This is probably going to mean something to only half of you. But you know
how, in gents’ toilets, there’s a line of urinals at an average man-aim
height, and then, at the end, there’s a couple set lower down? Well, the
oddest thing happened to me the other day. I was standing at No 3. I always
stand at No 3, because that means if someone else comes in, they can stand
at No 1 or No 5 and you’ve always got a cordon sanitaire. You
never stand at 1 or 6, because then you’re hemmed in against the wall by the
fat truck driver who thinks that reaching a urinal is an opportunity to
download every noxious humour in his body — farting, burping, spitting —
while muttering contented expletives.
So, I’m standing at No 3, and there’s another bloke at No 5. And then this
little boy rushes in, pees into one of the lower urinals, zips up and rushes
out again. And I can’t help noticing that the bloke at No 5 is transfixed.
Knees flexed, mouth agape. “Oh my God,” he says. “Oh my God. They’re for
kids!” He looks to me for corroboration. “They’re for kids!”
I smile wanly. “The little loos,” he says. “They’re put down there so that
kids can go. Did you know that?” I shrug noncommittally. “Well I never!” he
adds for emphasis. “All my life, I’ve assumed they were for big men. You
know — big?” And he laughed. “Isn’t that odd? If you think about it, the
provision for large and little is the same. There’s something deeply
Buddhist about that. You think things are half empty, but really they’re
half full.” You’re dribbling on your foot, I said.
If you want to know the most fundamental difference between men and women,
look in a lavatory. Here’s the lowdown. Women can talk and micturate at the
same time. Men can’t. Women actually go into the loo to talk to one another.
If anyone talks to you in a gents, it’s heresy. At a football match, it can
be a billion bellowed decibels on the terraces, but in the bogs, it’s as
silent as the reading room in the British Library.
The other difference between men and women is squeamishness. Ask a woman to
place the following in order of horror. 1) The melting of both ice caps
simultaneously; 2) endemic bird flu in the nation’s infant schools; and 3) a
nameless, authorless droplet on a loo seat. It’s no contest. You could eat
prunes and custard off the seats in women’s loos. They’re pristine — because
no woman has ever sat on them. Two things girls learn as they get out of
nappies: how to make a towel into a turban and never, ever, to sit on the
loo. Men always wash their hands because they don’t want other men to see
them not washing their hands. Women never wash their hands, because they
know the sink-soap-dryer combo is septically poisonous.
And they’re probably right. I once interviewed a molecular biologist who told
me that swabs taken from the commonly touched parts of public conveniences
grew more noxious microbes than an Algerian plague pit. “It’s all virulent,”
he said. “Dryers blow bacillus up your nose, there are 40 forms of
salmonella in the soap and the door handle of a public lavatory is
statistically more dangerous than standing in downtown Baghdad wrapped in
the Stars and Stripes, shouting, ‘Come on, if you’re man enough, towelhead.’
” What should we do? I asked. “Well, personally,” he replied, “if I really
have to use a public convenience, I always make sure I urinate all over my
hands. Urine is sterile and inert, the safest disinfectant you’ve got.” I
pass that on simply as information. Make of it what you will.
I get as many letters about the state of lavatories in restaurants as I do
about the food, with complaints about cleanliness, darkness (what were you
looking for?), cubicles blocked by fornicating couples, and, most recently,
unisex loos, which women seem to mind a great deal. Perhaps I should start
hanging around toilets on your behalf.
In case you’re wondering, I didn’t actually go to the loo at Awana, a
Malaysian restaurant on Sloane Avenue. Malay food is the least travelled of
the holiday-destination Far Eastern cuisines, and one of the most
interesting — certainly more varied, accomplished and sophisticated than the
ubiquitous Thai.
The room is a generic vernacular of international orientalism. There is a bank
of silent TV screens showing Malay tourist videos. The bill has “Visit
Malaysia 2007” printed on it, which gives the place a corporately hospitable
feel. The staff wear little westernised bits of national costume. The whole
place feels like an airline’s first-class lounge. The Blonde and I were the
only customers who had a permanent address in London. That’s not a
complaint. A happy group of Irish middle managers out on a get-to-know-you
conference jolly is preferable to a strop of Sloane Street shoppers.
The waitress ordered for us. We opened with chicken and lamb satay. Satay must
be one of the best starters ever invented. These were hot, tender and dewy.
What more could you ask of meat on a stick? There were also some very good
folded roti with a bit of a dip. Malay food is all sticky, dippy stuff:
sweet, sour, savoury, hot, coconut. Next, we had an excellent beef rendang,
which always has that furry texture, as if the beef has been prepared with a
currycomb. A chicken sambal stir fry was okay, but too polite. My only real
cavil with this kitchen is that it’s a bit refined, a bit “Malay for
beginners”.
