More than 20 different items were laid out on the buffet table. They included many varieties of traditional Balinese festival food that few, if any restaurants serve. They are so labor intensive that no one wants to or can prepare them on command. Unless someone invites you to their village festival and feast, a foreigner has no access to some of the best traditional Balinese cuisine.
Wayan knew this when she started her Sunday night traditional Balinese buffet more than 20 years ago. Her gorgeous stone and teak restaurant with an interior as lush as a rainforest runs back into the rice fields. Once a week, her staff goes to work to make many the things they would for their own villages. A buffet makes sense because it’s one round of cooking for all the guests – much like hosting a festival.
Having lived and studied in America, Wayan was one of the first to cater to foreigners tastes – making breakfasts, breads and cakes people would love at home, let alone Bali. She knew how to do it right – authentically. That began Cafe Wayan which became an instant success.
Cafe Wayan is different than the many restaurants which cater to foreigners today. There’s no fusion. Balinese is done very Balinese and Western is done just as authentically. Some of her stuff is even comfort food. Wayan’s breakfasts could be made by mom – some American mom, some Balinese mom.
We went to have the best that Balinese mom has to offer. Emily, who had been been feeling so-so on some of the Indonesian mainstays discovered that the Balinese specialties were much to her liking – especially the finely chopped, intricate salads of fresh veggies, black eyed peas, garlic, shallots and grated coconut. Wayan also knows how to spice a Balinese smoked duck so that it sings and makes it so soft, it practically melts in your mouth.
For me, Cafe Wayan seems to be the place to go after someone gets lost. Five years ago, when my cousin Jacob and friend Alex were visiting, they went to the beach for the day. Alex was certain he could find his way back to the house – which sits in a rice field next to a stone carving village. Bali has no street signs and the road names change with every town through which they run. There are occasional signs pointing you in the directions of the more popular destinations, but roads sometimes twist and branch….it can be challenging to navigate.
Alex was a world traveler, competent on a bike. He didn’t need no map. He took Jacob, who had been been on a motorbike once before in his life – when he was visiting me in Taiwan – along with him. They were to come back to the house at about 5:00 pm and we would go to dinner at Cafe Wayan’s at 7:00.
At 6:00 no one had come back. At 7:00 Jacob showed up weak and weary having been driving down side lanes, looking to see which was the correct tiny road toward a village that led to the house. After more than an hour of searching, he found it. He had lost Alex much earlier in the day when a cop pulled Jacob over and Alex didn’t see.
We gave up on waiting for Alex and went to Cafe Wayan. There, as we began eating, we saw Alex heading out of the restaurant with a beautiful Brazilian girl. While not all of the story needs to be told, Alex was unable to find his way back to the house in the dark, but managed to locate Ubud and the restaurant. All was resolved and everyone eventually made their way home.
Last night I was the one who – to my horror – stumbled in the dark. On the way back from Sanur – the closest beach to our house – I missed an important junction. I knew it as we passed. I figured I could try to get over quickly and scare Emily who’s a little nervous on the back of the motorcycle, or just keep going to the next road through. There are several and I remember the ways less traveled….sort of….
Yadda yadda yadda, I turned into Denpasar – the regional capitol of Bali – which was the wrong direction and got stuck in a series of one-ways and loops that I had totally forgotten how to navigate.
I was then haunted further by passing the building where I had to take my Balinese dog as a puppy to get his exit permit from Indonesia so I could take him home. Images of sitting in a government office and officials in uniforms with a squirming, mischievous puppy who wanted to do anything but what I needed him to do. Turns out that’s his personality and he remains much the same today.
By the time we made our way out of the tangle I got us into, Emily’s butt and back were hurting from too much motorcycle sitting. We pulled over for a couple of stretch breaks. Matters were made worse by a gigantic ceremony in Batubulan, a town along the way. Trucks filled with villagers, buses with spectators and police escorting them all came barreling down the road and clogged up everything as they attempted to make turns into the village from the already narrow two-lane road we were taking.
Between her back hurting and us trying to survive the unusually crazy traffic composed of Bali’s typically insane drivers, Emily was ready to be done long before the whole thing was over.
It seemed like we were back on track when like out of a Looney Tunes cartoon, a guy on a motorcycle pulled up next me while we were riding along.
“Where are you going?” the Balinese man asked.
“We’re going to Ubud.” I said.
“Make a right up there.”
“Okay, thanks….”
And then he sped ahead. All I could figure was that the universe had decided to throw us a bone.
I followed his advice and it not only worked, but put us back on a road that looked familiar – at least at that point. It wasn’t until a later turn that I doubted myself again. But it was all correct and we made it to Ubud and Cafe Wayan where Emily wandered into the restaurant tired and ragged.
Just like Jacob. Just like Alex. Just as those who challenge the roads of Bali on a Sunday night seem to do – at least in my world.
As soon as Emily and I finished blowing off our shared frustration by being annoyed with each other, I realized how long it had been since I lived here. You have to drive it all a few times in the light. While I have a good sense of direction and I know the lay of the land, many of the buildings, landscapes and markers have changed.
Bali, like my Balinese dog, wriggled its way out of my grip and embarrassed me. It’s good to be humbled from time to time.
And there’s no better way to celebrate than with the best black rice pudding with coconut milk on the island.
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