No sign, no soul

No Signboard Seafood Restaurant (Esplanade)
8 Raffles Avenue, The Esplanade Mall
#01-14/16
Singapore 039802
Tel: +65 6336 9959

I have always found it strange how it is only in Chinese restaurants that you get the large round tables of 10 or more people. It seems to me that the more reasonable method of handling large parties – either a long table or combining smaller tables lengthwise – may be more efficient space-wise. At the very least, this naturally creates smaller groups, or “pockets” – making dinner table conversation much easier and more intimate. If I am at a long table, or at one of many four-tops pulled together, I know who to talk to. When I am one of 12 people at a round table, it becomes a little more difficult to manage the conversation.

There are people who have learnt the art of holding court at a dinner table, and I admire them for it. I have seen the very best do this – engage everyone in hearty conversation, offer interesting opinions when it is time to be serious, and laugh when it is time not to be – all the while politely but subtly slipping their food into their mouths and never looking anything but graceful. I could never do it well; I was too interested in the food. In a strange way it was often people that prevented you from truly enjoying your food, except for the rare few that are as good as the food itself.

Britt came to visit Singapore this past weekend, and one of the places we took her to was No Signboard seafood restaurant, for that famous Singaporean classic – chilli crab. It was lovely to see her after so long, and it was a good thing that we had already spent the bulk of the day together – for she wound up sitting across from me at the large round table and we did not exchange a single word the entire time.

Chilli crab is, according to many, the unofficial “national” dish of Singapore and consists of hard-shelled crabs stir-fried in a tomato and chilli-based gravy – that is in turn usually laced with spices like galangal and turmeric as well as ribboned with beaten egg. Eating chilli crabs is as much adventure as it is dining, because of the efforts you have to go through to crack the crab shells and pick at, slurp on or suck out the meat. It is served with zha mantou – deep-fried sweet bread rolls with which to mop up the remainder of the gravy once you are done with the crabs.

The No Signboard restaurant chain is one of the success stories within Singaporean hawker fare. Started in 1981 at the Mattar Rd Hawker Centre – without a signboard – it remains a family-owned and run business with four locations in Singapore and several others overseas. Their latest offerings, at the Esplanade and Vivocity, are skewing more upmarket. As is somewhat inevitable when any organisation expands, they have sacrificed quality and market leadership for consistency and increased market reach. They may no longer be the best at making crabs, but to many are still a familiar, reliable and acceptable choice.

(I like Red House at East Coast Park for chilli crab, Eng Seng at Joo Chiat for black pepper crab, and Mellben in Ang Mo Kio for both plain and white pepper crab.)

We ordered some traditional zi char dishes to complement the chilli crabs, which was undoubtedly the main draw of the night. The gu lu yoke (sweet and sour pork) was very disappointing – the batter was not crispy enough and the tomato sauce did not have enough of a sour tang to it. The steamed Soon Hock was actually done quite well and drew rave reviews from Britt, which is saying something because she apparently grew up eating a lot of seafood. The house-made tofu with ground pork - one of their specialties - was well made and well-flavoured. The sambal kangkong was decent, but fell short in that like most of the other dishes it did not have enough wok hei.

To explain: wok hei is a romanticised notion of the flavour, or “essence”, imparted onto the food cooked in a wok at very high heat. True wok hei is a combination of the scientific – Maillard reactions, caramelisation and combustion levels only possible at high heat, increased moisture retention of the ingredients due to the short flash-frying time; and that which is not so tangible – the speed and the skill of the chef in exposing all the ingredients to the heat and to the sauces and flavourings, and the alleged ability of cast iron to retain and impart flavour. It is wok hei that gives wok-cooked food that smokiness, and amplifies its flavour while retaining its lightness.

The bright note was that the bamboo clams were excellently prepared – lightly seasoned with soy sauce, garlic, ginger and chillies – as well as being meaty and succulent. These are also called razor clams, and I had eaten them only once before but made a mental note to always ask about their availability when eating seafood in the future.

The chilli crabs took a while to arrive, by which time we had almost filled up on the other dishes. But when they came we all wordlessly agreed that it looked worth the wait for, and tucked in heartily. I was slightly disappointed – the chilli gravy needed a little more heft and spice – but the crabs themselves were fresh and juicy and an absolute joy to slurp on. I defy anybody with dining table etiquette to look graceful while eating crabs. It may be possible, but then you would not be getting the most out of the meal.


For a chain that has its roots in hawker centre and zi char cuisine – in which wok hei is paramount for the distinctive and soul-satisfying flavour of the food – No Signboard’s fancier locations have really fallen far from grace. Sure, this location is air-conditioned, overlooks Marina Bay and has the feel of a proper Chinese restaurant; but I would trade all that in an instant to be sucking down on chilli crabs on a stiff-backed stool, in a stuffy shack on the beach.

