I’ve been reading a blog called The Boy Who Ate the World for about ten years. I can’t even remember how I came across it. The blogger is Guan Chua. He was born in Kuala Lumpur and lives in London, in the Whitechapel area. Guan used to be a financial analyst but then trained as a Cordon Bleu chef. He loves to travel and write about his foodie treks but best of all he loves to cook the Malaysian-Nyonya cuisine of his childhood.
Guan was a contestant on Nigella Lawson’s ‘The Taste,’ where he fulfilled his dream of being mentored by Anthony Bourdain. He didn’t win but I enjoyed his time on the show a lot. I knew he ran a supper club – better still, it was in the Whitechapel area! – but Krish isn’t keen on Malaysian food and I wasn’t keen to go alone, and spend the money! Instead I would just read Guan’s Instagram and think about the food. Emails would come in announcing a new supper club but typically I’d be too late to get a place, they’re snapped up so quickly.
One day a couple of months ago an email came in as I was sitting doing something else so I emailed back immediately – any date in August, please! This time I made it. I was going!
The night of the supper club, just as I was about to leave, a ridiculously unexpected and fierce rain and wind storm sprung up. I had to wait for it to pass, then saw that the next bus would be quite a while. I jumped on the next bus that took me anywhere close and we trundled along oh so slowly in the rainy, slow moving traffic. I found a bus stop for another bus to complete my journey and had quite a long wait again. By the time I reached Aldgate East station, I had only a few seconds to get there.
But I got lost! Dinner was feeling far far away. A few calls to Guan and I finally made it to his apartment block and into his small flat in the new complex I’d walked by so many times. I was at least 20 mins late but Guan greeted me with a lovely gin and tonic. I felt quite ready for it. I’d not had time to buy any drink for the table, as planned.
There were ten of us sitting down in the dining space in the open plan living room/kitchen. I was probably 30 years older than the oldest of them. These twenty and thirty somethings were chatting back and forth about their travels around Asia, and the food they’d found there. I felt quite overwhelmed with it. How had they travelled so much? What was going on? Somehow the world was leaving me behind, so I listened politely and waited for food. Definitely worth the wait!
The menuSambal Crab Bites – but I’m allergic to crab so didn’t get to taste themGuan had kindly made me my own crabless Sambal bites – Yum! (Although I lost my two temporary fillings crunching them up!)
This cold noodle dish was my favourite! Kerabu Glass Noodles with crayfish and Nyonya Herbs. So fresh and mouthwatering. I want this recipe!Lemongrass and Belachan chicken wings.
I use a CPAP machine – I should talk about that some time – and, while it helps with some pretty severe symptoms such as night terrors and sleep paralysis as well as having a desirable effect of no snoring, it does mean that I’m never truly comfortable while sleeping. I’ve chosen the most minimal mask to wear but I just feel trapped behind it and I’m confined to certain sleeping positions. So when my sleep doctor asked me if I’d like to try a dental device instead, I thought it was worth my while to at least check into it. Reports from the CPAP users that I asked weren’t very favourable but I’d go see for myself.
I got a letter asking me to come to the Dental building at the Royal London Hospital and that’s not so far away. Today was the day. Except I woke up feeling groggy and shaky, and obviously not that thrilled with the thought of rousing myself and getting down there.
I had my tonsils out at the London Hospital (at Whitechapel). I was six years old and while my memories are interesting, they aren’t good ones. I was in a huge ward for about a week, walked down in a group of other lucky surgical victims, tricked into inhaling ether, or whatever they used to put me to sleep, dreamed a long dream of a bright star spinning in inky black space, and woke up to pure torture. If you’ve ever had your tonsils out, you know exactly what I mean.
Archival image of a ward at the London Hospital
Before the surgery, they’d teased me with descriptions of all the lovely ice cream I’d be eating while my throat was ‘sore.’ It sounded all right! Now I knew the truth. Swallowing even my own saliva was more than I could tolerate. Ice cream? No way! I can even sort of remember the terrible, raw, soreness of my throat or can I?
Then a nurse kept coming by as I pulled out of my groggy just-anaethetised state, ‘Are you feeling sick?’ ‘Do you want to be sick?’ At the tender age of six, I found myself thinking ‘Hm, I think they’re telling me I’m going to be sick.’ And soon enough, I threw up a bunch of burning bloody stuff that made my throat feel even worse, if that was possible.
I think I must have struggled with a few sips of water at first. And then some time later, maybe a day, who knows, they came around with the food trolley. I was handed a plate, on which was some buttered bread fingers and many slices of orange. Orange! I knew instinctively that I could not eat those. I protested and was told to be quiet. I looked under the plate where they’d always put a label with the patient’s name, and read ‘Janice Solomon.’ She was the little girl in the opposite bed in for a broken arm. ‘This isn’t mine,’ I said, ‘It’s for Janice Solomon. I can’t eat oranges.’ I was shushed and told ‘Eat it!’ I’ve fortunately forgotten what happened after that but I’m sure it wasn’t pretty.
