Around the World in 80 Dinners - Bill Jamison [15]
The large, long room inside is pleasantly simple in most respects, with minimal furnishings, but the king bed faces the balcony and enjoys the same perspective through a wall of windows and glass doors, allowing the sun to rise vividly in the morning right in front of our eyes.
The only downside for us is the trek into and out of the suite, the bottommost of twenty or so thatched stone guest cottages that sprawl like a Balinese village on a hill beneath the hotel’s lobby. A winding outdoors pebble-and-concrete pathway, composed of 125 giant-size steps, connects all the facilities, starting at the top in the lovely reception area—full of striking woodwork, towering tropical plants, and local statuary—and descending precipitously to a terrace restaurant, a spa, the lodging, and near the end, just above our bungalow, a swimming pool watched over by the granite figures of a man and a woman, he pissing fountain water into the pool, and she squirting the same from one of her nipples.
Bill compares the trail to the one down the Grand Canyon, which he hiked right after his fortieth birthday to prove some kind of manly point that has long since seemed irrelevant. “It feels almost as steep and taxing, but it’s a damned sight shorter at least.” Hardly a comforting thought to a flagging Cheryl, who keeps threatening to spend the night in the lobby.
In addition to the suite, our $130-a-day honeymoon package includes two complimentary dinners at the hotel, as well as free breakfasts, an art tour, and a massage. For our first, arrival-night dinner, Ulun Ubud’s general manager, a shyly confident young woman named Wulan, asks, “Would it be okay with you if we present some of our specialties, instead of you selecting from the menu?”
“Please do,” Cheryl says, and the food just starts coming. The appetizer is a soothing potato soup with a coconut milk base, served in coconut shells with a garnish of whole, decoratively cut scallions. The main course consists of two plates, one of grilled beef topped with a cheese sauce and the other vegetarian, mainly fried items such as batter-dipped cauliflower and miniature spring rolls. “Hindus serving beef?” Cheryl asks, and then answers herself. “Yeah, I’m sure some of them do eat it.”
“Even if they have a little to learn about cooking it,” Bill says. The spring rolls feature a hint of curry in the creamy vegetable filling, and turn out to be the best version we find in Bali. A wonderful dessert—fresh tropical fruit cubes suspended in a yogurt and coconut milk mixture—wraps up the meal.
When the waiter clears our dishes, bowing as he leaves, he asks, “You meet the chief?” Most of the warm, generally reticent staff speaks some English, but only Wulan is proficient. Given the context, we assume he wants to introduce us to the chef, and that’s who shows up at the table. Bill mumbles something he hopes vaguely resembles “thank you” in Indonesian, and switches rapidly back to English to compliment the spring rolls and the dessert in particular. The chef silently extends his hand to shake and beams with humble gratitude.
Another bowing young man brings our breakfast to the room in the morning, an option we take each day in preference to a round-trip schlep to the hilltop dining room. The menu includes simple Western fare such as eggs and toast, but both of us always order the nasi goreng (Indonesian fried rice) or mie goreng (a similar dish of fried noodles). For extra flavor after a few days, we learn to ask for an over-easy egg on top and we pick up a local hot sauce in town to add some zip. Fresh fruit comes on the side, usually a plate of mixed tropical choices from the island. Sitting at a small table on our terrace, in swiveling rattan and cane chairs, we savor the view with the food.
“I’m not sure what to make of all the bowing,” Bill says one morning early in our stay. “It appears like a guileless gesture of