The Birdwoman's Palate

  “My hatred of animal abuse left such a lasting impression that at one point in my life, I refused to eat meat. It wasn’t easy, that’s for sure. Imagine having to explain this at family gatherings, or at workplace functions, or to the mothers of women I was interested in. They couldn’t fathom it. A man like me, balking at the sight of meat! They thought it was a bit precious, an unnecessary affectation. Might as well have been trying to explain that I was an atheist.

  “At first my approach was more empirical. I’d focus on the facts. Everyone knows that a vegetarian diet is good for your health. Low in saturated fat, richer in fiber. It makes sense, right? That’s what I’d tell people, anyway. That my aversion to meat had nothing to do with my morals. It was merely a healthy change.

  “Then one day I went with an investigative team of NGO workers to Puan Cepak. It’s a small village in the Kutai region of Kalimantan. You might know it. Anyway, they’d just cleared the area to make room for a huge palm-oil plantation. And there I saw it. I saw the bodies of dozens of orangutans, just left there to rot. Of course the government denies any responsibility. Fucking bureaucrats. They just turn a blind eye and say that the orangutans were the victims of forest fires. More like victims of a mass slaughter. Some of my friends who were vets performed autopsies, but of course they just confirmed what we already knew.

  “And the most infuriating thing of all? How proud those butchers were. A group of them even casually admitted that they’d gotten tens of millions of rupiah from the palm-oil companies for doing their bidding. We asked them if they knew that killing government-protected wildlife was a federal offense. ‘Sure!’ they bragged. ‘What do you take us for? Morons?’ Then we asked them what the government did. And again, they shirked their responsibility without blinking. They said that thanks to regional autonomy and the incompetence of local authorities, forest monitoring has gone to hell.

  “So I stayed on in Kutai to interview these savage poachers. The law hadn’t laid one finger on them. Not one. They were allowed to come and go as they pleased—in and out of the police station, the Directorate General whatsit, something for the Improvement of the Environment and Nature blah blah, and the local branch of the Ministry of Forestry—like they owned the place. I’ve lost count of how many surveys we conducted, my colleagues and I, during our time there. Can you believe that 750 orangutans were slaughtered in Kalimantan per year? More than 50 percent for meat and the rest for use in traditional medicine and illegal trade?

  “Look. So I haven’t been a strict vegetarian these past few years. The older I get, the more my childhood habits rise to the surface. Turns out, I do like eating meat. Sometimes I even relish it, like when we were at the duck place in Bangkalan last week. But as my discipline waned, my morals alone could not stop meat from creeping back into my diet. I tried to justify it at first. For many people, eating meat is completely normal, essential even—it’s practically a law of nature. For these people, eating meat isn’t an issue of morality. But then I remind myself, crossly, that the laws of nature shouldn’t dictate my moral standards either.

  “I feel the dilemma of it often: eating meat, yet being bothered by stories about cruelty to animals—from sterilizations performed without anesthetic to birds being boiled alive. And I ask: What kind of a person am I? How can I think one way and act another?

  “Once, I read the work of a philosopher who likened species bias to racist theories of the most extreme variety. To him animal rights are social justice advocacy in its purest form, precisely because animals are the most vulnerable of all oppressed groups. We human beings selfishly sacrifice the most fundamental of their interests—the right to live—in order to fulfill the most fleeting of our needs. And in doing so we perceive the pain that animals feel to be irrelevant, unimportant.

  “We dull our minds to the calf whose throat is slit for the tenderness of its meat, the duck whose liver is fattened before it’s slaughtered and made into foie gras, the goat whose penis is chopped off so it can be eaten by macho men. We talk about the pleasure of eating as if it were a heavenly pleasure—as if heaven itself approves of the fleshly appetites of humanity. We talk about the pleasure of eating in the same way you yourself talk, with a sincerity that every now and then touches the heart. And I know you feeling that way doesn’t automatically make you immoral, just as those who slaughter buffaloes for traditional ceremonies or French people who eat rabbits aren’t automatically barbaric either.

  “So . . . Aruna. Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?”

