Of Fleas and Coconut houses

Dawn cracked almost audibly. Some previously somnolent, guilty, particle shocked my senses to wakefulness. I realised that we were already late. Superman or The Flash could not have shaved faster, and within minutes we were on the road to our early morning rendezvous, but still a little blur.

A sleek SUV journey later, and we were sneaking our way into the small streets of Melaka. The morning and most of the afternoon were taken with an important meeting, but there was a millisecond when I tumbled into an unexpected flea market, right there on Jonkers Street, one of the most desirous streets Melaka has to offer.

That abrupt find was but the beginning of the day’s surprises. The Nonya lunch was characteristically superb, but not the focus of this piece. Nor is the local gula melaka (brown palm sugar) we enthusiastically bought and ushered back home. No, the surprise came at a time when we were at our most tired. Lines etched into our faces and saggy bits sagging the most.

In the evening, after our return to Kuala Lumpur, we stopped by a gallery opening. The host

was a friend of ours, as were many of the visitors to that colourful exhibition. We smiled the best we could, and chatted with the last dregs of our energy until the pangs of hunger began to tie Easter Bread with our intestines. The art party broke up and we wandered back down to ground level to seek sustenance. My wife, being the well-connected individual she is, steered me towards Coconut House.

Meditating upon the name, I half-expected Coconut House to proffer perhaps Malay gulai (curry) laced with santan (coconut milk), or perhaps serve lesser known dishes from Penang - famous, or is that infamous, for its coconut trees and beaches. What I did not expect was an Italian restaurant. My heart sank. The very notion of yet more pseudo-Italian food dredged up by a cook who once read an Italian cookbook (but couldn’t understand it), filled my heart with such utter dread. It was with a very heavy heart that I dragged my poor weary, and aching, bones into that wood bedecked eatery filled to the brim with nattering Chinese eaters.

Zhuang Ruo (aka John Rock) had been an outstanding art writer and editor in a former life. His magazine was Coconut House, the name stuck and as he entered into the restaurant business, Coconut House seemed the obvious choice to name his Italian restaurant. We sat near a wall of cut logs. I could clearly see a wood oven, traditional for making authentic tasting pizzas, and my spirits rose. We read the menu, and eventually chose. We wanted something not too heavy and decided to share a pizza, a salad and soup accompanied by a cappuccino. The cappuccino arrived first.

Cappuccino is so very easy to get wrong, and most places in Malaysia, and indeed Southern Italy too, do so. I had some of the world’s worse cappuccinos in Sorrento and The Amalfi coast, and some pretty dire pizzas there too, so my hopes were not high, but one sip, just one sip, told me I was wrong. The cappuccino at Coconut House was good - more than good, that simple frothy coffee was bordering on the great. We had a second.

The soup was Roasted Pumpkin, timely as Halloween had just passed. It was a blend of onion, carrot, tomato, herbs and, I guess, pumpkin and slipped down nicely leaving a slight, very slight tang as it did so. It was an appetizer. The thin crust pizza - Company of Mushroom, with fresh mushrooms, thyme, mozzarella and parmesan cheeses arrived at the same time as the Giambotta (vegetable stew).

The Giambotta was drier than I had expected, but then it was advertised as a salad, not the usual stew. It contained no meat, but rather had the texture of a dry ratatouille and tasted divine. The pizza and the Giambotta was a great hit with us both, and I delighted in showing

the various herbs to my amazed wife. The only two things missing were a decent wine and a dessert. We had to forgo the wine as we had to drive home, but dessert was another matter altogether.

I confess to being a tiramisu aficionado. Like cappuccino, tiramisu is so easy not to get right. Malaysia, being a Muslim country, tends to eject the alcohol element from its tiramisu - that is a gastronomic crime in the highest magnitude, but when in an Italian restaurant.....

A wine glass held a soft tiramisu. You could see the patches of sponge all around like

pictures in some glass gallery. Chocolate was sprinkled on top. It was with trepidation, and anticipation, that I plunged the thin spoon into that soft mixture, almost regretting my choice in case it turned out like all the others I had eaten in 9 years in Malaysia. Remembering to breathe, I took a sample. OMG!!  It was as perfect as any tiramisu I have ever tasted, exclamation, exclamation, and with alcohol too, possibly marsala. Reluctantly, I left half for my wife, as agreed, and deeply regretted that decision. I wanted more. I wanted to gorge and gorge myself until I was sick, but didn’t.

I was on a high when I left Coconut House. The food had been wonderful, simply the best western food I had yet to encounter in Malaysia, and that includes the food that I prepare for friends and family. The ambience was a trifle noisy, but then it was Sunday and people were out enjoying good food in good atmosphere. I asked to take the dessert chef home with me, but she wouldn’t come. I told my wife. She smiled a knowing smile.