For a week I could have no visitors. I’ve always had separation anxiety and imagined my family had abandoned me. One sadistic nurse even hinted at it. Then finally I got to go home and put the whole horrible thing behind me. As you can tell, I haven’t ever forgotten it.
Some years ago they closed the hospital and built a brand new hospital complex. Instead of the old brown brick ones, up went some blue glass towers. a few of the old brick ones remain here and there and still serving people. It’s strange that they’re still needed but it’s sort of comforting to see them there. They say that the Tower Hamlets council has bought the old main hospital building on Whitechapel Road and will be using it for a civic centre. It looks like they are keeping the old building and adding to it. I’m glad it won’t look so different from the road.
For some reason, I forgot to photograph the old hospital behind the hoardings but I did wander along the market, which we called Whitechapel Waste in my childhood days. It was a large Jewish market and now is completely Muslim
The new dental clinic at The Royal London – inside it was modern and brightThe old emergency dental clinic at the Royal London – I went once and it was archaic and darkLooking past the corner of the old dental clinic, you can see the many blue towers of the new Royal LondonOne of the remaining old buildings of the RLH – still in useFrom the orthodontics clinic window – a long queue for one of the old buildings
Kangan is also considered the ‘farewell’ but is traditionally the day the couple removes the amulet tied around their wrists. The amulet is used to protect the bride and groom so that they can enter married life ‘void of any evils.’ The religious part of the whole thing is over and now it’s time to celebrate before beginning normal, married life. From what I’ve read this is often done separately by the bride and groom’s families but in Moh and Sharon’s case, the two families came together for a back yard party at Moh’s.
Since Moh and Krish’s time as children at the house, the back yard has changed quite a bit. From the kitchen, there’s a generous porch-landing with stairs leading down. And from the basement, you can step straight out to the yard itself. There are paving stones where there once was grass and a vegetable garden. And there’s a bar, a firepit, and lots of seating. A grand place for a party!
Front of the houseThe patio leading from the kitchenThe seating area, bar, and barbecue
Guests arrived steadily through the night. I helped with food preparation and serving in the kitchen. By now the family members were no longer strangers to me, although some still suspicious. Moh went to China Cottage to pick up appetiser dishes to begin the evening, and this was followed by the usual array of meat and vegetable curries and a table of desserts.
Activity in the basement kitchen and food tableAppetisers from China Cottage
Tulsi’s best friend and his wife are going to Barcelona in October and their visit overlaps mine by a few days so we made plans to meet. That should be fun!
People came and went. Some people arrived long after most had left. It was mostly the smaller family unit – the brothers, the nieces – Ariya and Annabelle, Naomi and Rana, and Tulsi and Karne sitting together, chatting and relaxing. We lit the firepit and dodged mosquitoes. Krish had bought Annabelle some gifts throughout the months and this was probably the time that reticent little girl tore down her barriers and bonded with her ‘chacha’ (uncle). We thought it might never happen. I’ll confess that the gifts Krish had bought for her weren’t my taste. I’d wondered what Annabelle would think of them – but I’d reckoned without him having a clue about his family’s personality. Every gift was a hit, every single one.
Sitting around the firepit late at night – Gop, Ariya, and Sharon
It was getting late and the remaining guests had eaten and drunk their fill. Everyone was invited to stay overnight and so we fell asleep with a house full.
Maticoor is a new word for me. Everything I’ve read refers to women – “Maticoor night is for ladies to get away.” It talks about drumming and dancing and letting your hair down, as well as the elaborate ceremony. However, it seems that the bride and the groom can each have their own Maticoor night and tonight was the night for Moh’s family to gather in his family home to perform the puja, while over at Sharon’s the same was happening with her family.
From the Sanskrit ‘Matti’ means earth and ‘kor’ means digging. I’ll copy the whole explanation at the end of the post so read it, if you want.
In the morning, the tablecloth steaming continued, followed by me assembling wedding programs as I watched several episodes of Bewitched!
When we arrived at the Maticoor, there were drummers at the entrance of the home. They played loudly and for a long time. This is called tassa drumming and it started again after the puja and again at the wedding, then once again at the reception where the bride’s drummers and groom’s drummers joined together. I dodged them a bit – drumming and tinnitus don’t mix too well – but I loved the energy of it.
There was the usual large gathering of Krish’s family inside the house. The puja would take place in a tent in the back garden. It was pouring with rain!
