Chua Kok Yee
SAMBAL WITHOUT ANCHOVIES their newly purchased second-hand Nissan van. Being the
The table fan blows a cool draft across the kitchen,
dispersing the suffocating heat. Hanif feels it caressing his
skin, but that does little to improve his mood. The
squeaking and rattling of the old fan add to his annoyance.
"Why are you being so stubborn, ayah?" Hanif says.
"l don't like the idea."
"I've already explained it many times. Every cent saved
is good for the business."
The old man sighs and shakes his head. He lifts his face
and frowns at Hanif, but there is no defiance in his eyes. No
argument comes from his lips either. His father simply rises
from his chair and walks out of the kitchen. A group of old
men gathered around a long table outside greet him warmly.
He eases into their conversation on politics, rising petrol
prices and television wrestling shows. A smile returns to the
old man's face. But Hanif feels anger rise inside him. His
father prefers to waste his time on idle chat, instead of
spending it on important discussions. Every time he
proposes a new idea to his father, he runs into a brick wall.
Nasi Lemak Pak Samad is one of row of roadside food
stalls opposite the police station in Kampung Baru. It is a
wooden shack with a few long tables and stools, with a
small kitchen at the back. The stall has not been repainted,
nor has the furniture been replaced since it was set up
twenty-five years ago. And the metal roof is rusting.
Strangely though, these things lend a rustic and surreal
charm to the place.
Hanif was seven years old when his parents decided to
start the business, and he still remembers that first day. That
morning, right after the Isyak prayers, Pak Samad drove the
whole family to the stall from their home in Gombak, in
youngest, Hanif had the privilege of riding in front with his
parents, while his two older brothers, Harun and Hafiz, were
consigned to the back to sit with the assortment of pots,
kitchen utensils and containers.
He remembers the thumping inside his chest when the
van stopped in front of their stall, how the five of them
hurriedly disembarked from the van and stood in front of the
shop in disbelieving awe. Hanif thought it was so cool that
his father now owned a nasi lemak stall. He was now an
anak tauke; the son of a businessman, a term that he
previously thought was reserved for the children of rich
Datuks.
"Let's get to work," Pak Samad said.
Hanif was assigned to assist his mother, while his
brothers helped his father set up the tables and chairs. He
protested, preferring to be outside doing 'men's work', rather
than inside the small, stuffy kitchen helping with the
cooking. Yet, as soon as his mother heated up the wok,
Hanif was glad that he was there. His mother turned the
small kitchen into a paradise of aromatic delights. The
fragrance of rice boiling in coconut milk made his mouth
salivate, while the fiery aroma of sambal induced growls and
rumbles in his stomach.
"Hanif, don't just stand there. Please help me slice the
cucumbers," his mother said, when she saw him standing
there watching her stir the large wok. His job was easy; he
only had to cut the cucumbers into thin slices, and then put
them in a plastic container. When that was done, his mother
asked him to wash the cooking pots and pans, or to bring
her this or that. After about an hour inside the kitchen, the
cooking was done.
"Help me arrange the banana leaves, please," his mother
said. They sat on wooden stools next to one another. As she
cut the long banana leaves into small square pieces, he lay
them on the empty plates. It was a tedious and boring job.
"Why do we have to do this, mak."
 Without Anchovies
"The leaf will give out a nice fragrance when we serve
the hot rice on it."
After the leaf-cutting was finally done, he helped his
mother carry the containers from the kitchen to the long table
placed outside. The choice of sambal, fried chicken, curried
cuttlefish and hard-boiled eggs did not look like a sumptuous
spread, but the aroma was wicked. Hanif glanced at his
plastic wristwatch; it was already seven o'clock.
Outside, the street began to come alive. Hanif saw men
and women in casual or business attire walking past their
stall. He saw his father wiping the tables nervously for the
umpteenth time, his eyes trained on every passing
pedestrian. It was as if he was trying to throw an invisible
net over them and pull them into his stall with sheer force of
will.
"Don't worry, ayah. They'll come soon," Hanif said.
The words had barely escaped his mouth when a man
stepped into the stall. The middle-aged Malay man, wearing
a blue long-sleeved shirt with a yellow tie, carrying a
briefcase, headed straight towards the food. His father
walked briskly over and stood next to him. For the longest
five seconds in the life of Pak Samad's family, the man's
eyes examined the containers of food. Then he turned
towards Pak Samad, nodded and ordered a plate of nasi
lemak with fried chicken. They had their first customer!
Hanif remembers how his father's face had lit up. That is a
memory Hanif would always treasure.
But things changed after twenty-two years. From a new,
wide-eyed anak taukeh, Hanif grew into a seasoned business
man running restaurants of his own. Now, Hanif feels his
father lacks sufficient business acumen, and has let too many
opportunities slip away.
The stall is crowded most mornings. While most of its
customers are workers from the nearby offices, his father's
nasi lemak has a strong enough reputation to attract many
customers from all over the city. In fact, some years ago the
famous nasi lemak was featured in a gastronomy programme
Chua Yee
on television. Yet, his father did not bother to leverage on
any of these to grow the business. The stall remains as it was
years ago; a small roadside business.
