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Tears streamed from his eyes.

What made this situation—Mas Nug's divorce from Rukmini—slightly more sensitive was that only a few months later, Risjaf announced that he had found his soul mate: a woman by the name of Amira, the sister of Mirza Syahrul, an Indonesian exile in Leiden, the Netherlands. An attractive woman with glasses, Amira was thirty-six years old and just finishing her doctorate in political science at Leiden University. She and Risjaf fell in love almost overnight and felt so comfortable with each other, they said, they decided to get married as soon as possible. They weren't that young after all. Risjaf was forty-five, the same age as me, having also been born in 1930.

“We're both adults and I'm long past my due-date as a bachelor,” Risjaf joked.

I was pleased to see him so happy.

“So what are you going to do?” Tjai asked. “Commute between Paris and Leiden until Amira finishes her degree?” He seemed to be calculating the cost.

“Yes, we'll take turns,” said Risjaf, eyes shining brightly.

“Have you already told Mas Nug?” I asked with a note of caution.

“No, but I'm going to go to his place and take Amira with me to introduce her…”

“Don't!” Tjai and I yelped at once.

Risjaf looked back and forth between us. People in the throes of happiness often forget about other people's pain. The look on Risjaf's handsome face was one of complete innocence.

“Why?” he asked simply.

Tjai and I looked at other, as if to agree on a more detailed answer. For Risjaf, with all his artlessness, we had to present a clear and detailed picture.

“Aren't you forgetting something?” I asked him. “Didn't Mas Nug just receive a request for divorce from Rukmini?”

Risjaf slapped himself on the forehead. “Oh my God, that's right! What was I thinking? So, do you think that maybe we shouldn't tell Mas Nug? It would be such a shame if…”

“What would be such a shame?”

Vivienne's and my apartment was much too small, not in the least ideal for trafficking in secrets. And as if to prove the point, Mas Nug had suddenly barged into the apartment, taking us completely by surprise.

Mas Nug looked at the three of us and then slapped Risjaf on
the shoulder and laughed. “Hey, I heard you proposed to Mirza's sister. That great! And she's a looker, too! Congratulations!” He then threw his arms around Risjaf and gave him a big hug. Risjaf tentatively returned Mas Nug's embrace.

Mas Nug then plopped himself down on the floor in front of the couch and turned on the small old television, which aired only French-language shows. Regardless, he focused his attention on the screen, giving it his rapt attention. Risjaf scratched his head. Stillness, an unspoken tension, filled the air.

“Well, I guess I'll be going to Amira's uncle's place in the Marais,” Risjaf finally quipped. “She and her father are staying there.”

Mas Nug raised his thumb but his eyes remained on the television.

I sat down beside him. Tjai went into the kitchen to search the cupboard for coffee.

“It's OK. I'm doing just fine,” Mas Nug said quietly to me as he watched the TV.

I nodded silently, still looking at Mas Nug whose eyes were pinned to the screen. Though he said nothing, I knew he appreciated my query-less presence. I could only imagine the sadness his heart must be feeling.

PARIS, OCTOBER
1982

All of that, of course, took place some fourteen years ago. I didn't know at the time whether Mas Nug had been able to bury the painful memory of his divorce beneath the lowest layer of his heart or whether his gaiety, which he showed by whistling out of tune, was his way of isolating the sadness.

One day at my apartment, our temporary meeting place, when I was working on the details of the menu that we intended to include in our funding proposal, Tjai announced he had already managed to secure a fairly substantial sum of money from the dozens of Indonesian exiles who were scattered throughout Europe. What I found touching was that not all those who had contributed to the restaurant fund were even political exiles like ourselves. Several businessmen, friends of Mas Nug, also pitched in; the same was true of friends of Tjai in Jakarta who anonymously contributed to the cause with no evident thought of return. Tjai maintained a detailed list of contributors and the amounts given, his idea being that if these donors ever came to the restaurant, they would be seated at a special “sponsors table” and given a special menu.

