Sunday, March 12, 2006
Chicken little Arabia
I started with too little last time. Remember the chicken spines picture last time? Well, they weren’t selling those. They had already cut the good stuff off them and hadn’t gotten around to tossing the leftovers, so they just leave them hanging there. Here’s what the dish looks like:
It’s cleverly called, “Chicken Rice”. A name they cleverly got from the ancient Chinese, “雞米” which means, “chicken rice” The dish consists of some chicken and some rice. There’s also a bowl of chicken broth that comes with it, but the broth’s agent wasn’t good enough to get it up on the marquee with the stars. When it first found out it threatened to break up the act but the chicken and the rice got together and promised the broth that it could be the most flavorful part of the act. Eventually the broth agreed and the rest is history.
Chicken rice is the national dish of Singapore, and it’s pretty good. It’s like a bowl of chicken with rice soup that no one had bothered to mix up yet. Which brings me to a thought about Singapore and chicken; they hate chickens. They must. Oh, don’t get me wrong they like to eat chicken, but they hate them. They burry their eggs for 3 and a half months and then eat them, they chop them to bits and eat them, they even eat their feet. They hate chickens. I’d sure hate to be a chicken around here. Come to think of it, I’d hate to be a chicken anywhere. When people weren’t making you fight, taking your eggs or eating you they’d be asking a lot of questions, “Why did you cross the road?” “Which came first?” No, I’d rather be a badger. Badgers are nice and nobody eats badgers. Not even bigger badgers.
Little Arabia? I don’t think that’s what it’s called. Anyway there is a series of little shops on and around a street called “Arab Street”. The goods that were sold there weren’t really Arabian but they were nice. In fact I’ll go as far as to say that Arab Street was one of the nicest “Littles” in Singapore. Better than little India, larger than little Luxemburg, And much smaller than little China town (which runs from the tip of Santosa island all the way to Russia.) Little China town is so big that they all got together and dropped the “Little” right off the front. Now they just call it Holland Village. That was just before the island was over run by ants. (Sorry this blog has turned into pure crap in an effort to be funny. It’s really called China town. And there’s no little Luxemburg.) There was a really good rug place on Arab street:
Oh let the sun beat down upon my face…
Hard to feel a Kashmir rug, enjoy it’s smooth texture and not spend the rest of the day going,
“dad a dat, dad a dat.
dad a dat, dad a dat.
dad a dat, dad a dat.
dad a dat, dad a dat.
dad dada-da da-da da-daaaaa!”
And how many rug merchants, like my friend Sadullah here, have to put up with that same song from every 40+ American smartass. Quickly, I must check my guide-book… Oh, One. And hey, there’s a picture of me! How do they do that?
The story of the Cashmere rug is an interesting one, and probably best researched on a real web site. (Unless you don’t mind sounding like a real crack-pot at the next cocktail party you go to.) You can tell where the rug came from by the pattern. The people of each village all pitch in and make one rug. One family makes the dye, one family sheer the sheep, one family makes that little tag that says you’ll be beheaded if you remove It.
It takes the village months to make one rug. And when it’s finished they send it to Singapore and sell it for $700 bucks. They are very nice. So next time someone says, “you lie like a rug” ask them what kind, and take pride! You lier!
Surprisingly the young people of the village are starting to have other interests. Why stay in this little village with your arms stained to the pits with purple dye when you could be a rock star? (Ironically, with arms covered in tattoos.)
This little shop features rugs from a lot of other regions, from Afghanistan to India. They also ship, so, as soon as the cats die, I’ll be back. Anyone want a couple cats?
Next time: The Road to Londonium.
It’s cleverly called, “Chicken Rice”. A name they cleverly got from the ancient Chinese, “雞米” which means, “chicken rice” The dish consists of some chicken and some rice. There’s also a bowl of chicken broth that comes with it, but the broth’s agent wasn’t good enough to get it up on the marquee with the stars. When it first found out it threatened to break up the act but the chicken and the rice got together and promised the broth that it could be the most flavorful part of the act. Eventually the broth agreed and the rest is history.
Chicken rice is the national dish of Singapore, and it’s pretty good. It’s like a bowl of chicken with rice soup that no one had bothered to mix up yet. Which brings me to a thought about Singapore and chicken; they hate chickens. They must. Oh, don’t get me wrong they like to eat chicken, but they hate them. They burry their eggs for 3 and a half months and then eat them, they chop them to bits and eat them, they even eat their feet. They hate chickens. I’d sure hate to be a chicken around here. Come to think of it, I’d hate to be a chicken anywhere. When people weren’t making you fight, taking your eggs or eating you they’d be asking a lot of questions, “Why did you cross the road?” “Which came first?” No, I’d rather be a badger. Badgers are nice and nobody eats badgers. Not even bigger badgers.
Little Arabia? I don’t think that’s what it’s called. Anyway there is a series of little shops on and around a street called “Arab Street”. The goods that were sold there weren’t really Arabian but they were nice. In fact I’ll go as far as to say that Arab Street was one of the nicest “Littles” in Singapore. Better than little India, larger than little Luxemburg, And much smaller than little China town (which runs from the tip of Santosa island all the way to Russia.) Little China town is so big that they all got together and dropped the “Little” right off the front. Now they just call it Holland Village. That was just before the island was over run by ants. (Sorry this blog has turned into pure crap in an effort to be funny. It’s really called China town. And there’s no little Luxemburg.) There was a really good rug place on Arab street:
Oh let the sun beat down upon my face…
Hard to feel a Kashmir rug, enjoy it’s smooth texture and not spend the rest of the day going,
“dad a dat, dad a dat.
dad a dat, dad a dat.
dad a dat, dad a dat.
dad a dat, dad a dat.
dad dada-da da-da da-daaaaa!”
And how many rug merchants, like my friend Sadullah here, have to put up with that same song from every 40+ American smartass. Quickly, I must check my guide-book… Oh, One. And hey, there’s a picture of me! How do they do that?
The story of the Cashmere rug is an interesting one, and probably best researched on a real web site. (Unless you don’t mind sounding like a real crack-pot at the next cocktail party you go to.) You can tell where the rug came from by the pattern. The people of each village all pitch in and make one rug. One family makes the dye, one family sheer the sheep, one family makes that little tag that says you’ll be beheaded if you remove It.
It takes the village months to make one rug. And when it’s finished they send it to Singapore and sell it for $700 bucks. They are very nice. So next time someone says, “you lie like a rug” ask them what kind, and take pride! You lier!
Surprisingly the young people of the village are starting to have other interests. Why stay in this little village with your arms stained to the pits with purple dye when you could be a rock star? (Ironically, with arms covered in tattoos.)
This little shop features rugs from a lot of other regions, from Afghanistan to India. They also ship, so, as soon as the cats die, I’ll be back. Anyone want a couple cats?
Next time: The Road to Londonium.
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