Silence Aloud

It was somehow not so strange, and still very strange, the tuft of hair on the proprietor’s head, the grey patch, reminded me of my grandfather, who had the very same thing.  His hair was a jet black except for that small patch on the back of his head.  We all thought it quite fashionable, but he was always trying to comb the darker hairs over it, and was never successful.  This man the owner of one of the most interesting and magnificent places to eat in Singapore, and my love for Italian food is already legendary in my home town.

I do love to come here, because there are so many cultures and ideas running through the city state.  They say that it is a bit of the east and a bit of the west, and when one of these gets to be too much, you can always choose to enjoy the other.  Or, alternatively, you can choose to despise if the pleasure gets to be too much, but it’s not the recommended option.  It’s nice to have options, however, and the proprietor seemed to enjoy his grey tuft enough to not bother covering it.  He said he was once a miller by trade, and remembered me from long ago.

I thought him to be a bit mad, because in truth I’d never met the man before, and my linguini with clam sauce was ready already I was sure.  But as I looked him in the eye to confront him on his strange notions, I did suddenly recall a time when I was hungry, and going through my village to find a bite to eat.  The local miller was the only one at home that night, and he would not feed me, saying that he was busy trying to discover what genetically-modified foods might cause as side effects.  No sooner had he spoken that he was given to prancing on all fours, and became a donkey before my eyes.  It would not be until years later, and this night in fact, that I recognized him as the most generous proprietor of any restaurant anywhere, and certainly reformed.

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