Saturday evening

Things started to go downhill from the start. I’d decided I would have a feast, starting with the Jumbo Bockwurst and all washed down by the “Sorted” house wines.

“Red wine gone.”

“White?”

“Gone.”

“Guinness?”

“Yes. More or less?”

“The largest please,” I said, smiling at the beautiful, endearing and improving mangling of English.

Ya-Udah’s quirky and amusing website says, “Where else in Jakarta Can you enjoy a pleasant glass of house wine…” Well, not at Ya-Udah, that’s for sure!

I had to choose “a side,” so, in the best interest of the origins of the Jumbo Bockwurst I chose German fried potatoes. Martini chose spaghetti Bolognese which was offered with the promise of, “an obscenely large helping of original YUB secret Bolognese sugo miced beef in a tomatoe sauce. Finely spiced with many herbs and oregano, sprinkled with parmesan cheese.” The waitress vanished then returned,

“No German fries.” Dismay clouded my face,

“No wines, no German fries. Do you have anything?”

“Everything.”

“Well, let’s go a tad east, cross the Maginot line, enter Paris (unopposed, of course) and have French Fries.”

Both main dishes arrived. Martini’s hot chocolate completed her order which, I know, is a strange combination but best not to judge her on her food choices as she eats like a horse and weighs 45kg! I pointed out that the hot chocolate was missing the listed enormous dollop of cream on top which amazed her as I hadn’t consulted the menu that morning. She also couldn’t stop giggling when the Bockwurst was plonked down but I’m not going to speculate on her reasons. I’d asked for mustard and black pepper so, just for luck, I asked for them again. Once slathered in mustard the bockwurst resisted my knife, then reluctantly surrendered. The resistance was explained because it was cold and undercooked. The fries were the cousins of the Maccy-D ones used to describe the Bumi Johar. Martini was more diplomatic; “They’re not very crispy.” Her Bolognese lacked the obscenely large helping of original YUB secret Bolognese sugo miced beef in a tomatoe sauce. It was not finely spiced with many herbs and oregano (many herbs and oregano??), but was merely meat, sludgily spread throughout the spaghetti, sans tomato, garlic, onion and whatever secret herbs and spices real Bolognesans “abracadabra” into their masterpieces. It was desperately looking like the menu tried but the kitchen did not. Yoda would have been appalled. Expectations were becoming slowly smothered in a sea of less than mediocre realty.