Around the World in 80 Dinners - Bill Jamison [20]
Our most remarkable food experiences are in far humbler settings than the Amandari and Four Seasons. One evening when we’re leaving our regular Internet café to attend a dance performance, a young man calls out “Mr. William,” the name on Bill’s passport and hotel registration. He turns out to be one of Ulun Ubud’s young employees, who had mentioned to us earlier that he worked at night at his family’s street-food stand. Sitting with his sister on the sidewalk, fanning the flames of a simple ground-level charcoal grill, he asks us shyly but proudly, “You like to try my sate lilit?”
The prospect makes us a little nervous in a completely unregulated environment where tap water isn’t safe for drinking, but we can’t refuse without being rude. After a couple of bites, Bill says truthfully, “This is the best sate I’ve tasted in Ubud,” and Cheryl seconds the sentiment. The cook’s silent sister, who probably speaks no English, then takes two portly, leaf-wrapped packets off the grill and hands them to us, motioning for us to open them. As we do, she picks up a small jar of homemade sambal and spoons a little on the sweet-potato filling inside. It’s also delicious, which we try to convey with lip smacking and other facial expressions. Bill pulls out his wallet to pay for the treats, but they won’t accept any money, the brother merely saying, “Gift, gift.”
Another day we relish lunch near the center of Ubud at Ibu Oka, where the total tab for both of us together with drinks reaches only $3.80. The open-air eatery sells just one item, babi guling, or roast pig, cooked until the turmeric-basted skin is crackling crisp. As you approach the entrance from the town’s main street, you have to dodge the butt of the young hog hanging over the sidewalk at the end of the carving table, stand in line for the chow, pay your dues, and sit either on floor cushions at low tables in a covered pavilion or outside on wobbly stools at a higher table draped with a Coca-Cola oilcloth. Taking a stool each, we start sampling the contents of our paper plates.
“Wow,” Cheryl says. “This reminds me of the pork at a good Southern barbecue joint, with bits of the dark outer meat mixed with slices of the juicy inside meat.” Bill agrees, but then laughs about the likelihood of an American pitmaster serving the same side dishes, a small piece of well-seasoned blood sausage, a scoop of rice, and some lawar (a finely chopped salad with grated coconut), made in this case with green beans. A shared sugar bowl of an incendiary sambal sits at the center of the table, daring diners to indulge. With or without the sauce, this is pigging-out at its best.
Another feast awaits us Sunday night at Nyoman’s home. Neither of us has any idea what to expect, so we review cultural protocols, reminding ourselves to avoid pointing feet at anyone when we’re sitting (an offensive gesture), to refrain from patting a child on the head (the holiest part of the body), and to eat only with the right hand (the left is reserved as necessary for sanitary functions). At the appointed hour, whether we’re prepared or not, Nyoman picks us up at the hotel for the short drive to his family compound. Like others we’ve seen from the street, an elegantly carved doorway leads inside, where modest residential buildings border the property around a small private temple in the center. Chickens scratch around the open spaces.
Nyoman escorts us to the front terrace of one of the houses and seats us on low couches around a small table covered with a batik cloth. Nodding toward the inside, he tells us, “This is where I live with my wife and our three-year-old son, Wayam.”
“Is that Wayam?” Bill asks, indicating a photo above the front door of a child in a basketball uniform.
“Yes, and the paintings on the wall are some of my recent works.” Pointing across the courtyard, he says, “My parents live there. We all share a kitchen and bathroom in the far corner. Behind you, next to the temple, the