Author: Tom

Warung Italia

Tony is from Sardinia, and he’s worked in restaurants since he was 15. He had a Brazilian partner and went into restaurant as well as the clothing business, in Brazil.
There was a problem and about all that Tony got out of their association in the end was an introduction to Bali.
He rested here for a while, for a few years. His Balinese girlfriend designed and sold lamps out of her shop and Tony made a lemon liqueur called ‘lemoncello’, and sold it to restaurants and hotels in the area, just a hobby really.
Dian had been friends with his maid. We rented his house from him for a month in July 2004 when my mom visited Bali.
When we came back in April we saw Ilu, his girlfriend, and she said Tony had opened an Italian restaurant. We though we should go by, show some support. ‘Warung Italia’.
A warung is a small restaurant, often no more than a roadside cart with mats for eating on the sidewalk. Tony had tables and chairs, but in keeping with the simplicity indicated by the name, none of the glass/fine wood/marble that a lot of restaurants here have (materials are local; labor is cheap), set up in an unspecial cinderblock building open to a busy street. What he did have was plates of pasta on par or better than I could get at Italian restaurants in the western world. Starting at 19,000 rupiah, about 2 bucks. Salmon ravioli, gnocchi with a creamy pesto, simple tomato/basil spaghetti, mixed seafood in a red sauce if you were feeling adventurous. In a case at the front there were fresh vegetables and a wide variety of plats du jour for side dishes, another warung-like touch. The place was packed with westerners of all flavors, and the service and hygiene were spectacular, as it has to be here with competition to feed tourists and ex-pats so fierce. Behind the carefree smile, Tony had been planning this for years. I told Dian that if he ever opened a place on the beach near us I’d never get into a taxi here again. The beach-front scene had no available sites for new restaurants…
Like a dream it was arriving back this time walking along the beach-front road and seeing a sign in front of the Kumala Pantai Hotel, with the logo of a guy with a chef’s hat in the colors of the Italian flag. A logo we knew. ‘Ristorante Italia’.
I still get in taxis, but a little less than I used to.

eye corner

There is some muse-like presence that he sees in dreams, forever in the act of turning away from him, who keeps repeating:
that you fail to be inspired by the beauty around you is your greatest hope.

He takes this as some odd unhealthy creepy negativity delivered in seductive tones, that means he is attracted to never creating something worthwhile.
What it really means though is that he himself must deliver an account that is of himself, say the thing that life has not shown him, tell the story that life has not told him, describe the beauty that he senses but has not been shown by the light of the sun that he knows, that keeps alive in him the notion that there is more to say that has not been said yet, a nameless More that he doesn’t know when he turns his face to this world, but that he feels unceasingly.

Our day will come

Intensity without a wink, without irony, is that allowable anymore?
Because I feel a force that is entirely unwinking, undiluted by a hundred reasons for sensible restraint…
‘Our day will come, then we’ll have everything.’
I’m interested in a tone that is something more than ironic- irony seems old and tired to me. It’s a wink whose intent has laziness, fear woven through it.