From Russia with love

by Reed Keefe

Cafe Kashkar
1141 Brighton Beach Ave
Brooklyn, NY 11235
718-743-3832

There are two things I, in my very limited experience, love about New York City. One is the fact that so many places, whether they actually are or not, feel like a find, a little secret that only a select few know about. The second, related thing is the fact that so many places feel foreign. Different clothes, different languages, different foods—I like feeling like a subway ride could have been an airplane ride, a short walk a road trip. It’s true that much of this feeling stems from my own ignorance about New York, but I think it also is an actual product of living in New York, where diversity and size mean that the city is constantly re-discoverable. Eating Uighur food in Brighton Beach combined both these elements, but, weirdly, at the same time, made me feel very at home.

About two weeks ago, Leila invited Sam and me to her Hannukah party in Park Slope. A trip from Morningside Heights to Park Slope is, of course, an invitation to make the most of the long journey and explore Brooklyn for the day. That day, it meant an afternoon at the aquarium and dinner in Brighton Beach (I, by the way, recommend a trip to Coney Island covered in snow—a place I think would strike most New Yorkers as foreign in its extreme quietness).

Exiting the subway at Brighton Beach is, for anyone who hasn’t been, a truly disorienting experience. Much like when I visited Flushing with Jason, I was struck by how abruptly the dominant culture and language changed. Here, that language was Russian, coupled with Cyrillic script on every store and, coincidentally, driving snow and freezing temperatures (Sam swears he saw a Boris Yeltsin look-a-like, birthmark and all). We walked and walked down Brighton Beach Ave., finally finding the tiny Café Kashkar, a place that some people say is the only authentic Uighur restaurant in New York City.

Café Kashkar did feel secret; few people were there, except a group of men toward the back - and without strict attention to the building numbers, anyone could have walked by the place. And, it felt foreign to me too. My knowledge about the Uighurs, or Uyghurs, a people who traditionally live in Central and some of East Asia, came not from food research but from human rights research. I knew about the Uighurs not because of their culture but because of challenges to it. I suppose you could say, that I knew about the Uighurs in a way totally divorced from their food. What I loved about eating at Café Kashkar, though, was the fact that everyone seemed willing to share. Our extremely kind waiter, taught me not only how to properly pour the tea (watch out, I’m apparently ready to be a good wife) and that the design I loved on the teapot represented the cotton grown in Uzbekistan, but also about every dish following that pot of tea.

But, onto the food. Oh my goodness, the food. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten food that was so warming. Everything was rich and meaty, a little spicy. First, the very innocuous sounding house salad (our very kind waiter also recognized my guilt about not eating enough vegetables). The salad was a wild mix of julienned carrots and cucumbers with a spicy, vinegary dressing, transforming what I returned to throughout the meal. Quickly, the samsa also came—flaky dough pies filled with lamb meat—and the pilaf, rice that would have been pretty typical except for the thick, buttery lamb on the bone (restraint was required to keep from gnawing).

Slipped in between the first meat appetizers and, well, the next meat appetizer, was the beautiful, comforting, lagman soup. Lagman really is everything I love in a comfort food—lamb (!), soup that is a little spicy, slightly thicker than normal but not yet a stew, warm, and filled with my very favorite carb—the noodle. The noodles really were revelatory—they stood up to the vibrant tasting broth and the tender lamb; they were still thick and slightly chewy after long intervals of soup slurping. If it were possible, I think I might have enjoyed lagman even more if I had seen those noodles being made. At the end of the meal, Sam pointed out the small window that opened onto the kitchen. There, in all his bald-headed, six foot something, 200 plus pounds glory, was a chef rapidly tossing the noodles before cooking them. I think that man may have personified the idea of “it’s even harder than it looks.”

Finally, we ended with manty. Manty are advertised in the restaurant window, and, therefore, I think a neighborhood selling point—for good reason. I’ve had very few dishes that are both so delicate and so hearty. Manty are meat dumplings. The outside of those dumplings, at least at Café Kashkar, are steamed and translucent, just barely revealing the rich mix of lamb inside. While the outside of the dumpling practically melts away, the lamb remains as substantial but as tender as it was throughout the meal, a perfect reminder of everything that was wonderful about dinner. Eating Uighur food in Brighton Beach did feel like our secret find, our foreign experience, but I think the perfection of each dish reminded me that these dishes are mainstays, not only within a culture but also for the people at the Café who make them so beautifully (those noodles!). I hope we find our way back again.

All in all, everyone should eat at Café Kashkar. And, let’s say, hypothetically, you don’t feel like eating (shame on you!), you should still watch the music videos they play. Uzbeki pop princesses, mark my words, are the next hot thing…


Reed Keefe is a thief of hearts.

Chinatown 2.0

Lately, I've been spending a lot of time in the Chinatowns of my fair city. Perhaps it's Jason's beautiful photographs, or perhaps it was that trip to Phily when I ate all those duck tongues with wine flavor.

Either way, I've been craving the textures and ingredients that I can only find in another 'hood.  Last night was the pinnacle of my several trips because I came with friends.  The beauty of having a group is trying so many different and awesome and (for us) unusual items all at once.  We had roasted pork with wontons and noodles, roast duck, snails with black bean sauce, and a "casserole" of baby shrimp, bean curd and X.O. sauce.

