Author: Staff

Hip to the hop

FRIDAY 7 | At the headquarters of Tiny Toones, where artful graffiti adorns the walls, kids of sex workers, drug addicts, the violent and parents otherwise unable to cope come to immerse themselves in the head-spinning, beat-boy culture that was the first wave of hip hop. Founded by ‘KK’ (real name: Tuy Sobil) in 2005, the organisation is today based in a bustling Chba Ampov alleyway on the far side of Monivong Bridge and supports hundreds of youngsters. “The major change is how I feel,” says one boy clad in a Manchester United football shirt. “I’m more happy than I was before I came to Tiny Toones.” “My favourite is the singing and dancing,” volunteers another. “It has opened my eyes to different aspects of art, especially coming from foreign places. I understand more now.” One boy giggles. “I never believed I could be a superstar.” Says KK’s sidekick, Shhort: “I was born in 1980 so I grew up listening to the first rappers back in the day. To me, rap was a movement. That’s why I fell in love with rap music. It was people living in the ghettoes speaking their minds. People were uniting through hip hop back in the day, with Queen Latifah and all those people. There wasn’t no gangster rap back then. Back then it was the b-boy, unity, love approach. We’re trying to bring back that original love and unity aspect.” After the fundraising show, NYC’s DJ Spinbad and Sarah Love, the UK’s first lady of hip hop, will take the floor.

WHO: Tiny Toones
WHAT: Hip hop fundraiser
WHERE: Code Red, opposite NagaWorld, near Koh Pich Bridge
WHEN: 7pm March 7
WHY: If you’ve never seen tiny kids head-spinning and b-boying, the time is NOW

Feel the noize

FRIDAY 7 | Behold, the high priests of Phnom Penh punk: Psychotic Reactions, Sangvar Day and Stiff Little Punks 2 rekindle the chaos of the 1970s punk scene tonight in a new rock festival at Slur. Expect loud mouths, loud music and even louder motorcycles.

WHO: Psychotic Reactions, Sangvar Day and Stiff Little Punks 2
WHAT: Punk rock festival
WHERE: Slur, Street 172
WHEN: 9:30pm March 7
WHY: WHYTHE@&*%NOT?!

Laugh?

FRIDAY 7 | Graduates of acclaimed Irish stand-up Aidan Killian’s comedy crash course, the capital’s resident Funny People are staging another Phnom Penh Punchliners open mic tonight. Brace your ribs for wicked wise-cracks from local scene stalwarts plus some very special guests.

WHO: PP Punchliners
WHAT: Stand-up comedy open mic
WHERE: Equinox, #3a Street 278
WHEN: 9pm March 7
WHY: It’s the best medicine

Primates & pugilists

THURSDAY 6 | Violence and sensuality collide in the newest creation of noted choreographer Emmanuèle Phuon, who will join Kang Rithisal, executive director of Amrita Performing Arts, for informal discussions on contemporary Khmer dance at Java Cafe. Phoun is currently working on a new production based on the movements of traditional Khmer boxers and her dancers will give a five-minute preview of the current work. Additionally, Phoun will show video shorts of her previous performances –Khmeropedies I, II & III – and talk about the evolution of modern Khmer dance in general and her work in specific. Khmeropedies III: Source/Primate was a central part of last year’s Season of Cambodia festival in New York. K3 uses the movements and mannerisms of monkeys to reinvent the classical masked dance style known as lakhaon kaol. Phoun’s next production, based on movements within the boxing ring, is still in the early development stages, but already the flashes of grace that mesmerised audiences at the Guggenheim Museum are apparent.

WHO: Emmanuèle Phuon
WHAT: Contemporary Khmer dance
WHERE: Java Cafe, #56 Sihanouk Blvd.
WHEN: 6:30pm March 6
WHY: Get a sneak preview of Phuon’s next great piece

Here be Dragons

TUESDAY 4 | Armed with fire-breathing winged things, several shadow puppets and a video camera, Ernst Altmann, an artist from Berlin, and his filmmaker wife Bjela Proßowsky set out to discover similarities between the Old Continent and Asia – and uncovered a few peculiarities along the way. The couple chose dragons as their theme because the creatures exist in every culture. Legend has it that the lands of the Khmer originated from the Naga, a water dragon, something Cambodia’s sense of identity is still strongly connected to. While some youngsters scoff, dismissing winged fire-breathers as the stuff of childish fantasy, Ernst noticed they exhibit a certain shyness towards – almost a fear of – these fantastical beings, especially when talking about Neak Ta, a guardian spirit. Somehow, even under the surface, Cambodians still identify with it. “The dragon is the symbol of power of nature,” says Ernst. “It’s the human connection to his natural state. Europeans killed this bond, but in Cambodia it’s different. It’s a moment to say: ‘Hey, don’t forget that this is your power. It’s great that you have it. Don’t lose it.’”

