husenfulhu eats

i'm eating a beef panini from city gelato in my room while on a call with faathumaafulhu. the panini is cheesy, with a thin layer of roasted beef that doesn't taste half bad. and it is filling me up surprisingly well for a snack. it's the bread, i think.

'anyway,' i begin. 'i spent quite a bit of that trip snorkelling. that was pretty cool. seeing the corals before the bleaching happened, all that colour.'

'oh is that right, brother?' says my sister and i can almost see her smirk. 'how many times did you go snorkelling then?'

'half my time there was spent in water,' i snap.

'oh, here's a real lover of the ocean everyone,' she laughs. 'why is this annoying you? do you tell people you're a snorkeller?'

'anyway,' i say. 'i saw a pair of octopuses the third day, just chilling on a rock you know. looking at me. and i looked at them. we were like that for at least half an hour.'

'oh man,' she says. 'that's so cool. i literally LOVE octopuses. like the way they change colour. that's just amazing.'

'well, yeah but what i really love about them is how well they mimic the texture of their surroundings.'

'yeah, but do they REALLY change the texture of their bodies? isn't that a trick of the light or something?'

'man!' i exclaim. 'have you SEEN an octopus?'

'of course i have, i've seen so many i've lost count. you know, on my DIVES?'

'ah,' i tell her. 'you might go deeper than me sister and see more, but you don't observe. the details of this beautiful world are lost on you.'

'fuck off,' says my sister, but she is laughing a little. 'that's so mean.'

'well, it's the truth, faathuma,' i say. i have won this exchange. i take a bite from my panini and a web of cheese appears between my mouth and the sandwich. mmm.

'you know,' i say. 'i think we're friends because you don't look up to me now.'

'what do you mean?'

'like you see me as your equal.'

'what the fuck are you talking about?'

'ok, it's like this,' i say, trying to gather my thoughts. 'you can't be friends with people you look up to.'

'why not?’

‘you can't be friends with someone whom you think is not on your level.'

'are you telling me how to choose my friends, brother?' she asks.

'it's like this. only someone who's on the same level as you can understand you. and you them.'

'ok...'

'without mutual understanding there can be no friendship, right?'

'i guess. but i'm friends with my friend's cat.'

'come on, how can you two be friends? it's a stupid cat.'

'YOU'RE stupid. do you think you're so clever and deep no one gets you?'

'alright, alright, let's not fight,' i tell her. 'i'm eating my panini.'

'good. i gotta go get ready for the club,' she says. 'miss you.'

i hang up.

it's true, though. if she looked up to me, i'd always feel it. it will prevent me from being friends with her because it gives me power over her, to shape her somehow, to exert my will on her. who wants to do that to someone?

banana leaf isn’t the best place for indian in male, but it’s certainly not the worst and sometimes that’s all you need.

tonight, i’m with jaufarji, with whom i went to that little korean place in hulhumale. i didn’t particularly care for it but i’m glad it’s part of our food ecosystem. you gotta start somewhere.

jaufarji is without his sketchbook this evening. it might be the first time i am seeing him without it, in fact.

we order two dosa meals and stare at each other for a long, drawn out moment in mute horror. why are we here? what have we done? who have we become?

‘what’s on your mind, husenfulhu?’ asks my dinner companion.

‘oh,’ i say, wishing i can confide in him those very thoughts. but the words don’t come to me, perhaps because i am wary of him. a young man of talent who may never have felt that moment which until now i believed we both shared.

so how can we be friends, i think. how can we be friends if i am afraid he won’t understand me? how can we if we’re not on the same level?

perhaps this means i should try telling him. give him the benefit of the doubt.

‘do you sometimes look back on your life and mourn the decisions that made you the man you are today, man?’ i ask.

‘are you asking me if i’m unhappy with who i am now?’ asks jaufarji. ‘then, no.’

the server brings our food to the table. the dosa is crisp, but not as much as it could’ve been, and there’s something off about the chutney. it’s subtle, this offness, only someone familiar with the goods from south indian diners may detect it.

‘i don’t care for this chutney,’ remarks jaufarji.

i look at his expressionless face.

hmm. he told me he’d spent time in india.

i step onto the smooth cement of the colonial villa that’s filled with the smell of the sea. the frothy stretch of water beckons from beyond the door. as i walk into the yard, and spot sampaafulhu and nadheemaadhi lounging in deckchairs beneath a large umbrella, i sense something begin to unravel. the moment i notice it, the effect magnifies - a complete decompressing of the soul.

i put my fingers over sampa’s eyes.

‘about time’ she says with what i think is a smidge of excitement.

‘hello!’ beams nadheemaadhi, ever effervescent.

‘man,’ i say plopping down on the chair besides sampa, who grunts and makes room for me.

the view is unbroken, a grey-blue sea stretching right up to the horizon beyond a bar of golden sand, so different from our bleached coral beaches. above, layers of puffy clouds, white and still against the brightest blue. a wave rolls in, crashing in a sigh of delicious white noise.

