Sharing The Love for Goat Testicles Soup with My Dad

What I remember first is looking down at a plate of white rice placed in front of me on top of the bright green plastic-covered table and thinking “Why do they always put the rice first and make us wait for longer for the main show, the goat testicles soup?”

I sighed and peered between the soaking wet cloth curtains separating us from the rainy wind outside. Through the small slit, I could see Jakarta’s nightlife slowly starting from a far away. It was the weekend after all (we always came here on Saturdays). Meanwhile, on a much closer zoom, I could see people getting down from parked cars and walking (the ones without an umbrella ━ running) towards the roadside stall we were in.

I get it.

What could be better than a plate* of hot soup on a rainy day? 

Amma asked something; I shifted my attention back to her. “Do you want to eat your rice first?” I shook my head. Why would I? I prefer to wait for what felt like an eternity for a child for the soup. That’s when I noticed how well she dressed, so did my Appa and so did I. All that just to go to a roadside stall that we frequented almost weekly as soon as we moved to Jakarta from my hometown in West Java.  For the longest time, it bothered me, until I was old enough to realize that my parents were on dates. These were family dates. This was why my parents put an effort to dress nicely for each other while making sure, I, the extension of their love, looked presentable as well.

“The soup will come soon ma” my Appa chimed in. I could hear his excitement; I smiled back at him (I wasn’t a talkative kid), wondering who likes the soup more, my Appa or me. Well, I guess it should be him since I would be too young to recognize and nurture a deep love for a food item. That will come much later. 

Also, after all, it was him who introduced me to it, as he did with other “unusual” food I have been eating, thinking it’s a part of the menu rotation in other households; such as chicken feet and deep-fried frog. In the end, it doesn’t matter, who loves it more, what matters is the reason we came there so frequently, the goat testicle soup.

Goat Testicles Soup

The soup, a blessing from the food God himself, is served on a similar plate* to the one used for the rice earlier. I never know whether it’s intended to make it cool down faster, or it’s more of a couldn’t be bothered attitude. Most probably the latter.

The first thing you would notice about the soup once placed in front of you is the aromatic smell. You would think the testicles would make it smell somewhat unpleasant, but nah, the smell is heavenly. It’s intoxicating and calming at the same time. It made me feel like I was at home, even in the middle of the unlit abandoned parking lot.

What’s not all that appealing, though, was the way it looked. Bright and slightly brownish in colour, adorned with Emping (slightly bitter-tasting Indonesian style crackers ━ which I grew to love since I started eating the soup), big chunks of cut tomatoes (which I didn’t manage to learn to love), pieces of goat meat and of course, cut goat testicles. 

What it lacked in presentation, it made up multiplied in the taste. The soup itself was so flavorful that I couldn’t resist taking a sip the minute the plate landed in front of me, never learning from numerous tongues burning incidents in the past.

Now, I am sure you would want to know what eating goat testicles are like.

It took me a few minutes to ponder this, and I have decided the closest way to describe it would be eating a hardened piece of foie gras. Which doesn’t justify my comparison description because I ate the latter decades later. Also, goat testicles, however horrid it may sound for some, is not an exotic food for us Indonesian. There is no Fear Factor TV show crew with 250,000$ waiting for us to finish it. It’s just one type of food — not an everyday thing, but also (almost) nothing to write home about.

My Appa used to say the flavour of the soup comes from the spices and the meat cooked for hours before the stall is opened for the night.

In the corner of the semi-detached stall, there was a humongous stainless pot that was usually hovered over by several cooks at any time. One stirs while the other one looks down into the pot occasionally tasting it to ensure the constant taste quality. The rest of the men just chatted around the pot. He also told me that those men, surrounding the gigantic soup pot, were the sons, sons-in-law, even grandson of Sani, the name of the owner and the famous goat testicles soup stall. That it’s been a family business for generations, hence they were the only ones allowed to hover around the magic pot to make and protect the secret family recipe. 

His explanations didn’t interest me as much as how soon I could finish my first plate to get another round of soup and rice combo, which my parents would readily oblige to. At that time, I hadn’t turned into a greedy self-proclaimed-Foodphile who continuously think about what food to eat next. So back then, it was a proud moment for my parents when their boney-ass daughter asked for another bowl of soup.

I don’t know when exactly it happened, but one day we just stopped going there. And we hadn’t for the longest time until one day, while living in Singapore, I had a massive craving for it. On my next visit, I dragged my middle-aged parents there, only to find out the legendary sop Sani has been closed down because they couldn’t afford to pay the high price charged by neighbourhood thugs to keep operating illegally there. The same person who gave us the disappointing news also suggested that they might have moved to a new location. I decided not to visit it just yet, not wanting the first memories in that abandoned parking lots written off by the new ones.