WHO: Artist Ernst Altmann and filmmaker Bjela Proßowsky
WHAT: How To Talk To Dragons performance, exhibition and installation
WHERE: Meta House, #37 Sothearos Blvd.
WHEN: 7pm March 4
WHY: “I believe in everything until it’s disproved. So I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons. It all exists, even if it’s in your mind. Who’s to say that dreams and nightmares aren’t as real as the here and now?” – John Lennon

Feel the noise

Tool, Incubus, Rage Against The Machine, Red Hot Chilli Peppers: heads bobbing in flawless four-four time, the quadruple drum pattern that serves as the heartbeat of rock and its many manic derivatives, a quartet of European 20-somethings stand draped over drums and guitars. From a wall of speakers comes a familiar rush: the sort of sonic crescendo designed to reduce Olympic stadiums to near-rubble. Two-thirds French, one part Italian, Sangvar Day – headlining a new hard rock festival at Slur on March 7 – are among the capital’s newest and most accomplished noise makers. The Advisor ambushed Mat (bass, made in Marseilles), Julien (drums, also French), Julian (guitar, from Paris) and Robin (vocals & guitar, made in Verona, Italy) between sound checks to talk fighting, avant-garde orchestras and how to make hard rock that really rocks.

Mat: The thing I like about this band is that we never agree on anything at all.

Makes for good creative energy. Fighting is the best foreplay, is it not? 

Mat: Tension – exactly!

Are you all this pugnacious? Where did you spring from?

Julien: I played in bands in France as a teenager then moved to Seattle three years ago. It’s a great indie rock city.

Julian: I’ve been playing in bands in France and first recorded two years ago.

Mat: He also attended a conservatory in France, but he’s too modest to tell you that.

Robin: I come from a more acoustic background and was in the States for a couple of years, in San Francisco. I first started writing songs because I wanted to get laid! For the first couple of years it didn’t work because I sucked, then in a slightly sadistic fashion I thought maybe girls were sleeping with me only because I could play the guitar.

The guitar can bea powerful aphrodisiac. Now, who’s next?

Mat: I was in a very narrow niche, in the avant-garde scene in Marseilles.

You do look a little like one of the Nihilists from The Big Lebowski… How avant-garde are we talking, exactly?

Mat: I jumped into the scene as a listener then started master classes and workshops and ended up in an orchestra. There were a lot of spin-off bands from the orchestra built around the idea of free improvisation. The bottom line is that musicians are listeners, so you interact with the sound of others and what you hear on the spot. You don’t know what anyone will do and no one can predict what you will do by way of feedback. If you think about academic music, somebody plays something with a rhythm, a harmony, a tempo, a melody, a bass and you try to join them and do the same – just add on top of that. But that is only one answer. Then you have the opposite: I don’t follow your harmony, I don’t follow your riff, I don’t follow your rhythm, or your bass. There are lots of variables that you can play with: low volume, high volume, low pitch, high pitch. The key is to interact the way you want and don’t try to predict what might come out of that.

Were you using avant-garde instruments?

Mat: Sometimes we played with violins – typical classical music stuff. That was interesting, but any kind of instrument can join. It’s experimental. Before that I was a guitarist, but I grew up!

Robin: Oh, come on!

Gentlemen, play nice… Anyway, experimental music is a far cry from what you just played, which is all original.

Robin: There is a skill involved in interpreting other people’s music, but we’ve all already done that.

Julien: I love playing many kinds of music, but as a listener I definitely prefer bands who have their own music. When I was in Seattle, there were many, many original bands and only a few cover bands who didn’t have their own stuff, so I insisted we play original music because these guys are all awesome and more than good enough. Julian had 15 original songs when we first got together. Some of them are very old and I’m not a metal fan at all; basically I don’t like metal, but this stuff sounds good.

And Robin, you’re head of the Lyrics Department?

Robin: At the beginning, I was just singing random things. I learned very early on that because in Italy nobody really understands English I could just get away with it. I could say something random and people would think it was a really deep, meaningful song. Sure! [Laughs] I had a couple of words I always repeated and people out there – my friends especially – started to notice. ‘Aren’t you always saying the same nonsense?’

