Kulit Udang and Psychological Freedom
I attended a rather posh real estate networking event yesterday.
It was a very typical gathering of such — a herd of well-dressed, well-mannered homo sapiens holding a virgin mojito in one hand and a chic name card in the other.
Everybody looked dapper. The high-status men in the group were having their typical “Who’s got the biggest di*k?” contest, while the high-status women were relishing on their newly plugged hair extensions and high-end nose jobs.
Most of the attendees were smiling and laughing with each other, performing that reciprocal social charade of “I rub your back — you rub mine” often performed by chimpanzees.
As I was lining up to get some food from the buffet, I noticed a strange offering on the horizon: shell-on boiled prawns. By this I mean — boiled prawns that still have their heads and shells intact.
Now, this dish isn’t a problem if it’s served in a less formal setting. But keep in mind that this event was taking place at a posh, fancy-schmancy hotel.
I’m sorry, but it is rather absurd to expect people to crack open prawn shells and suck on prawn heads in such a formal setting.
Imagine the horror of salty crustacean juices flying around the table, splattering on people’s fake noses and Armani tuxedos.
Imagine the prawn legs and antennas getting stuck in people’s teeth as they fake laugh at each other’s non-amusing anecdotes.
Needless to say, I decided to skip the prawns and instead helped myself to an offering of grilled artichoke salad — the epitome of soulless white-people food.
As I was munching on some flavorless grilled artichoke, a guy came and sat opposite me.
He had a rather big plate, and on the plate was a stack of the shell-on prawns I saw earlier. Eight of them. Maybe even nine.
How the hell is he going to eat this? — I thought.
Is he really going to pull up his sleeves and de-shell these prawns in such a formal setting? Is he going to smother me with a projectile of prawn juices and antennas?
I have to admit that he was much more Zen than me — because he had not a hint of awkwardness or self-consciousness with eating all that prawn with his bare hands in the middle of hundreds of boujee business barons.
He munched through the whole plate like a pro — not giving a damn how messy it all was.
Oily hands, prawn shells everywhere, a stack of prawn heads stacked on top of one another — it looked like a sadistic seafood Holocaust by the end.
I couldn’t believe what I had just witnessed.
In the midst of this ravenous langoustine genocide lies an important life skill, probably the most important one of all, which is the capacity to be unapologetically your messy self.
To be able to messily eat prawns in a three-piece suit without the slightest smudge of awkwardness, realizing that the opinions of strangers are merely ethereal and harmless constructs in your monkey mind.
I definitely should practice this culinary indifference the next time I attend another one of these douchey networking events in the future.
I hope they serve chili crab.
And chicken wings.