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They called it "crackers" when five grey and yellow-dusted medallions were placed on my plate, half-covered with abandoned rice kernels and a large dollop of ketchup. It was Keripik Paru, or fried cow lung. I specifically did not use the ketchup. No one else used the ketchup and I was the only non-Indonesian at the party.
I was invited to learn a dance from Betawi, or the original name of Jakarta, Indonesia, called Yapong.
I was invited to learn a dance from Betawi, or the original name of Jakarta, Indonesia, called Yapong.
The dance is performed to a traditional gamelan orchestra who chant Ya-Ya-Ya-Ya in celebration of Jakarta's birthday. The dance was originally performed in 1977 for Jakarta's 405th year.
I thought the party would be full of flitty wrist movements and delicious tea. I thought it would be something like this:
But it was something more like this:
There were kids running around, women dancing on tables in the middle of the afternoon, and a small dog humping anything he could get his underside onto. Nobody really gave a shit. I was having a great time... until they brought out the Keripik Paru.
I'll preface by saying that I'm quite adventurous as eaters go. But when I tasted the fried cow lung, I felt like I had put an old piece of leather that had been soaking in snake blood for ten years in my mouth. I probably turned green in front of my host, which is something I'd never done.
The woman who invited me smiled as I swallowed and said, "It is good, yes? Go on, eat it all!"
As she turned away and began dancing with the ladies, I felt horribly ill. I began to wonder where the cow lung was on its journey down my esophagus, and how I could stop it. I came to terms with the fact that I couldn't prevent it from entering my digestive system, but I had the power to stop any more from making the invasion.
I took a seat in a corner and stared at my plate in horror. There was no place to go. Just four medallions of cow lung and a dollop of ketchup.
The ketchup. Yes. That was the answer. My escape. I slowly pushed the lung toward a red sanctuary. As it reached the edge, it seemed like it would make it through. The ketchup was able to cover nearly all the evidence! I had saved myself and my social reputation.
"Mommy says not to play with your food!" a child voice shouted at my side.
She was a small one, not older than three, and she had caught me in the act. As she stared at me with black, gaping eyes, I laughed and said, "Oh, you silly. I LOVE putting cow lung in ketchup!"
She continued to stare as I grabbed all four marinated pieces and placed them on my tongue. A huge grin came across her face and she kissed my cheek before running off like a wild-ling.
I had been caught by an innocent bystander and there was nothing I could do but swallow. And I did. In one, thick, ketchup-y, gulp.
The rest of the afternoon became a hallucination. Maybe it was the cow lung or my loss of inhibition. But I believe the Harlem Shake did commence and we all performed our own dance for Jakarta.
(A recipe for the Indonesian cow lung crackers can be found here at IndonesiaEats.com.)
I'll preface by saying that I'm quite adventurous as eaters go. But when I tasted the fried cow lung, I felt like I had put an old piece of leather that had been soaking in snake blood for ten years in my mouth. I probably turned green in front of my host, which is something I'd never done.
The woman who invited me smiled as I swallowed and said, "It is good, yes? Go on, eat it all!"
As she turned away and began dancing with the ladies, I felt horribly ill. I began to wonder where the cow lung was on its journey down my esophagus, and how I could stop it. I came to terms with the fact that I couldn't prevent it from entering my digestive system, but I had the power to stop any more from making the invasion.
I took a seat in a corner and stared at my plate in horror. There was no place to go. Just four medallions of cow lung and a dollop of ketchup.
The ketchup. Yes. That was the answer. My escape. I slowly pushed the lung toward a red sanctuary. As it reached the edge, it seemed like it would make it through. The ketchup was able to cover nearly all the evidence! I had saved myself and my social reputation.
"Mommy says not to play with your food!" a child voice shouted at my side.
She was a small one, not older than three, and she had caught me in the act. As she stared at me with black, gaping eyes, I laughed and said, "Oh, you silly. I LOVE putting cow lung in ketchup!"
She continued to stare as I grabbed all four marinated pieces and placed them on my tongue. A huge grin came across her face and she kissed my cheek before running off like a wild-ling.
I had been caught by an innocent bystander and there was nothing I could do but swallow. And I did. In one, thick, ketchup-y, gulp.
The rest of the afternoon became a hallucination. Maybe it was the cow lung or my loss of inhibition. But I believe the Harlem Shake did commence and we all performed our own dance for Jakarta.
(A recipe for the Indonesian cow lung crackers can be found here at IndonesiaEats.com.)
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