Rumbled!

Robin: Yeah! [Laughs] But from there you have some kind of mess and maybe if you record it you can catch some kind of sense in it, perhaps a single line. Then maybe, from just one line, perhaps you have the making of a really cool song; a really cool idea.

What inspires you? Do you have a process? 

Robin: I can’t control what comes out; it’s really a subconscious process. Anybody can do it, really. Get drunk, record it… [Laughs] But they don’t have to be good; they’re just an idea! Queen is about a prostitute, which by the way nobody knows here. [Laughs]

My band’s a bit like that with lyrics. ‘Know the bit when I sing XXXX?’ ‘Err, no…’

Robin: It’s about a prostitute in Phnom Penh and the song talks about her problems in being here and being used by white men. The lyrics aren’t moralistic at all, but they do contain lots of anger and disgust and hurt. It’s almost like seeing yourself through this woman’s eyes. Most of our songs are about Cambodia, many of them still a work in progress. There’s one about the big hydropower dams they’re building on the Lower Mekong; I really wanted to write something about this. These guys [gestures to band mates], I always asked them to join in at the beginning, but they’d be, like, ‘Yeah, yeah. You’re good. Great lyrics…’ [Laughs] There’s another one inspired by the book First They Killed My Father; you see it for sale everywhere here. I just opened the book and thought: ‘I need to write a song.’ There’s this one page about two girls hiding in the forest, being chased by the Khmer Rouge. The song starts with them running and one gets killed, so the other vows to avenge her death. What’s really great about Julian’s compositions is that he doesn’t get jealous about them. A lot of songwriters, including myself, when they bring a song to the group their attitude is: ‘Don’t fuck with it!’ The rest of the band tends to fight over songs, but Julian’s just like: ‘Sure, whatever.’

And what are you listening to when you’re not playing your own compositions?

Julien: I like classical rock, I love punk, I love soul. I also listen to a lot of free jazz: John Coltrane. I like prog-rock and experimental contemporary music, like noise music. I love that! Classical music and opera, too. Modern music: think dub stepping…

So anything BUT hard rock. Again, why are you here?!

Julien: I’m a drummer! I like to play rock and punk.

Julian: I’m more into early punk and have a weakness for maths-rock.

I hate maths. This had better not involve long division or algebra. But back to your sound: there were some eye-twitchingly psychedelic moments in there, along with angry thrashing ARGGGGH mosh-pit guitar. It’s got all sorts of twisted energy in it. Julian, you’re the mad professor…

Julian: For me, music was born in the ’90s: metal, Deftones, Def Jam, a lot of hip hop. It was a very creative time: a mix of hip hop and rock. I’ve been composing since I was at high school. I was the screamer in my band.

How do you do it?!

Julian: [Laughs] You just have to find a way! You open your throat and ARRRRRGGGGGHHHH! [Guttural scream]

So, a question that’s been bugging me: where does the name Sangvar Day come from?

Julien: In Cambodia’s traditional boxing, called bokator, it’s the red silk sash that fighters tie around their upper arm. We wanted something related to Cambodia, something historic – and a band name no one else already had!

And you’re planning on recording?

Julien: We’re trying to find somewhere at the moment, but it isn’t easy. We went to one place and it was like a Khmer wedding store. The recording studio was a tiny room out the back that didn’t even have room for a drum kit. I think it was used for recording karaoke songs. The owner suggested we record in the local police station. I think he was trying to make them some extra money…

WHO: Sangvar Day
WHAT: All-original hard rock
WHERE: Slur, Street 172
WHEN: 9pm March 7
WHY: See ‘WHAT’

 

 

Body & Lens

In the year 450BC, Confucius conveyed a message that, thousands of years later, is still astonishingly valid: “Tell me and I’ll forget; show me and I may remember; involve me and I’ll understand.” Performance: this is one of the new artistic trends gaining ground in Cambodia. Until March 21, involve yourself in 17 performance videos by 10 Cambodian artists in Phnom Penh: Rescue Archaeology, The Body and the Lens in the City.

Says Curator Erin Gleeson: “Video art here is actually a way to share and document a performance. The artists of this exhibition are very different, but they all act like rescue archaeologists: namely, someone who reacts urgently yet carefully to a transitional moment in which there is a threat of irrevocable loss, aside from archaeologists’ efforts to document. During a critical time of rapid urban, social, economic and cultural change and continuity in Phnom Penh, Cambodian artists are working with a sense of urgency in response to the fluctuating urban present.”