‘isn’t it something?’ says nadheemaadhi.

‘we’re in the promised land,’ i say.

‘we’re in ahangama,’ says sampa. ‘it’s enough for us mortals.’

that afternoon, with the clouds still glowing orange, we go to a restaurant by the sea: persian kitchen.

a shaggy brown spaniel comes up to us and wags its tail. i almost pet it on its silky head and then remember i am muslim.

we order kebabs and a seafood platter.

beyond us is the sea, gentler now, and lit by the dipping sun. the clouds burn.

‘there’s this feeling you get when you sense something become memory,’ i tell sampaafulhu. ‘it’s like you’re experiencing something but also remembering it. you’re experiencing something that’s already happened.’

‘de ja vu?’ asks nadheemadhi.

‘you lost me at memory,’ says sampaafulhu.

the food arrives and so does the dog who sits by one end of the table trying to lock eyes with us, those sad spaniel eyes.

‘my god, these prawns,’ says sampaafulhu.

‘the kebab is amazing, too,’ i tell her. ‘here, try some.’ i put some meat on her plate

‘aren’t you glad you came?’ asks nadheemadhi.

one of the best kept secrets in henveiru is comfood's excellent savoury pies - they're doing two types at the moment: chicken & mushroom, and beef. all under fifty rufiyaa. it's a bargain, especially for those who've spent time abroad down under.

anyhow, here i am with moosaalhu again at raalhugandu, watching people of male enjoy the surf. i know i've said it before but i STILL can't get over just how quickly the FEEL changes when i cross the ring road and climb onto the sand of this beloved surf spot.

now, we're sitting on the bench under a canopy of kuredhi. it's late afternoon and cloudy, but we have a triad of colourful expatriate workers seated on the seawall, brightening up our mis en scene.

'i wonder if any of them had seen the sea before they moved here,' muses moosaalhu, gingerly biting into his chicken pie like the cautious man he is.

'not all of them are bangladeshis you know,' i tell him, taking a hefty chunk out of my beef pie. it's fantastic, i love the crispy crust and the filling. maybe i'd like some cheese in mine but that's another story.

'why, do you think bangladeshis are the only people who've had no experience of the ocean?' moosaalhu grins.

oh boy.

'anyway,' he continues. 'i love their colours, they are the same as my palette for the place i'm designing at this resort.'

'you know,' i begin. 'by the time bodu sappe' was your age, he'd already designed a bunch of resorts. not little cupboards in restrooms like you. ENTIRE fucking resorts!'

'hah, he was the only person around!' moosaalhu says with what i feel is a touch of envy. aha! i am pleased to have hit a nerve.

'have you SEEN nautilus, man?' i ask him. 'he's STILL making stuff. putting his thumbprint on maldives tourism. while there are SO MANY architects here.'

'huh, i don't judge my worth based on the work i do,' moosaalhu responds, grinning.

'what DO you judge your worth on then?' i ask him.

'i just don't judge myself,' he replies. 'unlike you.'

huh. i mean, what kind of person doesn't compare himself to his peers? his betters? moosaalhu clearly, but just look at this complacent man! how is one to live like that? how is one to IMPROVE?

'fuck self-improvement,' grins moosaalhu. goddammit! can the man read my mind?

'well, i pity you, moosa,' i tell him. 'really, i do. you're in arrested development while everyone around you rises to greatness.'

'yeah, like yourself?' he says, smiling.

'i've been published,' i tell him. 'in journals read by INTELLIGENT people.'

'ok, what are you so excited about then?' asks faathumaafulhu. we've been on the phone for half an hour and she's already said 'to be fair' a million times.

'i'm gonna have the short rib at patio with sampa,' i tell her.

'really? that's what you're excited about?'

'you don't understand!' i exclaim. 'everybody's who's ever had it has raved about it. RAVED. and it's free!'

'pathetic,' she yawns. 'i'm gonna sleep, it's almost 9pm here, and surf’s up tomorrow. enjoy your stupid meal.'

my sister is in bali, that goddamned island all the gen z travellers from the maldives seem unable to get over. gimme nepal any day of the week.

i hang up, take a shower and dress up for the night cos sampaafulhu is dressed all pretty too.

'finally,' i tell her as we're getting out of the lift. 'you're about to taste the fruits of my modest success as a critic of note.'

'more like the MEAT of your success,' she replies, walking towards the cab.

good one, sampa.

as we step out by rainbow central, sampa goes 'oho.'

she's never been, poor woman. i realise how very hungry i am - i haven't eaten all day. sampaafulhu's belly lets out a groan. oh boy. i hope we don't have to wait.

but we DO! the drinks come - ginger lemonade, and we sip on them for a while. sampaafulhu thinks it's much too sour.

'yeah,' i agree. 'it could use a touch of salt and some honey. tone down on the lime.'

'not a great start,' sampaafulhu shakes her head.

thankfully, the meal arrives before TOO long. not just the main course but dessert as well, funnily enough. we eye the meat like vultures and pounce on it the moment the server leaves.

