The Blue Lotus 11

Kicking Back in Klang

Bak Kut Teh for breakfast. It’s Thaipusum, and I am in danger of getting drunk on Chinese tea. Well, not really. It’s nine am. My spouse is off plein air oil painting here in Klang. Being an Indian area, all Indian stalls, Dosa places etc are late opening, but Chinese save the day. Just at the rear of a huge light blue and white mosque is the Seng Huat Bak Kut Teh (Chinese pork bone soup) restaurant. You may want to ponder on that for a while.

I hesitate. Thinking, do I really want pork for breakfast. The only pork we British eat for breakfast is bacon. Here, they do not have bacon, fried eggs, sausages or mushrooms. The alternative is noodles from a dubious stall across the way. A stall backing onto a drain no less. My curiosity is piqued.  I am drawn into the bright interior by the sweet scent of the pork, intestines, pig's trotters and chicken’s feet lavishing succulently, aromatic and flavoursome in constantly boiling pots. This is, of course, the reason that those pots are so close to the footpath, right at the very front of the shop. That aroma, that gorgeous scent of mixed herbs and spices are enough to make your mouth drawl, and virtually drag you into the interior in much the same way that the smell of bread, or coffee might, elsewhere.

Bak Kut Teh, Char Kuey and Rice

With the kind assistance of an English speaking, youthful, Chinese waiter I order. A small bowl of boiled pork and its gravy, appear. An equally small plate of white rice and a long Chinese savoury donut (char kueh), chopped into small pieces, are put before me. It doesn’t take me long to devour this assemblage. I feel that something is missing. Something sweet perhaps. I wonder, will I ever settle into this foreign place where order of tea is done through sign language and my scant understanding of the local language. My failing, not theirs.

A gentleman in a black t-shirt and blue jeans wheels a low trolley in. The trolley holds a stained stainless steel pot, probably full of Bak Kut Teh. The gentleman lifts the obviously heavy pot to the serving area, replaces it with a lighter, empty, pot, then wheels the trolley back to the rear. The place is busy. There is no seating room outside, under the tree, near the bridge. There is only room in the slightly warm, but fan brushed, interior. Some Indians, many Chinese (of course) and only one white man (me), take the opportunity of partaking in this porcine delight. I remain a little flummoxed, however. Nine twenty and I have, effectively, taken lunch. What the hell happened to breakfast.

I look around for the young man who seated me, wishing to have another glass of Chinese tea (no milk, no sugar). The place is constantly busy, but I am reluctant to leave. I finally get to order my tea, panas (hot).

The day outside is manufacturing its heat. The heat, and therefore the day, can be felt as far back as my seat. The fans are unable to compensate. In the distance is a haze. Before that, two telephone masts spring from out of a small jungle of trees. The black apron wearing server brushes hair from her middle-aged face. A woman in purple re-lights the fire under one pot. Black and red polo-shirted youths, male and female, bound backwards and forwards carrying pork and gravy in various proportions to eagerly waiting customers. A lorry carrying hundreds of cardboard egg trays momentarily blocks my view to the outside. A young be-hatted Indian man, staggering under a weight, brings his two arms full of egg trays to the rear of the restaurant. The lorry moves, and so must I.

Plain Dosa and Teh Tarik

Klang’s Little India is hot, but relatively quiet. Relatively because of the Bollywood singing emanating from various Indian shops. I espy an Indian restaurant, open on this auspicious day. I cannot resist the lure of a teh tarik and possibly a plain Dosa. At Restoran Sri Baratha Matha Vilas, the teh tarik turns into two. The tea’s milky sweetness is exactly what I need on such a hot day. It is not even midday and the temperature has already risen to 29°, but feels like 35° my phone’s app says. It’s not wrong.

Suddenly sleepy, I amble to see my painting spouse, then to her car and nap until she finishes her oil painting of the Masjid India Muslim Tengku Kelana (Indian Muslim Mosque), Klang. The power nap, and a cold coke-cola enable me to share a little art talk with my group of painting friends, there in Klang

The day’s heat has grown to be most uncomfortable, somehow heightened by the quietness of the Thaipusum Day. While, elsewhere, Hindu devotees perform their various vows and prayers, in Klang the pavements and roads appear hushed, Sunday-like on this Wednesday. Uncommonly there are car parking spaces aplenty, but far fewer emporiums to frequent.