Yes, I Ate It

Another Navy story today. It's a banner week for them, I tell ya!

One of our first out-of-the-U.S. port visits we made in 1997 was to Penang, Malaysia. As a sailor, our first instinct upon visiting a foreign port is "Where's the good watering holes?" None of the crew that I hung out with on a regular basis had ever been there before, but our port brief mentioned the fact that there was a Royal Australian Air Force squadron stationed on one of the nearby military bases and would be available for our use. The problem, however, was nobody was quite sure where it was located.

Having whooped it up with a few Aussies in the past, I knew this would ultimately be my destination. Good beer, good people and good fun. What more can a young sailor ask for in a port visit?

A group of 6 of us departed our ship in hopes of finding these raucous folks. We took a ferry boat to the mainland and flagged down a taxi. The problem with being in a foreign port is that, unless you're in a natively English-speaking country, communication can be a royal pain in the ass. And Malaysia was no different. It took a solid 20 minutes before we were able to get through to the taxi driver that we were looking for a military installation and another 20 minutes before he dropped us off at the front gate. There were two Malaysian guards posted at the entrance, both carrying large and (assumedly) loaded assault rifles.

They let us walk right on without even batting an eye.

The 6 of us walked all around that base and never saw another soul, save for those two guards. Guessing that we had been dropped off at the wrong location and without a taxi waiting for us, we made our way back to the main gate and the road where we were initially dropped off. Opting to hike along the side of the road in hopes of finding a cabbie that could speak English, we didn't even make it a quarter mile before one of the guys walking behind us screamed, "Look out!" Seeing a white van veering towards us onto the shoulder of the road, all 6 of us dove out of the way of what appeared to be the demon-van from hell.

The van pulled to a stop about 20 yards in front of us. From the passenger side window, a head appeared and said, "Hey! You mates lost?"

I replied, "Nope. We found you."

We piled into the van and noticed the driver was clearly too drunk to be behind the wheel. But we weren't overly concerned. Turns out, the Aussies were located about a quarter mile further down and across the main road from where we were. At least our sense of direction was leading us the correct way.

They took us to their enlisted club which consisted of an outdoor patio and a small window through which you could order food off their menu. At this point, none of us were particularly hungry, but damned if we weren't thirsty. They had copious amounts of Victoria Bitter (Vitamin-B, for those in the know), the only beer in the world that I like more than Bud Light, and sadly not imported by these great United States.

After enough beer was drunk and pissed to float our way back home, one of the Aussies asked if we were hungry. Turns out, I was the only one that was. He grabbed the menu, which was written completely in Malaysian, and pointed to one particular dish. "Try this one. If you like a bit of spice, it's damned good."

I went up to the window, menu in hand, and pointed to what my new friend had suggested. The little Malaysian lady took my order and my money, grinned, and went about her business of making me some grub. Sitting back with our group and drinking more beer, I didn't think about it for the next 10 minutes.

Eventually, the woman brought out my food. It was some kind of spicy meat on a bed of rice. And it smelled absolutely phenomenal. Not being a fan of trying new things, I was hungry enough to forget any semblance of weariness and dug in. My friend was right: It was spicy. Damned spicy. And it tasted like chicken. My mouth was on fire and, even though the dish wasn't particularly large, it filled me up pretty good. And the three beers I had chugged while eating weren't doing anything to diminish the fire raging in my mouth.

Once the plate was clean, I asked my Australian friend what the hell it was that I had just eaten.

"Cat."

Cat?

"Yes, cat."

Not believing him, I went up to the window and the little Malaysian lady, in perfect English, asked if everything was alright.

"Yes, the food was awesome. But what the hell was it?"

"Cat."

Cat?

"Yes, cat."

Well I'll be damned! Those furry little mouse chasers taste damn good. And, given the chance, I'd do it again.