'oh, dear LORD!' i exclaim almost immediately after shoving a forkful in my mouth.

'mmm MMM,' says sampaafulhu, chewing, her eyes closed.

'it is SO good!'

'VERY good.'

'it's a fucking MIRACLE!' i say.

and i really can't believe it. like i've cooked steaks not too long ago, and fairly well if i may add, but the beefiness of this hunk of meat exists in a whole new universe of flavour.

incredible.

'the mash, man', says sampa. 'have you tried the mash?'

it is perfect, not overly anything, just beautiful, rich, starchy potato and butter flavours. i haven't had mash like this in recent times. and even the little rocket salad, with its sweet and tangy dressing is a thing of joy. everything about this dish surpasses our collective imagination. my GOD!

i am too full to tuck into the french toast but sampaafulhu tries it anyway.

'unbelievable,' she says shaking her head. 'i'm having more.'

'aren't you full?' i ask her.

'neiy jaaga mi furanee,' she responds.

she can only manage half and we take the rest home.

at our kanmathee store where we stop to buy some tp, the chubby seytu goes:

'muizz is a hiyalhu. no one knows what he's doing. not even adhurey. can you believe it?'

‘too hiyalhu?' i say, paying up.

‘dhen maa sakaraathiyyaa baalaanee dho? like we did with ibu,’ says the seytu matter of factly.

as we walk into the building, i ask sampaafulhu: am i imagining things or was it really THAT good?

‘the beef and mash was,’ she says.

‘don’t you mean ‘were’?’

‘fine, they WERE. they really were.’

we're at thai wok for lunch. it's an institution which i suspect still retains its original cutlery from the 90s, as well as furniture, even the tablemats. the wealthy owner of the restaurant is supposed to be, for the lack of a better phrase, frugal to a fault. some might dare say miserly.

'the problem with evil is that it's human,' i tell hasanfulhu.

'not natural?' asks hasanfulhu.

'nature is perhaps indiscriminate, indifferent,' i reply.

'but then how is evil born in us? are we taught to be evil?' asks hasanfulhu.

our chicken fried rice and cuttlefish salad arrive. hasanfulhu tries to scoop the rice out but spills half on to the table.

'studies say that some of us are more inclined to evil than others. like serial killers are said to lack empathy,' i say.

'doesn't that mean nature is to blame?' says hasanfulhu.

'hmm.' man has a point.

anyhow, even those who live under rocks would have felt the vibrations of the attacks on israel and palestine. those waves would have crept in. the big nations have unequivocally sided with israel. it's not surprising.

'meanwhile, gaza's gonna be blown up and annexed,' says hasanfulhu, little grains of rice spilling from his mouth. have i been thinking aloud?

'and the media tries to make it seem like the hamas attack is a freak event, not one that came out of decades of wanton oppression.'

'wanton oppression?' i ask him.

'did i use the wrong adjetive?'

'adjective,' i correct him. he's from gaafu dhaalu.

he chews for a moment.

'is hamas evil? is israel evil? does it even make sense to ask this of groups and countries?' he asks. he seems to be in an inquiring mood.

'ok, so. if terror is evil, agents of terror, whether individuals or groups or nations, are evil.' i say.

'but what IS terror, first of all?' he asks. he is a lawyer, and it is one of those questions that people tend to ask when they aren't thinking well.

'why aren't you asking me what evil means, firstly?' i say.

'oh, everyone knows evil,' he responds. 'here, the salad is pretty good today, have some.'

i have a taste and the cuttlefish is nice - like it hasn't been in the freezer for a month.

'terror,' my friend wants to go on. 'what do you think?'

'though a group is fairly clear, a nation is a problematic subject, it's fuzzy, you know?' i try to explain myself. 'i mean, a nation contains contradictions - but when you say israel is evil, you don't mean those citizens who're, let's say, just as outraged by the acts of a nation acting on their behalf. you just mean those responsible for the atrocities.'

hasanfulhu bobs his head in agreement.

i eat some rice - it tastes just as i remember it. that's the allure of thai wok.

'and by evil i also mean those individuals and groups that are intending to make a profit of this misery, by the buying and selling of stocks of oil companies let's say.'

'who's doing that?' asks hasanfulhu.

'people, like lawmakers in the states. i saw a tiktok.'

'is that where you get your news from?'

'i mean,' i say, trying to ignore this man’s snark. 'there are reasons why israel is the way it is. not justifications but reasons. like it has not just its own interests at heart but american interests, capitalist interests.'

'all right,' says hasanfulhu. 'maybe those interests might not even be israel's best interests.'

'yeah, exactly. like, the state of israel's function isn't to murder palestinians, that's the outcome of expansion and its reaction - israel wants to spread its boundaries and propagate and protect certain interests in a region that all of the world still values.'

'because of the oil, no?'

'yes. the oil. it's always the oil. even in this goddamned century.'

hasanfulhu calls a server to bring the bill.

