First published in Dutch, issue #5
In many ways, my dad’s past is a mystery to me. His life in
Indonesia, his childhood, even the years he first lived in the Netherlands or
his time in the Japanese camps, where he was kept with his brother and his mom:
I know so little about it. When asked, he’ll
give an evasive answer at best, or claims he’s forgotten since “that was such a
long time ago.”
But about once a year, during my own childhood, I’d get an
opportunity to delve into his world. I must have been about six years old when
we visited the Pasar Malam Besar in the Hague for the first time, during the
mid-seventies. Walking through those doors opened up a whole new world for me,
and allowed me to enter my dad’s world, even just for a day, just to catch a
glimpse. I stepped straight from the soggy Dutch soil into the bustling, busy
atmosphere of a colorful, enticing and dynamic Indonesian pasar malam, the night market…the
colorful dresses, the grace of the dancers, the sweeping melodies and most
overall, the pride that people had: presenting their art, sharing their food,
telling their stories. It was so different from our daily, Dutch lives. As a child, I soaked it all up. This was my
father’s world, his culture, his background.
I savored those days I got to go with my dad to the pasars. After listening to the music, we’d scout out the food stalls. He’d look at each stall, ask a question or made small talk with the vendors, and we’d move to the next one. I knew that it was just a matter of time before he’d buy something and we would sit, side by side, eating without saying a word. Sometimes he would tell me it tasted just like he remembered from his childhood, other times he’d wait for me to finish up so we could move to the next stall, without saying a word.
It was here that I first tried tjendol, a sweet milk beverage with tapioca tears and flavored with rose syrup. Where I once sank my teeth into fried frog legs, and where I ate so many satés that it almost made me sick. This is where, after a reprimand from my dad, I learned how to take small bites of my thin slice of spekkoek, honoring and respecting all the hard work that went into making this layered spice cake instead of devouring the delicacy in two big bites, like I used to do.
My Dutch and Indonesian roots are inseparably enlaced and
it’s often hard to determine where one begins and where the other one ends.
Those twinings are not only reflected in the history of the unique Indo
culture: it is also expressed in its cuisine, of which the rijsttafel is
possibly its capstone. A Dutch concoction, fathered perhaps by necessity, greed or nescience, the rijsttafel or rice
table contains a myriad of dishes, showcasing the large variety of colors,
flavors, ingredients and cooking techniques that encompass the regional Indonesian
kitchens. Small plates containing meats,
vegetables and condiments grace the table, sometimes up to 40 dishes at a time,
and are a feast for both the eye and the eater.
During the summer time, we will showcase various dishes to create your own rijsttafel, with as little or as many dishes as you like. Selamat makan!
During the summer time, we will showcase various dishes to create your own rijsttafel, with as little or as many dishes as you like. Selamat makan!