As I have so often lamented, my words will never equal the beauty or the ridiculousness of having around 100 snail shells piling up, nor, more importantly, around 100 snail "doors" scattered around the table, clothes, and other food.  Those inedible little buggers were an entirely new dining hurdle.

I love this food because it is so different from that I which I can or would make for myself.  I love that they brought us peanuts to eat with our second round of beers.  I love the orange slices after that. I love the price... I guess I just get off on trying and enjoying new, fabulous things.  Even more, however, I enjoy sharing it with my good friends, who also don't mind the occasional snail door on their sleeve.

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world

“By then I knew that everything good and bad left an emptiness when it stopped. But if it was bad, the emptiness filled up by itself. If it was good you could only fill it up by finding something better.” - Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

It was the worst place for a bar, and consequently also the best place for one. The old Red Derby was almost at the top of the hill that led to all the bars in Adams Morgan; hidden away atop an Ethiopian restaurant with nothing visible to the street but a picture of a red derby hat and a dusty, decrepit staircase. The inside was painted vermilion red, and there was a pool table as you walked in, along with mismatched couches strewn around the place. The bar was hidden in the corner furthest away from the stairwell, long and sleek and organised. The sexiest parts of the place often escaped notice – the two large skylights, and the bathrooms, impossibly tiny but decorated with an artist’s eye for collage.

I think most of all it was the people that made it a comfortable bar because they were all interested in each other and in their drinks. They were all good and real and wished nothing but the best on you. There was always somebody there to talk to and everyone had stories. Even if they were lying they always told the stories well, and it was much more enjoyable than listening to a true story. And people only lied when they got too drunk, as everyone does, and then who can really blame them?

At the centre of it all were Sasha and Dave, who welcomed everyone in with a disarming honesty that made you feel at home immediately. They treated everyone like long-lost friends, and there is nothing else really to do with long-lost friends but raise your glasses. They would always sit and chat if they were not busy and were the perfect hosts. Pat, the bartender, had kind of a manic energy but in a good way, and it was always a good time talking to him.

Matthew brought me to this place the day after it had opened; he and Katie had stumbled upon it only the night before. For the next few months it was all I ever went to. I remember walking up that street and looking out for the lights of the main drag of Adams Morgan, and stopping before even getting there. We walked in semi-darkness past the tennis courts on the right and we were never there early enough. It was one of those places where you ordered a shot of Jamie and a Schlitz or a PBR to start the night, and then maybe you could trade up to a mixed drink. Nobody would look at you funny if you had a mixed drink. But it was beer that we were most often there to drink, and they had all their beer in cans so it was easy to drink and to dispose of.

The Derby did not last long in Adams Morgan: the official story was that they had gotten into a dispute with the landlords and had to move out. I found this out the night before they were to close, and it distressed me to no end. The night itself I was there from open to close, right to the very end when Sasha played ‘New York, New York’ and we all sang along. When the song ended she pushed us out even as we drunkenly called out for an encore. She told us that she wanted to clean up and get out early but I could see from her eyes that she wanted to close the doors and grieve in private. As I walked back down 18th St I felt like someone had kicked me in the shin with a steel-toed boot. I did not cry, but there was a knot in my stomach and it felt like there was no other pain in the world.

Dave had promised that they would reopen in another location but spring came and went and the Derby was still no more. There are other great bars in DC and I was never short on entertainment but as the days went by I became surer and surer that this had been a one-time deal. It had come and gone and I was glad I had taken advantage of it as best I could, but it had been taken away and all the good times could barely make up for the heartbreak.

The Red Derby finally reopened up in Petworth, and I was fortunate enough to visit it several times before leaving DC. They kept the vermilion red walls, and Sasha and Dave and Pat were still their amazing selves. They still served beer only in cans but had expanded their selection and had started serving food as well. But somehow it felt different and also it was ages away, so sadly I did not go there as often as I would have liked.

What I liked about both versions of the Red Derby was how effortlessly it transcended the sum of its physical spaces. I never felt like I was in a room of any sort when I was there, never noticed whether the walls were grimy or if the paint was chipped. Anybody can take a space and serve liquor and beer in it but it takes something else to transform that space into a bar that people enjoy themselves in and can call their own.

Dave had told us once that the Red Derby was his trial run, and what he really wanted to do was open a bar called the Gin Rickey, named after the drink. I knew that no matter how long it took or wherever the place might be I should try my best to be a supporter and a good friend. He and Sasha had no shortage of good, good friends and supporters but I enlisted as another without hesitation. For I knew if they could create a place as good as the Red Derby that they could go on to create more, and make even more people happy through food and drink.

A good café on the corner

Dupont Market
1807 18th St NW
Washington DC 20009
202-797-0222

On Saturday mornings I would get up late and then work until I felt hungry, which normally did not take long. It was a choice between finishing up early on Fridays and working Saturday mornings, or the other way and I almost never went the other way. I liked my evening coffee on Fridays and then a nice cold beer to close the week and start the night. But this sometimes meant that I worked on Saturdays while people were enjoying the day.