'i'll get it,' he says.

as i wait for the transaction to go through, i think about the evil of this small state. it seems an anachronism in a world that has seen a martin luther king, a gandhi, a mandela. and yet it exists. it is ALLOWED to exist unaccounted for.

'you know what else is evil?' asks hasanfulhu.

'what?'

'this restaurant. 500 for a fried rice and salad. atrocious.'

for all its charm and sophistication, seagull cafe is perfectly fine with serving half-assed food and billing you blind without a shred of fucking shame. there is no love, no respect for the art in the majority of the restaurant's offerings.

and yet here i am. alone, upstairs. this could be a metaphor but it's not. it's just a guy in an expensive restaurant where an environmentally conscious architect had saved a tree from certain death, a tree that reaches right up from the ground to the upper deck, one whose branches disappear into what look like the puckers of gigantic assholes in the ceiling. not metaphors.

the call for isha slices through the yellow-tinged dark. people streak towards the mosque across the marbled plaza, hungry for savaab.

i too am hungry, and for something seagull does remarkably well, remarkably.

let it be known then to one and all. it's the tuna sandwich.

tonight, the server brings them to my table quickly, these four four-sided sandwiches. they are shapes that you might find in a sixth grade maths test whose length and angles are mysteries that require swift demystification by a twelve-year-old brain.

now, i prefer them untoasted - hard bread scratches my delicate palate.

these sandwiches have extremely generous fillings of superb tuna & mayo and are accompanied by sliced tomatoes. it's best with a bowl of chips if you're sharing. if not, the chips are expensive and there is far too many of them for one.

this sandwich is something i crave on occasion, especially on those days when, battered from a non-stop night and day of work, i sit and yearn for culinary comfort.

and even a place so removed from the desires of people such as i can hold within it a source of (i won't say gastronomic) joy...that puzzles me but like almost anyone, i would rather be baffled than apalled.

i'm by myself at kanz biryani after a day of hard work (i work hard dammit). and dear god, does it smell SPICY in here! it's the place that's taken over 'the space' on roashanee magu. they don't seem to care about the decor too much now, which may in fact be a good omen.

anyhow, i order the beef because i want to save their dum biriyani for later, to eat with fellow biriyani fanatic @shaari_. the first impressions are extremely favourable. the biriyani arrives in minutes and is accompanied by the usual suspects (raita, rasam) plus kheer, that sweet indian dish with vermicelli and almonds and sweet milk, well, you know what i'm talking about.

but the real winner is the rasam. i've never had anything like it, it's exploding with flavour, of a medley of spices and sourness, a full-flavoured experience. i mix it with my biriyani, which is fragrant and deliciously spiced with fennel and cumin and cinnamon. and together with the rasam, it's a killer combo. i eat like a dog, then down my rasam in a few shots. my god. this is stellar stuff. i must have shaari's thoughts.

so, on the saturday before election saturday, we find ourselves in the kanz again.

'you want us to try their dumB biriyani huh?' says shaari, grinning.

'yes,' i reply. man’s a real hoot.

'why's it called dum biriyani though?' he asks.

'let's ask someone,' i say. so they explain it to us: it's basically a biriyani that's been baked over a wood fire in a clay pot.

'huh,' says shaari. 'i'm really ready for this. it should mean something that they named themselves kanz biriyani.'

'oh,' i say. 'as opposed to...?'

'kanz kahanbu?' grins my lunch companion.

oh dear.

and soon, shaari too is taken with the swiftness of service. he arranges everything for the pic (first photo of this post). then, he inhales the rice.

'mmm,' he says. 'it's smelling goooood.'

i nod my agreement and we begin.

'ah,' says shaari. 'this chicken is so tender.'

'isn't it just,' i say. 'it's fucking phenomenal, man.'

'yeah,' says shaari, chewing thoughtfully. 'you know, i think you might disagree but this is as good as maagiri.'

'you think?' i ask.

'at the very LEAST.'

'try it with the rasam, man.' i tell him.

he pours over the little container into his rice and takes a bite. his eyes light up.

'this is definitely next level,' he says.

we polish off our meals, and ask the server for gulaab jaamun to close this excellent outing but it is not to be had.

'well,' sighs shaari. 'let's pay up.'

the bill is 190MVR for everything. it's incredible and we would've parted with double that gladly. well. in theory anyway.

'screw maagiri,' says shaari. 'THIS is where it's at.'

"They call it quid"

Startled, I look behind me and it's my friend. He has joined me in UK to complete his bachelor's degree in mechanical engineering.

"What?"

"Quid. Nickname for pound."

I exit Tesco express with the usual: meal deal sandwiches, free meal rice, quaker's porridge, quack's meal.

I might be breaching my friend's confidence but let me tell you this, eager grammers, this is the first time he has been outside of Maldives.

His scholarship and visa ensures he will be in the UK for the next 4 years and no amount of good sense can expel him. He did his A Levels in F. Nilandhoo and what could only have been a mistake he got all A's in all of the 7 subjects. Even I managed to get only 3.