Mas Nug explored the city in search of the perfect location for the restaurant for what seemed a very long time, but found no place to be satisfactory. Either its location was too distant, the water system in the building was not up to standard, or the place would require major renovation. The list went on and on. I knew he was growing tired from the hunt, but he continued to undertake his task with unfeigned happiness—just as Risjaf did when preparing a report on his survey of restaurants that offered Asian cuisines in Paris. One of his more interesting observations was that very few restaurants offered both a place for dining and a venue for events. This fact made me even more excited about the possibility opening Tanah Air, which, as we intended, would highlight both Indonesian cuisine and culture.

Nonetheless, the problem of location still remained, and I was beginning to tire of all the meetings in my apartment. Of course, Risjaf had the perfect justification for our meetings there: they could try my dishes at the same time. But my friends were not
proper culinary critics; they'd happily munch on a boiled table if they were hungry.

But then, one day,
Le Figaro
came to the rescue!

Buried inside the classified section was a small advertisement which didn't first catch our notice but became a game-changer in our quest. It was an advertisement for the sale of a family-owned restaurant located at 90 Rue de Vaugirard. We went to look at the place and to talk to its owners—a Vietnamese couple who had resided in Paris for almost twenty years. The restaurant occupied the ground and subterranean floors of a four-story early twentieth-century building. On the ground floor was the foyer, a cashier stand, and space enough for four to six tables. At the rear was the kitchen and a small office, beside which was a stairway leading to the lower floor, a much larger open space, with transom windows at the front and room enough for ten to twelve tables or more—a perfect place for private parties and special events.

Even as Tjai and Mas Nug were beginning their investigation of the restaurant's public spaces I immediately felt at home; but, of course, I needed to see the kitchen. When the older couple opened the door to the kitchen, I saw inside a wide rectangular space with white tiled walls, a checkered black and white floor, and a large work table in the center that apparently served as an island for food preparation. There was a large and clean professional oven, which had been properly maintained—I didn't see even a stray kernel of cooked rice. When I looked up to see hanging overhead a complete set of high-quality stainless steel pots, my heart was smitten. “Would you be willing to sell the cooking equipment as well?” I almost gasped.

The older man looked at his wife who smiled, showing the dimples in her cheeks. “We're all from Asia. We like you and if the
price is right, you can have the kitchen equipment too.”

I made a move to hug the woman, but Tjai, who had joined us by this time, immediately held me by the arm like an angry cat. I restrained myself as I allowed him to undertake his task of calculating the price, bargaining with the couple, negotiating the terms, and so on. The way he haggled with the owners reminded me of traders in Klewer, the traditional market in Solo: pretending not to be in need; feigning reluctance to buy; preparing to move to another stall because the same object there was far more attractive and much cheaper besides; but then, finally, smiling in assent when the seller agreed to his offer. The Vietnamese woman must have been smitten with us as well because she seemed uninterested in Tjai's Klewer-market game and rushed to have the deal settled, with little bargaining at all. She nodded and shook hands with Tjai. Only then did Tjai signal that I was allowed to hug the couple, which I immediately did with an immense feeling of gratitude. I adored their kitchen and its equipment, which included almost everything commonly used in an Indonesian kitchen: large woks, small woks, strainers, steamers, numerous kinds of knives, and a large flat stone mortar (though I could see I would still need to bring my small mortar to prepare individual servings of freshly ground chili
sambal
).

The cooperative was formed and the necessary capital secured from a variety of sources, including several French nonprofit organizations. Risjaf contracted the services of carpenters, plumbers, electricians, and other skilled workers to repair what needed to be repaired, and while our Indonesian friends in Paris rolled up their sleeves to repaint the interior in white to give the restaurant a more spacious and airy feel Risjaf also designed and printed a flyer announcing the opening of Tanah Air Restaurant.

With free assistance and advice provided by two government-provided lawyers, Jean-Paul Bernard and Marie Thomas, Mas Nug and Tjai undertook all the steps that were necessary to establish our cooperative as a French legal entity. While they were doing this, I was busy training my two new assistants: Bahrum and Yazir, the sons of political exiles who liked to cook and shared the dream of going on to school at a culinary institute.

