A Big Plate
In which it was worth the wait
The calendar has moved on to the next year, but no one told the news cycle. It continues it’s madness like the tantrum of a spoilt attention-seeking child.
The frenzy of the modern world, with it’s split-second news updates and immediate delivery services seems to have passed by Cafe Mariam. Long queues attest to their popularity.
For long on my list, we only managed a meal on the second attempt. The first try was in November. The family with the Banker stopped by on the way to East Coast Park on a Sunday, at around half past noon. We were turned away by a smug uncle in the queue who was delighted to have scored the last order for the day.
The Banker hates being refused a thing, and the two of us showed up the following Saturday with significant discipline. At 10.45am. That’ll show uncle. Hassan, the chef and owner, had just turned up to prep for the day ahead. Unsurprised, he seated us on one of four tiny tables, and explained that he had to pack 80(!) boxes of delivery before getting around to us. We shrugged. It was a biryani or die kind of day.
“Have some teh in the meanwhile”.
An hour later, we were struggling to leave some teh in the cup so as to not have to put our masks on. The other three tables had filled up, and had bought their drinks. After actually cooking and packing 80 boxes - painfully visible through the clear glass window of his counter - he took our order.
One massive plate with a mandi and a biryani arrived shortly, and we tucked in. It hit the spot. The flame-grilled chicken was delightfully crafted. The biryani was light. The sides were amazing and not an after-thought. We cleaned it all up. Miss Tam Chiak’s blog has a photo with 5 orders on the same plate, and it looks lovely.
Mariam’s fare is Middle-Eastern influenced. The biryani, was more flavourful than the usual Levantine meal but lighter than a typical South-Asian one. The mandi is the order I’d recommend. Smoky flavoured rice, with flame-grilled meat. They’re cooked separately though, and the same rice is used for the chicken and the lamb variants.
If biryani did indeed originate in Persia and come to India, mandi might be a distant antecedent. Perhaps, somewhere along that journey, there was a shift to cooking the meat with the rice and not separately. My beloved Artichoke Cafe advertises their mandi as an ‘Arabian biryani’.
As we savoured the aftertaste and paid up, we saw him finally take the order from the next table, who must have waited almost 90 minutes. Hordes of people had picked up big bags of multiple boxes in the meanwhile. There were no small orders.
I recommend visiting. The big plate, the long wait, the sparse menu, and the languid smile come as a departure from the hectic dash of modern eating. Watch him flame-grill the meat in front of you. Wait patiently to give your order. Have some teh. It’s not efficient, and not meant to be. Slow it down.
The unhurried Chef Hassan, with his years of large kitchen experience, is a craftsman. He takes the simple dish seriously. He has advice for the busy.
“Next time order and pick-up, but at least 8 boxes ah?”