Thursday, February 04, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
On Home Cooking
It is one of the central paradoxes of my career thus far as a professional cook that I rarely find myself cooking what I want.
I cook what I am told to cook, hopefully exactly the way I was told to cook it. It doesn't matter if it's cuttlefish, scallops, sausage, carrots or eggs. First someone tells me what we're doing, then shows me how, and then I endeavor to recreate the same thing a hundred times. Generally speaking, suggestions and criticisms are allowed but rarely heeded. The point is to carry out someone else's culinary vision. It doesn't matter how I like to eat my potatoes, when at work, we're doing the way "El Jefe" told us to (hopefully). Even when I'm making family meal, I'm attempting to make something that the boss man will approve of. Naturally when I'm making something for the family I try to branch out, try to create something delicious and fresh within the severe limitations I'm confronting. Yet the many hurdles and the expectations of others abound.
Cooking at my home is one time when I can shake off the expectations and standards of others and just get down to eating something that gets me off. At home I can play around, try a few things, or almost nothing depending only on what I want to eat. If I want to have steamed carrots, that can happen... if I want Pot au Feu... if I want Cassoulet... Feijoada... Dobradinha... Bouillabaisse... If I just want roasted potatoes with mayo.... etc. I can make it happen. It's limited only by the amount of effort I'm prepared to put in. (Well, maybe I'm not sous-videing things around the house, but you can fake the funk with a gang of plastic wrap and some simmering water.) For a very pleasant Christmas eve dinner this year, I had the opportunity to cook for my family in my little apartment. It was a joy. A little pate, a little fish, a little shellfish, a roasted chicken, then blackberries and ice cream. At home, well prepared, well seasoned, simple food reigns supreme.
This particular evening I purchased a piece of pork loin for my dinner. I seared it and popped it in the oven to a nice medium. (This is actually the only obstacle to home cooking I've encountered: the smoke coming off searing meat.) I had also come across a celery root in my travels and I prepared this two ways, I cubed most of it and glazed it with a little honey and chicken stock that I had prepared last week. The scraps I julienned and mixed with a little green apple, parsley, lemon and olive oil for a quick 'slaw. While the pork rested I fried 1/2 an onion in a little of the pork drippings. The dish came together beautifully, roasted pork, onion, glazed celery root and a green apple slaw. It's a classic combination but classic for good reason. I enjoyed it with a bottle of inexpensive Languedoc red (Laurent Miquel Syrah Grenache 2007, $9) with some caramel chocolate and a fine cigar on the fire escape for dessert.
This was a great, simple meal: one that I ate the way I wanted, prepared the way I wanted and enjoyed just so.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
DO NOT PATRONISE
This is a diary of hate.
OK, maybe I exaggerate.
I admit that I am quite a fussy eater, and quick to judge whenever food, service – or the general quality of the restaurants I go to – is sub-par. If a place fails to impress, rarely do I give it a second chance. Of course, this isn’t a cast-iron rule. I was far from moved the first time I visited Westend Bistro in DC, but regrettably went back, seduced by the name of Eric Ripert in the window. The second trip confirmed just how poor it was.
But I struggle to think of another eating establishment that I have so thoroughly detested, and yet visited so often, than the in-house restaurant at the club I go to. Even the Ratty had its moments, but I dare say that I have never had an enjoyable meal at Manzhu Café at the Chinese Swimming Club. And yet I go back.
Let me explain. The Chinese Swimming Club is a club in Katong, where my parents used to take my siblings and me when we were kids. I learnt to swim there, and we spent many Sunday mornings horsing around in the pool. Afterwards we would go to the in-house café and I remember that the fried chicken wings were absolutely spectacular. Perhaps their quality has been garnished slightly by my hazy memory, but no matter, it is the sentiment that counts.