  Then it dawns on me. Farish wants me to start from scratch. That was me. Now it’s your turn. He wants us to get to know each other, the way civilized people do.

  He also wants me to forget about Leon, for Leon isn’t just a traitor and a coward, he’s a person who doesn’t give a damn about anyone or anything—not even food.

  “You really didn’t see what he was eating at that tiong sim noodle restaurant?” asks Farish. He’s making a funny face. “All he had were coffee and durian pancakes.”

  I find it quite enchanting, his being seemingly oblivious to the fact that he’s just told me about a side of himself that’s completely different from who I am, and that the assessment he’s just given of Leon comes from another Farish—a Farish who doesn’t give a fuck that he’s contradicting himself, a Farish who’s decided he likes Aruna, who even wants to be a bit more like Aruna, because he sympathizes with Aruna and maybe even . . .

  Ah.

  23

  THE MELODY OF TASTE

  I once had a dream where a kindhearted resi—a wise ascetic, straight out of the old tales—was trying to teach me the meaning of gratitude. Here’s the story he told.

  One morning, a man wakes up and can’t see anything. He calls his doctor, who asks him to undergo a number of tests and examinations. Next thing, the doctor sits him down in his office.

  “Sorry,” says the doctor, “but I don’t know how else to tell you this. For the time being, you won’t be able to see. Though you may be able to glimpse something every now and then, your vision has diminished by about ninety percent.”

  The man merely nods, for he is a man of faith.

  A year passes, and we come across our man again. He’s still 90 percent blind. But he’s not unhappy. “I’ve learned so many new things about the world,” he says. “Things that I’d never have found out if I still had perfect vision.

  “Only now do I know that watermelon tastes like the morning, weightless and radiant. That the taste of guava juice sometimes reminds you of body odor—something about it smells like an armpit and produces a bitterness that makes you itch. I can tell which people are in a room from their respective scents; I can even tell what kind of mood my wife is in when she opts for Perfume X, not Perfume Y. A flower is more than just a flower to me now—I’ve learned all their names: the champac, the bromeliad, the frangipani.

  “When my wife is cooking eggs in the kitchen, I can tell how she’s preparing them from the aroma alone. Every time I smell sulfur, I know she’s boiling them. And when she adds a little vinegar to the boiling water to neutralize the sharp smell, I know for sure.

  “I love the fragrance of eggs sunny-side up, especially when they’re fried in butter and they give off that wonderful, incomparable brown-butter aroma. I can tell from this aroma if the egg is overdone, and whether the yolk is fully cooked or still runny. Even when it’s being cooked over too high a flame and releases into the air a smell that resembles burning tires, I still like the fragrance of eggs cooked this way. It reminds me of the simplicity of my childhood, when such eggs only appeared on the dining table on special occasions and were fought over like they were the last things on earth of real value.

  “I can tell what kind of omelet my wife is making—a thick, home-style omelet with the texture of a plump potato fritter or a French-style omelet, full of milk and cheese, its lumps daintier, more refined, redolent with the perfume of celery and scallion.

  “I can distinguish between
all the oils my wife uses for cooking, including different types of olive and corn oil. And I can do the same with various kinds of banana and chocolate. My ability to do the latter brings me joy and sorrow at the same time. I equate chocolate with my grandchildren; they never visit without bringing me some, and they don’t understand that my greatest sorrow as a blind man is that I can no longer see the little ways they’re growing and changing: if they’re getting skinnier or getting fatter, how long their hair is, whether they’re looking more like their mother or father, their grandma or grandpa.

  “Oh yes, I’ve also become more discriminating with my sugar. My wife often complains whenever our servant comes back from the market because she keeps buying cheap coconut-palm sugar—the stuff that’s mostly just raw cane sugar mixed with caster sugar, not the real thing. But Nature never lies, and I’ve learned to read her well.

  “I’ve also learned how to listen with an intensity and focus once monopolized by my eyes. I know from the tone of their voices if my wife is or my children are contented or depressed. I’ve grown more appreciative of music that can transport you but also makes you feel safe. I find myself listening to more Baroque and choral pieces, more Bach and Beethoven.