One of my favourite places to go when I got hungry and it was nice out was Dupont Market – down the street from where I lived. It was the best place in the neighbourhood for sandwiches and to be sure I went there in the cold weather too; but when it was warm you could sit on the patio and read the paper or watch the people walk up and down 18th St. The owners set a dish of water outside for any dogs passing by, and there were always people walking in and out of the tiny shop. Across the street was a gas station and right beside the deli were two other eating places, so it was easy to miss except if you were looking out for it. But once you knew it was there it became hard not to stop by when walking past, and the sandwiches inspired deep loyalty in those who lived or worked nearby, including myself.

There was a narrow deli counter tucked into the back of the small shop space, next to the table with the coffee flasks, behind which three people could barely fit. They had a griddle and a bread toaster; and between those and a fully stocked deli they created wonders. There is something about watching your food being made for you that makes you hungrier. It makes the waiting even worse than it already is. But it turns the eventual eating into pure joy.

I liked the El Umberto sandwich very much – turkey, Swiss cheese, avocado and alfalfa sprouts on toasted ciabatta. If you didn’t ask them not to, they would drizzle the filling with olive oil and crack fresh black pepper onto it, which made me happy. I think the olive oil at the end really transformed the sandwich. Of course, I am also a fool for sprouts. E-- hated sprouts and thought eating them was like eating grass, and she used to tease me mercilessly for adding sprouts to everything.

She liked to have the chicken salad sandwich, which I was also a fan of because they used dark meat most of the time, and because it had grapes in it. It was creamy and peppery and tasted of borscht. They also sold the chicken salad by itself in little takeaway cases, hidden in the fridge along with a surprisingly fine cheese selection. Like everything else in the shop – it was a little overpriced.

But what we both loved there and got more often than anything else was the breakfast burrito – a filling of burger patty cubes, cheese, pickled jalapenos, tomatoes, eggs and avocado in a wheat tortilla wrap. You could not keep it for long after it was made because the moisture from the eggs would seep out and make the tortilla wrap soggy, so we often sat outside with our burritos and a coffee and ate them while deaf to the sounds each of us was making. I racked my brains to figure out why it tasted so much better than any other breakfast burrito I had ever eaten, but to this day I have no satisfactory explanation. I have seen them make it – so I know that there aren’t any secret ingredients, and the ones that they use did not look particularly extraordinary. Yet somehow when they were all put together, some kind of magic happened. Maybe it was the griddle that they cooked it on.

There are places you go to because they are destinations, and places that you go to simply because they are there. Dupont Market is a little bit of both. There were times when I thought to bring someone there or otherwise I craved a sandwich and made a special trip there; but other times I would walk by on the way back from tennis and duck in for an Orangina and a piece of bread. It seemed to be open all the time and I always felt at home there. Perhaps it was because I knew that after leaving the place it was simply a left, two blocks and a right to my house – not a far way to travel before laying my head to rest.

Home is where the stomach lies

Shin Yeh (欣葉)
177 River Valley Road
Liang Court Shopping Center, #02-19
Singapore 179030
Tel: +65 6338 7337

After so many years in the wilderness, as it were, I am slowly rediscovering an appreciation for how diverse Chinese cooking truly is. Not only did I revisit all the various regional cuisines from Mainland China, I was also recently reminded of Taiwanese cuisine and its dedication to rustic flavours and basic ingredients. My sister selected Shin Yeh as the location for the latest gathering amongst several old family friends – every one of them a foodie and a connoisseur – and it served as a timely reminder of the sheer injustice in simply using the term “Chinese cuisine” to refer to a collection of what could easily be considered cuisines in their own right.

Taiwanese cuisine is largely influenced by the cooking from the mid to southern provinces of China, and especially by Hakka and Hokkien cuisine. There is a healthy appreciation – that is in no way healthful – of the pig and various pork products. Other common ingredients include rice, soy, sesame and the cuisine is marked by a greater tendency to use fruits – especially in savoury dishes.

Shin Yeh is a chain of restaurants in Taiwan dedicated to putting “what mum used to cook” on the table. They are apparently hugely popular there and recently decided to open a branch in Singapore as a joint venture with the Tung Lok group. Shin Yeh Singapore is located in one of the more storied shopping malls in the country’s brief history – Liang Court.

Based on our trip there, Liang Court has transformed itself from a dusty and dimly-lit icon of River Valley Road to a bright and inviting modern shopping mall complementing the development of the surrounding Clarke Quay area. Unfortunately the parking complex is still dusty and dimly-lit; and the basic facilities of the building were in no shape to handle the increased traffic flow brought about by the facelift. An example: there are only three elevators servicing the entire building, all of which seemed to be full with people at every floor. We eventually gave up waiting and took the stairs instead.

Shin Yeh itself is a welcoming space, with an unconventional entrance marked by a water feature and affording an inviting glimpse of the interior to the passer-by. It is decorated in natural colours, and while not necessarily evoking the full feeling of the contemporary look it seems to desire, is a warm and homely enough place to enjoy a good meal. The captain who attended to us was cheery and very helpful – and a combination of our bungling and her obliging advice eventually resulted in our order. There was Chinese tea all round; and the food arrived quickly and did not stop until we begged for mercy.