"When they said there will be hot water, I really thought they meant 'warm'. Dho?" went on Jabeel.

I turn to him, impatient, and he explained it to me.

He had burned his male organ in hot water while attempting a shower.

"Ahannah varah saafu" (Here the writer must interject, nothing has ever been clear to him. He is stumbling in a forest of unclarity).

"There has been some benefits to colonialism"

Tired old me: "What?"

"For example, in the British Museum there were the griffiths-"

"Griffins"

"Fine, griffins of Syria-"

"Assyria"

"Well there's only one, so no need of an A!"

"Not A Syria, Assyria"

"Ekam bunan" (as if he's been silent all this time)

"Nothing will come close to Al Andhalus. That was the time. Anyways did you check if Tesco was halal?"

i've known the coffee shrub to be a great brunch and dinner place for a while now and this review comes late. but i'm gonna make up for it. so today, sampaafulhu and i are braving the puddles to get there (first floor at male square). for breakfast!

on the way, sampaafulhu makes a face and goes 'what's that?'

'yves saint laurent,' i say, a little embarrassed.

'smells like kuni atha,' she says.

there’s election material all around, the cloudy sky is half-hidden by rows of pink flags waving in the gentle wind.

'i'm too panicky,' i say.

'why?' asks sampaafulhu, finally crossing over to male square.

'well. it's just, it feels like a huge change,' i tell her, walking towards the stairs.

'just get off twitter,' she says. 'they're acting like it’ll turn into afghanistan overnight. there are real threats but it won’t be like that. calm the fuck down.'

we give our orders – she some kind of poached egg, me a mashuni and rihaakuru set with huni roshi – then move into the airconditioned interior.

'isn't it nice?' she says.

'isn't what?' i ask.

'not smoking. we can sit in the ac bit now.'

'yeah, isn't that something?'

the restaurant isn't busy and our orders arrive quickly. my huni roshi is quartered, freshly baked and flavourful, with little bits of fresh huni giving pops of sweetness. good enough to be a meal on its own.

the thoraa mashuni isn't bad either. but the real showstopper is the theluli rihaakuru. fish-tasting without being fishy, and beautiful caramelised onions piling on the sweet. my LORD.

'even if we become a taliban wasteland,' i gush to sampaafulhu. 'this meal will be enough to redeem us. a real beacon of hope, a symbol of everything bright and beautiful and worth saving in our home.'

'got any money for this?' she responds

'er...can i pay you tomorrow?'

tsk, she says and pays at the counter while i take in this place with its cheery, nature inspired decor, happy to be in the moment, so very happy.

we're at that korean place in hulhumale, k food zone. it's evening, the sky promises rain but the moon is out, a supermoon the likes of which we won't see for another 13 years.

i'm here with an arty young man, jaufarji - i have never seen a person more in love with sketching. unless he only does it when we hang which seems a bit weird.

'i'm only getting coffee,' he tells me, but then goes through the menu and settles on a vegetarian bibimbap. he's vegan but you won't be able to guess it because the guy has girth :D

i choose the beef bibimbap, and we have a can of coke each and some water. there's a couple inside and it doesn't look too roomy so we decide to sit out by the entrance.

as i settle in to my seat across from jaufarji, there's a roar. a loud SQAWK makes my friend's face light up. fucking motorists with macaws. but it seems a necessary evil of globalised development.

before jaufarji can get his sketchbook out, i try to impress him with my knowledge of local artists.

'have you seen the work of island.cultures?' i ask him. 'nope,' he says. he's got almost no artifice, jaufarji.

'well, look at this,' i show him the instagram feed. 'it's a pretty cool water colour sketch isn't it?'

'i think it's oil actually,' he remarks. 'it's pretty good though.'

he scrolls thru my phone and comes across something.

'now this is water colour,' he says.

'he's not very good is he?' i say. 'it seems a bit rushed.'

'it's actually not bad at all,' says jaufarji. 'good technique.'

dear god.

'he reminds me of the impressionists,' i say.

'who're the impressionists?' jaufarji asks.

'you know, monet.'

'aren't they avant garde?' he asks without any hint of irony and i'm glad he didn't press me for more impressionists.

'no, they're just impressionists,' i tell him.

our food arrives then. an old asian woman, presumably the owner, mixes up my bibimbap with the egg and sauce for me. i thank her and dig in.

'it's alright,' i say. the sauce tastes acceptable, like korean stuff. the rice is ok as well but the dish is served in a plastic bowl topped with a fried egg, so you don't get crispy rice grains and cooked strands of yolk and eggwhite. the beef too is cooked and very much on the dry side.

'this isn't at all what i'd expected,' says jaufarji.

'what were you expecting,' i ask him. 'did you have it before?'

'no, but i wasn't expecting this. the flavours are way too subtle. there's no salt in this.'

'oh. i think it's fine when you add the sauce.'

but it didn't improve matters for him. and when the bill arrives, it's almost five hundred rufiyaa.

'god, we could've got a ticket to seoul for the money we've spent here,' i say. my friend nods. he seems to be over it already.

