by some stroke of fate, here i am at k-cafe’, a little restaurant tucked inside mookai suites, whose very existence eluded me till about a week back. but now that i am beginning to become a reviewer of some repute, i should perhaps get used to surprises such as this. and invitations. will invites blunt my ‘analytical knife?’ (not a euphemism). we shall soon see.

so, i’m with hasanbe, the artist, and haseena, fellow scribbler and woman of talent. not great talent mind, just talent, but talent all the same.

‘what’s that you’re muttering?’ haseena asks.

damn. is there anything more shameful than being found out speaking to yourself? many come to mind but this clearly implies some sort of mental malfunction – who among us likes being compared to bonafide nuts?
hmm. i guess it would depend on the nut.

and speaking of, last night i spent an hour with an artist.

‘everything that’s wrong with art today is because of modern art,’ the artist said. i nodded. it was shaping up to be the longest hour in my recollection.

‘now the resonance painters had skill – that’s undeniable,’ he went on. ‘their work is beautiful, no one will disagree.’

‘hmm.’ i said. and then: ‘i’m sorry, the what painters?’

‘resonance. you know, michaelangelo, leonardo and them,’ he said.

‘ah. resonance,’ i responded, resonating finally and deeply with what was said. after all, why expect artists to use words sensibly let alone correctly?

‘are you ok?’ asks hasanbe. ‘you seem like you’ve got a lot on your mind.’

‘oh!’ i exclaim but then i spot the servers with our plates. ‘here’s the food.’

i lay to waste an artfully laid out plate of chili chicken – it is truly good, not much gravy but the pieces are succulent and sweet. a great meal for 99 bucks that also throws in a drink and dessert. the drink is iced lemon tea. it’s not as lemonade-y as most places, fairly decent. the dessert is ice cream. nothing wrong with that.

‘are you writing the review in your head? is that why you’re twitchy?’ asks hasanbe.

‘you can actually SEE his mind contorting itself, trying to come up with something resembling wit,’ laughs haseena.

‘cut it out guys! tell me what you think of the grub.’ i say.

‘it’s great,’ says haseena. ‘really love my nasi lemak. coconutty. i love that. love the nut.’

‘and my beef – faultless,’ remarks hasanbe, though i think he meant flawless. artists.

‘well, this is it guys,’ i conclude. ‘it’s a win. who’s up for coffee and gelato to celebrate?’

‘really husenfulhu,’ remarks hasanbe with mock concern. ‘in this economy?’

‘dear god man, that line’s been dead since 2009.’

‘really? just cos YOU’VE never said it around me?’

‘that’s cos it was WAY out of fashion by the time we met, dumbass,’ i say.

‘who’re you calling a dumbass, fatty?’

‘guys! guys!’ cries haseena. ‘stop being dicks. i mean this instant. kiss and make up. and let’s have us some gelato.’

‘i’m sorry hasanbe,’ i say.

‘you will be,’ he whispers.

‘what was that?’

‘oh, nothing. nothing at all.’

and so the three of us free ourselves of the clutches of this splendid cafe and escape into the world, chasing a gelatinous dream thru the sludgy traffic of haveeree hingun – a trio of miscreants towards a new palace of excess. for we understand there is no wisdom but taste.

‘shut up and act normal, psycho,’ snaps hasanbe.