Laksa.
Bane of all and sundry, particular enemy to the white shirt, the pale chino trousers and the uninitated.
Against my better judgement, when the team said that instead of curry lunch (which I've also ended up wearing on my 'shelf') I put in my order. Chicken Laksa, medium, I felt my anxieties rise.
Why, why, why did I agree to laksa?
I remember being introduced to laksa by my friend Mariah. We used to go to the Penang Cafe just off of Hindley Street, where they did a fabulous vegetarian laksa. Which I also ended up wearing a lot of.
But that is the joy of laksa. As good as the coconut broth, the chili oil, the fried tofu, the egg noodles, the veggies... it's not easy to eat.
So, I paid my money and a little later, along with half the office, my bowl of laksa turned up, complete with a flimsy plastic spoon, a fork and some chopsticks. I made my way back to my desk after dropping off a colleague's in another part of the office.
The task, which had been accepted, was to eat this without destroying my dress.
The first port of call, drink as much of the broth as possible. Using the big spoon, and ensuring I was leaned over the bowl. Pushing down on the noodles and other goodies, you strip off the liquid.
Then you tackle the meat and vegetables with the fork. The trick here is to drain off the liquid before raising it out of the bowl. Once the fluid level comes up again, use the spoon to drain off some more.
Repeat these processes are left.
Once the worst of the liquid and meat has gone, then, and only then, should you attack the noodles with the chop sticks - again, leaning over the bowl to minimise the drips.
I can say that this method bore fruit. I managed to come away from the whole adventure not smelling of curry and covered in drips.
Laksa is a big thing here in Darwin. There is even a laksa festival, a celebration of all things laksa.
And I am going home tomorrow, but I'm slowly aclimatising to the place.
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