her to the kitchen.
“Look at the time,” she said. “Maybe you should make a snack, something to eat.”
A brilliant idea, I thought. Indonesians can never think on an empty stomach. I was proud of Vivienne for being able to read the situation so quickly.
I searched the refrigerator and kitchen cupboard to see what was there: noodles, left-over chicken, some vegetables… Aha, I knew what to prepare. I nodded and looked at Vivienne who had read my mind and begun to assemble the things I would need: a wok, oil, and spices.
I stuck my head out of the kitchen and announced to my friends: “You guys go on without me. I’m going to whip up some fried noodles. Maybe in the meantime you can come up with a brilliant idea.”
Having just said that, I already knew the discussion would falter further and that the only thing they would try to do is find a place in the room where there might be a bit of moving air.
I quickly sliced the shallots, garlic, and green vegetables, and then chopped the chicken into bite-sized pieces. I only asked Vivienne to help prepare the ingredients; she had learned long ago that I didn’t like anyone touching my kitchen tools. Straightaway, she a put a finger’s length of water in a pot and set it on the stove to boil. She raised her eyes when I took some oil from a can in which I kept used oil, but refrained from saying anything. I knew that for health reasons Vivienne didn’t like me using this reused jelantah oil in my cooking, but I used only a little bit, just enough to add the flavor of the onions that had been fried in it, and that was the secret of my spice mixture. Maybe it wasn’t the most healthy, but it was always delicious.
In just a few minutes, I had prepared the fried noodles and put the platter on the dining table for my friends to help themselves. Lintang was the first to dish up. Her eyes closed with pleasure as she began to eat. “Un très bon plat!” she announced, sticking her small right thumb in the air. Of course, given that my daughter was also my biggest fan there was an element of bias in the appraisal. Lintang, now seven years old, was the light of my life.
My three friends attacked the table like a trio of prisoners who’d been fed charred rice for a week. Tjai used chopsticks to eat the noodles, moving them so quickly and easily that his bowl of noodles was empty and slick in just a short time. Risjaf, on the other hand, picked slowly at his portion, savoring each mouthful as he ate. Lintang, meanwhile, helped herself to a second portion; the bowl she was using was a child’s-size bowl. Vivienne smiled with satisfaction as we finished our bowls and then gave us permission to smoke.
While the rest of us stretched out on our chairs in the living room, staring at our embarrassingly protruding stomachs, Risjaf continued to eat his noodles slowly, not caring that the rest of us had already finished. With greasy lips, still slick from his noodles, he said offhandedly, “Why is it that you can’t get fried noodles this good anywhere in Paris?”
Mas Nug suddenly looked at Risjaf and blinked, as if a light bulb had come on in his head.
“Yeah, just think,” Risjaf went on, “how nice it would be if, whenever we pleased, we could eat fried noodles as good as Dimas makes. Or his fried rice smelling of shrimp paste. God, my mouth is beginning to water just thinking about it. Or his nasi kuning, like the kind he made for Lintang’s birthday, with nice crispy slices of tempeh.”
Suddenly, as if struck by what he was saying, Risjaf shrieked like a scientist who had just solved some kind of formula: “That’s it, Dimas! I know what business we can do! I’ve got it!”
Mas Nug and Risjaf beamed at each other happily, like they wanted to hug each other. Oh, no, I thought. What would they have me do? Start up a catering business?
But then I looked at Tjai, whose eyes were shining brightly with a glow that permeated mine—a completely different reaction from the one earlier, when we had been discussing business ideas he dismissed as crazy.
He looked at me straight in the face. “That’s it, Dimas. I think we’ve discovered our destiny. As a cook, you know, you are second to none.”
I had never heard Tjai speak with such enthusiasm before. His eyes flashed. Mas Nug put his hands on my shoulders and called out to the heavens: “Dimas! We are going to open an Indonesian restaurant in Paris!”
Even though the Parisian summer was still so hot I thought my skin was going to blister, my heart felt cool now that a decision had been reached. The next night we gathered at Risjaf’s apartment and, with no objections to slow down the course of conversation, we discussed our new plan. Mas Nug, twisting the ends of his Clark Gable mustache, usurped the role of manager and began to issue orders as to what each of our tasks would be.
“Obviously, Dimas will be the head cook and will choose the menu. We all know that he has a way of changing the simplest ingredients into a wonderful meal—no different from the words that slip from his pen to become a poem.”
I guessed that Mas Nug’s excessive praise was his way of consoling me because Tjai had not given his consent to the literary journal I wanted to produce.
“Tjai will look into a financial model. Once we’ve come up with a proposal, we can send it to possible funding sources: government and non-government agencies and the like as well as to our friends scattered throughout Europe, inviting them to contribute to the cause or to lend us the money we’ll need. We have to weigh the alternatives and choose the best one. Tjai can also look into what kind of business our restaurant should be, a limited license corporation, for instance, or possibly a co-op…”
“A cooperative. Obviously, a cooperative!” Tjai said firmly.
“OK, a cooperative it is,” said Mas Nug obediently, leaving me to wonder who in our group held the most authority.
“And in our proposal,” Mas Nug said immediately, as if to reaffirm his position, “we must be very clear about the raison d’être for the business model we’ve chosen. It might be, for instance, for the purpose of strengthening solidarity. As a cooperative, this will mean that we have to schedule an annual assemblée générale and choose a slate of managers every two years.”
I looked at Mas Nug with admiration. Any time we started to discuss how to run an organization, his brain worked as fast as lightning. Since Mas Hananto was no longer with us, it seems that the spirit of leadership had moved to him—even though it was at times expropriated by Tjai, who had a much greater faculty for finance and figures.
Risjaf stood like a soldier at attention, waiting for orders from his commander; but Mas Nug pretended not to notice. “Someone will have to undertake a survey of other restaurants—especially the Asian ones: Vietnamese, Indian, and Chinese—to see if we should focus on a place for fine dining, a casual eatery, or maybe a fast food place where people could take their meals home.”
“It’s not going to be fast food!” I answered quickly. “Indonesian food is fine for a casual restaurant and even for fine dining, but definitely not for fast food. And we’re going to have a bar. This is Paris, after all. I’ll get to work on coming up with a menu,” I said with a growing sense of confidence.
Everyone listened attentively. Tjai diligently took notes.
I ran on, a dam now bursting inside me: “One thing for sure is that we should hold lots of kinds of events: book launches, for instance; discussions about developments in Indonesia; and literary readings, films, art exhibitions, and photography. We’ll need a curator so that they run smoothly and so that the people who come to them will want to stay and eat at the restaurant or drink at the bar. That way, the place can become known not just as a good place to eat, but as a place where people can hang out and socialize.”
My three friends clapped their hands happily, even Tjai who stood and raised his thumb when I mentioned the need for a bar.
“I can do the research. I can also curate the events!” Risjaf said, still standing in front of Mas Nug.
Mas Nug