The
kipper does not exist on the Island. I spent several futile and frustrating
hours yesterday seeking it out. I trolled the food-stores of Tanglin, the
gourmet fisheries of Orchard and several expatriate type supermarkets on the
upper east coat of Singapore and all to no avail.
Not
a kipper was to be found.
I
have not ever partaken of kipper and I am now somewhat obsessed by it.
I
get that way sometimes.
It
is disturbing.
The
subject of kippers came up a couple of days ago in the office whilst I was
conversing with the English with whom I work. Whilst several of my British
colleagues are dicks and fuckers I am fortunate to sit amongst some very nice
ones. English that is. Dare I say it they are good blokes.
We
yack a lot.
A
couple of days ago we were talking about breakfasts. I don’t know why. A very
larrikinish and big bloke who I have written about before mentioned in passing that
he liked black pudding with his egg white omelets for breakfast on the odd
occasion - and a debate then ensued about the merits of eating blood. Black
pudding is a very nasty sausage made of congealed blood and possibly minced up
offal – all held together in a pig’s intestine.
It
is an abomination.
The
very demure Scottish lass who sits next to me defended the black pudding but
added that she prefers smoked salmon with her eggs in the morning. Although she
is a Scot she is quite the lady.
I
quite like smoked salmon myself.
Other
English in the immediate work area chipped in and there was soon quite a lively
and pleasant discussion about the merits of muesli, whether milk should be
heated with cereal, whether bacon should be soggy or crispy - and other such
nonsense.
During
proceedings I asked the collective English whether they enjoyed Kippers. There
was a bit of a reflective pause and there seemed to be some consensus that
kippers were in fact a good fare for breakfast. It was suggested to me though
that it was sort of an old fashioned food that wasn’t eaten much anymore.
It
was nanna stuff.
I
have never before eaten a kipper but I am quite adventurous in my eating and I would
like to try some. I told the English such. I very much like the word kipper too
and I enjoy both saying it and writing it. I am uttering it as I type this and
I shall write it again.
Kipper.
I
quite like words that rhyme with kipper as well. Nipper, Flipper, Slipper,
Dipper. They are all pleasant on the tongue and I am sure if I could be
bothered I could write a little rhyming ditty – but I could not.
Be
bothered.
I
informed the English with whom I work that I also liked Pippa – who is of
course the sister of the Kate who married Prince William and who is the mother
of the Royal baby George. Pippa was made notorious during the wedding of the
parents of the Royal Baby due to her tight fitting frock and her glorious ass.
She
stole the show.
The
English with whom I work also know that despite me being Australian and by
default an anti monarchist – to my own shock and horror I am an enormous fan of
the Royal baby. I am besotted. This is because I arrived in London on a work
visit on the day that the Royal baby was born. I was emotionally swept up in
the media coverage and found myself riveted by subsequent speculation of the
naming and other such matters. I even wandered down to Buckingham Palace for
all of the Royal announcements and I have collected some Royal baby memorabilia.
I love it.
I
really do.
A
kipper is a smoked fish. It is a smoked herring in fact. The English like to
eat it for their breakfast and I was regaled by tales from a number of my
colleagues as how best to cook it. There seemed to be general consensus that it
is best prepared by boiling the shit out of it until it is soggy and then
serving it with toast and egg. The enormous larrikin dude suggested that
boiling it in milk was best and as is often the case with this individual I was
unsure whether he was taking the piss or not. I was therefore compelled to Google
it. In this instance he was correct. Simmering the kipper gently in milk seems
popular back in the mother country.
It
is the way to go.
When
I enquired what the kipper tasted like I got the smart-arse reply of fish – which
I should have really expected - but the classy Scottish lass with whom I work
suggested that it had rather a strong flavour. She asked me whether I liked
anchovies and I told her that I did. I told her this because I do.
Like
anchovies.
One
of the more intelligent English suggested that kippers were quite often now
sold in ready-to-boil bags and could well be available in supermarkets
frequented by expatriates on the island. Hence began my hunt – a frustrating
one at that.
There
was not a kipper to be found.
I
started my search on the Internet – I let my fingers do the walking. There was
no direct reference to the Kipper on any web pages I found but a number of the
English suggested stores that might stock them. With hindsight this effort was
always going to fail. Asking Singaporean sales staff on the telephone whether
they stocked kippers elicited long periods of silence in response and in a
couple of instances hanging-ups. I realized early on in the piece my search was
going to have to be in person.
So
off I went.
I
spent hours and hours tramping through expatriate and local shops seeking the
elusive kipper. Such was my desperation that I even asked a couple of local
store managers whether they had any in stock. I received long and blank
Singaporean stares in most instances although my heart did flutter a bit at one
point when a bespectacled manager of the food section of a shopping mall gave
me what I interpreted to be a positive look and I waited patiently for ten
minutes in the frozen food section for him to return.
He
arrived back just as I was about to give up and semi triumphantly handed me a
leg of New Zealand lamb.
“Kipper?” he asked tentatively.
“It’s a fucking leg of lamb” I spat back
in contempt.
“It’s not even bloody fish” I added bitterly.
My
mood was getting dark at this point.
“Cannot then” he barked back at me and
we swapped cold stares at each other for what felt like an eternity
The
big larrikin dude with whom I work suggested that he might have seen
boil-in-the-bag kippers once at the Swiss Butcher and I stupidly fronted up
there and asked the surly French owner how his kipper supply was.
Yes
the French run the Swiss butcher in Singapore and I saw definite malice in the
man’s eyes as he reached for his meat cleaver in response to my query. I
silently chastised myself as I beat a hasty retreat. How could I even entertain
the thought that such a shop would stock the kipper? How could I heed the word
of a renowned trickster who once removed all the socks and underwear from the
luggage of a fellow colleague who had foolishly bought his bag to work before a
long weekend away?
I am
getting soft.
I gave up my kipper search at that point and as
it turns out I found out today that the parents of one of the English with whom
I work are coming to the Island next week and I asked him whether they would
mind bringing me some kippers
The
boil-in-the-bag type.
He
rang his mum for me on the spot and asked her and she said that she didn’t mind
at all. He told me that she sounded rather pleased to do so in fact.
I
will have them in a couple of days.
I
will simmer them gently with milk and eat them with a softly poached egg and some
toast.
No comments :
Post a Comment