In a Saucy Mood

It’s just amazing just how much a plate of roti canai and curry sauce can ruin your day. Normally, this delicious local repast will set me up for the whole day – the crispy, thin and utterly delicious flat bread smeared with pungent curry gravy and a chunk or two of curried chicken always provides me with the positive kick start I deserve.

But, last Monday, everything went pear-shaped. On the way to work last Monday morning, I stopped off at the nearest branch of J & J Cafeteria – another one of Kuching’s best kopitiams. As usual, I sat at a table facing my car in the manner prescribed by all good spy manuals, and I ordered my usual two pieces of roti canai, accompanied by curried chicken drowned in J & J’s signature curry sauce which can strip the paint off any wall you choose to throw it at.

Now, everything was groovy, for a sweet moment or two, as I sipped my ginseng coffee, and tucked into the roti, cutting it up into stringy, crunchy pieces and dipping said pieces into the sauce. I felt a bit like Hemingway, or Somerset Maugham, or any of the famous expats who lived life to the full in their chosen countries of exile and felt Pretty Damn Good doing it.

But, seeing as it was Monday, I was wearing my lovely white shirt with the blue stripes. And, I received a sudden and brutal lesson on the effects of curry sauce on textiles. Yes, I got industrial quantities of curry sauce all over my lovely pristine smart business-like shirt!

All it took was one simple accidentally spastic backwards flick of the spoon on my part. It was a spoon which was loaded with sauce which was meant for my mouth. The result of this was that the entire left side of my shirt, as well as some of the fingers on my left hand, became be-speckled and peppered with little humiliating islands of brown, rich, and definitely not stain-free curry sauce.

After I had finished effing and blinding very quietly to myself, I struggled to my feet, and went over to the wash-basin. Water. Water. Water. Dab dab dab. Rub rub rub. Rinse. Dab. I managed to get the curry sauce itself off, but my shirt was still decorated with sickly-yellow patches which hardly got any less yellow with further applications of H2O and soap.

I was at this stage faced with a choice. Do I drive all the way back home and change shirts, which would make me late for work? Or do I brazen it out and walk with my left arm folded just so in the perfect position to cover the stains?

And you know what? Being a lazy sonofabitch, I opted for the stains. And the stains stayed until home time, staining my self-respect, and making me thoroughly depressed for the rest of the day.

I now know why Mafia bosses never wear bright-coloured shirts. Ever noticed? They always seem to wear dark shirts? The reason is now obvious. It’s to hide the stains from where they spill spaghetti sauce all over their shirts. So from now on, when I eat roti canai, or spaghetti for that matter, I’m gonna wear a nice black shirt. Just like the Sopranos.