Continuity, change, loss and destruction are the main themes. Many draw attention to Boeung Kak’s recent history and the filling of the lake in the wake of mass forced evictions. Leang Seckon, personally touched by the event, choreographed a poetic performance shortly before being evicted from his own home in 2010. In the video, a group of men on a boat are trying to save a symbolic fish. When they discover it’s already dead they perform a funeral ritual: dressing themselves, the fish and the soon-to-be-demolished home in white. As the sun goes down, they hold a touching cremation ceremony atop the sand.

Another interesting yet tragicomic performance is Khvay Samnang’s Newspaper Man. Here, the artist – swathed in Khmer newspapers – walks blindly where the waters of the lake once lapped, tripping over the remnants of long-toppled houses. “Since the local press ignored news about the lake, I used my body to write about it,” he says. Questioned by puzzled police once, he replied: “I am selling newspapers. Business people always think ahead. You are developing this place and I am here first.”

Then there’s Svay Sareth and his sculpture, Mon Boulet (‘My Ball Enchained’). The artist drags this huge, heavy metal sphere from Siem Reap to Phnom Penh over a regenerative five days’ of travelling 250km. “His work, it’s really about catharsis,” says Gleeson of this modern-day Sisyphus who believes that if only Cambodians could demonstrate more openly the ‘weight’ of their past traumas, they would be able to move forward.

WHO: Aspiring urban archaeologists
WHAT: Phnom Penh: Rescue Archaeology exhibition, screening and book launch
WHERE: Sa Sa Bassac Gallery, #18 (second floor) Sothearos Blvd.
WHEN: 6pm February 28 (screening), March 15 (book launch) and March 21 (screening)
WHY: We built this city

 

Penh-Dacity: Bag man (Feb 27)

Our hero (or anti-hero, if you prefer – things being all postmodern/postcolonial and such) Desmond has been drinking and vomiting and being interrogated on a sunset boat cruise on the Tonle Sap with a bunch of drunken expats and backpackers… which normally would be just his kind of thing. But he’s carrying an important backpack belonging to his friend Hank and the interrogation is by an American journalist. She’s still asking what he’s doing later, so he maintains his optimism. Now read on for the eighth part of our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.  

The Phnom Penh night had fallen, the riverside had exploded into twinkly lights and Sisowath Quay was a lithe shining serpent of traffic. The Rose Petal Flower Love of the River Mekong surged its way back to the dock and the evening cruise was over. The beer T-shirts and ankle tattoos and nose rings all drunkenly balanced their way down the narrow plank and headed up to the tuk tuks.

Desmond followed, having been assured everyone was going for barbecue, and he was definitely in favour of this, his stomach being fuller of beer than anything else. By using the dubious old trick taught him by his grandfather (“Just run with the flow of the crowd, keep yourself behind the loudest voice,”) Desmond found himself wedged into a tuk tuk with a minor United Nations of passengers – some kind of African, two kinds of Europeans, a South American and Clarissa from Seattle, while one strident Canadian aggressively negotiated the driver down from three dollars to two.

They disembarked a few blocks later at a barbecue restaurant that spilled out into the pavement, where previously arrived tuk tuks had already deposited a seething mass of limbs and haircuts and armpits onto a collection of small plastic chairs around a hastily arranged long table for two-dozen oversized diners. Desmond settled in somewhere a few too many seats away from Clarissa, the bag between his knees, and poured beer into a glass of ice.

“But I really wanted an authentic experience, you know?” “Yes, I’m taking lessons from a lovely little man…” “I’m sorry. Can I see the vegetarian menu? Is the soup made with animal stock or…?” “Try Russian market.” “No, I don’t want to buy any of your books, thank you. And you should be getting a good night’s sleep so you can concentrate at school tomorrow.” “Hey, do we know if the lettuce is organic?” “So I’m looking for a place on my own, you know, but I don’t like the idea of having a whole family living downstairs and watching me all the time.”

“I can’t decide whether to go to Sihanoukville or Siem Reap next.” “You shouldn’t visit orphanages, you know, it’s bad, I read about it…” “And it was so cheap!” “Yes, but this one is different; it’s run by a proper NGO.” “Have you tried spiders yet?” “Has anyone found diet tonic water anywhere? I keep looking and it doesn’t seem to be stocked by anyone.” “Really? Can you give me an introduction? I’d love to visit. You know, for a really authentic experience.”

