“Hainanese chicken?” the day manager asked, raising a square plate with rounded edges and a bowl of light yellow rice, almost white in the light, her bespectacled face frazzled by the noise 15 chattering college students were making at her restaurant on a lazy Monday afternoon.
Four tables were lined up before us, their warm light brown tops turning even warmer and even lighter in the early afternoon sun. The group, all raring to eat, filled the restaurant with questions about the menu: What looks good? What does this mean? Do you think this is good? What are you getting? If some had ordered earlier, they were already eating. Either way, the table was too busy to notice the poor manager.
“That might be theirs,” one by the restaurant’s glass doors, finally noticing the brunette, mumbled, pointing to the middle half of the four aligned tables.
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| The chicken lay boiled and chopped on clean white porcelain with sweet soy sauce, chili paste, and blended ginger... |
No answer; it seemed the whole table was too focused on eating their roti canai and tom yang goong to hear me ask whether or not we did order that darn meal.
