Me Go Run for Mee Goreng

Oh, man. I had the craziest dream last night: I was running through a jungle, all vines and humidity, following a familiar, yet unrecognizable scent. I ran and ran, searching in vain for the source of this smell that drew me nearer and nearer, yet seemed to evade me at every turn. The heat built all around me--and suddenly, I could taste it. A little salty, a little sweet, a lot spicy.

I woke up in a cold sweat, craving mee goreng.

The Dark Knight, my ever-indulgent boyfriend, bowed to the pressure of my nocturnal visions, allowing me to steer him through the zoo that is the Farmer's Market on Third and Fairfax. Parents with children, children with children, couples about have children...do you get the impression that I'm not too keen on large crowds of kids? That's a whole other blog, my darlings.

Anyway, we wound our way to Singapore's Banana Leaf. I seated the Dark Knight at a table and placed my order just as the clock struck 9. One plate of mee goreng, please. With one limeade and one mango juice.

Six minutes later. Six minutes of watching the guy across from me wolf down his rendang beef. Six minutes of listening to the couple next to me chatting intermittently in Indonesian as they shared a plate of nasi (Indo style, yes please!) and a plate of chicken curry. Six minutes of watching other almost-customers come strolling (or in one case, running) up to the counter, only to turn away, sad-faced and disappointed, when the guy who just took my order tells them they're closed for the night.

And then my number was called, the lady from the kitchen handed me my plate, and I felt a little faint as the aroma coming from the plate mingled with the aroma from my dream and I realized I was home. Home isn't just where you're from, or where you lay your hat, or where your heart is. Home is everything that makes you feel safe, comfortable, happy, and (at least in my world) well-fed. And I was home. Or close to it, anyway.

A steaming pile of noodles, co-mingling with bits of scrambled egg and soft-cooked onions and crunchy bean sprouts, sat on a sheet of banana leaf. A handful of chicken, quick sauteed in chile oil, topped the noodles. A sprinkling of just-snipped scallions.



We dug in enthusiastically, our mouths too full to speak. Finally, a little breathless from eating so rapidly, the Dark Knight spoke, "Those are some good noodles."

I could only nod, my mouth full of spicy chicken, my eyes a little watery from the heat.

"I really like the egg. And the onion. And this chicken is great!" said the Dark Knight, beginning to eat again, lest I clean the plate alone.

Silence for a few more minutes as we finished the food. And then, exhaling a great big breath, I said, "That was so good. We need to order separately next time."