One of the staples of Taiwanese cuisine is their sweet potato porridge: a basic, bare-bones starch with which to eat the bolder, more rustic flavours of other main dishes. I thought this could have been salted a little more, but as it was it had good texture and the sweet potatoes cooked well.

We ordered a helping of lor bak (卤肉) that I thought was absolutely outstanding. This is pork belly braised in sweet soy sauce and accompanied by bamboo shoots. It was wonderfully complex – the basic sweetness of the sauce complemented by the addition of star anise, nutmeg, galangal and other flavours I could not place. The meat was cooked to the point just before it would all fall apart, tender to the bite and soaking in both its own drippings as well as the braising liquid. But the best part was the sheer fattiness of the pork belly – a cardiologist’s nightmare – but oh so delicious.

Other good dishes were the “ah-ya” vegetables – green and leafy and cooked simply, the “hong zao” meat – deep fried slices of barbequed pork, and the pineapple shrimp. The steamed Soon Hock was flavoured well but had been either overcooked or sitting on the pass for too long. Less impressive were the tofu with preserved vegetables (a tad bland) and the “three-cup” chicken, which was cooked with a little too much basil and was mostly just spice.

The service at Shin Yeh, while well meaning and executed in good humour, fell far short of the standards expected of restaurant dining. For one, none of the servers assigned to our table had any idea how to serve wine. We had two bottles and each happened to be served by a different person. The first server at least knew to present the bottle for a tasting, but then proceeded to top off the glass of the taster and go around the table filling glasses regardless of gender. The second server did not even present the second bottle – a different wine – but instead started going around the table filling everyone’s glasses. But my main gripe was that once our main courses had all been served – and before we had ordered dessert – the servers had started clearing our plates (acceptable) and wiping the table down with a cloth rag (not acceptable). It was extremely off-putting and left me with no mood to eat dessert.

Shin Yeh’s signature dessert is a pastry with sweet and savoury fillings – the savoury a filling of shrimp and radish, while the sweet portion was of red bean paste. I thought the pastry was very well made, but the fillings were nothing to write home about. The kitchen also served up complimentary helpings of muar chee – cubes of glutinous rice paste steamed and covered in sugar as well as ground peanuts. This was decent but nowhere near sweet enough.

One of the paradoxes of trying to recreate “home-cooking” in a restaurant setting is that “home-cooking” means something different to every single individual. It is therefore perhaps impossible to satisfy everyone, and more likely than not a small minority will walk away disappointed and thinking, “That’s not how my mother made that dish.” Trying to create something that will live up to the public’s often romanticized ideals of “home-cooking” is a recipe for disappointment, and trying to create that on a scale with which to feed many mouths is a recipe for disaster. Another conundrum is that it is far harder to stand out, far more difficult to be innovative and distinctive in your cooking with home-cooked staples. To present something new, in the form of something familiar, is a terribly tricky business.

With that said, Shin Yeh is probably one of the more authentic representations of Taiwanese cuisine available to Singaporeans. An added advantage is that it is open late – until 2am – and so represents a great jumping off point for the many clubs and bars around the area. Yet as an addition to the Tung Lok stable of restaurants it is somewhat weak, and certainly not worth a special trip to.

A taste of Singapore, part 3

Good news from the home front! Turns out all that traveling and traversing the island was not necessary - one of the best versions of chye tow kuay was right in my backyard. The Telok Kurau / Still Road area is chock-full of delicious food, and upon the recommendations of many Singaporean food bloggers I decided to try Golden City Fried Carrot Cake in my continuing quest for the perfect chye tow kuay. I was not disappointed.

Chye tow kuay, or fried carrot cake, is Teochew in origin and a dish typically eaten for breakfast. Daikon or white radish is shredded and made into cakes together with rice flour. These cakes are first steamed, then cut into bite-sized chunks and stir-fried with garlic, spring onion, eggs and occasionally chye poh. The "white version" is served that way but the "black version" is further cooked with sweet soy sauce (thereby darkening it). It is commonly held that it is more difficult to do the "white" version well, and so that is the true test of the chye tow kuay cook's culinary genius.

Such is the power of the "Interweb" that one has access to real-time information on just about any subject under the sun. Directions, recipes, movie reviews and of course, food recommendations are now disseminated largely through electronic media rather than print or word of mouth. Of course, there is no guarantee of the validity or the datedness of the information contained on random webpages, but there was such a groundswell of good opinion on Golden City that I just had to try it. What could it hurt - given that the place is about 5 minutes away from where I live?

We arrived at 11 in the morning, timing our arrival to beat both the breakfast and the lunch crowds. Golden City is one of the smaller stalls located within a coffeeshop, at the corner of Telok Kurau Rd and Changi Rd. It marks the start of the foodie's delight - a stretch along Changi Rd that leads into Geylang and is peppered with all manner of hawkers and purveyors, each boasting some of Singapore's best food.

