Da Vinci? It's the kopi tiam code I can't
crack
The Newpaper 29 May 2006.
I LOVE our local hawker centre. Aside from the great food, it has a
community atmosphere I have not found in other cities around the
world.
By David Turner
I LOVE our local hawker centre. Aside from the great food, it has a
community atmosphere I have not found in other cities around the
world.
On weekend mornings, when whole families come down in their
slippers for kopi and carrot cake, it's like we're all having
breakfast together.
I think this is a big reason for Singapore's social harmony. I
always like to say, 'the country that eats together, stays
together.'
I want to be part of the family but, for an expat, it can be
difficult not to stand out as the clumsy ang moh who doesn't know
his char kuay teow from his chye tow kuay.
I think I have the correct uniform: Slightly-worn '90s community
event souvenir T-shirt, loose shorts for waist expansion and a red
plastic bag in at least one hand.
But it's the hawker centre code of conduct I just can't work
out.
There are so many secret codes to learn before you can truly say
you have earned your place at the table.
Before you even think about black or white, chilli or no chilli, O
or C, you have to make a lot of serious decisions.
Even finding a seat can be traumatic. Is it general seating, or do
I need to order from the stall I sit next to?
Does the tissue-paper reserves-table rule apply? (And is the tissue
on that table a reserve-table tissue or a used one?)
Even after I have found a seat, waves of uncertainty prevent me
from sitting down.
Is it self-service? Should I sit down after I order or wait at the
stall? Will the drinks man come to my table or should I flag him
over?
Believe me, when you're hungry, these questions can be
overwhelming.
Despite my best efforts to blend in, I often make the wrong move
and end up looking like just another FOCA - Fresh Out of Changi
Airport.
I try to blend in like a local by using the local language, but
this only leads to more fun at my expense.
For example, when buying chicken rice I would proudly ask to 'da
pau', as in take-away, like a real local.
The chicken rice lady would always laugh. I assumed she was
surprised at my mastery of the local dialect.
That was until my wife told me I was actually saying 'da pau', as
in big pork bun, and that she was laughing at me, not with
me.
Now I just say 'packet'.
Similarly, I now say 'black glutinous rice' when ordering my
favourite breakfast because I can never get ''burbur hitam' out the
right way. It becomes 'burbur hatum'.
Even if I do successfully order, the ordeal is not over, because I
can never tell when my order is ready.
When I order from our local zi char stall, it is always the same
routine.
I order by pointing at the menu and then I sit down and start to
wonder if I should go to the drinks stall or wait until they come
to me.
Eventually, I notice that the zi char lady is calling out an order
in Mandarin, but that no-one is collecting it.
She will repeat the order a few times before she notices a puzzled
ang moh looking at her expectantly.
She then turns away and announces to the coffeeshop in general,
'seafood crispy fried noodle!' Everyone looks as I go to collect my
order.
But just to prove I'm not a FOCA, I ask for extra chilli.
