Leila Chudori - Home

Lintang took control of the field: “The Padang set menu is good. How about if we all get nasi Padang ? That way you’ll get a variety of dishes to try. And you too, Nara? That way I can steal food from you.”

“Four nasi Padang ,” she said to Tjai. “And do you want to try the iced jackfruit?” Lintang asked the three men. “It’s like this,” she said with her right thumb in the air.

The young men nodded like dullard cattle. Nara smiled, letting Lintang control the wheel. Tjai just stood there, not moving, not doing anything, just staring at these Indonesians who were strangers to the place.

Lintang quickly understood that these three men had to kulo nuwun , that being to offer their greetings to the restaurant owners.

“Oh, Om Tjai, this is Hans and Yos and Raditya.”

The three men stood and politely shook hands with Tjai. “And this is Om Nugroho and Om Risjaf. The other partner is my father, who is in the kitchen cooking. We call them the ‘four pillars’ of Tanah Air Restaurant.”

The three nodded politely in the direction of Risjaf and Nugroho who stood somewhat at a distance, watching. Risjaf and Nugroho returned their nods.

Tjai wrote down their orders and then scuttled off towards the kitchen. Lintang imagined his gesticulations as he reported to her father that there were three young Indonesian diplomats sitting outside, in the restaurant, at a table with his daughter. Then she saw Om Nug and Om Risjaf disappear behind the kitchen door as well. She was tempted to sneak into the kitchen just to overhear the tittle-tattle of the four pillars, who had never seen any representatives of the New Order government set foot in the restaurant ever since it opened.

Hans looked around at the walls of the restaurant. Raditya left the table to study the guest book on a side table near the entrance. He looked at the signatures and read the supportive messages of famous people who had dined there: Indonesia’s leading poet, Rendra; the famous sociologist, Arief Budiman; Abdurrahman Wahid, head of Indonesia’s leading Islamic organization, and his wife, Nuriah; Danielle Mitterrand, wife of the French prime minister; and others.

Only a few minutes passed before, suddenly, Dimas Suryo — yes, Dimas Suryo, Lintang’s father — appeared at the table carrying several plates of nasi Padang . Lintang was sure he had come out of the kitchen to make sure that his daughter was not being scalped or in any other way violated by these three young men. She repressed a smile as she helped her father serve the meals.

“I know you only ordered four servings,” her father said to Lintang, “but I felt sorry for Nara. You’re sure to eat most of his meal for him.”

Lintang motioned towards the visitors. “Ayah, this is Raditya and Hans and Yos. They’re friends of Nara.”

The three young men rose instantly, like soldiers before a general.

Dimas shook their hands and then invited them to enjoy their meals. But he didn’t make a move to leave the table where Lintang and the young men were seated. He stood, his hands now knitted together, watching them. No smile on his face.

“Ayah…?”

“Yes?” Dimas lifted his brow.

Just as is done in Indonesia, the younger men were apparently waiting for the most senior person to give them permission to eat. Nervously, Raditya raised his spoon and fork and stuttered: “Ehem, shall we start, Pak Dimas?”

As if coming out of a trance, Dimas quickly answered: “Oh, please, please, go ahead.” He looked around to see his three friends standing, hands crossed, in front of the kitchen door. “If you’d like more, just ask Yazir,” he said to Lintang, then turned and made his way back to the kitchen. But Lintang’s three uncles remained outside, pretending to be busy, even as they kept their eyes on her.

“Sorry,” Lintang said in English, shaking her head. “They’re all very protective. They’ve never had anyone from the embassy come into the restaurant before.”

“No problem,” Yos said. “We understand.” He then lowered his head and dug into his meal, as if not wanting to raise his head again. The succulent pieces of beef rendang seemed to melt on his tongue. He forgot his friends’ presence and didn’t notice that Raditya and Hans had also lost themselves in the plates of food before them.

The three young diplomats seemed to have forgotten where they were, so engrossed were they in eating the beef rendang , the chicken curry whose sauce nestled with the steaming hot rice, and the spiced cubes of fried calves liver with diced potatoes. On each plate was also a portion of Padang-style green chili sauce.

Not caring that they were in Paris and ignoring their spoons and forks, just as they would do at a Padang restaurant in Indonesia, they dug into their meals with their right hands. Dear God, this was heaven. Why were they forbidden to come here?

Lintang signaled for Yazir to fetch finger bowls.

“My father still likes to cook himself, especially when we have special visitors,” Lintang said, opening the conversation. “And it’s been so long since I’ve been here, Ayah insisted that he was going to cook.”

The three young diplomats nodded, ignoring Lintang’s explanation. Their attention was on the scrumptious rendang and curried chicken.

“Aren’t you forbidden to eat here?” Lintang then asked, as if intentionally hoping to disturb the visitors’ pleasure. “Wasn’t there an official announcement to that effect from Jakarta?”

Risjaf, Tjai, and Nugroho, who were still standing within hearing distance, immediately pricked up their ears.

Hans reluctantly raised his head. “I don’t give a damn!” he swore in English, his lips smeared with oil. “Who could turn down an offer of rendang as good as this?” he said and turned back to his plate.

Raditya and Yos said nothing at all, so busy were they with their portions of curried chicken.

Raditya had broken into a sweat from the spicy heat of the meal, and Lintang laughed to see him wriggle out of his suit jacket and struggle to remove it without staining the sleeve with his right hand, wet from oil and curry sauce.

Even though she had already eaten two plates of nasi kuning earlier, Lintang ate her own plate of nasi Padang enthusiastically.

“My God, Lintang, where do you put all that food?” Nara laughed, knowing how much Lintang had eaten that day.

All the plates were completely clean and the scent of cloves from kretek cigarettes now filled the air.

Yos leaned against the back of his chair and watched the smoke he had exhaled. “Oh, God,” he moaned, “I really do not want to go back to the office.”

Except for Lintang, who was nibbling on iced jackfruit, the diners were now smoking, slowly playing with their cigarettes as if they were on vacation, without a care in the world.

Finally, when his cigarette was just a stub, Hans took out a folder from his valise and removed a multiple-page form.

“This is a visa form. For your name, write ‘Lintang Utara.’ Don’t use Suryo.”

Lintang furrowed her forehead. “And this box, for the family name?”

“That’s where you write ‘Utara.’ For all we care, that is your last name,” said Yos in English with an airy tone. “The important thing is that you get to Jakarta, right?”

Lintang nodded and proceeded to fill in the form.

Risjaf and Nugroho seemed less nervous now. They had begun to move around the restaurant, taking care of other customers. And Tjai was once again buried in his figures.

“Weird,” Lintang remarked as she intoned and wrote: “First name ‘Lintang.’ Family name ‘Utara.’”

“Not to worry,” Raditya said as he stubbed his cigarette. “With your French passport, the people at immigration aren’t going to be extra wary anyway. And even if they do notice that you have an Indonesian name, they probably aren’t going to give it any thought. Most Indonesians, especially the Javanese, rarely write down a family name. They don’t have one. Like Hesti Handayani, who works at the embassy here, and Retno Sulistyowati, a classmate of mine: their names are their own and they don’t put down another name to indicate who their mother or father might be. That’s what appears on their I.D. cards and in their passports.”