Best Rp1,000 spent, ever
When we arrived, there were three woks of boiling oil, and a subdued crowd seated before the tiny shop in theatre style, as though watching the chefs perform.
To a certain extent, perhaps they were. We certainly were fascinated. Having woken our driver from his sleep to send us to this dingy little shop half across Bandung city, we were determined to see what such a big deal with these pergedels was. It felt as though if we could watch them cook, we would know their secret.
Our representative - the only one who spoke Bahasa Indonesia - went to the ordering booth and was told to take a number.
“17,” it simply said, on a cardboard scrap.
“What’s the number now?”
“Erm, don’t know. Wait for them to call the next one, I guess.”
But for the longest time, there appeared to be no calling of numbers. The oil kept boiling. The people kept staring (or zoning off, more likely), and we continued waiting, fascinated by the blobs of potatoes floating about in the oil. By the blazing flames in the charcoal burners. By the strangely patient and quiet crowd we now found ourselves members of.
There were other groups of patrons, seated at tables and digging in to other fares also offered by the eatery - very alluring fried chicken with increasingly tempting white rice. They seemed more alive, chatting happily through food-filled mouths, laughing every now and then. Peering at us a couple of times, probably wondering what this bunch of foreigners - and girls! - were doing there.
But our eyes were fixated on the woks of bobbing pergedels, and our minds made up.
We were here for the pergedels, and we were not going to be distracted by others. For a while we felt sorry for our driver, whose facial expression and body language made it quite clear to even us non-speakers that he didn’t approve of this late-night dinner/supper expedition. I don’t know about my friends, but I contemplated calling it a night and just leave. But I didn’t vocalise my cowardly thoughts. We held out.
Finally, one fresh batch of what looked like at least 100 pergedels was harvested. Yay! Progress! Our turn perhaps?
“Six!”
Oh crap…
But we waited. We chatted about things I cannot remember now. At one point, I think S was singing. It was 11pm, then midnight. The crowd around us ebbed and flowed with time, as people before us got their long-awaited pergedels and left and new hungry people came. One tray carrying a small mountain of pergedels was delivered to a car parked nearby. We figured anyone who’d had to wait probably over-ordered, just to make the wait worthwhile.
As the minutes turned to an hour and then more, we started asking, was that couple here before us? I can’t remember. But they got theirs. Did we miss our number? What number is it now? Where did that person come from? Did they take a number then went off to do something else?
After a 1.5 hour slightly crazed wait, we eventually got our hands on 21 pergedels - “21?! Did she say 21? Ask her again, did she say 21?” The Indonesians thought we were raving mad. Perhaps we were. But I assure you it was perfectly logical. Four girls, four each, and five for the poor abused driver. That’s 21! We were determined not to over-order, just to buck the trend. And well, in considering of our already expanding waistlines.
On hindsight, it was probably was a good decision. Because there were only four, every bite into it was executed with deliberation and in worship of the universal goodness of deep fried potatoes. Every bite worth the 90 minutes wait. The best pergedel I have ever had, under the most surreal circumstances, experienced with the best of my friends. Absolutely priceless.
It helped that the pergedels were dirt cheap. We later found out that we could have bribed our way to the front of the queue. But hey what’s the fun of that! It was perfect, that we were number 17. When we left, we found out that the latest number picked up was 39…