To curb the increasingly theatrical relationship developing between my stomach and the toilet, I decided it might be wise to try what travellers call “Western food.” This is usually said in the same hopeful tone people use before adopting a rescue dog with behavioural problems.
In this case, the cure came in the form of a chicken parma.
A quick Google search led us a few minutes down the road to Canggu Station Restaurant, a place operating as both a deli and a cafe, where you can apparently buy imported cheese, a bottle of wine, and Vegemite all in the same transaction.
The menus arrived laminated and handled with such ceremony you’d think they contained state secrets or at least the location of hidden treasure.
Balinese hospitality has this peculiar quality where even the smallest interaction feels oddly dignified. Someone hands you a menu and suddenly you feel as though you should apologise for every rude waiter you’ve encountered back home.
There it was on the menu. Chicken Parma.
One hundred and seventy grams of chicken breast with tomato concasse, eggplant, creamy mozzarella, spinach, and mashed potato.
110k. Roughly eight dollars and fifty cents Australian, or about the price of half a schooner at an airport bar.
Now, I wasn’t naive enough to expect an enormous pub parma like I would get in Darwin, where the chicken hangs over the plate like a collapsed circus tent and comes with enough chips to feed a family of four. But I was curious to see Bali’s interpretation.
When it arrived, it looked like something from a MasterChef elimination round, all neat and delicately stacked.
A meal that would most likely make an Australian tradesman furious if ordered back home.
But it was excellent.
Everything tasted fresh, it was properly seasoned and balanced. Best of all, I didn’t feel the need to lie down or walk twenty thousand steps in self-loathing.
Most importantly, several hours later, there had been no emergency sprint to the bathroom.
Which, at this stage of the trip, qualifies as a tremendous success.
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