CLE African Restaurant

Lovely weather it was. The surroundings were noisy as Little India always is, and yet strangely reposeful. A clear, crisp day, rare in Singapore, had given way to a twilight of deep mystical blue. Against this backdrop stood rows of quaint old houses, chocolate-box pretty, and painted in cheerful colours. And what was I doing in such a charming atmosphere? Trying to finish, in decidedly hostile surroundings, the most miserable meal I've ever had in Singapore, that's what I was doing. Welcome to CLE African Restaurant.

The place is located behind Mustafa's. Go out through the rear exit, left towards Rangoon Road, then first right at the Chinese food-court at the corner. Don't suppose the location of the place matters, really. One, I don't recommend it to anybody; and two, the management (such as it is) didn't seem too keen on outsiders intruding into what was clearly intended as a meeting-place for Africans.

Like most cheap eateries in Singapore, the tiny shop-space contained only the kitchen and the counter, and tables and chairs were laid out on the sidewalk. As I approached the counter, I could feel suspicious stares boring into me from all sides. Even the guy at the counter, though not exactly rude, didn't seem particularly disposed to chat. I ended up not even asking him which part of Africa he came from.

Older writeups list a more extensive menu, but when I went there the bill of fare was limited to about five dishes. Chicken and beef sold for two Dollars a helping, rice sold for a Dollar, and there was something called Suji, also priced at two Dollars. Back home in India, Suji is what we call semolina; I wondered what it meant here. So I asked the manager. He paused a bit and said, "You know, semo . . . uh, semonlina?" Oh.

(I shouldn't have been so surprised, actually. Once I had tried to explain to Jacinta, a friend from Uganda, what clarified butter was. After listening about ten minutes she brightened: "Oh yes, we also eat it back home. We call it Ghee." I'm not sure how these words have infiltrated Africa. My guess says, through generations and generations of Indian shopkeepers.)

As is my habit, after placing my order (Suji and beef), I fished out my camera and started taking pictures of the surroundings. That is when the other customers' sullen discomfiture at my presence flamed into outright belligerence. Some five of them, each about a foot taller than I, walked up and said, "We don't want you taking pictures of us." Clearly there were immigration issues involved, so I didn't pry further. Instead, I pointed out I was clicking only the surroundings, and that at no time had I pointed the camera at them. That had them only half-placated. They continued to glare at me and mutter, "No pictures of us." Even the manager strode up to me and asked me not to take pictures. That's why I don't have any pictures of the shop itself.

This unwonted hostility only served to trigger off my perverse genes. I set the camera to maximum wide angle, and contrived to "accidentally" get those customers somewhere within the frame. Evidently they were not familiar with wide angle, because they didn't catch on. Except one guy who covered his face when I pointed the camera not too far from where he was sitting. But even that, I think, was just being careful.

The food arrived. On a large plastic basin was placed a plate with a lump of Suji and two smaller lumps of beef charred almost black. Next to it was a bowl of stew made with okra and dried fish. I learnt later the basin contained hot water to wash one's hand in at the end of the meal. The Suji was doughy and tasteless, but that was only expected. Its pristine white colour indicated no spices had been added to it. I figured out, correctly as it turned out, you were supposed to tear off small pieces and dip them into the stew. The stew itself was decent enough. It smelled of dried fish, but not too much. The Okra masked the smell and complemented the flavour. I could smell tomatoes and garlic, but nothing much more. The meat was the wost I've ever had, fully as unappetising as it looked. It was dry, flavourless, and mostly cartilage. Even the little bits of meat were tough and chewy beyond belief. Beyond a little salt, I couldn't discern any spices at all.

While I was eating a guy came over and sat next to me. I forgot his name, but do remember he was from Nigeria. Unlike the others, he seemed to be eager to talk, and I had a shrewd idea about the reason why. Sure enough, after initial pourparlers, he asked me just why I was taking so many pictures. I pointed to one of the old houses, and started talking of scrolls, foliations and sconces. If you've read Jeeves discoursing on cow creamers and other silverware, you will know just where I had sourced my terms from. Happily, this friend was unfamiliar with architecture and Wodehouse alike, and swallowed my bullshit with little demur.

After a while he asked me if I were an architect myself. I decided to play it safe, and said I study law at NUS. Immediately came a very suspicious "So how come you know so much about architecture?" Hey, I knew that was coming! Had known it even when I was confessing to being a law student. Which had given me loads of time to invent an architect friend back home who'd asked me to take pictures for a project he was doing. Satisfied there was nothing fishy about me, the guy then lapsed into a sulky silence.

A little footnote: When I went to pay for my meal, the manager asked for five Dollars. I said Suji and meat came to only four bucks. He pointed out I was given that stew as well. True I hadn't asked for it, but people who order Suji always have stew to go with it. I decided not to argue. He wasn't overcharging me; I did get something for that extra Dollar even though I hadn't asked for it. At the same time it served to underscore just how uncomfortable the entire experience had been.