'i feel like we should go to the beach,' he says.

'can i get some ice cream? there's a baskin robbins nearby.'

it's close to midnight (thriller reference) and i'm going thru food i've eaten over the past year. i scroll thru these pics and realise i have a huge fucking hole in my gut that needs immediate filling. and at that very moment, my phone rings.

it's bakurube!

'have to talk to you,' he says.

'all right,' i say, wondering what it's about.

'first things first. we must eat. coming in ten.'

well whatever it is, it's obviously too important to be talked over the phone. and bakurube is a a serious man's serious person. man barely has any humour.

'aibbalhey, ok?' he says when we meet.

ah, midnight at aibbalhey's. it's like the entire wandering tribe of israel has finally found their manna.

we barely manage to find seating for two and order the usual. it's going to take a few minutes, says our guy.

'now,' bakurube continues. 'see, we've discovered something. what i was telling you these past two years. just look. incredible.'

he shows me how his artist, raaveribe, has derived the mystery 'earlobe' design that's found in the carvings on the hukuru miskiy's coral stone panels. it's by application of the golden ratio over and over on a most basic dhivehi design, which becomes more complex on each new rendering. or so it seems to me.

'now he's making his own,' bakurube says with some pride. 'in fact, that's what he does all day - the man can't stop himself!'

our food arrives, and obviously it's a feast with paaparu, chili, lime and onion on the side. the roshi is dismal and the curry the same consistently fantastic junk we know and love. it must be how they roast the powder, i think. maybe i can become their cook for a while. would all their cooks know the recipe? probably not. so, it can't be the roasting then. it has GOT to be a particular kind of havaadhu. spiced just right. handed down from aibbalhey to aibba -

'what's the matter, husenfulhu? you're eating like a bird.'

'i uh, i've got a piece of paaparu stuck in my tonsil.'

'eh?'

'occupational hazard,' i mumble.

'what occupation?' he scoffs and licks up the last of his masburi. 'people once had REAL occupations, husenfulhu. they designed, built those mosques. the vessels. built something REAL.'

oh these people and their insistence that THIS isn't real. well, it's REAL goddammit. it's a journey through the culinary SCAPE -

'right?'

'what did you say?' i ask.

'none of our leaders care about our culture. right? none of them do. look at me. i'm forty-two, and still learning. about us. no outside help. no minister of culture. i'll do it. if it takes...'

i tune out for good around this point and i let myself be dropped off home.

'send me a good title,' he says. 'in english OK, mr english?'

i'm running to the hulhumale ferry terminal. the ferry leaves on the hour and i had thought a ten minute window was more than enough. but apparently not at my speed.

@shaari_ had bought my ticket for me, being the kind man he is.

'in the dick of time,' he grins.

right.

we get on the ferry. it's air conditioned, which must have happened fairly recently because the last time that i went on this ferry, which was around april, it was still being cooled by the wind.

i'm telling this to shaari and he nods and looks around.

'it's just us, some expatriates [read bangladeshis] and a white terrorist,' he observes.

'yeah, migrant workers mostly, and sometimes white backpackers take the ferry,' i tell him.

'we're backpackers in our own country,' shaari says. he's wearing a denim blue t-shirt and jeans. if you know shaari you'd obviously know the shirt says something. this time it's 'free shrugs.'

i try to shrug off the joke.

--

at patio, it's much too hot to stay outdoors so we venture in and take a seat at the far end.

we know what we want, the slow cooked ribs - on the recommendation of a reader (you know who you are). but it isn't to be.

so we have to go for substitutes - i choose the beef stew and garlic rice, shaari the sri lankan curry with bread.

'this happened the last time i came here, too,' says shaari. 'something's up with their supplier.'

'something's missin'' i say.

soon the meals arrive and by god, the stew is mind-meltingly good. the meat falls apart in my mouth, it has absorbed the rich spice-filled gravy but has its own deep, meaty taste, stronger when i eat the chunks of fat (a bad but delicious habit). shaari's meal, he says, is no less beautiful, reminding him of the curries in lanka but also eid keun.

all in all, we spend an hour on lunch and, paying a bill that's less than 400MVR, we walk out into the day to take the ferry back.

'i'll get your ticket,' i tell shaari when we arrive at the counter. but it turns out a ticket costs 10 and not 5 MVR.

when we're in our seats shaari says: 'so, this proves you haven't been on the ferry like you've been implying.'

oh yes i have, i've just been paying with bigger notes, and not checking the balance,' i tell him quickly.

'right.'

'i mean, what are we trying to prove here?' i say. 'that we're a couple of working class stiffs? we just ate from PATIO dammit.'

shaari laughs.

'next time, we're going to the indian place in hm to check out the dosas,' he says.

'we're taking the ferry again?'

'yes.'

i'm here at comfood, trying out their all day breakfast bowl which is modestly priced at 55 MVR but it's more a snack than a meal.

on my way here, i was on the phone with faathumaafulhu, and as i was about to cross the street near masveringe park, i saw something special.

