For Supper Club’s second feast, we decided to dispense with formality and head to Borough Market, where a certain Sri Lankan chef was drawing quite the crowd.
Rather smugly, we edged past the would-be diners huddled outside of Rambutan; evading their forlorn eyes, we found our table swiftly. Sparkling wine was poured, and cool cans of Keller Pils were passed around.
Now, what had we gotten ourselves into?
We scanned the feasting menu — intriguing, but there were treasures hidden on the à la carte that couldn’t be ignored. Our order may have sounded like a handful, but then so did we: we’d come with new recruits, ready to prove themselves at the table.
The restaurant was frenetic — not disorganised, exactly, but there was motion everywhere. Why were the windows open in late October? Possibly due to heavy breathing, but mostly because of the somewhat volatile clay stoves, glowering from behind the counter. They were quite beguiling, actually — and that smell . . . so what if they claimed the odd chef’s eyebrows? We were hungry!
Service came in overlapping waves, starting with cubes of russet apple and kohlrabi acharu: piquant, mildly sweet pickles that coax saliva from under the tongue.
Soon after, we were presented with metal dishes of grilled rare-breed pork neck, and gundu dosa. They came with vibrant sambols of various hues and accents, but it was a pachadi topped with charred grapes that won the most friends.
Next, we had grilled chicken with Pongal rice, a remarkable hot butter crab curry, and flaky butter rotis that nearly stole the whole show — they were mostly used for mopping up sauces (needs must), but this was an insult to their perfection.
Flagging, we were faced with two more curries: red lamb, and also one of cashew and leak (nut curries are particular to Sri Lanka, we’re told), along with a carrot and radish salad that lent us some moral support.
We ordered some pineapple sorbet after that, but it was bravado. We were spent.
Cynthia Shanmugalingam’s story had heart, like so many of those we’d read that week, but not till that moment did we know that heart to be true.
So long, Rambutan. You made the air move.