Last Monday, I found myself at Lebuh Keng Kwee, Georgetown, craving for a robust, hot bowl of Penang Road Famous Asam Laksa. As my two kids and I entered Joo Hooi coffee shop, we saw a huge crowd already seated inside.

“Asam Laksa tiga,” I ordered.

“Sini tak ada tempat. You cuba kedai belakang sana. Sama taukeh, Laksa pun sama,” he said. (There’s no place left here. Try the shop behind. Same owner. Same laksa.)

The three of us walked not too far from the main coffee shop, reaching a street stall selling Asam Laksa bearing the same ‘Penang Road Famous’ logo. We ordered our laksa, made the payment and walked towards the roadside tables, our eyes searching wildly for a decent place to sit so we could enjoy our food in peace.

There were lots of empty seats available. However, at every one of those tables, there was always someone “watching over” those empty seats like a hawk.

“Excuse me, are those seats occupied?”

“Got people.”

“Sorry, but can we share your table?”

“Sorry, I am waiting for others.”

Five minutes passed and my kids and I were still on our feet, itching for a seat. It was almost 2.30 in the afternoon and the sun was excruciatingly unkind to us, so we decided to go ahead and eat our lunch standing.

A few minutes into slurping our laksa while getting our skin burnt to a crisp under the sun, my daughter drops her chopstick and sighs heavily.

“Ma, it’s not easy to enjoy laksa like this. Why isn’t anyone giving us a place to sit?” she said, in a whining tone.

I looked at the people occupying the tables around us and realised the empty seats were still empty.

“Are you still waiting for your friends?” I asked.

“Yes. They are coming,” the lady answered as she continued surfing the web on her handphone.

On one side, I saw a family of six seated under a shaded table, with only one of them having a meal. On the other side, there were three elderly people who were almost done with their laksa.

“Bina, Shad, that uncle looks like he is leaving soon. Perhaps we can move to his table,” I said, pointing in the uncle’s direction.

A few minutes passed since the uncle and his company finished their bowl of laksa, yet he was still seated there comfortably. Assuming he would probably be resting for a while before leaving, I decided to wait, my eyes however still glued on them.

And then, something unimaginable happened. The uncle raised his hand and signalled to a Chinese girl who just walked into the makan place. The girl gladly responded and walked towards his direction as the uncle and his friends made the table available for her.

I was gobsmacked.

I had been standing right in front of the uncle’s table for a good ten minutes or more, asking him and the people around him for a seat for myself and my kids, yet he had the audacity to completely ignore me and give away the seats to someone else!

I felt my blood boiling.

“Mak is going to do something now. I can smell it,” my son joked.

“She should,” replied my daughter. “This is favouritism. If we were Chinese, the uncle would have given us his table a while ago.”

I then did what every sensible person would do. I walked towards the table and sat opposite the girl. Signalling the kids to join me, we then sat and enjoyed the rest of our laksa. The girl clearly was not comfortable with us “sharing” her table but continued using her handphone – I assume she was waiting for her friends.

“We will be here just for a while ya, we are almost done with our laksa,” I assured her.

A few minutes later, her friends did arrive and so my kids and I quickly slurped the remaining kuah laksa. While leaving the makan place, I realised there was a Malay standing and asking the other patrons if there were any available seats.

“Aunty, anak saya duduk sini boleh?” (Aunty, can my kid sit here?)

I turned to look at my own – I found them already staring back at me.

“Good luck to her,” whispered my son.

As we walked towards the end of Lebuh Keng Kwee, we had another sudden craving – this time for Penang Road Famous Teochew Chendol.

“Let’s have it Ma, Chendol is so perfect for this weather,” both my kids chimed, hoping I’d say yes.

“But look at the queue!” I lamented as I pointed at the zigzag up to Penang Road. “And I don’t think I want to look for another empty table.”

Upon persuasion that we could easily gulp the bowl of sweetened coconut milk on foot without needing a seat for our bums, I gave in.

Anyway, there we were, three Indians, lining up among the Chinese, in an alley crowded mostly with Chinese, waiting to slurp up that heavenly dessert, when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

It was an Indian aunty with her Chinese friend.

“Girl, Nasi Kandar kadai ke yeppedi poghenum (How do we get to the Nasi Kandar shop)?” asked the Indian aunty.

“Let me check on the Google Map,” I said.

After giving them directions, they left.

“Ma, I wonder why that aunty chose to ask you for directions when there are so many others who can direct her to the Nasi Kandar place,” my daughter remarked.

Before I could answer, my son replied, “Favouritism.”

“Favouritism? How so?” I asked.

“She asked you instead of the others because she favoured someone of similar race,” my son explained rather matter-of-factly.

My daughter quickly quipped, “If only that Indian aunty was seated at the laksa place instead of the Chinese uncle, I am sure she would have let us share her table.”

“What makes you say that?” I asked.

“Because we are all Indians. We attract each other.”

“Maybe that’s why the Chinese uncle favoured the Chinese girl – they attract each other,” commented my son as he paid for the chendol.

“Are you justifying favouritism?” I asked them both.

“Let’s put it this way, Ma,” my son said. “If you occupied a table and three families were waiting for a table – Chinese, Indian and Malay, who would you give our table to?”

It took me only two seconds to respond, “It’s not my table to give. I would probably just walk away.”

“Are you sure?” asked my daughter.

I scooped a spoonful of shaved ice and red beans into my mouth. Somehow it wasn’t as sweet as it used to be.

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