“Overlooking the pool” at the Esplanade Hotel in Fremantle, Australia
Hotel speak
“Welcome! We have a lovely room for you in our resort wing, overlooking the pool!”
Reality: Yeah, directly opposite the looming parking garage. True, there was a little pool down there. Actually visible if you lean over the balcony.
That’s hotel speak at the Esplanade Hotel in Fremantle, Australia.
We ran into a couple of cops in the lobby. They’d been summoned because of noisy guests. Is this a common Australian thing? The last time we stayed at an Australian hotel, two years ago, we couldn’t sleep until the people in the room next to our checked out—or were arrested—sometime after daylight broke. The hotel’s paper walls projected every groan, cry, and vulgarity uttered by our neighbors, and of course their fighting, shouting, wall-punching, and door-slamming. That was the Sydney Ibis Airport Hotel.
To be fair, I have to say that, besides very creative hotel speak, one thing at the Esplanade Hotel in Fremantle greatly impressed me, especially for a hotel “of this calibre.” Its breakfast buffet, which was pretty much on par with the sad state of American mid-range hotel breakfasts, included a total do-it-yourself delight: an industrial-sized juicer and an array of carrots, ginger, and apples. Magnificent!
Contrast Mamak with our New Year’s day dinner at Appetito, also in Sydney. Recommended by two people, nearby—and most important: open—it seemed a reasonable choice, if not exciting.
The sourpuss staff seated us promptly, took our drink orders, and quickly brought our glasses of wine. From there on it was all downhill. Granted, we were tired, having slept only after the people in the room next to ours checked out—or were arrested—sometime after daylight broke.
Noisy parties might be expected on New Year’s eve, even in an airport hotel. But that’s not what went on at the Sydney Ibis. Its paper walls projected every groan, cry, and vulgarity uttered by our neighbors, and of course their fighting, shouting, wall-punching, and door-slamming. All night.
SLAM!“Get your ass back here, you fucking junkie!” Sob. Whack. SLAM!
The couple moved to the parking lot outside our windows, where they joined others for rollicking beer festivities laced with anger. We later learned the others were traveling companions staying in rooms on other floors.
There were sirens. Police. Ambulance. The woman “was hurting herself.”
Here’s the problem. The Sydney Ibis Airport hotel has no onsite security. It contracts with an outside company, but pays for each “house call.” The hotel’s night manager, who received nighttime complaints from many others in addition to us, was loathe to spring for an officer call and confronted the rowdy couple directly; and only much later called police.
So we may have been a bit cranky as we waited 40 minutes for our New Year’s day dinner. It was an appetizer of seafood frito misto and two pizzas—all quick items to prepare. They weren’t bad. Nothing special, either. Certainly not worth the $102 bill. The place left a bad aftertaste. There must have been many, many better choices.
Just part of the line of people waiting to get into Mamak.
Mamak is worth standing in line for. Bob and I waited 50 minutes for what is actually rather ordinary Malaysian food. But you can’t get these dishes just anywhere, and here, they’re done to perfection. I’d call this restaurant perfect in every way my single visit allowed me to experience. Let’s start with the entertainment on offer…
Mamak window showcases the making of roti.
After standing in line for 30 or 40 minutes, you finally creep up to the glass wall of the kitchen. Two roti-makers work like machines at their stainless steel counter, stretching small balls of dough by flinging them over their heads until they look like giant, translucent handkerchiefs. You just know one is going to become a kite and sail onto the head of a grill cook. Or one will rip and fly into shreds. They never do. After the final toss, the dough lands on the counter stretched into the size of a sheet of newspaper.
That’s when the roti is given it’s specific form. It might be quickly folded into an air-filled pillow and simply thrown on the grill, where cooks hover over the rotis, pressing them, flipping them, and rushing them off to drooling diners. Or the dough might first get a sprinkling of red onions. Bob and I ate rotis often when we lived in Singapore. In their most basic form, they’re simple flat breads served hot off the grill with a bowl of curry sauce for dipping.