Today, I retain my membership at the Chinese Swimming Club, which has changed dramatically over the years – and occasionally visit the gym there whenever the guilt from pigging out hits me. The kicker is that there is a monthly food and beverage levy, or quota you have to use each month – which gets forfeited otherwise. Pretty standard practice. But the only place you can use this credit is at the Manzhu Café, quite possibly the poorest excuse for a restaurant I have ever been in.
The Manzhu Café actually has a lot it could work with. Soaring ceilings and tall sheathes of glass for walls; it looks out at the swimming pools and, further still, at the low-rise skyline of the Mountbatten area, which is tranquillity typified. It seats at its maximum about 100, or 120, but I have never seen it that packed, and at most I have only ever seen it half-full.
The food, I should say upfront, is very mediocre. What pisses me off is that I cannot even say it is downright bad. That would actually make me more satisfied, to condemn it thus. But the problem is that it is not terrible, but just middling in every way, as if it were concocted to satisfy the greatest number of people at the lowest common denominator – and as a result truly gratifies nobody.
But what irks me the most about the Manzhu Café is the horrendous quality of service. There isn’t a hostess, so you have to seat yourself once you make your way in. This is not actually a big deal (and is actually par for the course at many places), but it is what happens after that that is infuriating. You would think that a restaurant would train its staff to attend to people that walk in, if not immediately, then pretty soon after they do. But I once walked in, sat in my seat for ten minutes, got up to get myself a menu from the station, and sat undisturbed for a further ten minutes. The waitstaff at the Manzhu Café do know how to do their jobs. They can bus tables, they can serve food, they are reasonably efficient at taking orders. These things - they can do. But it doesn't occur to them to do it, so you have to ask them to do it, which sort of defeats the ideal of service. I think that nobody has ever really connected all the dots for them, and shown them the different steps, different things to be done once a customer steps in, once he is seated, once his food comes, and so forth. First, it doesn't occur to them that customers want water when they sit down. But then once they have asked for it, and received it, it doesn't occur to the waitstaff to check back after a certain time to refill the glass. I do not know if it is innate in the staff that they hire, or a consequence of the training they go through, but there seems to be a complete lack of proaction in all of them. I have seen a whole gaggle of waiters chatting at the station – with the manager, even – while waters go unfilled and empty plates go uncleared. Even if there was nothing to do (which, in a restaurant, is a rare occurrence), public skiving by waitstaff is absolutely unacceptable. The dining experience is a jigsaw, with many different parts, some of which are causal of others, some of which necessitate others. It is only the very best restaurants who succeed at piecing this jigsaw together perfectly for its customers, so that they do not have to themselves.
(There is one lady, an older Eurasian-looking lady, who is the sole exception to all I have described – the one ray of sunshine in the Manzhu Café. She always has a smile for everyone and is the most conscientious of the lot. I try to sit in her section when I can, but it is not always possible.)
The sad thing is that I am forced to go there, otherwise I forfeit a sum of money each month. It is not the amount, but the principle of the matter that counts. And what pisses me off even further is the knowledge that the Manzhu Café is effectively being subsidised – by the F&B levies from all the members of Chinese Swimming Club. If this place were running on its own merit, without customers who were obliged to patronise it each month – it would close down in a heartbeat. I have no doubt of that.
So I continue to visit the Manzhu Café. The first few times going back I still held out hope that things would change, that the previous times were aberrations. Each time I was disappointed, or driven mad by something. And nothing tastes good when you are angry. At this point I do not know what I would do if the service suddenly improved. Now, each time I go back, I almost physically manhandle the first person I see upon walking in – and state in no unclear terms that I would like a menu and a glass of water, please. You have to. Otherwise you could be there for a while.
For some reason I thought that writing all this down would lessen my hate of the Manzhu Café.
I was wrong.
OK, maybe I exaggerate.
I admit that I am quite a fussy eater, and quick to judge whenever food, service – or the general quality of the restaurants I go to – is sub-par. If a place fails to impress, rarely do I give it a second chance. Of course, this isn’t a cast-iron rule. I was far from moved the first time I visited Westend Bistro in DC, but regrettably went back, seduced by the name of Eric Ripert in the window. The second trip confirmed just how poor it was.
