Dutch love affair in Kemang 'Tea Room'

Have I ever told you about my mother? No, I don't think so. First, why should I? Second, you probably think Epicurus can't possibly have a mother. While the soundness of Epicurus' judgment may be debatable, the concept of a mother just seems so out of place in the floating, quasi-ethereal world of the Food Critic.

But let's just say that my need for mom surfaced when I was assigned to unleash all the power of my judgment on one "Tea Room", a somewhat misleading synonym to an unequivocally Dutch patisserie called Huize van Wely Sinz 1922 (House of Wely Since 1922). Seventy-five years since its establishment in Amsterdam, it has managed to find a slot in the cross-culinary highway of Jl. Kemang Raya, South Jakarta, tucked away in a somewhat obscure office building between Rio Brazil Churrascaria and the crowd- drawing Cafi Jimbani.

But my first successful visit (after two abortive ones) drummed the message in -- run, Epicurus, run. While the radiant interior looked like the Occidentalist's fantasy come-to-life, with its mouth-watering array of designer chocolates, liquor- filled truffles, Dutch cakes, ice cakes, jams, marmalades, and prettily-wrapped Dutch snacks positively aglow in the fluorescent warmth of strategically-placed halogen lights, my claim to expertise stops right here.

Okay, so Epicurus doesn't know everything. Epicurus should just go back home, and wallow in self-pity. Or Epicurus should just admit that, without mother, Epicurus is nothing.

But the so-called "Dutch" taste, perhaps more than other Continental fares, oddly requires a certain degree of familiarity. Which is, of course, astoundingly good news for Jakarta's Hollandophiles (meaning, generally, a few members of my mother's and my grandmother's generation who have been exposed to Dutch cuisine).

The proof? "A Dutch patisserie, here in Jakarta?" gasped mom, when I proposed to drag her along on my fourth visit. Although I couldn't tell whether her unconcealed delight stemmed more from nostalgic enthusiasm for the fare or from witnessing my humility, one thing was certain. She was a goner.

What's more, she is as culinarily exacting as she is well- steeped in most matters colonial. Twitching her forehead and wriggling her nose as if she were Epicurus, she entered the premises with the cozy confidence of a seasoned critic. In fact, I could see the restaurant attendants quivering as she zeroed in on each and every item on display as if any minute she was about to shriek, "Oooch! What an abysmal selection!"

Remembering only occasionally that she was not allowed to blow up our cover, she resorted to conspiring whispers: "A selection that passes muster -- but only just". Translated into plain English, it meant a good selection of Boterkoekjes (butter cookies); almond-based delicacies such as Gevulde Amandelkoek (almond cake) and Amandel Speculaasstaf (almond log); Brix (soft- textured rectangle fruit bavarois with such different ingredients as rum, orange and Tiramisu); and fruit vlaais (Belgian-Dutch fruit tartlets).

After our full scrutiny of the patisserie, we entered an elevated, elegantly upholstered "Tea Room" tailored to the taste of the lunching ladies of Kemang with its classic Continental ambience. Tending it was a dignified maitre d' of sorts who imbued his speech with a curious potpourri of old-world Indonesian, broken Dutch and what must be intended as the Queen's English, as though the clientele's journey to the colonized past fully depended upon his exertions.

Soon, our orders arrived -- a Moorkop (a round chocolate eclair filled with whipped cream) and Earl Grey tea for mom, and a Gevulde Amandelkoek (almond cake) and an excellent, three- tiered, Grand Marnier iced coffee for me. But, being the diffident Epicurus of the day, I had no idea whether my Amandelkoek was any good. So mum did the assessing: "not outstanding, just passable, and slightly dry". Her Moorkop seemed to fare better, with the slagroom (whipped cream) deemed beautifully fresh and "true to form". In case you don't know what this means, it translates as the cream was as sweet as anything, as Dutch cream is eminently sweeter than other Continental creams.

Mum was in full swing. Lamenting the conspicuous absence of such Dutch favorites as Dutch croquettes, Goudse Stroopwafels (thin, flat wafers with a syrup filling), Bitterballen (ragout balls) and Poffertjes, she stabbed her fork into a Pompommetje (a kind of apple strudel), relished the thick taste of marzipan, and proclaimed it "good". She quickly added a qualifier. "This is pretty nouvelle. The real Dutch stuff is the appelpunt" (which was also available).

The somewhat expensive luncheon specials include Quiche Lorraine (Rp 20,000), shrimp cocktail with yoghurt (Rp 24,000), and smoked salmon with spicy carrot sauce (Rp 25,000). The alternative would be the high tea or high coffee set menu for Rp 11,000 and Rp 13,500 respectively -- both dainty samplers comprising selected pralines, petit fours, and other sweet delectables guaranteed to delight the royal watchers among us.

Unsatisfied, I decided to do the unthinkable, which was to -- I know, I know -- order ragout with veal and mushroom sauce. Barbarism aside, it reminded me of numerous other ragouts I've tasted in Europe, the pastry oozing the finest butter, the mushroom sauce tasting like ... well ... mushroom sauce.

But there's always a downside. With my mother, what was intended to be mere sampling turned out to be a grinding ordeal since she couldn't stand people who "don't finish their food". To put it very mildly, Epicurus had a beastly time.

But here, in the heartland of hipsterdom, Huize van Wely is likely to remain a triumph of nostalgic whimsy. Grown-up, courteous, an affair of the well-heeled, it draws its clientele from the European-bred, Mercedes Benz-driving upper-crust, idle Japanese ladies, moms and grandmoms longing for vestiges of their childhood and expatriates yearning for a momentary taste of home.

That said, they should have played Albinoni or Mendelssohn instead of that amusical electronic music that sounded more like Clayderman gone berserk.

-- Epicurus