The pundit ties the raksha sutra around Moh’s wristProtective thread or raksha sutra
Women and girls feature heavily in the ceremony. Moh sat with his mother and an aunt also stood by to help. The pundit also had a woman helping him with the various items that were brought and taken away. The prayers and chanting were quite melodic, each verse ending in Swaha which means ‘Well said’ so similar to amen. So many things were coming and going, Moh or Karna handling them and seeming to be well instructed in what to do. I’m sure I’d forget! At some point some young girls (four, although they asked for five) came onto the stage area but I can’t quite remember what they did. As well, most of us sitting watching were also female, with just a few men here and there. This all remains a bit mysterious so I need to find out more! My take on it is that Moh was being blessed and purified for his wedding.
Krish and Moh’s mother sits with Moh inside the tent for the puja
I shouldn’t find it so hard to write about Toronto. I know it very well, even as it changes. Perhaps it’s the familiarity that stops me in my tracks.
But what is different…in Toronto?
So I’ve been lazy about blogging and perhaps the plan needs to be to see things differently. There’s always something new and interesting everywhere…if you look for it. I’ll do some catch ups with photos for a while until I get into the groove. There’s likely more to say than I imagine.
It’s a different look around here. The streets have smaller trees but during May, after a hard winter, the rain comes and the sun shines, and things get very lush and fairly wild. This to me is what Toronto in May is. I’m not sure how different this is from anywhere else but it’s certainly not Hackney.
The architecture in Little Italy and Little Portugal is…well…quaint! It veers between hideous, garish, practical, and pretty. I remarked it’s like a mini Garden District at times….all the verandahs and gingerbreading…the mix of styles could be disconcerting but it flies in the face of a city I’ve often called too homogeneous. What’s remarkable is how very close to the centre these streets are. Less than a couple of kilometres.
For me, nothing beats London for street art. Toronto likes a lot of script type art (Wikipedia reminds me that the writing style is the true graffiti and everything else is street art) but there are some gems if you keep looking.
There’s a huge foodie scene in Toronto but you have to know where to go. For me, it’s always the simple, hidden gems that I’ll come back for.
Very many years ago I got a temp job on Spadina Avenue at a tailoring factory. At lunch time, everyone stopped work and ate lunch on the factory floor. Someone gave me a taste of their sandwich (bun) one day, when I asked what they were eating. It was amazing. I thought about it for years but could never remember what it was or where to get it.
Then by accident, when my sister was living in Little Italy years later, she took me for a sandwich. And it was the same one! What was it? A ‘hot veal sandwich’ from San Francesco Foods, a tiny Italian grocery store that made sandwiches in the back room for the locals. A pounded veal cutlet is fried, dipped into tomato sauce with added peppers (as hot as you choose) and piled onto a Kaiser bun. And you have a Toronto institution. (You can also choose the eggplant, chicken, meatball, steak, or vegetarian options. For me, it’s always veal.
We once asked an Italian, my friend Esmeralda’s then boyfriend, if he’d ever heard of such a thing. He was horrified – that’s not Italian! No! But In Toronto, that is Italian.
San Francescio has become a slicker chain and I don’t like their sandwich any more. So this time Krish and I went to nearby California Sandwiches and shared their monstrous sandwich between us. It’s always with a Brio, which is the Toronto version of Chinotto – slightly less bitter, more sweet, but perfect with a spicy meat sandwich.
Little Italy has that distinctive Canadian-Italian touch, with its own community. It even has its own radio station, which has its own enormous annual picnic. Johnny Lombardi was a pioneer of multicultural broadcasting in Canada and his shadow looms over everything. And it’s a great place for a time warp. Maybe more about that later.
Statue of Johnny Lombardi, pretty much the King of Little Italy, for so many years (Amusing touch from Krish in his hand)Time warp in Little Italy
Toronto now has a Toronto sign. Try getting anywhere close to it with all the tourists and photographers, though. It’s in front of New Toronto City Hall (the old one is beside it, across the road);.The new City Hall was built in 1965 and is iconic for the city – also appearing twice in the Star Trek franchise so you may recognise it.
Nathan Phillips Square (City Hall) and the new Toronto sign
And about the cannabis culture. Now it’s legal, it’s lost its grass (haha) roots. So shiny. I can smell it everywhere. No one mentions it, no one thinks about it. And no one looks intoxicated.
Toronto is becoming denser and more populated, thanks to the mega new development everywhere. New condos are squeezed between older condos. I have no idea how this compares to London but it feels worse. The skyline is disappearing, parking lots are gone, small buildings are being razed and replaced by two, three, four towers.
Toronto The Good may be good (polite, measured, modest, orderly) but, despite its much quieter pride of place in the world, it’s trying to catch up in other ways than the condo culture and growing population reflects. It’s quietly proud. People like Drake have helped that.
Also helping is sports. This year the NBA team (Canada’s only basketball team) The Raptors have reached the finals and have won their first game. The city, as always, has come alive.
Canadian pride in a muralCanadian (Toronto) pride – reflecting the Raptors win
I’ve been much more conscious of Canadian pride and Toronto community spirit on this visit. People hang together, not standing apart. Perhaps this was always there but right now I do feel it.