'oh man, you won't believe what i'm seeing,' i say.

'what is it? whatchu lookin' at?'

'it's this cab, man. it's all decked out in studs and satanist gear. like with a proper pentagram and shit,' i tell her.

'a satanist cab? in male?' faathumaafulhu seems incredulous.

'yes, and i think i know the guy who owns it. he used to have the skull of a goat on the wall of his apartment. facing the street!'

'wow,' she whistles. 'that's commitment.'

'yep.'

'you know what you should do?' she says.

'what?'

'do a series with male's weirdos.'

'hah,' i scoff. 'we'd be somewhere near the top, you and i.'

'why? who says we're weird?' she seems a little offended.

'our friends?'

'huh. what do they know? anyway, how was barbie last night? i still haven't seen it.'

'well, it was ok.'

'ok? what're you holding back?'

'i thought it was a bit heavyhanded with the politics, and tried to be clever and self-aware but not very successfully.'

'huh, what do you mean?' she asks.

'i mean, ahhh you don't have to beat the audience on the head with your message. people aren't idiots.'

'YOU're an idiot for thinking barbie'd be subtle,' she says.

'you should watch it tho, i did get some good laughs,' i say. 'but i liked wonder woman so much more. i think it managed to say something similar without sounding like a page of quotes ripped out of a student's gender studies notebook.'

'my god, you're STILL obSESSED with gal gadot you fucking zionist,' says faathumaafulhu. "a gentleman prefers brunettes. also, isn't it funny mattel doesn't have a woman ceo?'

'i dunno, is it?'

'ahh i gotta go, i'm about to order.'

if you are the kind of person who is swayed by reviews on tripadvisor, you will definitely be itching to visit the cloud restaurant at samann grand. it has a five-star average and over 200 reviews. impressive right?

anyhow, they claim to offer chinese, and if any of you are even semi-regular followers of my foodventures, you will know of my visceral bond with the food of that great nation.

so, here i am at the entrace, the vestibule if you will, with @shaari_, my curly-haired wingman on this mission.

"semen grand, eh?" he grins. oh, boy.

the lift inside samann's cosy lobby is a curious thing, it starts from 1 - there is no G for ground floor.

'they're not grounded,' says shaari, shaking his head. this doesn't bode well.

the lift leadenly takes us on our upward journey and we finally reach the tenth floor.

"oh, lord, what a view," i exclaim. shaari nods, and starts taking pics.

"wow, check this out," i tell shaari, pulling back a beige curtain. "noor miskiy has solar panels on the roof."

shaari whistles then snaps a few photos.

'the king salmon mosque looks imposing even from here,' he says. i snort. the man wears his sense of humour on his sleeve. or rather, on his upper body - his shirt has the pizza hut logo, only it says 'pizza slut.'

we get the menus but to my dismay there are no real chinese meals except some wok fried stuff. unnacceptable for a place that claims to offer the cuisine of the people's republic.

so, i settle for a singaporean noodles and shaari orders a lasagne.

as we wait for our food, the call to prayer booms from the two mosques at full volume.

'we have got to be the city with the most mosques per square kilometer,' i tell shaari who nods and says: 'and the most cafes, too.'

'i wish they wouldn't build massive new mosques here when land is so scarce,' i carry on, finding a rhythm. 'why can't they just have a regulation saying every large building must have a prayer hall for its residents? wouldn't that save a ton space?'

'maybe you should run for mayor,' says shaari.

funny guy.

the food arrives in the arms of our server - they are very nice and swift here i must admit. there's nothing remarkable about my dish tho, except that it came with some chutney which i've never in my life had with noodles. and when i DO try it out, it feels very strange, like a man wearing shorts in a mosque. plus the beef is a bit chewy. goddamn. but shaari is enjoying his lasagne.

'i love the sauce,' he says. 'the meat is great and it's real cheesy overall.'

YOU'RE cheesy, i think to myself.

the bill is over 500, much too steep for this offering, even if it's a nice enough setting. the good lord knows i'm not coming here again and so we head out to little old modus to drown my disappointment in a coffee i can count on.

shaari's comment:

A decent lasagna is hard to come by in Male. I'm always skeptical when I order one, like if it's going to be too dry or if it's beef or buffalo and most importantly, would it taste like lasagna. This gets the first two right. The last one, not exactly but the flavours still elevate it above average in the city.

i climb up the foul smelling stairway of schwack cinema in male - it's like passing by the toilets in majeediyya, getting smacked in the head with the stench of aged urine. dear god. i think faathumaafulhu is gagging behind me, remember her? my generous sister.

anyway, i won't be here if not for sampaafulhu, who told me black pearl was worth checking out because the cool cliques were abuzz with word of the place.

faathumaafulhu runs into the restaurant ahead of me and then goes WOW...

it is a fairly fancy-seeming place: alternating white and brown leather booths, dark parquet floors, a white, geometric ceiling lit up with concealed LEDs, plastic ferns spilling over from the tops of the pillars. there's only one other couple here (not that WE'RE a couple you pervs) so we decide to take a booth.

the menu of course arrives on a tablet - i think the first such menu i encountered was at the old newport. later, after iburey became president, newport was briefly functional in jazeera raajje as a dhivehi specialty restaurant, and by god i had not tasted dhivehi keun like that until the maldive kitchen opened for business years later. i still miss it. so, so good.

