.png)
(Image by Facebook/Soto Ayam Ambengan Pak Sadi - asli / Gemaresto)
Pak Sadi's is the true manifestation of "big city, big dreams" come true, and has become a home for the many East Javan transplants who are chasing theirs, too.
Long before venturing into Senopati as an adult, I had spent countless hours in the area: Weekends at Pak Sadi’s, relishing a steaming bowl of soto, sate, or rujak cingur. The magazine vendor that was perched in front of the restaurant would always succeed in making my dad buy me the newest Bobo, or, if I’m lucky, a NatGeo magazine. I think Pak Sadi’s magazine guy did more for my literacy skills than grade school ever did.
For my parents, both Surabaya transplants, Pak Sadi’s was a haven offering a taste of home. There, not only could they eat the same dish that they would order back home, but they could also order and converse in Javanese. We would drive for an hour to get 45 minutes of being transported into Surabaya.I inadvertently forgot about Pak Sadi’s after studying abroad. Like most teens, I had grown into red velvet cakes, avocado toasts, and pretty cocktails. Later visits to the area were reserved for overpriced coffee, fine dining, or getting drunk. I only started coming back to Pak Sadi’s recently with my parents, after the Jakarta high life, i.e., spending 500k for cute brunches, took a toll on me.Last weekend, I went to eat there with my boyfriend (mom was surprised that we went by ourselves). This was not long after Pak Sadi’s passing. I quickly noticed how little had changed; stepping through its doors, I was instantly transported to the 2000s. As if caught in a time capsule, I felt like I was inside of an Edward Hopper painting.
If Proust had a Madeleine moment — then I most definitely had a Soto moment. Upon cracking kerupuk udang and hearing it sizzle inside the yellow, golden, fragrant bowl of broth in front of me — I was suddenly a child whose day was made simply by a purchase of Majalah Bobo. Like a true East Javan, I then added an overwhelming amount of koya: the crack powder made of crushed kerupuk udang and fried garlic. But I was not done. I had to dress the soup to perfection with a squeeze of jeruk nipis and several tiny spoonfuls of sambal. After five minutes of toying with my concoction, I was finally ready to eat.
The magazine vendor was still there, and he was still going table-to-table, trying to sell out his stock, to no avail. Pak Sadi’s story is an ‘Indonesian Dream’, if there is ever one. He started selling Soto on a cart, door to door on Jalan Ambengan in Surabaya. Ambengan then became his Soto’s namesake, which he patented. He then opened a permanent shop on the same street and eventually expanded into Jakarta while keeping both operations in Surabaya and Jakarta (although my dad swears that the Jakarta branch is much better than the original Surabaya one).
It’s amusing how his eatery sits just a stone’s throw away from the Senopati intersection—the epitome of progressive, global, modern Jakarta. A contrast between humble beginnings and extravagant revelry. Its placement almost feels orchestrated, intended to tell a deeper truth: that there’s always the option of retreating to a bowl of familiar, affordable, delicious Soto when you’re tired of the masquerade of city life.
For my dad, it had probably meant a safe space where he could be medok without sticking out like a sore thumb. For me, it’s a place to eat luxuriously without worrying about the check. Pak Sadi’s does not fail — and it’s here to stay.
The above article was written by a guest contributor.
About the Contributor
Madeleine is a corporate worker by day and a food explorer whenever she isn't working. She believes that food is the world's universal unwritten language that breaks barriers and keeps a record of our entire civilization.
Always on the lookout for new flavor experiences and authentic tastes wherever she goes, Madeleine hopes to understand the world a little better with each bite. She journals her experiences on Instagram: @speak_intongues.
Comments