  “I’ve also learned how to move, how to touch things with reverence. When I squeeze lime juice over a piece of fish or drizzle sweet soy sauce over a cluster of siomay dumplings, I do so with great care, for only then can I feel that I’m enhancing the flavors of these dishes, rather than detracting from them.

  “And, most importantly, I’ve learned to love my wife more fully, with all my soul, because it is in her that all the colors of life are found. And the same holds true for all the family and friends around me, because I know the ones who love you are the only ones who’ll never leave.”

  In the hotel bar we find Nadezhda, Bono, and their new friend, Toba, doubled over with laughter. The table is strewn with cigarette butts, peanut shells, playing cards, and beer cans. They seem so intimate. It’s like they’ve known each other for years.

  When we join them, Nadezhda immediately points a finger in my direction. She’s all afire.

  “Name,” she blurts without prelude, “the ten staple ingredients most important to you. They can be spices, fruits, vegetables, anything. Ten of them.”

  I’ve just started putting together a list in my mind when Bono interjects, “Do over! Do over! I forgot to include noodles. I’ll tell you my list again: garlic, lemon, red chilies, olive oil, cheese, wine, tomatoes, bread, potatoes, and noodles!”

  “Actually, my list isn’t too different from Bono’s,” I say. “Garlic, red chilies, sesame oil, sweet soy sauce, palm sugar, noodles . . . what else? Oh. Chocolate, bananas, corn, sweet potatoes.”

  “Garlic, lemon, red chilies, olive oil, wine, eggplant, peas, cauliflower, Japanese melon, and peaches,” says Nadezhda, who has assembled her list in her usual elegant, civilized way—three kinds of vegetable, three kinds of fruit, two essential spices, one vegetable derivative, and of course, the drink of the gods.

  “Ten is too few,” I protest as I order a beer. Should I add beer, too? “I still want to add wine. And breadfruit. And cloves and coriander and pandan leaves, tempeh, bird’s eye chilies, oranges, mangoes, green coconut—”

  “Does ‘coconut’ include ‘coconut milk’?” pipes Farish, probably secretly hurt that no one’s asked him.

  Nadezhda points a finger at him, saying, “Oh! Sweetheart. Sorry! We forgot to ask you! But to answer your question, coconut milk is coconut milk, and coconut is coconut—”

  “Some additions, if I may,” says Bono, cutting her off. “Mushrooms, tempeh, bird’s eye chilies, fresh mint, fresh basil, all meats except snake meat, prawns, chocolate, cream”—he grabs a fistful of peanuts and crams them into his mouth—“oh, and Thai peanuts!”

  “Why do they call them Thai peanuts?” asks Nadezhda. “Roasting them with kaffir lime leaves doesn’t make them Thai.”

  “Well, why do they call the melon you like Japanese melon?”

  “I bet my list is more unique than all of yours,” Farish booms, probably because he feels he’s being ignored again. “Red chilies, green chilies, lime, curry leaves, tempeh, sweet potatoes, bananas, anchovies, noodles, and of course, coffee.”

  Everyone starts speaking at the same time.

  “How could coffee make it onto Farish’s list and none of ours? We all love drinking it.”

  “Hey, it seems everybody likes red chilies. It’s on everyone’s list.”

  “Garlic’s in second place.”

  “Noodles, too.”

  “Pretty much everyone likes noodles. Except Nadezhda.”

  “Nadz, how come mushrooms and tomatoes aren’t on your list?”

  “You just want to be different from everyone else . . . you’re such a . . .”

  “Oh! I forgot to add tofu and eggs.”

  “Combine tofu with eggs to make Tahu Telor.”

  “That’s funny. Eggs aren’t on anyone’s list.”

  “I forgot to add cabbage and lettuce, too.”

  “Seriously? You can’t live without cabbage and lettuce? Who are you, Peter Rabbit?”

  “Is ‘can’t live without it’ really the only criteria for a top ten?”

  “Uh, yes. It is. If not, the list will be too inclusive, and what’s the point in that? The whole reason for making the list so restricted is to make us think hard about what the ten most important staples in our lives are.”