I don't know if I would go as far as to say that this is Singapore's best chye tow kuay, but even if it isn't, it definitely is a serious contender. The texture was sublime - slightly charred on the outside but airy, fluffy and mushy at the same time on the inside. There were prodigious amounts of egg and chye poh, but neither detracted from the fragrance of the carrot cake, itself tinged with the accent of Shaoxing rice wine, The dish came topped with homemade ikan bilis (deep-fried anchovies), which gave the carrot cake a good crunchy mouthfeel and an added salty dimension. My only complaint was the chili - which had a sour note that in any other context might have been interesting and a palate-opener, but in this case was somewhat ill-fitting. But then again, who eats carrot cake for the chili?



We ordered a sample of the "black" version as well, just to do our due diligence. Like the "white" version it was not greasy at all - which becomes more important in the "black" version. One of the things about eating (bad) chye tow kuay, and particularly so for the "black" version, is that it can leave what Singaporeans call a "jelat" feeling - that sickening feeling of overindulgence that manifests itself not only in the back of your mouth, but also in your tummy. This was never a worry with the Golden City version.


One of the best parts about Golden City is that it is right across the street from a stall selling hokkien mee that is cooked over a charcoal flame. I had also heard good things about this version and made sure to save room to try it. With a charcoal flame, a cook can heat all parts of the wok directly, giving him (or her) two distinct advantages over gas cooking. One, and perhaps most obvious, the heat is spread evenly across the wok's cooking surface, resulting in evenly cooked food. Secondly, and perhaps more crucially, because of this added direct cooking surface, the cook can bring his ingredients to doneness much quicker, losing less moisture. Of course, this requires quickness of thought and movement as well as supreme organisation (to have everything ready and in the right place when you need it). The version of hokkien mee at this place had very good flavour and was just wet enough - but the shrimp and the squid were a tad overcooked.


The charcoal-cooked hokkien mee only served to whet my appetite for the real deal, and I directed the party to Telok Kurau Lor J - across from the Eng Seng pepper crab place. There is a temporary structure housing several hawkers that have been relocated there while their stalls are being renovated - including a stall originally from East Coast Road, which was itself an offshoot of the original Geylang Lor 29 stall. This is to say that, in racing terms, this would be a hawker throughbred with pedigree up the wazoo. Like Singapore's other famous hawker lineages - Hock Lam Beef Kway Teow, Katong laksa, Beach Road hae mee and Rochor beancurd - the original Geylang Lor 29 dynasty has inspired multiple successors and copycats and is the stuff of legend. The original stall is apparently still operational and this version at Telok Kurau is a sister shop that I think is just as good if not better.

My mother, in her infinite wisdom, introduced me to this version and I believe that out of all the stellar hokkien mee in the East (and there are many) - this may be my favourite. There is Geylang, there is Bedok Interchange, there is Kim's at Eunos and there is Nam Sing at Old Airport Road. With all these wonderful versions, why would I leave the East? Of course, I recall the days of going to Newton before French classes at MOELC and slurping down the hokkien mee there - the temporary bliss while eating easily muting the sting of the exorbitant prices. I don't know if Newton is still any good, but it is still expensive and still far away, so this place is now my default.


Perhaps it was the fact that the auntie at the stall saw that I had my camera with me, and might have mistaken me for a journalist of some sort - but the shrimp and squid we got here seemed to be extra large. For me, this version checks all the boxes - perfect wetness, right balance of thick and thin egg noodles, depth of flavour, savoury chili accompaniment, and well-cooked ingredients. As an added bonus, there were pieces of zhu you zha (deep fried croutons of pork lard) hidden within the noodles - which Victor likened to finding specks of gold dust.

The thing about hokkien mee is that at its heart - it is a stir-fried dish. It therefore cannot be too wet, but needs to have just enough moisture for that gooey texture (and to facilitate slurping, obviously). The hokkien mee cook has to fry the (pre-boiled) noodles to cook them through and give them texture, then add the stock and sauce and cook that down. The noodles have to absorb the liquid to the point where they are saturated with all its flavour, and the remnants of that liquid should coat the noodles like gravy coats the back of a spoon - no more, no less. It takes a great deal of timing and an eagle eye or a sense of when the ingredients are ready. When done right, the resulting dish is pure magic.

All in all, it was a successful day (and productive too, for we managed to run several errands for Winnie), and we drove home satiated and satisfied. I felt like I had thoroughly earned my afternoon nap, which made the slumber that much sweeter.

Golden City Carrot Cake
1 Telok Kurau Road (at Changi Rd)
Open 7.30am - 2pm, closed Tuesdays

Charcoal Fried Hokkien Mee
324T Changi Rd
Open 11am - 10pm, closed Tuesdays

Geylang Lor 29 Hokkien Mee
1 Telok Kurau Lor J (at Still Rd)
Open 11.30am - 9.30pm, closed Mondays

Friends don't let friends listen to bad music

The new year is almost upon us, and everyone around me is making lists. Shopping lists, lists of resolutions for next year, best-of and worst-of lists from the year before – it goes on. I am not by nature a maker of lists, but just for the heck of it I made a short one – choosing five guilty pleasures from 2008. This was not a good year for music, I don’t think – not much came out that I really liked – but from among the drivel I picked out five of my favourite tracks, and thought of what I would like to eat and drink with them.

