April 12, 2009
Nazi chef awes diners
By Teo Cheng Wee
Self-confidence is good. Having a commanding presence because of your self-confidence is better.
But being so self-confident about your commanding presence that you can be smug and have people in awe of you - now that's what I really want to master.
Bizarrely, I got a first-hand lesson on this recently from, of all people, a Nazi chef in Malacca.
My friends and I were on a foodie trip to the Malaysian town three weeks ago. There, we attempted the crazy feat of eating 10 (no, not a typo) meals a day.
A famous Teochew restaurant happened to be our last stop in our whirlwind two-day chomp through the town, so we were understandably stuffed heading into the small establishment, which seats only 30 people and requires a booking beforehand.
'Let's just eat a bit. Order small portions,' we said as we sat down.
The unsmiling face of the restaurant boss arrives, gesturing us to stop just as we were about to order our food.
'Just one person. Follow me,' he decreed, setting the intimidating tone for the rest of the meal.
We innocently volunteered one of our friends, clueless about the ordeal she would soon go through.
That friend, incidentally, is a tough-as-nails journalist who isn't easily fazed by difficult people. So it was slightly disconcerting when she came back, her face somewhat pale.
She told us the boss had led her to the patriarch of the shop.
He asked her what she wanted. She said steamed pomfret and prawn rolls, then asked for recommendations.
This seemed to annoy the man a little, that she didn't know what else was good in his distinguished establishment overflowing with renowned dishes.
'You've come all the way here, don't you want to try our signature oyster noodles?' he asked with a slight sigh. Taken aback, my friend quietly nodded.
He then uttered one word: 'Vegetable.'
Vegetable? Is he commanding us to order one vegetable dish? My friend didn't question - she just did as she was told.
He scribbled a few words on the paper and cocked his eye at her again, as if waiting for her to say something.
She thought that was enough. But then she noticed the old man had left two more slots on his notepad - for two more dishes.
'Uh, I, uh... think that's enough,' she whispered.
'Miss, you have eight people here. You don't think you can finish six dishes?' he asked in an irked tone.
As she hesitated, he continued: 'Look. If you can't finish, I'll pay.'
She took a deep breath, then said: 'Well, we ate quite a bit earlier and...'
At this point, the old man's face turned from impatient to indignant. Without a word, he ripped the piece of paper from the pad and stormed off.
My friend broke out in a cold sweat.
In the end, she placed her order with the first man - she obediently ordered two more dishes - and retreated to our table, traumatised.
At first we were both bemused and miffed by the owner's attitude, but then the dishes arrived, and one could almost understand why he acted like that.
The food was just out of this world. We might've eaten 10 meals a day, but we wolfed it all down as if we had no meals in 10 days.
As we were gobbling, we figured that he was probably upset that we ate before we arrived, as if there wouldn't be enough on his menu to satisfy us.
We also noticed that he was otherwise friendly with the other customers (those who didn't order four dishes for eight people).
His unhappiness didn't affect the quality or presentation of the food, as the waiters served and portioned our dishes in a cautious, loving manner.
There is a fine line between pride and arrogance.
I heard of a hawker in Singapore who asks people the moment they come to his stall: 'Food will take an hour. Can't wait? Go.'
I would say that is arrogance.
For the Teochew restaurant, the difference is that the towkay's attitude seemed to stem from the pride he took in his food, not in himself.
His is a rare case of straddling both so closely that it actually illumines, rather than diminishes, his presence.
As we slurped up the last bits of our yam paste dessert, the old man even seemed to know how to make an exit.
'Can finish right?' he said, with a knowing nod and a slight smirk.
We rounded off the meal perfectly - with laughter.
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