Class

The problem with being on Ozempic is that I can’t eat much. Well duh, you might be thinking, that’s kind of the point. But it means that I can’t bank my calories by, say, having just one decent meal a day. I can nibble my way through half an entree, and then suddenly I can’t eat any more. And I want to eat more, because this is Bali, and I’m in a stunning, internationally renown restaurant that lets riff-raff like me in for some reason.

In this case, the restaurant was Mamasan, which, like Revolver, seems to have had a bit of a glow up since I was last here. It’s all teak panelling, chesterfield banquettes, marble-topped bars, antique mirrors, chinoiserie tables and artful sprays of white orchids. And prices to match: faux colonialism chic doesn’t come cheap. I had a prawn, pomelo, peanut and heritage tomato salad, a highball cocktail and some mineral water, and didn’t get much change out of $50.

Even the light salad was a bit of a strain on my digestive system, so after a little nap back at the hotel, I went out for a massage at an unassuming place that had been recommended for offering serious, well-trained massage.

When I got there I was offered either “Remedial” massage or “Bali” massage, and because I am a man, I chose the remedial massage, even though I haven’t been to the gym in a week and I’ve done nothing here apart from amble between cocktail bars. Bali massage is for ladies who want to be pampered and fussed over. Remedial massage is for men who know they’ve done something unwise to their bodies and need it fixed.

It was like being viciously beaten for an hour by a gang of hardened lemongrass stalks. I smelled amazing, but my calves burned and I shuddered as I walked. But my spine had popped satisfyingly when the masseuse had yanked on my right leg, so I guess mission accomplished.

Once evening fell, I visited the next bar/restaurant on my list. This was La Favela, a spacious but gothically gloomy establishment with a Día de los Muertos vibe, mixed with 70s soul music. They also had tasty but highly specialised cocktails that I couldn’t replicate if I wanted to, unless I suddenly work out how to make popcorn or cashew syrup, or what kemangi leaf is, or discern the secret of “kaffir lime sous vide dry gin” (is that just putting kaffir lime leaves in a bottle of cheap gin and leaving it on a sunny windowsill for an afternoon? That I can do).

Afterwards, I actually had dinner. I haven’t had dinner since Sunday, getting by on bar snacks and the miraculous hunger-quashing powers of Ozempic. I went to a joint I’d noticed on my way to my massage, which, judging from the facade, I’d taken to be a Japanese-style listening bar. But it turned out to be a fine-dining Italian restaurant… with a big vinyl collection and a DJ. Go figure.

Bearing in mind what I know Ozempic does to me, I ordered the smallest actual meal I could see on the menu; lasagnina, which I guessed was to lasagna what Keighleigh is to Kayley.

But this, it transpired, was a proper Italian restaurant, and that means Extra Food. Before too long my waiter shimmered up with an amuse bouche of pumpkin soup, a tiny bowl of fennel tarallini, and a basket of fresh breads. I ate the soup and the tarallini and limited myself to nibbling on a single piece of foccacia, and felt digestive foreboding.

Lasagnina is actually not just lasagna that wants to feel unusual and different. It’s crisply baked lasagna noodles, stacked with meat and bechamel sauce in between them. It was of a modest size, but even so, I was full before I was halfway through it. However, I’d already raised eyebrows among the staff by ordering just a single course, and I suspected that would progress to active insult if I left half of it on my plate. So I struggled on, giving up at about 90%, and spreading the remaining 10% around the plate so that it gave the impression of not existing.

My waiter took my plate, looked downcast when I passed on anything more, and allowed me to settle my bill. Then, in a final act of Italian cultural defiance, returned with my receipt and two tiny artisanal chocolate truffles on a little plate.

Which I ate. I am not a monster.

It was a little over a kilometre back to the hotel, and I needed every metre of it to burn off the excess calories. This did not sit well with the scooter guys. They are one of the nuisances of Bali, beeping at you if they’re riding past, or saying “Ride, boss?” if they’re sitting by the roadside, trying to persuade you to ride instead of walking. Every encounter is merely a vague speck of annoyance… but you cannot walk 20 metres without being accosted. If you’re out for a nice evening stroll and forced to say, “No thanks!” every ten to fifteen seconds, those specks of annoyance pile up.

I deal with it by remembering that two pronounced traits of the Balinese are their peacefulness and their work ethic. This is why they’re trying to sell you a ride as you totter down a narrow, unlit street, rather than, say, shivving you and stealing your iPhone. You rarely see beggars and you even more rarely feel unsafe. A little annoyance is a fair price to pay.

The scooter guys are also less irritating than their (thankfully less common) female counterparts; the massage touts. These are hard-faced women who screech “MASSAGE?” at you as you wander by, often repeating themselves if your negative response isn’t absolutely unarguable. Some of them mangle those two syllables so badly that you have to take it on faith that it’s a massage they’re offering: one of them squealed at me first thing in the morning and I literally couldn’t tell if she was saying “Massage?” or “Breakfast?”. I may have turned down bacon by mistake.

Then there’s the shadiest of the touts, who masquerade as scooter guys but, when you get close enough, mutter “Cialis? Viagra? Ladies?”. I always feel like responding, “Sir, this is Seminyak. I’m wearing a belgian linen shirt and hand-rubbed Italian leather shoes. I am not some horny, morally-compromised bogan interested in your drugs or women, both of dubious hygienic provenance. Please learn to read the geographic room!”

Of course I wouldn’t say that. He wouldn’t understand me, and he’d probably break with his normal routine to shiv me and steal my iPhone.