But I struggle to think of another eating establishment that I have so thoroughly detested, and yet visited so often, than the in-house restaurant at the club I go to. Even the Ratty had its moments, but I dare say that I have never had an enjoyable meal at Manzhu Café at the Chinese Swimming Club. And yet I go back.
Let me explain. The Chinese Swimming Club is a club in Katong, where my parents used to take my siblings and me when we were kids. I learnt to swim there, and we spent many Sunday mornings horsing around in the pool. Afterwards we would go to the in-house café and I remember that the fried chicken wings were absolutely spectacular. Perhaps their quality has been garnished slightly by my hazy memory, but no matter, it is the sentiment that counts.
Today, I retain my membership at the Chinese Swimming Club, which has changed dramatically over the years – and occasionally visit the gym there whenever the guilt from pigging out hits me. The kicker is that there is a monthly food and beverage levy, or quota you have to use each month – which gets forfeited otherwise. Pretty standard practice. But the only place you can use this credit is at the Manzhu Café, quite possibly the poorest excuse for a restaurant I have ever been in.
The Manzhu Café actually has a lot it could work with. Soaring ceilings and tall sheathes of glass for walls; it looks out at the swimming pools and, further still, at the low-rise skyline of the Mountbatten area, which is tranquillity typified. It seats at its maximum about 100, or 120, but I have never seen it that packed, and at most I have only ever seen it half-full.
The food, I should say upfront, is very mediocre. What pisses me off is that I cannot even say it is downright bad. That would actually make me more satisfied, to condemn it thus. But the problem is that it is not terrible, but just middling in every way, as if it were concocted to satisfy the greatest number of people at the lowest common denominator – and as a result truly gratifies nobody.
But what irks me the most about the Manzhu Café is the horrendous quality of service. There isn’t a hostess, so you have to seat yourself once you make your way in. This is not actually a big deal (and is actually par for the course at many places), but it is what happens after that that is infuriating. You would think that a restaurant would train its staff to attend to people that walk in, if not immediately, then pretty soon after they do. But I once walked in, sat in my seat for ten minutes, got up to get myself a menu from the station, and sat undisturbed for a further ten minutes. The waitstaff at the Manzhu Café do know how to do their jobs. They can bus tables, they can serve food, they are reasonably efficient at taking orders. These things - they can do. But it doesn't occur to them to do it, so you have to ask them to do it, which sort of defeats the ideal of service. I think that nobody has ever really connected all the dots for them, and shown them the different steps, different things to be done once a customer steps in, once he is seated, once his food comes, and so forth. First, it doesn't occur to them that customers want water when they sit down. But then once they have asked for it, and received it, it doesn't occur to the waitstaff to check back after a certain time to refill the glass. I do not know if it is innate in the staff that they hire, or a consequence of the training they go through, but there seems to be a complete lack of proaction in all of them. I have seen a whole gaggle of waiters chatting at the station – with the manager, even – while waters go unfilled and empty plates go uncleared. Even if there was nothing to do (which, in a restaurant, is a rare occurrence), public skiving by waitstaff is absolutely unacceptable. The dining experience is a jigsaw, with many different parts, some of which are causal of others, some of which necessitate others. It is only the very best restaurants who succeed at piecing this jigsaw together perfectly for its customers, so that they do not have to themselves.
(There is one lady, an older Eurasian-looking lady, who is the sole exception to all I have described – the one ray of sunshine in the Manzhu Café. She always has a smile for everyone and is the most conscientious of the lot. I try to sit in her section when I can, but it is not always possible.)
The sad thing is that I am forced to go there, otherwise I forfeit a sum of money each month. It is not the amount, but the principle of the matter that counts. And what pisses me off even further is the knowledge that the Manzhu Café is effectively being subsidised – by the F&B levies from all the members of Chinese Swimming Club. If this place were running on its own merit, without customers who were obliged to patronise it each month – it would close down in a heartbeat. I have no doubt of that.
