Cocktail Party

I must be really early because none of the guests scheduled to arrive is in sight. Funny though, I was invited at 6.00pm whilst other guests were told to come between 6.30pm and 7.30pm. I should have just played Malaysian and arrived fashionably late. So much for courtesy.

The first thing I notice is the piping hot food on the table, with intricate carrot cut-outs arranged around platters filled with lemon slices. I think the design is far too exquisite for a normal party, but that's the way he works. Everything is a presentation; everything has to be done the difficult way. Simplicity is not a verb he's familiar with.

The aroma coming from the fish cakes, the Tom Yam, the prawn crackers... I'm tempted to dig my fingers in and sample a few pieces of fish maw but I guess that the Malaysian etiquette isn't appropriate at an almost exclusively Whitey party.

(Then again, I was soon to discover that I bloody should have followed my tummy’s intuition because I never got to eat the fish maw in the end. Everyone else gobbled it up while I was busy doing whatever it is I was doing.)

Sadly though, I can't give him any credit for the food on the table. All of it, down to the little purple orchid flower one of the dishes, was prepared by his Thai friend who willingly came over to help out. I suspect the Thai boy has a thing for this old Whitey, I mean, lets face it; very few people are willing to cook and clean for someone on a regular basis, sleeps with someone in the same bed, bathe with someone in the same shower and work out with someone in the same gym "without having any agendas". The Whitey friend of mine doesn't seem to get it though. He just thinks the Thai guy is being polite.

Yeah. Damn fucking polite, I'd reckon, to cook up all that food "voluntarily".

I've never seen Ikebana in such wedding colours. With Gypsophila paniculata (Baby's Breath) flowers and purplish pink roses, you'd be forgiven if you thought this was an engagement party. Ikebana arrangements screaming attention; again, characteristic of his style of presentation. Mediocrity does not exist in this world, only extravagance.

I hear the doorbell. A few unfamiliar faces start streaming into the room doing their Aussie "Hihowareyougoing" greeting. I was already doing the salting for the Martini glasses; too busy to remember names. One month ago, I had seen these glasses on display in Myer going for only $5 a piece; a bargain if you consider that the original price was something to the tune of $30. The glass did not have any intricate patterns or detail on them; it was plain and simple but nonetheless elegant. Talk about cheap. I was the one who took him to Myer and thanks to my auntie-radar for cheap goods on sale I saved him tens of hundreds of dollars.

Again, the anal creature talks. He insists on using a sponge with lime juice to "soak" the tips of the glasses before dipping them into salt, and I insist on doing it the manual way by rubbing the lime across the tip. So the challenge was on, two control freaks trying to prove their point that their way was the best way.

No prizes for guessing whose martini glass looked better. And in case you are wondering, no it has nothing to do with my ardent self-gratification; I did four glasses in the time he took to make one, and I didn't even spill a single grain of salt. Being efficient doesn't go hand in hand with being anal.

Tom Yam soup and some weird mince chicken with rice, with glasses of Martini in one hand and half-spent ciggies in the other. I've not seen 3/4 of these people in my life; who are they? The Thai boy is busy showing off his skills tossing the bottles and shaking Martinis. That's alright, I don't always have to be the centre of attention, especially when I can’t bounce bottles onto my shoulder or cook good Thai food.

Thai sausages that were made from scratch by the Thai guy, spicy as hell possibly to keep you awake and sober from all that drinking. I've always had the impression that Thai food wasn't very spicy as compared to Malaysian food, but the Thai guy must have wanted to get his message across to me. Boy were they hot on the way in, even for someone accustomed to spicy Rendang and Assam Laksa with Cili Padi that made you cry.

Margarita free flow. I’ve never really tasted a Margarita before so I was new to all the tangy flavours that didn’t go so well with Tom Yam. He was pouring drinks at full force now; Thai guy in action spinning Margaritas for the ladies. Again, feeling small and insignificant is something I must learn to deal with. I have to constantly remind myself that sucking my finger is not a constructive way to deal with insecurity, but then again, my fingers had Tom Yam all over it so I had a legitimate reason to resort to baby antics.

More ciggies to intensify the alcohol. All that shot glasses with the two Japanese boys in the room didn't do the trick for me. I guess granddad would have been proud to know his grandson doesn’t get drunk easily. We would have been such great drink buddies.

Names and faces I won't remember, waving goodbye to me. A hug to reassure me that my presence was significant though I didn/t really buy it. A breath of alcohol to keep my emotions in check, and a subtle reminder that those Thai Sausages are going to burn a hole in my pants when I do my usual toilet rounds in the morning. Anecdote for the day: Hot on the way in, hot on the way out.

Damn. I knew a dozen pieces was one too many.

Hope I’m not out of toilet paper.