Where To Bring A Lecturer From Hong Kong in Melbourne.
“I was trying to write a letter on the bench, and the wind blew the papers everywhere.”
And I just cracked up, because that’s the Parkiest thing Parky could say.
We were flatmates from 2006-2007. Before that, the same dormitory from 2003-2005. I have many memories (photographs) of us doing college stuff together - winning theatre sports, running Ekiden, performing (terribly) Othello … but the really mundane things stuck out - me trying to self-learn Japanese from a business textbook, and him reading up the history of China in the dining hall, watching Miyazaki’s Castle in The Sky and chuckling every time someone said ‘Laputa!’, always a pot of T2’s buddha’s tears brewing somewhere.
“Look at you, the authoritative voice of food writing in Melbourne,” said Parky.
Yea, the authoritative voice that’s taking you to Papparich. Look at you, two years ago you were rationing carrots and all worried about your future, now you’re a professor teaching Public Health at the University of Hong Kong.
“Yea no, that’s ridiculous. I mean, I am, but I still don’t know what I’m doing,” he said.
If self-deprecating impostor syndrome could split into two naked emperors complementing each other’s down jackets, tapdancing towards a downward spiral, that’s the shape of our conversation.
It’s hard to take yourself seriously when facing your past.
But it’s true, Parky is guiding the elite youth of Hong Kong.
And I took him to Papparich.
“Shit, the chestnut guy is not here today!”
Parky cracked up, because that’s the Harvardest thing Harvard could say in Victoria Market.
We were short of time, and I had to navigate grocery shopping, lunch, drop off coffee for the wife at work, and pick up a kilo of roast duck and charsiu for her birthday dinner party, then the daughter from a playdate within a 1km radius in the CBD.
Sure I could’ve tried Roti Bar, Mamak, Lulu’s or even Jojo for our Malaysian lunch, but he’s from Hong Kong. He doesn’t need hype or a crowd, he needs space.
In another life, I’ve written about Papparich, so I won’t dwell on its quality, but after seven years (the same amount of time Parky’s been in HK), the once shiny, bustling space with Hainanese deco has deteriorated into a lo-fi bunker corroded by cracked leather seats and bruised spirit.
The place was still packed, but we agreed the mood was definitely ‘pre-recession desperation, early 1939 Poland’.
Gone were the Nasi Kerabu (blue rice), replaced by Nasi Kunyit (yellow rice). We shared one with fried chicken, curried eggplant, and asam fish, and two roti canai.
We had a nice long lunch without interruption. Bet you can’t get that at Cha Chaan Tengs in Mongkok.
I couldn’t believe he’s never been, we went to Brother Baba Budan for coffee. He did remember me bringing him to Cartel, so I might’ve skipped a full decade of coffee movement there.
I ordered him a magic (again, he’s never had one) and did such a wanky job explaining what it is, that the guy next to us offered to take a photo of us, assuming that we’re tourists.
He followed me as I finished my chores for the day, and we picked up Chika from work and dropped him off in the middle of King Street.
“That’s it? That’s the last time we see Parky?” Asked Chika.
Correction.
It’s the last time for YOU.
Parky was supposed to visit his relatives for the weekend, but due to some unfortunate circumstances, it was canceled.
I was supposed to work and celebrate my wife’s birthday for the weekend, but she went away on some leadership camp and my daughter insisted on squeezing out the last drops of her play date quota rather than having dinner with me, so destiny demanded Parky and I to have another dinner date the next day.
It’s no secret that I’m the biggest fan of Dainty, but since it is in South Yarra and there were only two of us, I wanted somewhere more sentimental to match his Ph.D. in international history.
Situated along Corrs Lane, the old site of Dainty, rumour has it that the original couple split up, the wife taking the chef to build the empire, while the other staying put, rebranded as Sichuan House.
Their Chinese characters 天府 (sky province) and 川府 (river province) add plenty of huajiao to this already spicy (unverified) gossip. So please don’t quote me.
“Fuck we’re so old,” says Parky.
We’ve always been old, our bodies has finally caught up.
I corrected him.
The signature dishes one would order in Dainty, one can also at Sichuan House.
SH’s mala profile feels rougher around the edges in a positive way, compared to Dainty’s distinctive polished empirical taste.
Like first love, and young optimism.
I had to pause and take in the beautiful moment.
It has happened a few times this year, at Matsu, Uminono, KFC on a bench with Hana, a few weeks ago at a pub … the realisation that my enjoyment of a meal had nothing to do with the food or the price.
To be alone with someone who saw me young, talking shit, on a Saturday evening in Chinatown, who knew we would never offend each other. Just like ten, fifteen years ago, no dish, no restaurant could improve or ruin it.
I think it’s age, or maybe I have finally turned Aussie.
As Hana’s pick-up time approached, the restaurant was 50% packed with white couples and families. Ten years ago, we had to coax Australians to the idea of tongue-numbing flower pepper, and now we have kids sucking on cumin-spiced lamb racks as their core memory. This was progress.
An Indian family of three walked in, and that’s when I told Parky, OMG this is basically a pub. A pub without pokies and only serves Tsingtao but the food was out of this world.
We walked to TANGS along Russell to buy some senbei crackers for Hana, before stopping by Kariton for ice cream.
Then we picked up Hana from South Melbourne, and once again dropped him off in the middle of the city, constructions blaring.
And that’s the last time we saw Parky.