  “And you really can’t live without peaches?”

  “Is ice cream a staple?”

  “No. That’s like trying to sneak coconut milk in under coconut, or foie gras under duck.”

  “So we can’t say yogurt, then?”

  “Hmm . . . hold on. Let me think. Actually, it’s a good point. How could I forget to put yogurt on my list?”

  “Butter! I’m switching out lemon for butter!”

  “Bon, this isn’t a test, you know.”

  “I feel like I’m being tested.”

  “On what?”

  “Your insight as a chef.”

  “Hey, wait a sec . . . if olive oil’s on my list, it wouldn’t be fair to leave out butter.”

  Suddenly, a peal of laughter splits the air. I’ve almost forgotten that Toba is among us. That likeable stranger. Might he have a list?

  But he doesn’t give us one—and it isn’t because we’re too shy to ask. Nor is it because we don’t want him to think we’re imposing a dynamic on him that we’ve built up among ourselves, with all its jokes and references, meaningless to anyone else. He probably just wants to keep his distance because he’s used to being alone.

  In our room that night, Nadezhda and I talk until morning. She’s writing a bunch of articles about food for a magazine and her blog. Just frivolous ones, she says. The important thing is that they’re fun.

  The first will compare two kinds of menus—a traditional one and a super-modern one. This could be very fun indeed if it uses hyperbole. The second will be on Indonesian sayings that refer to food. There are tons of them, aren’t there? The third is about popular drinks that contain poisonous ingredients. Because, really, who isn’t secretly interested in poison?

  Then, all of a sudden, I’m telling her about my strange dream from the other night and its numerical logic, which I still don’t get. I also tell her about the different samples of response I was shown before giving my own. As she listens, she is writing furiously in her notebook.

  “I know why response number one only got a six out of seven,” she exclaims, as if she’s just discovered a magic formula for miracle milk.

  “Why? Was it Snow White’s poisoned apple?”

  “No, there’s an argument to be made for that. Fairy tales shape our perceptions, after all. The problem was that two of the things on the list were the same thing: the belladonna and the poison-tipped arrow. Poison-tipped arrows were often made using belladonna, at least if we’re talking about medieval Europe.”

  “Yes, but
not all poison-tipped arrows—”

  “It’s called a dream, darling. Let me take a stab at interpreting. Now look, it’s the same problem with lists two and four. Insecticide/pesticide and cyanide were on the second list, and both insecticide and pesticide contain hydrogen cyanide, a gaseous form of cyanide. Puffer fish and tetrodotoxin were on the fourth list: that’s another duplicate!”

  “What I don’t get is why all the answers on list three were given points.”

  “That’s because you don’t understand the toxin content of the foods we eat every day. Sure, they’re not a problem in normal doses, but they can be dangerous in excess. Cherry leaves and seeds contain cyanogenic glycosides, and I think apple seeds do, too. Sweet potatoes have a higher cyanogenic glycoside content, especially in their roots. One of the enzymes I know it contains even helps in the production of hydrogen cyanide. Cooked sweet potatoes are actually the safest because the heat gets rid of all its toxicity. Nutmeg contains myristicin—who knows where I learned that. It can make people hallucinate for hours, sometimes days. Tomatoes . . . hmm . . . if I remember correctly, they contain solanine. It’s not dangerous to humans, though there have been cases of people being poisoned to death by tisanes—ones containing tomato leaves. Asparagus . . . now this is really tragic. They contain phosphorus and mercaptan. They can’t be taken with wine. Nothing could be sadder, if you ask me.”

  “All right, Madam Professor. What about the final item? Tropicana orange juice?”

  It seems Nadezhda’s knowledge about poison has reached its limits. After we Google it, we discover that Tropicana-brand orange juice had come under scrutiny from America’s highest authority regarding foodstuffs and chemicals because it was flagged as containing fungicide, an unauthorized chemical ingredient. The research results indicated that the fungicide levels were within normal limits, and Tropicana orange juice was allowed to remain in circulation. So where’s the problem?