Crispy Detours: Jamur Goreng and a Shoe Hunt at Tangerang Station

by William Siddhi K. on November 30, 2025.

📌Tangerang Station, Jakarta, Indonesia

I’ve always had one major problem when it comes to buying shoes in Indonesia: my size simply doesn’t exist. Or at least, it feels like it doesn’t. Size 45 isn’t impossible to find, but it might as well be an urban legend in most department stores near my house. Every time I walk into a shop, the conversation goes the same way—optimistic opening, slow realization, then polite disappointment.

“Mas ukuran 45 ada?”
“Ehm… mungkin habis, Mas.”
“Mungkin atau memang tidak ada?”
“Hmmm… tidak ada.”

I’m used to it by now. Indonesian feet tend to run smaller, so stores rarely stock the larger sizes. But last week, my mom mentioned that she knew someone—an old acquaintance of hers—who sells size 45 shoes around Tangerang Station. She said he runs a tiny shoe shop near the station entrance. No fancy shelves, no organized rows, just stacks of boxes and a guy who knows exactly which pile contains which size. It sounded promising, and honestly, at this point, I was willing to try anything.

So we took the commuter train to Tangerang. My mom, who normally doesn’t accompany me for errands like these, decided to come along. Maybe she was worried I’d come back with something ugly. Or maybe she just wanted an excuse to get out of the house. Either way, it felt like a small family mission.

The afternoon sun was doing its usual thing—bright, sticky, and way too enthusiastic for my liking. Tangerang Station carried that warm echo of constant movement: people chatting, ojek drivers calling out, train announcements bouncing off the walls, and street vendors already preparing their evening stock. It wasn’t chaotic, just alive.

We navigated through the small crowd until we found the shoe seller. Just like my mom described, the stall was modest—more “organized chaos” than actual shop. Piles of shoeboxes leaned against one another like mismatched skyscrapers. The seller, a thin man in his late 50s with a voice roughened by years of yelling prices, looked up as my mom called his name.

“Oh, Bu! Lama tidak ketemu!” he said with a grin, as though no time had passed since they last met even though it had easily been years.

I let the adults catch up while I scanned the boxes. And true enough—size 45s were tucked away in a neat horizontal stack, as if waiting for me. I tried a pair of black sneakers first. Surprisingly comfortable. Then another pair in dark brown. Also good. I almost didn’t know how to react. After years of disappointment, having options felt strange.

But before deciding, my stomach reminded me that it had been several hours since breakfast. And when you’re hungry at Tangerang Station, the smells around you become ten times more powerful. That’s when the scent hit me: jamur crispy.

If there’s one weakness I have, it’s fried mushrooms. Something about the mix of earthy flavor and crunchy batter just works. It’s not a glamorous snack, but it never fails.

So after promising the shoe seller we’d come back in a bit, my mom and I walked to the stall that was producing that irresistible aroma.

The cart was simple: silver metal frame, a small fryer, and a tray filled with flour-dusted mushrooms ready to be dropped into hot oil. The vendor—a woman in her 30s with a tidy ponytail and a small towel draped over her shoulder—moved efficiently. She dipped the mushrooms in batter, tossed them in seasoned flour, then lowered them into the fryer. The oil bubbled and hissed, sending little flecks of batter floating to the top.

The sound alone could sell the product.

Jamur crispy vendors all follow a similar method, but every seller seems to have their own seasoning blend. Some make it too salty, some too bland, some too oily. But this one smelled just right—garlicky, warm, with hints of coriander and pepper. My mom and I ordered one portion to share, partly because we were trying to be “responsible” but mostly because we knew we’d end up eating more snacks later.

“Pedas sedikit aja ya, Mbak,” my mom said.
“Siap, Bu,” the vendor replied, mixing a spoonful of chili powder into the seasoning.

She shook the fried mushrooms in a stainless-steel bowl, dusting them with the spicy-salty mix. Then she poured everything into a brown paper bag lined with plastic and handed it over still steaming.

We stepped aside and sat on a low ledge facing the station entrance. People passed by—some ignoring the smells, some glancing over at our bag like they wanted a portion too. The air around us shifted between warm gusts of exhaust and sweet notes from nearby snack carts.

I reached in and grabbed the first piece.

The crunch was perfect. Not the fake kind of crunch that comes from too-thick batter, but the light, crisp bite that gives way to soft mushroom inside. The seasoning coated my fingers in orange specks, and the heat from the chili was just enough to make my tongue tingle without setting my stomach on fire. My mom took one and nodded in approval, which, in Indonesian-mom language, meant: “This vendor is good. We can trust her.”

While eating, we talked about the shoe hunt, reminiscing about the times she used to drag me around countless malls just to find my size. It was always a struggle. My feet have been big since I was a teenager, and I remember being laughed at once by a shopkeeper who said, “Ukuran segitu buat siapa, Mas? Buat badut?” I pretended to laugh it off, but even now I still remember that sting.

Maybe that’s why today felt so strangely satisfying. Not just because I found the right shoes, but because I no longer felt like a walking footwear anomaly.

By the time we finished the jamur crispy, my fingers were greasy and the paper bag was nearly transparent from oil—but it was worth it. Street food isn’t healthy, sure, but sometimes the comfort it delivers makes the nutritional sacrifice feel justified.

We walked back to the shoe seller and chose the original black sneakers. Practical, easy to match, nothing flashy. Transport-friendly. He packed them neatly, tied the plastic bag twice, and gave my mom a small discount “karena anaknya gede sekarang.”

As we made our way home, shoes secured and stomachs satisfied, I realized that days like this—simple errands, short talks, shared snacks—leave a bigger impression than you’d expect. Tangerang Station may not be glamorous, but today it gave me exactly what I needed: a good pair of shoes, a good portion of jamur crispy, and a good memory with my mom.

And honestly, that’s better than anything I could’ve found in a mall.