At times, Hanif wishes that he could be more detached
about the stall, and not give a damn, as his brother’s advise.
His older brothers laugh when he tells them about his
difficulties dealing with ayah.
"Don't worry too much about it, let ayah do as he pleases,"
they tell him. That is easy for them to say, because they think
of the stall as nothing more than a relic from a nostalgic past.
After his brothers left home, they never came back. Harun is a
schoolteacher in Johor Bahru, and Hafiz works in an
accounting firm. But Hair is different. After leaving school,
he worked for twelve years in several hotels, before saving up
enough money to start his own restaurant business in a
popular shopping mall in Petaling Jaya. He inherited his
passion for the food business from his parents, and no matter
where he went or how far he travelled, he would never leave
that nasi lemak stall behind. In many ways, he was the
anointed successor of the family business.
Hanif and his father have another disagreement. That
evening, Hanif suggests a change to their sambal recipe. He
knows his father pours away the remainder of the sambal at
the end of every day. They are unable to keep the sambal
overnight because it is cooked with anchovies. If they were to
refrigerate it, the chilli pastes and onions would be alright, but
the anchovies would become soggy.
"Sambal without anchovies?" Pak Samad raises his
eyebrows.
 Without Anchovies
"Yes, we can just cook the paste, and then fry the
anchovies separately. We'll simply add them both
together when we serve the rice.'
"The sambal will not taste the same if you cook it
without the anchovies."
"True, but I don't think many will notice the
difference. This way, both the sambal and anchovies can
be refrigerated, and we can reduce the wastage."
"Our customers love our sambal because we make it
fresh every morning. Besides, sambal cooked without
anchovies will not be right. What's the point of serving
something if it's not good?"
"Come on, ayah! All the other stalls do it."
For a few moments, Pak Samad appears to give the
suggestion a thought. Then he looks at Hand and smiles,
shakes his head and walks out of the kitchen. Hanif rests
his clasped hands on top of his head in annoyance. It is not
the rejection, but the way his father dismisses his idea that
makes him angry. He finds that smile on his father's face
cynical, sarcastic and patronising. Does his father still
think of him as a clueless kid, instead of the successful
restaurateur he really is? Or, does his father believe that
only his own opinions count?
"Yeah, walk away and ignore the problem! Maybe you
don't care about the stall anymore, but I still do!" Hanif
shouts after him. "If mak were still around, she would be
ashamed of the stall!" His father's steps go dead. Hanif
sees his father's body become tense, and he expects him to
turn around and confront him. But he does not. After a
few moments, the old man simply walks away.
On his drive home, guilt gnaws at Hanif's heart. That was
a dirty, unfair blow below the belt. He had not thought
himself capable of being so nasty; using the thing his father
loved the most against him. He should not have used his dear
mother's name in vain at all, much less to attack his father.
His mother died ten years ago in a road accident. She was
walking home from the pasar malam when she was hit by a
Chua Kok Yee
car. The family spent eight hours waiting at the lobby of the
hospital as the doctors tried to save her life. It was four
o'clock in the morning when a doctor finally approached the
family. Her hair was tousled, and there were dark and heavy
circles under her eyes. When Hanif noticed the doctor's
drooping shoulders and somber face, he knew.
"I'm sorry," she said.
The doctor said something else to the rest of the family,
but Hanif was no longer listening. For the longest time, he
stood there numb, disbelieving. The surroundings became a
noiseless void as his mother's face, smile and laugher filled
his head. He had just spoken to her on the mobile earlier that
day. She had wanted a new set of curtains for the coming
Raya. He was to follow her to Kamdar the next day to shop
for the textiles. She had also promised to cook his favourite
ikan cencaru stuffed with chilli paste for dinner. How could
she be gone; so soon, so suddenly?
"Hanif?"
He heard his brother's voice. Harun was giving him some
instructions, to inform their relatives or something like that.
Hanif nodded. He was grateful for his eldest brother's
composure and strength. Someone needed to keep his head,
and to be in charge at times like these.
"Where's ayah?" Hanif noticed that their father was gone.
Harun and Hafiz looked at each Other.
"Ayah ... he left. He said it was time to open the stall," his
brother had said.
Hanif couldn't believe it.
Hanif is at work when he gets a call from Nora, his wife.
They had agreed to go to a movie that evening, but his wife
tells him to cancel the plans.
"Ayah called me a little while ago. He says his car is in the
workshop, and he needs me to help him pick something up
for the stall."
 Without Anchovies
The 'somethings is a couple of bundles of banana leaves,
but Nora knows better than to mention the specifics to her
husband. Hanif and his father had had an argument over
banana leaves yesterday evening. Pak Samad was over at
their house for dinner, and a pleasant evening turned into a
tense affair when Hanif began his speech about the nasi
lemak stall. Nora tried to steer the conversation away by
talking about their children's latest school projects, but it was
in vain, as Hanif kept pulling the discussion back to the
contentious subject. She noticed Hanif getting more and more
determined to impose his ideas on his father, and every
rejection by the latter only seemed to fortify his resolve.
