Monash University, Clayton, Vic
There is a great deal of guff in the culinary arts and letters – not to mention from the tongue of those pesky postcolonial academics – that contends a dish should not just taste wonderful but also 'tell a story', be it about its origins, cooking method or some such other nonsense. To wit, if I wanted my food to tell me a story I would deposit some Faulkner and Proust into a blender and consume the result. Such trifle! I demand only one thing from my meal: exquisite flavour.
Indeed, one often finds that a hint of mystery is the more suitable accompaniment to a dish, especially if its origins are perhaps better left unspoken, as is the case with much common cuisine. Enigma enlivens the dining experience and focuses one's attention upon nothing other than the dish at hand, not the plight of the third world farmer that was paid pittance for its ingredients, or the homeland vanities of the chef that cooked it.
What a godsend, then, to discover, strapped to the corridor of the Monash University agora (or, in plebeian vernacular, ‘Campus Centre’), the humbly named Peri Peri. Indeed, I doubt its uniformly oriental staff even know or care of the purportedly African origins of its namesake, the birdseye cultivar. Similarly, the store's decor (crude poultry caricatures) and dish names (‘Combo 1’, ‘Combo 2’, ‘Spicy Chicken Burger’) make no such pretensions to national affiliation - unlike a certain 'Portugese' restaurant - and speak no desire to tell tall tales.
Instead, it is a strangely universal meal I am served: chauffé chicken roll, potatoes julienne and a cola tonic (again, for the plebs: warm chicken roll, chips and coke). The latter – that darkest of fizzling drinks – needs no mention, for it is liquid perfection incarnate. Let us instead consider the main course.
The roll is served in a plain, foiled paper bag, with ‘Chicken Roll :)’ scrawled across the top – the charming facial expression a disarming touch, as if to distract one from the horrors inside. The bread itself is mushy, chewy, almost approaching gum; one must clamp down and stretch one’s neck rearward to render an edible chunk. The chicken filling is stringy and lacquered, alarmingly multi-textured. The sauce, haphazardly applied, if at all.
And yet, it is beautiful. This dish is a culinary miracle: despite its otherwise abysmal ingredients, execution, texture, appearance and presentation, that utmost criterion, taste, transcends all error. It is indescribable – the sugared overtones of the bread melt together with the richness of the sliced, oven-roasted chicken, which is more mouth watering than the finest filet mignon. Indeed, I must mop up my keyboard as I write, so salivating is it to recall this dish. I must refrain from elaborating its delights any further!
Suffice to say, this meal mutters no guff, tells no tale, harks to no homeland, speaks no shit. It is tranquil, harmoniously quiet as it achieves oneness with the culinary universe. If it utters anything, it is but a single word: delicious.
3.5 gulls
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