It was around 6.00 pm, when my friend Hak, her son Kita and I walked into Swedish Bakery for an early dinner. We were scanning the board displaying the menu when Hubert called. He suggested dinner together and since he lived just about 100 metres away, I invited him to join us. Hubert, one of my closest friends is an epidemiologist and I edit some of his papers that are published in professional journals. He is also an epicure, much spoiled by the terrific cooking of his lovely wife, Fitiava. I almost sensed him turning up his nose at our choice of an eating place.
“Let’s go into town,” Hubert said, “I’ve been working all day and I need to stretch my legs.” Without waiting for an answer, he added, “I’ll pick you up in 15 minutes.” We cancelled our order and walked out of the restaurant.
Soon Hubert, Fitiava and their youngest son, Tristan, drove up and the three of us climbed into his Toyota Land Cruiser. On the way into town we discussed what we should eat and where. Hubert suggested that we should try a restaurant that neither of us had ever eaten in before and I agreed. He parked his car along the Mekong and we walked up and down the narrow streets in the city centre.
If I mentioned a place, Hubert had eaten there and vice versa. We turned right and we turned left, we went straight and we turned back, looking at every restaurant we passed. There were some that neither of us had eaten in but without a second thought, we just walked past.
The women and kids trailed behind us, laughing at our indecisiveness. As they began to tire, amusement started giving way to irritation. We were back on Fa Ngum Road along the Mekong, when we came across a sign “Café Chagall” with an arrow pointing down a narrow lane. Hubert and I looked at each other and agreed immediately. It must have been new because neither of us had even heard of it before. I was particularly surprised because at the end of the lane was one my favourite restaurants, which I frequented regularly.
We turned into an old French colonial house with a well-tended garden and lots of potted plants at the entrance. We were greeted by about a dozen attractive women standing in a line, beautifully dressed in a range of colourful kimonos. They said something Japanese in unison and bowed low. We didn’t understand and so a few of them giggled, “Welcome.” They parted in the middle and an older equally attractive and well-dressed woman stepped forward. “Greetings. Welcome to Café Chagall.” She smiled at us two middle-aged men and asked how many of us there were. Hubert told her and I thought her smile changed slightly when two women and then two teenagers followed us in.
As we were ushered into a large private room, I looked around. The restaurant was very elegantly furnished, Japanese minimalist style. Six women pulled the chairs back for the six of us, then handed us cold towels and poured green tea. It was still early in the evening and the restaurant was empty and I presumed that was the reason why so many women were attending to us.
“A French name for a Japanese restaurant,” Hubert remarked and then said the same thing to Fitiava in French. We looked around at the décor, the large number of people waiting on us and in hushed tones made various observations. Then the six women re-appeared and handed the six of us a menu each. I have no recollection after that of what I read, except that a plate of rice, the cheapest item on the menu, was $4. Something was $89! An odd price; not quite $100, but getting there.
I turned to Hak and whispered to her to take away the menu from her son. Across the table, Fitiava did the same thing to Tristan.
“Should we leave?” I asked Hubert, but we were too embarrassed to do so, after having used the towels and sipping some of the tea.
Hubert and I took the easy way out, leaving it to the two sensible women to save us from having to do the washing up and the mopping of floors later.
Fitiava and Hak, matched the minimalist furnishing with some minimalist ordering: three plates of rice, two plates of sushi and two plates of tempura. The woman taking our order must surely have thought that we were on strict diets. I glared at Kita when he asked for a mango juice and Hak over ruled him, asking for just plain water. Hubert, who likes a good wine with his meal, skipped that, and though my throat was parched, I decided that a cold beer could wait for another day. I had about $200 in my pocket and hoped that Hubert would have something similar.
The food came and the servings were minimalist too. By the time the plates were licked clean, I was hungrier than when we first came in.
One of the women asked us if we would like some dessert and I, of the famed sweet tooth, shook my head vigorously.
The bill came and the waitress handed it to Hubert. I took out my wallet ready to kiss hard-earned money goodbye. I asked him the amount but he wouldn’t tell me. “It was my idea to come here,” he said generously and then even more generously paid the full bill. I was embarrassed as I saw a bunch of 1,000 baht notes slipped into the leather folder and handed back to the waitress.
As we left the restaurant, now filling up with older Japanese men, some of the women lined up and bowed at us. “Sayanora” they chanted.
“Sayonara,” I replied, bowing exaggeratedly low. A thought crossed my mind; I had eaten there twice that day – the first time and the last time. Within fifteen minutes of leaving the Café Chagall we were in an Italian restaurant ordering pizzas, wine and cold beer. And later tiramisu too.
A few days later, I told my Japanese friend about the Café Chagall. She laughed. “That’s where the rich Japanese businessmen go for the “phu sao” she said, using the Lao word for girls.
COMMENTS
Jan Nerurkar
Finally you have become an accomplished writer!! Nice read. Let me know when you have time for a chat.
Von meinem iPhone gesendet
© Percy Aaron
Wow Laos 