I’m Not Going to Teach Your Boyfriend (How To Dance With You) – Black Kids
I discovered the Black Kids relatively late, and I blame Jeff Schwartz entirely for neglecting to inform me of them when he himself came across them three months before I did. I then proceeded to listen to this track on repeat as well as talk the ears off anyone who would listen. A wailing frontman, dance-y pop with lots of synth, a melodic bassline and Go Team!-style group counting? I mean, what’s not to like?

Food pairing: Buo luo bao – “pineapple bun” in Chinese but it doesn’t actually contain any pineapple. It’s sort of like a Chinese muffin – the bottom is made of sweet bread dough; the top is made of sugar cookie dough, and is often crusted with sugar. There is usually custard inside the bun itself. An all around sweet treat.

Beverage pairing: Something saccharine-sweet yet deadly. I’m going to go with Firefly sweet-tea infused vodka, with three cubes of ice and a slice of lemon.

That’s Not My Name – The Ting Tings
Everyone around the world whose name has ever been forgotten, mispronounced or just plain disregarded – can relate to this song. It is also a great ditty to dance your cares away to and I associate this song with many fun nights at Liberation Dance Party – so, really, the choice of beverage pairing picked itself.

Food pairing: Something little-known and underappreciated, obviously, and also something that doesn’t give two hoots about what anyone else thinks in terms of style, presentation, healthiness - and is just generally bad-ass like that. I think I’d pick a chicken shawarma wrap with lots of onions, from one of those late night kebab stands.

Beverage pairing: I think you really need a drink that says, “it’s MY hot body, I do what I want”. It has to be deceptively simple and yet pack a punch, something that makes you sit up and take notice. And because this song reminds me so much of LDP, there is no other drink I’d rather have with it than a nice, chilled shot of Jaegermeister. It is the Devil’s brew itself in so many ways, but oh so delicious.

Lost Coastlines – Okkervil River
I was so mad that I couldn’t get to see this band at ACL when I went; I really liked their latest album and was looking forward to it. On the bright side, Jenna got to go in my stead, so that kind of counts as good enough. Almost.

Food pairing: What other food is better for introspection than a bar of Scharffen Berger 62% Cacao Mocha chocolate?

Beverage pairing: The melodic instrumentation and run-on lyrics scream a nice cold brew to me; not just any brew, but I'm thinking a solid, working class brew that has been appropriated by the painfully hipster among us. PBR would be too obvious a choice, so I’m going with a nice Shinerbock in a bottle – entirely fitting for this band from Texas.

Lights Out – Santogold
This is one of those songs that you’ll really like when you hear, but less than five minutes after it’s over you’ll completely forget how it went. Great song to put on the dinner party mix.

Food pairing: This song is pure penthouse cocktail hour on the Upper West Side, so definitely an hors d’oeuvre for this one. It might be blurring the line between food and beverage, but what about a nice watermelon gazpacho, served in a tall shot glass?

Beverage pairing: Something classy and classic, that’s both playful and lady-like at the same time. I’m going to have to plump for a gin gimlet here, but only if it’s made with Hendrick’s gin.

Blind – Hercules and Love Affair
Love it, love it, love it. Don't care if Nomi Ruiz is transgender, she has a hell of a body, and this is a hell of a song.

Food pairing: This makes me want to eat a salad of beets, frisee, mixed greens and pecans, topped with duck confit and drizzled with raspberry vinaigrette.

Beverage pairing: I think a nice classy red for this one, not too heavy or full-bodied. Perhaps the playfulness and the ephemerality of a Pinot Noir? I know just the Burgundy for this: the Musigni from Domaine Gros Frere et Soeur, Clos de Vougeot, 2003.

A taste of Singapore, part 2

A while ago I promised Shanaz to embark on an island-wide hunt for the best white chye tow kuay in Singapore. She had very specific criteria for what she wanted, and through my research and multiple conversations with taxi drivers I had identified three possible candidates. The other day Victor and I set out on our mission for the Holy Grail, but were thwarted at every step. The version at Bedok Interchange had a wonderful texture and lightness of flavour, and was - very importantly - not too greasy. Unfortunately it was hardly fragrant enough, and did not have enough chye poh. It was nevertheless pretty good, but the perfectionists in us would not allow us to settle. Sadly it wound up being the only version we would try that day, for we travelled to our second location at Blk 820 Tampines St 81 only to find that the stall in question had either closed or moved to an unknown location. A tremendous pity, for the person we spoke to while we were there started reminiscing and waxing lyrical about it, his eyes on the verge of misting over. Our third location - Blk 724 Ang Mo Kio Ave 6 - came up empty as well, as we found the stall shuttered and a sign indicating that the owners were out of town on vacation.