A filled (and filling) version is called murtabak. An egg is broken onto the stretched dough, which is then topped with a smear of curry sauce, a toss of onion shreds, and possibly shredded chicken, mutton, or sardines. The gossamer dough is folded into a many-layered square, cooked on the grill, and served steaming hot with a bowl of spicy curry sauce. Perfection! Mamak serves murtabak. I wish I could have tried it, but we ordered other items.
I’d gotten a menu to look at while in line, so we’d be ready to order right away. That’s the one tiny improvement that could speed Mamak’s turnover just a tad: menus outside so diner’s can use the waiting time to peruse the offerings.
When you finally enter the restaurant, all primed for a roti (but which one???), the fragrance of baking bread slays you. The urgency of the cooks and waiters increases your heart rate and your stomach announces its presence and desires. Luckily, Mamak is fast! Your order is in and out in moments.
Mamak cooks a small selection of Malaysian dishes (most of which are traditional street foods) which keeps the menu from overwhelming people unfamiliar with the cuisine. They do a variety of rotis, two kinds of satay, several curries and stir-fries, and spicy-fried chicken. There’s the classic nasi lemak, which is fragrant coconut rice with condiments (which we ordered), and a couple of fried noodle dishes.
Rojak and lime juice
We also ordered rojak. I’ve had it many times in Singapore, but never like Mamak’s. Typically a salad of crisp and crunchy fruits and vegetables, julienned yambean and cucumber, fried tofu, and prawns, it’s coated with a spicy peanut sauce and garnished with hardboiled eggs. Mamak’s version was heavy on the sauce, sweet, tall, and… delicious.
Crisp and fluffy roti cania looked to be the most popular item on the menu. So simple, yet so satisfying. You lick your finger to pick up every last flake of the toasty bread.
Making roti planta
The rich and exotic roti planta requires a time-consuming process. Twenty or so little dabs of butter are spaced out along one edge of the stretched dough sheet. The sheet is then rolled into a lumpy, air-filled snake, the buttery dots along its length like undigested mice. The fragile tube is then carefully coiled like a sleek-skinned cobra, and set on the grill to crisp, melt, sizzle, and brown.
An egg roti and one with red onions inside puff and sizzle on the grill
Mamak also offers a variety of Malaysian tea and coffee drinks, and two typical desserts: ice kachang and chendol. I ADORE chendol, a complicated ice dessert composed of many ingredients. Instead of trying it here though, Bob and I chose to go next door to the Taiwanese dessert shop called Meet Fresh. Yeah, funny name! I got “handmade taro-balls #4” with peanuts (soft), pearls, and red beans. I could have ordered it hot, but chose to have it over ice. Bob got mango sago coconut soup.
Taro-balls #4 was nice, but it’s no chendol. Come to think of it, chendol needs a post of its own. I dream of chendol, but only a certain kind. It must be topped with one particular fruit. I will tell you… soon!
In addition to the selection and quality of its food, Mamak gets a gold star for speed. Our meal arrived eight minutes after ordering it. When we left, the line was as long as when we got into it an hour and a half earlier. And guess what? After we finished dessert next door? Yep, the Mamak’s line was even longer.
On Goulburn at Dixon in Haymarket, on the edge of Sydney’s Chinatown, Mamak is a winner.
Coogee Beach, Australia— I spend a lot of time on our hotel balcony because the view is spectacular. The weather is glorious and the waves are loud. It’s a fine place to write, with a computer on my lap.
Coogee Beach. Photo by Paola Unger.
I can see a series of little coves just beyond our beach, and each is separated by a rocky promontory. The sea crashes into these dividers in slow motion, and white clouds of spray just hang there, punctuating each rocky spit of land like a period at the end of a sentence.
Hmmm, take that further: the coast is a paragraph, the country a book, a tome, a history since life began. Its sentences are long and the ragged right runs into the sea. Each sentence is an enigma, ending with a question mark shrouded in mist. The one closest to me ends with an ellipsis of rocks…
