We ate at Pak Man restaurant yesterday.
It is a dirt door, open air family eatery in Gili Meno, the tiny Indonesian island we are visiting for a week. I was holding the plastic bag of coffee (which had grounds and so much sugar the spoon would stand up). The musclebound grandpa cook and Oscar amused each other with their world's apart hairstyles. His grandkids wore dirty Disney pyjamas and played jacks with coral bits on the floor. Our children watched them with the brutally honest disinterest of children, so painful for me to witness. A winsome french couple, the only other patrons, shared a smile with our family. In the distance, the amateur yodeler in the mosque warbled on and on. Pony with forelock topknots whinnied prettily as they clopped by pulling a load of Bintang beer in a cart made of a pickup truck bed. Flies buzzed on the dead fish displayed by the beach side BBQ. The black noggin of sea turtle surfaced silently in the placid sea. Humidity a gentle gauze over the entire island.