So we returned home defeated, but the day was not a complete waste. We got to try some of Singapore's best food and found out which ones of Singapore's many eating establishments had fallen from their lofty standards. (The hae mee and nasi lemak at Adam Road are both, sadly, pale shadows of their former selves.) It takes a unique blend of talent, discipline, sheer determination and a healthy dose of good fortune to get to the top and stay there - and the unforgiving nature of the Singaporean people's palates mean that you get found out as a pretender quickly enough.

One of my favourite breakfast foods is chwee kueh, a rice cake steamed in metal saucers and then topped with chye poh (pickled radish braised in soy sauce and garlic and finely diced). This dish is deceptively simple to make; the best versions have an airy texture, not overly starchy and can neither be properly chewed (in the correct sense of the word) nor swallowed whole. The result is a happy dilemma, and the saltiness of the chye poh and spice of any accompanying sweet chili are welcome complements.


Another of my favourites is a dish called yu pian mi fen - literally Vermicelli with Fish Slices. These are cooked and served in a thick milky broth made from fish stock and evaporated milk. Slices of Snakehead - a freshwater fish native to Asia and Africa - are either cooked in the broth or breaded, deep-fried and added to the final dish. Snakehead is such a popular food fish in this region because it has a neutral flavour and firm texture, and so is a very versatile medium for the Asian cook. In some versions of this dish, a tablespoon of cognac is added tableside right before serving, which masks any mustiness the fish broth might have and makes it sweeter still.


There is also mee pok - a dish of flat, yellow, egg noodles that has Teochew origins and comes either dry (mee pok tah) or in a broth (mee pok teng). These noodles are usually tossed in a sauce and served with fishballs and/or ground pork. Now, I use the term sauce liberally, for what happens is that chili, oil, vinegar and soy sauce are ladled into the bowl before the noodles are added and the mixture tossed. Any self-respecting classically-trained cook would whisk the liquid ingredients first to create an emulsion and what we can properly call a sauce, but that step is skipped in making mee pok. Because the oil is not emulsified, the noodles in the eventual dish are coated in a sheen of it, and you have to take care to wipe the grease from your lips after eating the dish. It is not the most glamourous of endeavours, but a wholly satisfying one nonetheless.


The secret to mee pok is entirely in the vinegar. The right amount can make or break the entire dish, as the vinegar adds a tang to the sweetness and saltiness of the other ingredients that rounds out the dish very nicely. More importantly, it breaks down the starch in the noodles, making the strands less sticky and their taste more palatable.

It occurs to me that I've written about a lot of noodle dishes. Like I said, they are quite possibly one of, if not my favourite starch. This is by no means wholly representative of Singaporean cuisine - there are lots of other non noodle-based dishes. But for the sake of thoroughness, allow me to go through all the important ones.

Beef kway teow is a dish that sparks a lot of debate. Whether to have it dry or in the broth (dry, of course), whether to add organ meats or just eat it with beef slices and beef balls (organ meats, obviously), and what kind of noodles should you use (I actually like the long and thin white rice noodles rather than kway teow, but on this point I am indifferent). My father used to bring us to the coffeeshop next to Rex Cinema on Mackenzie Road and regale us with tales of the heady 1960's and 70's in Singapore - when the country was celebrating its newfound independence and forging a post-colonial identity of its own. Rex Cinema was where all the cool kids hung out, and an integral part of my parents' courtship. The coffeeshop next door used to serve the best beef noodles I have ever eaten, and goreng pisang that was simply out of this world. Unfortunately it closed in the early 90s, and as far as I know did not reopen elsewhere.

After the closure of that coffeeshop (Rex Cinema itself is still standing and was briefly an ice-skating rink, now it is apparently a discotheque), I went to Hock Lam St for my beef kway teow. It was good, but not as good - and never excited in me the same kind of eager anticipation as the Rex version. We went to the Purvis St outlet for a taste and was sorely disappointed. They had run out of the white rice noodles so I had to make do with the yellow egg ones, and the prices were -in a word - exhorbitant. Granted, it is in a great location (Purvis St is home to such fine dining destinations as Garibaldi and Gunther's, as well as a whole host of other local eateries), but even that does not justify $7 for a small bowl of noodles and a few measly pieces of tripe.


There are also lots of great Malay noodle dishes, and possibly my favourite of them all is mee soto. Soto literally means soup in Malay, and is used in this instance as shortform for soto ayam - chicken soup. This soup is made from a base of chicken stock and what is known as a rempah - a paste of ground shallots, garlic, chilies and spices like coriander, fennel, cumin and the like. The resultant dish of noodles, chicken strips and soup is often topped with green chilies and fried onions for added spice and crunch.


The day was tinged with disappointment - Adam Road was an unexpected letdown, and the unbelievable bad luck not to even try two of our three shortlisted contenders for the perfect chye tow kuay was a bitter pill to swallow. We comforted ourselves with all the good dishes that we did get to eat, and by saying to ourselves that if it were easy, we wouldn't do it. Back to the drawing board, I suppose, and I look forward to the day that I can bring Shanaz some good news.