The Ghost of Feasts Past

Another Tuesday, another ghost. This one, a phantom of my former self, haunts the five-foot-ways of Arab Street. He's younger, of course, and impossibly thin, clutching a well-worn copy of some obscure poet I no longer remember. He's searching for something, a feeling perhaps, a taste of something real in a world that feels increasingly like a faded photograph. I follow him, this ghost of me, past the textile shops with their bolts of silk shimmering like promises, past the perfumeries with their cloying scents of jasmine and oud, a fragrant shroud for memories I'd rather leave buried.

He's hungry, this ghost. I can feel the familiar ache in his belly, the yearning for something more than just sustenance. He's looking for the perfect plate of nasi biryani, the one that will transport him, the one that will make him forget, just for a moment, the ache in his own heart. He tries a few of the usual Arab Street restaurants, the ones with the plastic chairs and laminated menus. The food is fine. It's Arab Street food, after all. But it's not what he's looking for. There's a hunger deeper than the belly, a thirst that cannot be quenched by the usual suspects.

Then, at the end of the street, a flicker of something new. A grand old building, a yellow mansion I'd never noticed before, glowing in the afternoon sun like a secret waiting to be discovered. Gedung Kuning. The Yellow Mansion. A place with history carved into its very walls, with stories whispered in the shadows of its louvred windows. And inside, a restaurant called Permata. The name itself, a jewel, a promise of something precious. My ghost hesitates, intimidated by the grandeur, by the weight of history pressing down from the ceiling. But I, the older, slightly less foolish version of him, I'm intrigued. I push him forward, a gentle nudge from the future, a whisper of what might be.

Inside, it's a world away from the hustle of the street. Cool and quiet, with the scent of spices that feels both ancient and new, a fragrance that speaks of journeys across seas, of traders and pilgrims, of generations of hands preparing these dishes with love and care. A buffet, a glittering spread of Nusantara treasures. My ghost, my younger self, is lost. He doesn't know where to begin. But I do. I guide his hand, his fork, to the beef rendang, the ayam percik, the ulam. And with the first bite, the ghost dissolves. The past and present collide in a symphony of flavour. The search is over. For now. And as I sit there, in the quiet elegance of Permata, surrounded by the echoes of history, I wonder if this is what he was looking for all along. Not just a meal, but a place to finally come home to himself. A place where even a ghost can find a moment of peace, a taste of something real. A place where the ache in the belly and the ache in the heart can finally, mercifully, be soothed.