“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.”
That’s Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Sonnet 43. I wonder if she had to endure a modern Valentine’s Day where the ways that seem to count inevitably include:
A box of artisanal, handcrafted, bean-to-bar chocolates; an entirely too flaunty bouquet of roses (and of course, their number and colours carry special meanings that we ought have deciphered and curated well in advance); a glossy and very manufactured greeting card with an equally manufactured message; enough soft toys to suffocate an adult with; and – why not, when you’ve already spent so much? – perhaps some bling bling.
It’s all terribly overpriced but would you pinch pennies on this special day? Where is the romance? Where is the love? (Where is the end in spending?)
There should be a simpler way of showing your love, no? When love works, it ought to be a gentle thing, not an outlandish showcase once a year or a constant barrage of verbal reminders. Love is daily action and daily practice. Love is a habit and an observance.
At least, this is what I have in mind when I think of you, my funny Valentine (and, as the song goes, my sweet comic Valentine). You make me laugh when you tell me there is no dal without some sambal.
You tell me you have never had good roti canai in KL. You tell me that the best roti you had is now half a country away and a pleasure lost in the past. You challenge me without a challenge to find a substitute for this perfect bread – or something better – something that will surprise and satisfy.
And so we find ourselves here, at the appropriately named Roti Valentine. (The name, I felt, must surely be a sign.)
I have asked many of our friends where we could find good roti canai served with both dal and sambal – your idea of a marriage of condiments, a consummate pairing. (I prefer a good mutton or fish curry but this quest is not about my taste buds, I know this much I assure you.)
We sample roti canai under the canopy of trees; we investigate roti canai in hawker stalls and even air-conditioned food courts in shopping malls. Nothing quite works for you – either the dal is too thick or it is too lumpy; the sambal too spicy or too sweet.
A lesser man would simply brand you as a picky eater but I love food as much as you do so I understand. (Also, I’m a perfectionist too; I never ceased in my searching till I found you, didn’t I?)
Somewhere out there must be the ultimate roti canai experience.
Finally a trusted foodie friend tell us about her secret spot, in the heart of the city, along a busy road and next to a car service centre. It’s a little after four in the afternoon when we arrive – an odd hour, one might argue for roti but I’d say any time is a good time if the roti is great – but the shop is already filling up with eager customers.
We order our drinks and two pieces of roti each: satu kosong, satu telur. One plain, one egg. We remember to ask for them to be garing. Extra crispy, please. When the roti is dipped in the dal and sambal later, soaking up all that gravy, yet remains flaky? That contrast is gorgeous.
Most folks would be content to wait patiently for their orders to arrive. Proud gluttons that we are, we can’t resist one of the small packets of nasi lemak placed at our table.
There is something strangely seductive about unwrapping the newspaper to reveal a compressed mound of coconut milk rice studded with a few ikan bilis, a wedge of hard-boiled egg and spicy-sweet sambal. It’s cold, of course, but delicious all the same. A promising appetiser ahead of the main attraction.
Over at the cooking area, we observe the roti master patting down balls of well-oiled dough and kneading them into shape. When he deems the dough ready, he flips and tosses it over his head, making it larger and thinner with every turn before finally dropping it onto the hot plancha.
His arms dance in the air, swinging the dough. How mesmerising. How’s this for a dramatic Valentine’s Day performance? You crack up at this notion and tell me I’m a cheap date. But you are smiling.
You wipe your tray clean with the last piece of roti canai, mopping up every drop of dal and sambal. Your eyes are closed as you let out an “mmm” of contentment. You make my heart beam when you tell me that I have found the roti that hits the spot, the roti that you have given up on finding but that I always knew existed, that I have always sought. For you.
“This is,” you say, “the best roti ever.”
Who knew roti canai could be this romantic? (Quite honestly, the bill might have been the most romantic thing about the entire experience, as I leave with barely a dent in my wallet.)
Valentine’s Day need not just be that one special day once a year. We can express our love every day with the small things we do. Sometimes, love is simply ordering one more round of roti canai and sharing it, fingers tearing the bread into smaller pieces and dipping them into dal and sambal together.