And Pak Samad was totally resistant to the idea.
"It's a waste of money. Nobody cares about these things
anymore."
"That's the way we've been selling nasi lemak, and I intend
to continue," his father retorted.
''Come on, ayah. I doubt customers even notice the leaves.
You're only throwing money away."
''Banana leaves are not expensive."
15
"Every cent saved is a cent gained."
"I don't need that extra cent!"
By the end of dinner, the men had stopped talking to one
another. Some residual bitterness must have carried over to
the next day, because Pak Samad has called Nora instead of
Hanif to help him collect the leaves from his supplier in
Brickfields.
Her father-in-law is chatting with some customers when
she reaches the stall. He thanks her profusely and carries the
bundles of leaves from her car into the kitchen.
Nora has always found Pak Samad to be a sweet and
gentle man, and has genuinely liked him from the first time
she met him, when she and Hanif were courting. She wishes
the two men would get along better. She thinks that the
endless quarrels between them are pointless. Of course, her
husband claims it is for the 'good of the business', but she has
never bought that story. It is not about the money because, as
Chua Yee
Pak Samad says, an additional one or two hundred ringgit
makes no difference to them. Her husband simply wants to
prove a point to the old man, for whatever reason.
Nora is also baffled by the old man's resistance. He could
make a small concession, like agreeing to a new coat of paint
or changing some tables and chairs, just for the sake of
ending the feud. But he refuses.
She knows Pak Samad is not a stubborn man. She
remembers the arguments between her parents and Hanif's
mother during their wedding preparations. Her parents had
wanted to change the bersanding date to accommodate some
important guests, but the proposed date clashed with another
function at Hanif's side of the family. In the end, Pak Samad
proposed a compromise that both sides agreed on.
Maybe I should talk to him; just to understand what the real
problem is.
When she walks into the kitchen, Pak Samad is seated on a
stool. Nora is about to call out to him, but something makes
16
her hold her tongue. She stands at the doorway, observing
him. She sees Pak Samad sitting there cutting the banana
leaves into squares, but there is something peculiar about him.
His eyes are bright and alert as he holds a leaf up to examine
it before he slices it with a graceful and fluid motion, and
stacking them in the container next to him. The corners of his
mouth curve up in a smile, and his wrinkled face glows. The
old man looks younger, more alive and happier than Nora has
ever seen.
It is at that moment that all the pieces of the puzzle fall in
place, and she understands.
Hanif comes home late that night. Nora is curled up in
bed, reading a book. He undresses, and goes into the
bathroom without saying a word. Nora sighs and shakes her
head. She knows the argument with his father yesterday still
bothers him. To her, all the harsh words and posturing are
only macho— bullshit, and deep inside they are both hurt. In
 Without Anchovies
a way, their behaviour only affirms their love for one another,
but it will be a cold day in hell before they admit it.
Men and their stupid pride!
Fifteen minutes later, Hanif lies sullenly beside her. She
puts her book on the nightstand, and wraps her arms around
him.
"Still angry at ayah?"
"I don't want to talk about that stubborn old man!"
Nora thinks of the pot and the kettle, but suppresses a
snigger.
"The two of you are so alike; both stubborn and short
tempered."
After a pause, she adds, "And romantic."
That catches Hanif off-guard. He turns his head and looks
at her, "What has romance got to do with this?"
Nora smiles at him coyly, and rolls off the bed. She walks
towards the dressing table, and takes out a shoebox from the
lowest drawer. It was four years ago that she first discovered
the box, and it still sends shivers of joy into her heart
whenever she
17
touches it. It contained material evidence of her husband's
love for her. Inside were mementos from their courting days
that Hanif had collected; printed emails, movie ticket stubs
and receipts from birthday dinners.
Nora pulls out a sheet of paper from the box. Hanif
frowns. He does not see the relevance between the box and
his father. She holds out the paper, a print-out of the first
ever email she sent him.
"Do you remember what you told me when I asked you
about this?'
"Just something for the old days; to remember the times
when we were young ..."
Chua Kok Yee
" and the love we share," she continues. "We're fortunate
because we have things like this. Perhaps, ayah is not as
lucky." She presses the letter into her husband's hand.
"I think he misses your mother. Maybe he has nothing to
hold on to, except that stall, and the banana leaves."
His wife words linger in the air as he slowly digests them.
It is true. The nasi lemak stall had been more than a business;
it had been the fulcrum of their lives. The sambal recipe was
his mother's, and it was also her idea to line every plate with
a square of banana leaf. A faint flicker of understanding
comes into his eyes, which soon turns into a bright glow of
realisation. But with it, too, comes the sting of regret.
His wife is right; he had been too stubborn. He had
insisted that his father was being unreasonable, without even
trying to understand. He had scolded his father many times
for not throwing away all those old pots, without considering
the thousands of memories in every one of them. In his
pride, in his own need to prove himself, he had seen only the
costs associated with the banana leaves. But his father,
obviously, saw something else in them.
The banana leaves were his parents' love letters.
18