Chapter 37 I Could Never Give You Peace #2
After the calm of the aquarium, the market hit us like a tidal wave of sensation. It was alive in every sense of the word; a kaleidoscope of colors, sounds, and smells that flooded the senses and left no room for anything else.
Rows of stalls lined the narrow streets, their canopies fluttering in the warm breeze.
Vendors called out to passersby, their voices competing with the sizzling of woks and the clinking of metal utensils.
The air was thick with the aroma of spices like turmeric, cumin, and coriander mingling with the smoky scent of grilled meat and the sweetness of frying bananas.
“This,” I said, spreading my arms wide, “is Jakarta street food at its finest.”
“Where do we start?” Wyn asked, his eyes scanning the vibrant chaos around us.
“Sate ayam,” I said confidently. “Always start with satay.”
We made our way to a satay stall, where skewers of marinated chicken and goat sizzled over a charcoal grill. The vendor, an older man with a warm smile, fanned the flames with practiced ease, the smoke curling into the evening air.
“Sate ayam dan sate kambing, empat porsi,” I ordered, watching as he plated up the skewers with generous drizzles of peanut sauce.
We sat at a small folding table, the plastic chairs wobbling slightly beneath us. Wynter picked up a skewer, inspecting it cautiously before taking a bite.
His eyes widened almost immediately. “This is…amazing.”
“Better than Korean food?” Soleh narrowed his eyes,
“Slow down, my allegiance lies with kimbab,” Wynter whispered to him, and I punched his shoulder.
“I’ll have them revoke that travel visa.” I threatened.
“I mean of course, who even likes kimbap anyway, sate ayam is the epitome of Asian cuisine!” he corrected himself.
“That’s more like it, baby,” I said, grinning as I took a bite of my own. The satay was tender and smoky, the peanut sauce rich and creamy with just a hint of spice.
Cahya ate slowly, savoring each bite with the meticulous care he brought to everything. Soleh, on the other hand, devoured his portion in record time, only to yelp when the sambal hit him.
“Water!” he gasped, grabbing for his drink as we all laughed.
From there, we moved to a gorengan stall, where piles of golden-brown fried snacks—tempeh, tofu, cassava, and bananas—were stacked high. Soleh grabbed a fried banana and bit into it with a satisfying crunch.
“Gorengan is the best thing ever,” he declared, holding up the snack like a trophy. “God, please don’t ever make me eat Chick-Fil-A ever again.”
Wyn tried a piece of fried tempeh, nodding appreciatively. “This is my favorite so far,” he admitted.
“Tempeh’s my dad’s favorite too,” I said. “But wait until you try martabak manis.”
At the martabak stall, we watched as the vendor poured batter onto a hot griddle, layering it with butter, condensed milk, chocolate, and cheese. The thick pancake was sliced into squares, the gooey filling oozing out as he handed it over.
“Cheese and chocolate?” Wyn asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Trust me,” I said, handing him a piece.
He took a bite, and his expression shifted from skepticism to pure delight. “Okay, this is ridiculous.”
“Right?” I said, laughing.
As the night deepened, we grabbed es campur for dessert—a refreshing mix of shaved ice, syrup, fresh fruit, and jelly. The sweet, icy treat was the perfect way to cool down after the heat of the market.
We sat together on a low bench at the edge of the market, watching the steady stream of people pass by. The warm glow of the streetlights reflected off the puddles left by the afternoon rain, casting golden halos on the pavement.
“This has been the best day,” Soleh declared, his voice muffled slightly by the straw in his drink.
Cahya nodded, his expression serene. “It’s been a while since we’ve all done something like this.”
I turned to Wyn, who was quietly sipping his drink beside me. “What do you think?”
He smiled, his eyes soft as they met mine. “I think I’m falling in love.” He held my gaze then glanced away. “With Jakarta.”
The words hung in the air, simple but sincere, and they filled me with a warmth I couldn’t quite describe. This city, its chaos, its vibrancy, its heart had always been home to me. And now, sharing it with Wyn, it felt like a piece of it was becoming his too.
The market buzzed around us, alive with the sounds and flavors of Jakarta, and as I sat there with my family and Wyn, I felt a quiet kind of joy. The kind that comes from being exactly where you’re meant to be, with the people who matter most.
“My feet hurt,” I complained, taking off one of my sneakers, and Wyn was immediately alert. “It’s so hot today.”
“Oh, here we go,” Cahya commented. “I warned you not to wear closed shoes, you always do this when we walk for a long time.”
“I do not…” I hugged glancing down.
“You so do!” Soleh agreed. “Do not fall into her trap, Wynter!”
“Let me see,” he said, gently lifting up my foot onto his lap, unlacing my sneakers and taking a look at my foot. “Your ankles are a bit swollen, you’ve been on your feet a long time, darling.”
