.

Jun must have thought that my four eyes functioned as such – two eyes focused on the GPS and two on the surrounding landscape.   Luckily, as we were retracing our route, we saw a surau on our left.

“Okay, turn left at the surau!” Jun, the only “authority” in our group remarked.  Bald Eagle dutifully turned.  ”It should be just…..about……here!” Jun exclaimed.  We looked.  Crickets.  A frog croaked.  Something wasn’t right.

Sammy was the only person in the group who spoke Hokkien, to be specific, Penang Hokkien, so she was tasked to call the restaurant for directions after we agreed that we were getting nowhere with Jun’s able navigation.  The first number she dialed led to a fax machine.

“Bugger,” I cursed.  I pulled up the blog post again to look for more numbers.  Three numbers were listed there.  I tried the first number, a mobile phone number, and hastily chucked the phone to the Hokkien-speaking lass.

“Hello,” Sammy said hesitantly when someone answered.  ”Ini Restaurant Batu 8 kah?” she asked.  We all wondered why she wasn’t speaking in Hokkien.  ”Kami nak cari Restaurant Batu 8!”  More talk on the other end.

“Oh, maaf ya! Salah nombor!” Sammy hung up sheepishly and swore at us.  ”I think we woke that person up,” Sammy growled.  ”But nobody sleeps at 8 o’clock!” Karen interjected defensively.  The unexpected remark broke the building tension in the car.

Hope was getting slim.  I tried calling the second number.  There was no answer.  Then I looked at the blog post and saw that it was written in 2009.  Unlike England where a copy of the Lonely Planet travel guide from 1981 can still be used as reference, nothing is of permanence in this country.

Could we be third time lucky, I wondered.  We were already lost and hungry and had nothing to lose.

I cannot even begin to describe the joy we felt when the person on the other end of the line replied in the affirmative in Hokkien that we had dialed the right number.  And therein began a comedy of errors as the man described mosques and suraus to turn at when there were at least four of those in a one mile vicinity.  When he eventually realised that we were not achieving any progress as far as verbal directions were concerned due to a serious linguistic failure, he told us to go to the nearest surau and wait for him there.  It was a testament to small-town hospitality and we applauded when he turned up on a motorcycle to lead us to the shack of food salvation.

We cheered as we saw a glimmer of light along the dark and narrow road; a silent welcome to the battle-scarred troop that had braved the journey from Shah Alam to Kapar bearing a bottle of Hibiki 17 year whisky on the promise of a meal of steamed mantis prawns, crabs in sweet and sour sauce, salt baked chicken with flesh so tender and flavourful that it needed no accompaniment, spicy squid, and fried beehoon with clams.  It was a meal that satisfied every craving.  It was a meal that was deserving of the one and a half hour journey of blunders and lapses in judgement.

Our journey home took 25 minutes.

The CORRECT address on the business card:

Batu 8 Kapar Sea-foods (yes, with an “s”)
162, Batu 8, Jalan Kapar,
42200 Kapar, Selangor.

….except that it’s not really on Jalan Kapar, is it?  Head towards Jalan Keretapi Lama (runs parallel to Jalan Kapar) between the intersection of Jalan Masjid and Jalan Kampung Perapat.  And if all else fails, you know you can call the friendly local tour guide at the numbers listed below:

Tel: 03-3250 8326, 012-318 6465, 012-218 6465

“They drink this foul drink called mate in Argentina!” my friend cautioned me before I left for Buenos Aires.

I had read about mate in my travel guidebooks, and I was curious to try it. Mate (pronounced: maa-tay) is an infusion made by steeping mate leaves in hot water in a hollowed out gourd. The person then sips the drink through a metal straw called a bombilla (which has a sieve-like contraption at the bottom end to prevent bits of the leaves from getting sucked up).

It wasn’t the drink that fascinated me, but the communal ritual behind it.  According to my guidebook, drinking mate in Argentina is a social activity with its own set of revered rules.  The host prepares the infusion by pouring hot, but not boiling, water into the gourd which is already filled with mate leaves, and then proceeds to drink it up.  Once finished, the host refills the gourd with hot water and passes it to the next person in the group.  When that person drinks up all the liquid, the person hands the gourd back to the host, and the process continues with the third person.  This stops only when a person says “gracias” signifying that he has had enough.

 In Argentina, it is not uncommon to see people walking around with mate cups in their hands, and a flask hanging on their shoulder.  Throughout our travel in the vast country, we saw families and groups of friends congregating in parks to drink mate.  It was wholesome and heartwarming and reminded me of the old days when we’d have picnics at the beach in Penang, huddled over tiffin carriers filled with nasi lemak and sambal ikan bilis cooked by mum earlier in the day, as bits of fried peanuts spilled into the white sand.

“When a person offers you mate, you take it, because it signifies an offer of friendship.”

With only two weeks in the country, and because of our inability to communicate in Spanish, I knew that the chances of building lasting friendships in Argentina was slim, and with it, the opportunity to drink mate faded.

It was at a restaurant where I first tried mate.  I was offered coffee, tea or mate.  I grinned happily and chose mate.  It came in a teabag in a cup of hot water.  It didn’t look anything like the pictures.  I drank it anyway, expecting a life altering experience, a moment that I would remember for eternity, if you will.   I blinked.  It tasted like green tea.  Was that it?  I felt cheated.

We were in a bus one day with a bunch of twenty-something Argentinians (and a Swedish) when one of them, a petite girl with long glossy brown hair, hopped over to where we were seated and introduced herself.  ”I’m Giuliana,” she said.  Little did she know that those two words would be my redemption.

“Would you like to drink mate?” she asked.

“Would I like to drink mate? Would I?? Would I?!?!” I screamed hysterically within.  My long wait was over.

“Yes, please,” I said aloud, with typical gentle Asian politeness.  She didn’t sense my desperation.

She brought over a cup brimming with a thick sludge of tea and water.  As I sucked on the straw, the full flavour of the mate hit me.  It was bitter, but there was also a strong grassy flavour.  I loved it.  I smiled and handed over the cup to Giuliana.  We drank mate for the remaining part of our journey with our new friends and shared stories about our travels, Malaysia, our food, our people, our Twin Towers.

I brought home a couple of kilograms of mate leaves together with my very own mate gourd and bombilla with the intention of carrying on this ritual of social interaction.  Nowadays, I drink it often with friends.  There is no fixed time.  After dinner.  After a dip in the pool.  Before lunch.  While singing along to Spanish songs till the wee hours of the morning.  And we share stories of our lives.

A friend once remarked that if you open yourself up to the possibility that even the vagrant on the street is able to surprise you with tales of his life’s journey, your own life will be richly enhanced.  I believe it to be true.  And these mate days, these mate nights, they’re fuel for the camaraderie we share as our lives subtly weave into each other’s to create new memories.

Voy a extrañar tomar mates con vos.