Best was last. Puddings were a roti tissue — sweet, thin fried bread — with a
chocolate dip and durian ice cream. Durian is one of my touchstone
ingredients. I know that when I can eat one with unconditional pleasure,
I’ll have a truly international palate. The durian spreads its large seeds
by fooling carrion-eaters that, despite appearances, it is, in fact, dead
meat. It has been described (by me, I think) as like fruit-bat pee with the
texture of dead babies. The smell is more gaggingly putrified than the
flavour. You’re not allowed to transport durians on aeroplanes, because they
have to throw the plane away afterwards.
In the Far East, they simply adore them; make cakes, biscuits, puddings and
ice cream from them. But I doubt there are half a dozen places in Europe
offering durian ice cream. It’s worth going to Awana just to see if you can
face it. The flavour is astonishingly complex and contradictory, both
fugitive and pungent, with a hint of fried garlic wrapped in ripe camembert
and green wine gum, and an insistent undertone of rotting liver. It is
repellent and moreish, an incantation of sweaty bed and cheap scent, all
folded in the pristine, white cool of fatty ice cream.
When you’re a decadent epicurean, durian ice cream is what you dream of in
your ennui. The savour of it stays. It wafts in a miasma from your gut as if
some small nocturnal frugivore rodent has decomposed in the humid burrow of
your gullet. Yum!
Awana
Rated 3/5
85 Sloane Avenue, SW3; 020 7584 8880
Lunch, noon-3pm. Dinner, Mon-Wed, 6-11pm; Thu-Sat, 6-11.30pm; Sun,
6-10.30pm
5/5 Royal Flush; 4/5 Straight Flush; 3/5 Flush Gordon; 2/5 Flush Harry; 1/5
Flushed Away
Durian is the King of fruits. It smells disgusting - like open drains - but after you've eaten it a couple of times, you recognise it as absolutely regal. At the first attempt it tastes like onion flavoured custard but after the first few times it becomes gorgeous. It is however necessary to spend a little time in a country where it is either grown or imported to appreciate it. Try Malaysia or Singapore. It is opened and sold in Carrefour in Singapore. The supermarket smells rather odd and you are not allowed to bring your purchase into a hotel. I advise renting an apartment. We did.
Jan, Tavistock,
Please don't say "the Far East" because this assumes the world begins at Greenwich. Even the BBC has dumped this form of cultural imperialism. Satay and roti are OK, but that aside, Malaysian food (in Malaysia) really sucks: They have ice cream that is even worse than Wall's. Hard to believe, I know. Makes water pump grease seem almost edible. Greasy and no vegatables or fruit, although markets are full of them. And as it’s Muslim, you can't get a bacon sandwich or ham and eggs for love or money. But face it what would you expect from a former British colony other than medioca cuisine? Compare with former French colonies; Laos, Viet Nam or Cambodia. Why don't you actually go to Malaysia rather than a restaurant at Sloane Street? Seen outside the Gents in Koto Kinabalu, "Please do not wash dishes in the toilet." Malaysia, truly Asia.
Andrew Milner, Yokohama, Japan
The part that knowing the fundamental difference between men and women by looking into the lavatory is interesting! Most of them are true. Yes, most women talk all they way from the moment they enter the restroom to the point they leave, and most of them don't sit on the loo. But it's wrong that women never wash their hands. Actually, women wash their hands, and unlike men, they do it because they feel it is necessary after answering the call of nature. What women really mind is that the loo is insanitary with dirty droplets and water all over the loo and the floor, and women do mind to share the same toilet with men at public place coz it is embarassing!
Pearl, Macau, Macau
I thought their rendang was bland and unecessarily refined. It came topped with a dollop of cream, which is unheard of in Malaysia. Rendangs are robust with layers of flavours. And dare I say the 'proper' ones are finished with toasted dessicated coconut (or kerisik in Malay). Sorry to say Awana's was lacking, more like a watered down stew.
Vic, London,
Durians are banned from all Air Lanka (International Sri Lankan Airways) flights because of there 'gaggingly putrified' smell.
Camilla Premachandra, Norwich, Norfolk
Ahh! Durian straight from the tree with good black coffee is a breakfast that is simple, sublime and will sustain you right through the day. Truly complex in flavour with a divine texture the only tropical breakfast that beats it ( by a nose) is the Jamaican ackee with saltfish.
Robert Hanan, Whyanbeel, Tropical North Queensland, Australia
I once had to perform an emergency landing in an aircraft because someone had smuggled onboard a variety of Durrian that smelled exactly like propane .
Mark brewer, Tokyo,
Durians aren't allowed on the trains in Singapore either, I'm not entirely sure why but I assume because aside from the smell you could quite easily hurt someone with it (being a hard and spiky fruit). Its really nice fresh, but you'll need a strong sharp knife if you're going to attempt to cut it open yourself.
Deborah, Southampton, England