Two street food stalls along Island Glades’ five-footway, serving simple meals and shared laughter at night.
The Five Footway Chronicles
“At night, everything looks different,” I said to Susan.
Our conversations were bold, punctured with girlish laughter and knowing nods.
Sometimes Susan did this wild thing where she turned to look at me for a full thirty seconds while driving, just to land a point.
Completely fearless. Me.
Susan brings memories of her beloved Bobby whenever we head out.
As she told and retold stories of Aloka, the peace dog who follows monks, I felt calm, as if both good boys were riding with us in the car.
The energy shifts.
“Let’s have something cheap tonight,” Susan quipped.
So we went to my old haunt in Island Glades.
Contents
A Side Lane After Dark
The side lane looks very different at night.
I’ve passed it many times, a shortcut through an old block of shophouses.
Their backs facing a narrow lane, anchored by Chinese kopitiam at both ends.
But it was the side-lane hawkers that pulled me in.
I remembered younger days, eating quickly with colleagues at tables like these.
Some were piled with nasi lemak bungkus, sweet colourful Malay kueh.
Others had extra hard-boiled eggs. As if the sellers knew that we needed the extra protein in our dinner.
There is a quiet poetry to sitting on a plastic stool along the five-footway at Island Glades.
No table numbers. No menus trying too hard. Just two Indian pushcarts under tired lights.
One turns out apam, soft and eggy at the center with wafer thin fragile edges.
The other does nasi lemak bungkus, folded tight, rice still warm through the paper, kept close to a pot of boiling milk.
Cash Only, No Apologies.
On each stall, a simple board lists the drinks without apology.
Cow’s milk. Susu lembu. Milo. Susu telur. Nescafe. Teh tarik. Coconut.
The other stall reads simply. Apam Telor Island Glades.
The humble apam telor stall where locals and visitors grab a quick, delicious bite.
No prices.
Just two words. Cash only.
It feels less like a rule and more like a promise.
We found the single table on the pavement under a flickering fluorescent light.
We girls navigated open drains with hop-skip dare.
Suddenly feeling like schoolgirls again.
Eating Without Fuss
We ate where the side lane opened to the night skies.
Soft, eggy apam telor straight from the pan, a favorite late-night snack in Island Glades.
The apam, hot from the pan, was torn by hand.
Flaky edges fell onto the plastic sheet as we used our green plastic spoons to scoop up every last bit.
This had to be eaten first.
Warm, fragrant nasi lemak bungkus ready to be unwrapped along Island Glades’ five-footway.
The nasi lemak was unwrapped slowly, sambal announcing itself before the first bite.
The rice was loose, not clumpy.
Inside was a tiny wedge of what must have been the smallest egg possible.
Lucky me, I got the packet with the ikan bilis heads, like someone had emptied the last bits just to make one final packet.
No complaints. Just laughter.
“Someone has to get the last packet,” Susan said, smiling knowingly.
I grinned.
Tiny bits of anchovy heads (extra calcium) mixed into my rice, with just enough sambal to hint at heat.
Steam rose from cups of fresh milk.
We sipped our tea and Bru coffee, cow’s milk foam still clinging to the edges of our glass mugs.
After Fifty
As the night deepened, our talk drifted from fine art to life after fifty, and then to the shared jokes about rising cholesterol.
“You got an A1 for art?” Susan exclaimed. “Why, you sly one. And you were a science student.”
“I asked Mr Krishnamoorthy if I could take art for SPM,” I said. “I just painted a piece a week.”
“Like that also can?”
“You didn’t ask,” I said. “I just tried my luck. Seventeen, and already an opportunist.”
We laughed at something that didn’t make sense anymore.
Just memories that grew funnier with age.
The quiet recalibration that comes after fifty.
Moments Worth Keeping
Two street food stalls along Island Glades’ five-footway, serving simple meals and shared laughter at night.
Under the streetlamp glow, I paid with cash, counting ringgits.
No rush. No pretense.
Just food that knows what it is, and people who do too.
Sitting at makeshift tables and a plastic stool along a stretch of five-footway, turning an ordinary night into moments worth keeping.
Smartdory warmly salutes the Malaysian hawkers who, for generations, have kept prices low to serve hot meals—nourishing workers, families, and anyone who calls a rented room home.
