Bakso
“Let’s eat, Sis!” she said, grabbing her spoon and fork. She doctored her bowl with salt, sweet soy sauce, chili sauce, and a dollop of sambal.
My little sister, who had just turned ten, suddenly invited me to grab a bowl of bakso urat spesial at a meatball stall across from the high school, not far from our house. I knew the place—it had only opened a week ago. Word was, the food was delicious, and the stall was already drawing a crowd.
We arrived around ten-thirty, and she told me to order whatever I wanted.
“Don’t worry, I’m treating,” she said with a grin.
I glanced at the menu and chose bakso urat spesial, chewy tendon meatballs in rich broth—something we always loved but couldn’t have often.
“Drink?” she asked.
“Sweet iced tea, Boss,” I teased.
She ordered two bowls of bakso urat spesial and two glasses of sweet iced tea.
We were just chatting when our steaming bowls arrived. Her eyes gleamed, ready to dive in.
“Let’s eat, Sis!” she said, grabbing her spoon and fork. She doctored her bowl with salt, sweet soy sauce, chili sauce, and a dollop of sambal.
When it comes to spicy food, we’re practically twins. I poured a generous amount of chili sauce and sambal into my bowl and stirred it in. The broth was rich and flavorful, the meatballs perfectly chewy.
My sister was way ahead of me, though. She was down to one big meatball, her reddish broth nearly gone, and her iced tea half-empty. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve, her eyes watering from the spice.
We didn’t eat bakso often. But for her tenth birthday, she cracked open her piggy bank to treat us both—even with me still out of work.
She devoured her last meatball, slurped every bit of broth, drained her iced tea, and let out a soft burp. Her eyes sparkled as she grinned at me. “Sis, that was awesome.” (AR)