#WanderAround
In the coastal town of Tuban, where life drifts between the call to prayer and the rhythm of motorcycles gliding through narrow streets, there’s a food cart that quietly holds a place in the town’s collective heart. It appears like clockwork after sunset, releasing the familiar aroma of something simple, warm, and deeply nostalgic. This is Pentol Presiden, a name spoken with affection by locals and known for one thing: consistency—of presence, of taste, and of heart.
The man behind it is Pak Basuki, now 57 years old, who has been serving his signature skewered pentol since 2008. For over fifteen years, this cart has been more than just a small business—it’s been a daily ritual for many, and a symbol of hard work deeply rooted in Tuban’s social fabric.
Each evening, after Maghrib, Pak Basuki sets up near Hotel Indonesia Tuban, a familiar landmark that has become his initial post. By 10 p.m., he moves to his second location near Bravo Supermarket, where he serves until the clock ticks toward midnight. This quiet migration reflects his deep understanding of the town’s flow—when it slows down, when it livens up, where the warmth of a late-night snack might be most welcome.
But the story of Pentol Presiden isn’t just about selling meatballs. It began with Rp 50,000 and a dream. At the time, Pak Basuki’s children were still in kindergarten. He pushed his cart through the city, calling out to strangers, going from alley to alley, hoping to make a few sales. There was no permanent spot, no social media campaign—just perseverance and presence. What he was doing, in Javanese philosophy, is known as Babat Alas—clearing new ground. It’s a concept tied to starting something from scratch, from nothing, and building trust through action. Slowly, his presence became familiar. His pentol, a comfort. His cart, a nightly stop.
For many, eating at Pentol Presiden isn’t just about the food—it’s about continuity. It’s about knowing that, in a town that may change slowly but surely, some things remain. It’s about seeing the same face, hearing the same voice, watching the same steam rise into the night sky. For Tuban locals, it’s a small but significant reminder of what it means to be grounded.
This kind of emotional economy—where value is measured not just in money but in memory—is rare. It is built over years of showing up, of remembering names, of serving not just pentol but also kindness, familiarity, and warmth. His journey from “keliling kota” (roaming the city) to mangkal (having a fixed spot) mirrors the evolution of Tuban itself—a town rooted in tradition, but always shaped by the people who carry its stories forward.
Pentol Presiden is a living story: of a father providing for his family, of a man building something from nearly nothing, of a cart becoming a landmark. And for those who’ve grown up in Tuban, or found themselves passing through its quiet nights, that warm skewer dipped in sambal may just be more than a snack. It might be a memory. A comfort. A piece of home.
So, if you’re ever in Tuban after sunset, listen for the quiet rattle of a cart, follow the steam rising against the night, and stop for a moment. Because sometimes, the most meaningful discoveries don’t come from grand destinations—but from the hands of someone who’s been there all along.