Not soon enough, Desmond saw a familiar face across the street and there was a chance to show how integrated he was with the local population. With a quick ‘I’ll be back’ glance at Clarissa, which she didn’t even notice, he ambled over and soksabayed Vuthy, Hank’s regular tuk tuk driver, who had more than once been his transport home in the middle of the night.

“Hello my friend,” said the broadly smiling driver from the back seat of the vehicle.  “Did you eat yet?” “Not yet. Just waiting for my friends to order. First they want to talk.” “You drink beer instead!” “Yes, good idea. How are you?” Vuthy raised his arms above his head in some kind of stretching gesture. “Oh my goodness, not so good today. No people, no money. Mr Hank, he have a bag just like that one.” “Yes, he asked me to look after it while he’s in Bangkok.” “When he go Bangkok?” “This afternoon.” “No, he no go Bangkok today. I just take him visit his girlfriend at X-Ray-X Bar.” “Really?”

The ground began to move under Desmond’s feet, spinning into a new orientation where he was being deceived and, as Clarissa had pointed out, possibly being placed in grave danger. Or maybe it was the Scandinavian snacks coming in a second wave. “Maybe at 5 o’clock. Maybe he still there. I take you there?” “No, it’s OK. I’ll call him. Thanks,” Desmond said weakly and turned away.

He stood in the middle of the street, waiting for Hank to pick up. No answer. And again. And again. Slowly Desmond began to move, stumbling into a slow-motion montage-like state, as if it was at the conclusion of 55 minutes’ worth of a major television drama series finale, walking expressively to the soundtrack of a throbbingly emotional vocal overlaid with slide guitar and a quivering saxophone and bonus gospel choir… defying his guardian angels to save him as he went.

The blurt of the horn of an SUV nudged him off the middle of the road, closer to the pavement, but otherwise he continued dazed trudging in a daze, into the night.

Continues next week  

 

 

Guilty Pleasures: De La Gare

This morning an iridescent boy dragonfly docked his slender bottom into the head of a predictably drab female of the species and fucked her brains out for about 10 minutes. I was afloat alone in the sparkly turquoise gym pool, tasteful whales mating on the outdoor speakers and birds chittering in the whispering palms. The sun was at my back.

Normally such a miraculous alignment of nature’s bounty would have me blubbing into my goggles with joy, but my tearstrings remained unpulled. No sexed-up insects could make me weep with the glory of Gaia’s oneness this sorry AM. It only made me resent the male dragonfly. Of course he’s prettier than her – he does nothing all day except eat, mate and titivate. Of course he gets to fuck her in the head. Creation invents some sick shit that doesn’t fit well with the feminist agenda. And, get this, he’s got six perfectly working legs but the arrogant little fucker does it all hands-free, for Attenborough’s sake! Meanwhile she’s supporting them both and once he’s got his admittedly tiny dragonfly jollies he swans off to the next poor nymph without a backward eye-swivel while she lays 100,000 kids and then her wings fall off or she dies within hours or whatevs, so who can blame her if she can’t be arsed to go out? Pff. This fine morning Nature called, but fucked if I was answering.

Foolishly optimistic, the universe pursued me with relentless eye candy in an attempt to divert my deepening sad sackery. Look! The serendipitous genius of a red chair leant against a turquoise generator! Regard! The flap of a hot orange robe against a weathered wood wall! Aha! Again with the sunburned nutter in the arseless denim chaps devouring a yellow mango! But neither an accidental act of visual artistry nor an inadvertently fashion-forward unfortunate had the power to colour me happy on my glum ride home across the rich tapestry we call CharmingVille. My heart remained eerily empty. There was even tumbleweed and some forlorn whistling. It could only be one thing.

Man trouble.

Whiny man-child trouble to be exact. Across the last week a succession of inexplicably ridiculous spats escalated to serious standoffs with three of my favourite, more youthful XYs: hubster, best friend and gym buddy. They left me sad, sleepless and lonely in the dark with all my lucky stars gone out. And since it had happened with all three, it must have been my fault. I began to cry with feeling, and not in an ‘I’m-high-on-life’ good kind of way. It wasn’t pretty.

Thank goddess for De La Gare. As I commanded the tuk tuk to head north-by-north-west to my favourite apothecary, I refreshed my shopping list by consulting Dr Google and arrived primed with a list of dos and dolls. Despite the youngest pharmacist wearing a Megadeth T-shirt, I put my order in.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for talking things through rationally and listening and understanding and letting go and compromise and using my inside voice and all that other important relationship shit but sometimes you just want everyone to stop being idiots, shut the fuck up and run you a bath. Failing that, nothing fixes you like prescription helpers OTC.

