When I was in Berlin with a group of British mates, those guys insisted on taking me to lunch to try out, in their words, the ‘world’s best soup’. And just what could that marvellous dish be? After I insisted on knowing what it was before I would follow them, they grudgingly revealed that their 'secret soup' was nothing more than chicken soup.
So we set off from our hotel by bus, rail and then bus again until I was completely disorientated before we arrived at an ordinary looking restaurant but which was packed with Germans quaffing huge multi-litre-mugs of beer and eating various dishes that I recognised as chicken – roasted, broiled, boiled, sautéed, deep fried, etc, and of course the ubiquitous bowls of chicken soup.
Cynical me was grumbling quietly all along the way at the trouble and fuss just to get at a bowl of Heinz-like soup. But you should have seen the anticipative looks on my pals’ faces as they waited impatiently for the wunder-dish.
The pièce de résistance soon arrived, served by an exquisitely beautiful and tall leggy buxomly Valkyrie who even pleated her flaxen blond hair up in typical ancient Nordic fashion – hmmm, perhaps the long arduous trip wasn’t a waste afterall.
Maybe I was an ugly shortie, virtually a dwarf by comparison to her magnificent Asgard-ish Voluptuousness, but then, didn’t the beautiful Freya, the Vanir goddess of love and fertility, spent a few lustful nights of salacious jostling with the 4 dwarves after they crafted for her Brisingamen, the golden necklace?
As my mind flicked back to that particular episode from the Tales of Asgard, I absent-mindedly fingered my stainless steel necklace that a kampong (village) sweetheart gave me before I left to work in Kuala Lumpur. Let it not be said I wasn’t hopeful. OK, it wasn’t gold but it was stainless steel, … er … well, Malaysian stainless steel then, because through the sexcitment of my reverie I managed to rub off some of its accrued rust.
As she served me the soup I gave her a tentative smile - yeah, I know, I have said this before, that sometimes my smile would come across to women as an frightening ogrish leer. Amazingly she reciprocated with a most un-Teutonic sweet smile. As poetry in motion soon glided away magnificiently, everyone at my table kept their eyes on her rather than at the soup, and rapidly computed her biological potential:
(1) die Beine (legs) – lang und wunderbar
(2) die Hüfte (hips) – fantastisch und wunderbar
(3) die Brüste (.. er ..) – mein Gott, they’re most wunderbar
When she disappeared into the kitchen, we reluctantly turned our gaze finally on to the soup in front of us – it’s a clear soup with small chunks of chicken, rice and chopped celery. It’s nice, but my mates were slurping theirs up as if they were just released from Auschwitz.
Bruce asked: “Well KT, what’s your verdict?” I answered “Not bad.”
Bruce and the rest were outraged by my nonchalant casual response: “Not bad? Bull-bloody-sh*t! It’s f**king marvellous, absolutely bonk-ish wunderbar! You f**king lying Malaysian, always downplaying the quality of European cuisine.”
And there I thought only the Aussies used the F-word. But I hadn’t expected the Poms to get so aroused and enthusiastic about a soup in Berlin. I explained why I wasn’t all that impressed though the soup was definitely good and served by a Vanir goddess.
“My Mum cooks the same soup, but her quality is far far superior”, which got me another round of invectives centred on the 6th letter of the English alphabet.
“No kidding, honest to goodness, my Mum does cook such a soup In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised the chef of this restaurant had obtained the recipe from Penang. It’s quite a common soup there.”
Needless to say, Bruce and company were scornful and sceptical about my seemingly bullsh*ting brazen boastful claim, which forced me to extend an invitation to Bruce to sample Mum’s soup at my place, as he was then about to visit Penang.
Soon the day arrived when he came to my house and Mum had to defend my honour.
To be continued ……..
(1) Scary Soups!
(2) Does an Asian eat Asian food at home?
(3) The not-so-humble Basil