“I know, you’d think a ballerina had more endurance wouldn’t you?” I chuckled as he stood up. “Where are you going?”
“Give me a minute I’ll be back,” he assured me before disappearing for a solid five minutes down the busy street. When he came back, he had a plastic bag with him from a shoe store.
“Oh my God, bro.” Cahya palmed his face. “There’s no way.”
“Prince Charming,” Soleh teased. “Honestly, I don’t know anyone who puts up with Yesoh’s dramatics as well as you do.”
“You didn’t have to…” I smiled as he unboxed a pair of brown sandals and delicately put them on my feet.
“I want you to be comfortable,” he insisted, holding eye contact with me. “Let me carry you home?”
“My brothers would never let me live that down, Wyn.” I blushed, covering my face.
“Forget what they think.” He smiled, crouching down so I could hop on his back. I turned and saw Soleh and Cahya too lost in conversation to care and so I quickly hopped on. “There we go.”
“Thank you,” I whispered in his ear and kissed his cheek. “You always have my back, Wynnie.”
“Well you’ve always had mine, consider this me leveling out the playing field,” he assured me.
“Everyone ready to head home?”
“Yeah let’s go!” Soleh agreed.
Later that night Wynter stood in the kitchen looking uncharacteristically serious as he leaned over the mortar and pestle enduring a cooking lesson from my mother. He had an apron on and flour dusted on his cheeks, he looked adorable.
“Don’t just mash it like that,” Mummy barked, standing to his left with her hands on her hips. “This isn’t a boulder you’re trying to crush. You have to blend it! Smooth, like a paste.”
Wynter paused, adjusting his grip on the pestle. He leaned forward again and gave the mixture a determined twist. He looked so painfully at home here in my mother’s kitchen, making such a grand effort to learn my culture and in turn learn more of me.
“Better,” Mummy said, her voice sharp, but there was an approving glint in her eye.
“May I never be this astronomically down bad for someone that I’m sitting on a kitchen floor in the middle of Indonesia, making food I know nothing about.” Soleh cringed, and my mother threw an apple at his head. “WOAH!”
“Careful with your tongue, you say this now but soon you’ll be here telling me you’ve eloped to some Malawian gamer,” my mother scolded. “Oftentimes you don’t choose love, love chooses you.”
Love. Hearing that word in reference to Wynter and I sent a shiver cascading down my spine. Is that what this looked like to the world? This once secret thing that was only between me and God, the bond that we now shared, did it now look like love?
“Wynnie, darling,” I mimicked his accent from the doorway, “they’re saying you look pathetic, doting on me this way.”
“I don’t mind looking pathetic in my pursuit of you, it’s what you deserve after all,” he assured me and my heart fluttered.
Cahya was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, a bemused smirk plastered on his face. “This is entertainment,” he said, watching Wyn struggle to balance brute force and finesse.
Wynter, to his credit, didn’t rise to the bait. “Do you ever help in the kitchen, Cahya?” he asked, not looking up from his task. “Or just pass snide remarks?”
“Help?” Cahya laughed. “No. I supervise.”
“You’re terrible,” I muttered from my seat at the table, where I’d been watching the scene unfold. Wyn caught my eye for a second and smirked, a flicker of warmth amidst his focus.
“Alright, stop,” Mummy said, waving Wyn aside. “Let me see it.” She inspected the spice paste in the mortar, giving it a critical sniff.
“It’s acceptable,” she said after a moment.
“High praise,” Cahya quipped, earning a glare from Mom. “You never compliment my skills like that, Mummy.”
“Dont annoy me, Cahya. Don’t test me,” she warned, pointing a wooden spoon at him.
Wyn, now armed with a wok and a wooden spatula, turned toward the stove. “What’s next?”
“You fry it,” Mom instructed, motioning him over. “Medium heat. Keep stirring or it will burn, and then the whole dish is ruined.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Wynter said, his tone serious but with a trace of amusement. He poured the spice paste into the hot oil, and the kitchen was immediately filled with the intoxicating aroma of garlic and chilies.
“It smells really good,” I said from my perch, resting my chin on my hand as I watched him. “I’m certainly hungry now.”
“Smelling good isn’t the goal,” Mom interjected. “The goal is perfection, how will you be cooking for my daughter in your future home?.”
“A fine lawyer and a fine chef, I admire you a lot, Mrs Yeo,” Wyn said, dutifully stirring the paste.
“Many do.” She smiled. “Just as many will admire my children after me.”
“I have no doubt in mind,” he assured her.
“Mummy, be nice,” I pleaded, though I couldn’t help smiling.
“This is me being amiable,” she replied. “If I wanted to be mean, I’d make him peel the shallots by hand.”