East Indies Mansion was another fine place to spend a week — an authentic heritage building steeped in history, the residence of one of the founding fathers of Penang; and now painstakingly restored to its original design and detail as the private mansion of a wealthy 18th century Chinese merchant. Or so its website claims, and I’m happy to accept it. It now had ten guest suites on two levels around a central garden courtyard, and less than half of them occupied when we stayed.
We had one of the smaller suites, sparse but high-ceilinged and airy, with shutters that you could open out onto the courtyard. Breakfast was served, but no other meals — hardly surprising since George Town was full of restaurants, street food and markets of all descriptions, around the corner and just across the road. We were close to the little dining room, which meant I could pop in any time, make us tea or coffee, grab a biscuit from the jar and type away at the tables without being disturbed. A chest infection was starting to slow Heather down, so we took it easy — our specialty anyway.
When we did head outside to the streets we were in the middle of Little India — colourful, noisy and busy with people. One corner shop in particular had music blaring from its speakers all day. Others had touts on the street inviting you inside. Busy streets and sidewalks — all fine with us with the exception of that corner shop.
A few mornings we walked across town to Roti Bakar on Hutton Lane. This place was like a military operation, serving the multitudes. It was a treat to watch them work, especially the phlegmatic middle aged man who made my breakfast— forming balls of dough into sheets so thin you could see his hands through them, twirling the sheets into circles like neckerchiefs and laying them out on a hot plate to cook with a fried egg. He was a machine, and I felt for him as he seemed to have hip or knee problems.
Another favourite was in the Chowrasta Market, a busy area with a food court and outdoor food carts, where we sat one day and watched a young woman in a mask making curry puffs. Forming long narrow ribbons of floured dough, cutting them into pieces, dunking the pieces into seasoned flour, and dropping them into the fryer to cook in batches. All with elegant, economical movements while chatting with someone.
I like making bread, but this was like watching the Masters. Years ago I taught with a young American who was strangely proud of his stint as a short order cook. Years later I understand why.
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It had plenty of competition, but our favourite restaurant in Little India was Restoran Karaikudi. You turned left as you exited East Indies Mansion, turned left again, then left once more past the corner shop with the blaring music, and there it was — on your left.
Heather still wasn’t feeling the best, so I went down one lunch time and asked if they could do our food to take away. The same gentleman took our order most times.
I asked for one veg. Samosa, one Green Pea Marsala, one plain Naan and two Chai Marsala. “Your food is very good,” I said.
“Yes, but you always order the same thing,” he said.
“That’s because it’s very good,” I said, “And you’re not correct. We’ve had Fish Tikka twice, we’ve had steam rice, we’ve had Aloo Mutter, we ordered plain tea once by mistake, and I’ve had two Tiger beers. Most of your food isn’t veg., and you don’t serve Dosai at lunchtime.”
So there.