'why are you crying?' asks faathumaafulhu.

'dry eyes,' i snap, hoping to shut her up. 'what are you having?'

'i'll get the caramel pudding,' she says. i raise my eyebrow.

'fine,' she sighs. 'i had dinner with a friend just then.'

'great,' i say.

'please don't pout,' she says. i go through the menu again and settle on the black pearl grilled steak salad.

'i really like it here,' says faathumaafulhu. 'where's everyone though? why's no one here?'

'i dunno,' i tell her. 'but i got this message from dad today, it said the hospitals are full of the sick.'

'well, you're still here,' says faathumaafulhu. i snort.

'there's some kinda bug going round,' i say.

'hmm,' she nods, puts on her earphones and zones out. an excellent dinner companion.

the server brings our orders quickly. the salad is plated very well but i am still uneasy about the avocado and beef pairing. it doesn't seem like it can work in my head, but i don't let that get in the way. 

i skewer a piece of beef and a slice of avo, coat them in the vinaigrette and have a taste.

dear god.

'why are you crying again? what's wrong?'

'nothing,' i tell faathumaafulhu. 'nothing's wrong. everything's GREAT. here, have a taste!'

she has a slice of meat and avo and some greens.

'fuck me,' she exclaims. 'it's fantastic!'

'yes, and it's MINE!'

the garlic bread accompanying the salad is flawless, crispy crust, soft insides, all wrapped in a delicious garlic butter taste.

the bill arrives and it's under 300.

'why are you dividing the GST by two?' says faathumaafulhu. 'it should be 8% of what i had.'

dear lord. this cheapass bitch of a sister wants to do the maths instead of putting down 10 bucks? the GST was 20!!!

'don't cry!' she says, a little alarmed. 'i was only joking.'

i remember when in the late 00s, a restaurant near STELCO called cafe mignon popped onto the scene serving sushi in male, likely for the first time. they only made sushi on order and you'd have to wait about 45 minutes for the rolls. they were big fat maki, with centres of either vegetable, teriyaki chicken, beef, or canned tuna. OK, not the best, yes, but finally, there was sushi in male. and like those of us with some experience of the culinary realms abroad, especially in east and south east asia, i welcomed this development wholeheartedly. things could only get better, right?

but the place closed down and male was sushi-less again. a giant step back during a time of progress – the first multi-party elections, the first democratically elected president, free health care, etc. things were silent on the sushi front until a young man and his russian partner (i think) opened a restaurant on rah dhebai magu. the sushi there was more than edible and i was starting to become hopeful again. but this place too had to shut its doors because, the guy told me, there just wasn't enough demand. people were still too conservative when it came to food.

so i waited. i was waiting on the naruto generation to mature and start earning, hoping that would end it once and for all.

the wait lasted a few years. and then sampaafulhu showed me something on instagram. it was maybe 2014 and a little place in hulhumale was doing sushi. we went almost immediately. it was in a guesthouse, on the ground floor. and the sushi was good. but i had been let down too many times so i didn't let myself get carried away. and just as well because that place went down.

but then in 2018, when greater male was getting funky with its cuisines (gg's kitchen, blood orange, the goat fish cafe) a japanese place opened up again. oishii by young chef fatheen and his then-girlfriend, the culinary artist shifu, started stirring things up almost from the get go. in an interview with lonumedhu (written by yours truly), fatheen – who was brutally trained under a japanese chef licensed to prepare fugu – said their restaurant was getting mostly maldivian customers.

yes. the tides had finally turned. and the food was GOOD.

a few years later, something happened. things started going downhill in the period right before their move to male. it was a slow descent and easy to chalk up to a string of off days. but by the time they moved to the portside in maafannu, it was starting to show. even then, there were plenty of customers. but i heard fatheen and shifu had gone their separate ways.

then a week back, i saw oishii in henveiru, near the post office. i was surprised by this move, but it seemed logical. there's a lot more going on here than over in dingy north maafannu. i wondered about the quality of food. there was only one way to find out.

so, i went with moosaalhu and took our seats upstairs. it was pleasant, with a good view of the docks from the floor-to-ceiling windows. however, when it was time to order, i found out that half the things i wanted weren't available. including miso soup! that should have been a red flag. but i asked for salmon maki and a stir-fried beef don and moosaalhu a katsu kare.

the food didn't take long to arrive. moosaalhu emptied a forkful into his mouth, chewed and grimaced. 'the chicken is dry af and bland as cardboard,' he said.

the maki was encrusted with sesame seeds and the rice was tasteless so i tried the beef. dear god. it was like biting into little bullets.