Years of abstinence, wagon riding, self-help books, crystals and a weird mushroom thing I grew in a fridge back in the ’90s have taught me something. In turbulent weather I always fly better with fuel in the tank. No gnomic Pinterest pith, religious text or full set of Thom Yorke lyrics gets me through a rough patch like a little cheeky something something. ‘Better living through chemistry’ is the mantra of my generation X after all. It was probably hormones from all provocateurs in this current little ménage a merde that got us here in the first place.

These days I avoid the illicit stuff. It makes me more paranoid and that’s saying something. So with Vic Rattlehead gurning from the chest of the white-coated 12-year-old serving me I calmly ticked off Zolpidem (sleep), Advil (post-cry headache), Murine (post-cry red eyes and post-Zolpidem wake-up), Nose Spray (ditto with the crying thing), Ventolin (anxiety, panic, too many puffs on the cig I have tucked away for moments like this), Omeprazole (reflux from not eating, smoking and all that crying), Xanax (um… well you never know). When the chips are down, and that’s not often these days, thanks to my favourite albeit currently feuding blokes, this will be bedtime chez moi this evening. As it always does, I’m sure everything will look brighter, maybe even iridescent, by the time I hit the pool tomorrow.

 

Mo Mo Mo

Street 258 is in one of the quieter backpacker neighbourhoods; filled with friendly shop fronts and guesthouses, just a few doors down from where it intersects with Sothearos. On the typical Phnom Penh awning, written in bold comic sans font, are the words ‘Kathmandu Kitchen’. Here is served Nepalese, Indian and Khmer fare.

What brought me here was a tip from a Canadian guy whose folks are from Punjab, and my big ears overhearing the word ‘Momo’. Momos are a Nepalese/Tibetan dumpling in the vein of the Polish perogi, the Central Asian mantoo, Italian ravioli or a mini empanada. Momos can either be steamed or fried and are filled with a range of savoury fillings.

Seeing the day I ate them was a Friday, the decision was made to go meatless. I also planned to order enough for a snack later in the evening or early morning: they are up there with a nice cold egg roll, but lighter; a treasure to find in your fridge after too much Klang. These little pockets of goodness did the trick as expected, like a Gurkha taking down a platoon of Talibs. I had mine fried, which is sometimes a gamble, though these came out  light enough that later that evening I suffered zero heartburn.

The sauce that came with the momos had a lovely, intricate spice that didn’t stare you down. I could hardly resist the beautiful colour and taste that the turmeric, garlic and a touch of ginger added. The portion was ample, at about nine pieces in a standard order for $3.75. The soup I ordered was another pleasant surprise: a delicately textured yellow lentil soup, a sincere and elegant addition to my stomach’s workload.

It’s in places like Kathmandu Kitchen one can find a nice reprieve as the afternoon heat creeps up and the desire not to move before sundown begins to hold steady. During these times of day it takes quite a bit to get me out from whatever fan I’m perched under. Air conditioners do very little for my mood; they’re temperamental, expensive and uncomfortable, and sitting under a good fan and drinking water is a delicious exercise in self-preservation.

Kathmandu Kitchen provided refreshing movement of air and slightly dimmed lighting that gave me a chance to eat while staring down the life-sized statue of some warrior across the street as men tried to move large bundles of laundry out of a medium-sized hotel. They kept almost bumping into his bronzed body with their heavy loads. The figure, though, had no comment on the feats of strength in front of him; he just held brave and static. It was dinner theatre at its best.

Inside the restaurant, green-and-red bunting danced in the fan along the top edge of the room. The walls are a cheerful yellow on the sides, while the walls in front and back are Pepto-Bismol pink. Kathmandu Kitchen brings a welcoming coolness on a hot day. Not a place to rush.

My afternoon chai masala ended my break. It was brought to my table quickly, a rich-thick dessert. Boiled like lava, its cool sugary skin the sign of a well-made cup – though not as spicy as some – there is again a surprisingly refreshing quality to what are normally quite heavy dishes. The restaurant has a few tables outside, perfect for evening people-watching, and the inside has a dignified charm that makes a unique location for a first date or unrushed lunch with a friend.

Kathmandu Kitchen, #13 Street 258; 

098 527120