The four pillars of Tanah Air Restaurant decided to imitate the formula of the Dutch-Indonesian
rijsttafel,
with dishes on the menu from not just one but a variety of regions, each with its own culinary specialty—Padang, Palembang, Lampung, Solo, Yogya, Sunda, East Java, Makassar, Bali—combining the selections in packets based on the customer's desire and taste. In the Western manner—knowing very well that our European customers would demand it—we also arranged the menu so that the dishes could be served in three to five courses, from starters to desserts. We translated the Dutch
rijsttafel,
or “rice table” in English, into French, offering customers a “
table du riz
,” Risjaf and Tjai studied making aperitifs and digestifs from a friend of Jean-Paul, an expert mixologist, who volunteered to give them lessons for no cost at all.

We planned to open the restaurant in December, and the closer we came to the date, the busier I was in the kitchen, with Bahrum and Yazir, trying out recipes, playing with the selection of dishes, making various modifications for lunch and dinner service, as well as planning a number of special menus for private parties and celebrations. Two weeks before the opening, our days and nights were spent trying the foods we'd cooked, looking for dishes that would make a lasting impression on visitors. We had yet to decide what dishes to feature on opening night, but we had purchased all the foodstuffs and spices we might possibly need, all the while keeping
in mind Tjai's strict reminder to be conservative in the amount of supplies we had on hand during the trial period: “Asian spices are expensive, you know, because most have to be imported!” Tjai, with calculator in hand, like a soldier with his rifle, was completely obsessive. I made a secret promise to myself that one day I would throw that calculator of his into the Seine.

One afternoon, Mas Nug came into the kitchen and started rifling through my recipe cards while whistling off tune. Exactly like an Indonesian spook, I thought, who doesn't know the meaning of quality as he preens about his profession.

“Why are these names so boring?” He looked at the slate board on the kitchen wall. “‘Palembang dishes,' ‘Padang dishes,' ‘Solo dishes'… God, put some creativity into those names!”

I lowered my eyeglasses and looked at him without commenting. What kind of louse was this, suddenly showing up in my kitchen?

“What would you suggest?” Bahrum asked politely.

Mas Nug smiled and looked at me. Like me, Mas Nug was a decent cook. Risjaf could eat just about anything, but in the kitchen could do little more than boil water and fry an egg. As for Tjai, he could help cut up onions but only after donning a face mask and eyeglasses.

Also like me, Mas Nug had a discerning tongue and was always curious to try different things. Tongues weren't just for discovering the inside of a woman's mouth; tongues were also able to recognize that certain kinds of meats could be matched with certain spices, with certain kinds of wine, and that vegetables tasted better if they hardly felt a fire's heat at all.

The difference between Mas Nug and me was pragmatism. Just as Mas Nug could imagine Agnes Baumgartner to be Rukmini, he
could also see peanut butter as an adequate substitute for freshly ground peanuts, the basic ingredient for
gado-gado
and satay sauces. I, on the other hand, insisted on culinary authenticity: the peanut sauce for
gado-gado
or satay could only be made from peanuts that first had been fried with grilled cashew nuts and then hand ground together with red and green chili peppers and a dash of kaffir lime juice.

Neophytes that they were, Bahrum and Yazir were receptive to Mas Nug's suggestions: Bahrum stood ready with his pen and notepad in hand, Yazir with a stick of chalk beside the slate board.

Mas Nug coughed before speaking. “This is the thing… Instead of calling Kalasan-style fried chicken ‘Fried Chicken from Central Java,' why not give it a more poetic name, ‘Widuri Chicken,' for instance. People don't know what the word means and it doesn't matter, but it sounds more exotic and unique. You can still cut up and fry the chicken just as you would for Kalasan-style chicken, but you change the recipe a little—maybe with a
sambal
sauce made of shallots and
—Voila!—
you now have ‘Widuri Chicken' instead. That's what will make Tanah Air Restaurant special. Or take our common everyday tofu dish that's been stuffed with white fish and use red sea perch instead and then change the name from ‘Stuffed Tofu' to ‘Rainbow Tofu,'” he suggested with a grin.