It’s six o’clock on Friday evening at Hurstville station and I walk up to the concourse from the platform below. I’ve just beat the swathes of commuters who will soon follow and swallow up the stairs as they pile off the city trains.
There is a set of exit gates facing Coles; this is the route I normally take, and I traipse around the aisles in a tired shuffle-of-a-conga-line made up of the same commuters, reaching right for the tea, left for the tuna.
Another set of exit gates lead away from Coles, and if you walk through these you come to a cafe, a butcher, a fish monger, a green grocer, an asian supermarket and half a dozen takeaway food shops. I had planned to take my default route (right for the tea, left for the tuna), but my nose catches the suggestion of a tasty new experience and I end up on the other side of the barriers, facing a barista who is making the most of people who either aren’t affected by caffeine in the evening or else just don’t care for sleep.
But I can’t smell the coffee for the spice mix. This collection of food shops is the very best version of a food court: not your regular Westfield where the smell of Butter Chicken and the fat from Big Macs linger together in the pores of the plastic tables; here the earthiness of spices undergirds the green wetness of spinach and bok choi and hot peanut oil. Chilli gets up my nose and I have to clear my throat.
I pass each food store slowly. I keep a measured distance from the shop assistants, hoping to give off a noncommittal air. I don’t have my glasses on so even when I squint, the square menu pictures above the counter don’t help me, but I’m enjoying the stroll. I take a complete turn before I pause by one shop which has a commendable queue, but it’s mainly fish on the menu and I don’t feel like fish. Next door is Petaling Street, selling fresh-cooked Malaysian street food. My nose, already prominent in this evening’s decision-making, chooses the Beef Rendang with egg noodles. Take away please. As I wait for my order, a chef fills two large square styrofoam containers with curry. Perhaps it’s Rendang too. I can see the kitchen, which is clean and calm. Water hits a wok and there’s a shh-eoww of steam. The men are cooking and the women are bagging up the orders.
“Yes, ready”.
Here is my plastic bowl filled with Malaysian goodness. I walk out onto the street, towards home, with the smell of chilli still in my nose.
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