Roti Bengali

"PENANG ROTI BENGALI" was sprawled across the exterior of the white van. The long queue next to the van caught my attention. It brought back memories. (I've been reminiscing an awful lot of late.)

At a time long gone,  an old Bengali used to live in a wooden shophouse down the road from ours. (I heard that the term "Bengali" had been deemed offensive in recent years so I'll beg your indulgence while I reminisce.)

There was a time when commercial bread did not exist. We breakfasted on Bengali bread. If you have seen the bread served at Hainanese kopitiam, there ... that's your regular Bengali bread, or rather, ... mine! I called it the Bengali bread because it was baked and sold by the Bengali man who carried his bread inside  a round container at the back of his bicycle. . The round container was so big you could wrap your hands around it and still not be able to make them meet. A black conical lid covered this container while the black rubber horn on his bicycle announced his approach.

I loved watching him slice and skin the bread, He had a kindly face and white beard and if you stand real still long enough, he'd give you the discarded pieces which is awesome with homemade kaya. Back then, butter was a rarity for margarine was the order of the day. My brother's wife used to feed her children with buttered bread and jam. I wasn't allowed to touch her butter until the day I came out with a devious plan. I sneaked into the kitchen and buttered my bread while she was dozing and had me my first bite. It was heavenly but only because the forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest.

She taught me a valuable lesson, this sister-in-law of mine. She showed me the hideous side of a mean-spirited face.