Valentine's day tomorrow (oh i mean today XD )... its late at midnite n im still doing up valentine's day gifts... nvm girls juz wait till tmr u want a surprise i'll give it to u :)
Mel u very smart harh choose to come juz in time for valentine's day, i die die muz give present to u. U like freebies rite??? Greedy potato :P
Suddenly felt like writing stuff in my blog... im quite obsessed with the yellow text thingies, this one's abt the mee pok vendor!!!
"
"As the school bell chimed for a final time in the semester, a sense of euphoria swept through the class like contagion, enveloping every student. The realization of absolute freedom from the mountain of examinations, annoying tests and assignments did not solely affect our class, but permeated easily through the solid cement walls of the classrooms as if they had never existed. Within minutes, ecstatic students were avidly discussing plans to celebrate at a Golden Village branch or in their own residence. Every student could be seen stretching his back and breathing in the sweet air of freedom, of liberation from the tumultuous suffering of the academic year.
An introvert by nature, I chose to avoid being a part of this hullabaloo and headed towards the Bishan MRT station alone. I was still light-headed from the fact that my school days were over that I practically skipped the way to my destination. Just then, my memory beseeched me to try out the famous fishball noodles from Changi Village that I had read about in the papers a couple of weeks ago. As a devoted fan of fishball noodles, I thought it was only fair that I treat myself to my favorite food to celebrate the emancipation from schoolwork.
When I arrived, I found to my surprise that the fishball noodles stall in Changi Village looked like just any other ones in Singapore from the outside. But I was immediately greeted with the acerbic aroma of vinegar merged with the tang of chili and steam. Without experiencing this wonderful concoction of smell, one would think that this was just an ordinary fishball noodles shop. Upon closer examination, you could see that its walls were adorned with awards and accolades from a variety of competitions and food reviews. The shop décor forced you to root your pupils towards its direction, away from the neighboring stalls overshadowed by its gargantuan reputation.
However, the chef’s appearance immediately belied his stall’s immense status. The soiled white T-shirt with chili stains, the week-old stub on his cleft chin and his thin, greying hair made him appear out of place amidst this plethora of sights and smells. He was like a bum told to work in a prominent, international gourmet company. Nevertheless, a glance at the long, meandering line of faithful customers quickly put away any concerns of his modest, unskillful appearance.
Forty minutes of patience was finally rewarded with an opportunity to place my order.
“Mushroom fishball noodles. Mee pok dry, extra noodles and vinegar please.” I requested cheerily, eager to silence my growling stomach.
“Chili?” the uncle asked, not taking his eyes away from the boiling water in the soup vat.
“Yes, please.”
With dexterity from years of experience, the man grabbed a large fistful of the mee pok noodles and thrust them into the boiling water, simultaneously scooping three fishballs and several slices of fleshy fishcake into a purple bowl. Gripping a white, ridged bowl in one hand, he allowed vinegar from a bottle to stream generously into it, then lumping in a spoonful of chili and lard oil. The contents of the purple bowl were then returned to the steaming vat of water.
The noodle uncle paused for a while to wipe the sweat on his forehead from the oppressive steam against his brownish-white sleeve, and proceeded to fish out the fishballs and fishcakes with his ladle into a white bowl. He reached for the handle of the wide-surface strainer. Then with each vigorous flick of his hand, he created a splash of boiling water that quickly disappeared back into the vat, leaving behind the tangy noodles free of the excess moisture. The steaming mee pok, together with its other ingredients, were then deposited into the white serving bowl, followed by delicious mushroom and dried onion toppings.
The finest noodles in the whole of Singapore, the zenith of gastronomical pleasures, were then placed before me. I could almost taste the springy noodles with my hungry eyes.
It was then that the noodle uncle finally noticed me for the first time. I returned his gaze, observing his facial features. He handed me the fishball mee pok, his weathered face creasing into a warm smile. His eyes reflected his pride, almost a hint of arrogance, from serving others his unsurpassed noodles, yet these could not conceal the hardship and weariness he had to undergo his whole life.
“Three dollars”, the old man declared.
Digging into my wallet for the crisp notes, I realized that in some way, I felt disconnected from the old, keen fellow in front of me. There was an intangible border between us, like an iron fence with barbed wire that segregated us into two different worlds. I was the hope of the nation, the leader of tomorrow, a budding talent amidst my school of scholars and future members of parliament. On the other hand, while he was esteemed to be the very best at his profession, he was two steps down the ladder below me. I was the buyer, and he the servant. The purpose of his existence was to provide me with the necessary resources that would enable me to rise up to the highest rung of this cruel ladder of status. He was almost forty years older than me, yet I looked down upon him.
“Boy, you from RI is it?” he suddenly asked.
“Yes.”
“I have a son in RI also. His name is Cheah Shu Kit. Have you heard of him before? You look like you same age as my boy” He smiled again, revealing his yellowing teeth, obviously proud of his son’s achievements. Before he could ask further, he was quickly interrupted by the next customer raring to eat his noodles after a long wait.
I was stunned by his words, more mortified by the thoughts of my superiority. Shu Kit was my classmate, a student who excelled in almost every academic subject, topping the class each year. We often spoke about how his family was so rich they would not mind spending any amount of money on his tuition, yet he did not dismiss these speculations. On the contrary, he often flaunted his wealth, lavishing his weekly allowances on fashionable accessories such as iPods and cell phone gadgets. Yet, here was his father standing in front of me, a coffee shop uncle, a labourer who could not have earned more than a meager salary!
Here was a man who devoted his livelihood to his son’s education and well-being. A man who invested all his efforts, blood and sweat, to offer his child an opportunity at success. A man who prayed every day to give his descendants a chance to procure a future with no worries. In this noble occurrence I saw a parent’s love for his child. I felt a deep sense of respect. I saw the old man in a different light, for there was now a halo above his wispy, grey hair.
In the end, I did not manage to savour the full taste of the fishball noodles. Sometimes, you just do not have the appetite to gobble down your food when you are simply too ashamed of yourself."