So I continue to visit the Manzhu Café. The first few times going back I still held out hope that things would change, that the previous times were aberrations. Each time I was disappointed, or driven mad by something. And nothing tastes good when you are angry. At this point I do not know what I would do if the service suddenly improved. Now, each time I go back, I almost physically manhandle the first person I see upon walking in – and state in no unclear terms that I would like a menu and a glass of water, please. You have to. Otherwise you could be there for a while.
For some reason I thought that writing all this down would lessen my hate of the Manzhu Café.
I was wrong.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Gobble gobble
We don't celebrate Thanksgiving here in Singapore so I had to wait till the Christmas period before making a turkey. Here it is right out of the oven.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Photos from Golden Peony
I had brought my camera to Golden Peony the last time but realised - just as I pulled it out of its bag - that I had forgotten to charge the battery. The only way to remedy that? Go back.
The amuse-bouche. Wonderful colour, and a perfect way to start the meal.
These were absolutely excellent - deep fried spring rolls with a wild mushroom and winter vegetable filling. The skin for the spring rolls was thicker than you normally get them, and was fried to perfection - in that the exterior was crisped while the interior retained wonderful texture.
Wontons with a ginger puree topping.
The roasted meats platter - comprising siu yoke, char siew, soy sauce chicken and smoked duck with mango.
House-made noodles in superior stock, with conpoy and sea perch.
Stir-fried noodles in sort of a black bean sauce, if I remember correctly, with tiger prawn.
For some reason this trip back did not hit the heights of my previous visit, but everything was still very, very good. We splurged on tea as well, and got a very fragrant 黄金桂花茶. Good tea is very important in Chinese fine dining, I feel.
The amuse-bouche. Wonderful colour, and a perfect way to start the meal.
These were absolutely excellent - deep fried spring rolls with a wild mushroom and winter vegetable filling. The skin for the spring rolls was thicker than you normally get them, and was fried to perfection - in that the exterior was crisped while the interior retained wonderful texture.
Wontons with a ginger puree topping.
The roasted meats platter - comprising siu yoke, char siew, soy sauce chicken and smoked duck with mango.
House-made noodles in superior stock, with conpoy and sea perch.
Stir-fried noodles in sort of a black bean sauce, if I remember correctly, with tiger prawn.
For some reason this trip back did not hit the heights of my previous visit, but everything was still very, very good. We splurged on tea as well, and got a very fragrant 黄金桂花茶. Good tea is very important in Chinese fine dining, I feel.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Top Secret
Joo Heng Restaurant
360 Joo Chiat Road
Tel: +65 6345 1503
It is hard for me to explain, to anyone who has not lived in Asia, what tze char is. It is not a cuisine, nor is it a technique. There are no rules, recipes, or common ingredients (well, if you don’t count oyster sauce). It can be Cantonese, Hakka, Teochew in origin, or can draw upon a host of other influences. Upon reflection it is even more difficult for me to pinpoint what makes good tze char. Is it the unmistakable char and texture of food that is cooked at impossibly high heat? Is it the liberal use of soy and oyster sauce, in dishes that are both sweet and salty at the same time? No one really knows. But most people in Singapore know good tze char when they eat it, and I am no exception.
First, a primer. Tze Char (煮炒) is loosely translated as “stir-fry”, and to me refers to wok-cooked food that can be found in any manner of establishment in Singapore: from the lowly hawker stall to the larger places that almost approximate restaurants. These mid to larger places typically serve a variety of dishes, sometimes including big-ticket seafood items like crab and lobster. Someone once remarked to me that the true test of a tze char place is its fried rice, which is true to a certain extent. I have found the quality of the fried rice to be a consistent barometer of the quality of the food at any given tze char establishment, and since almost every tze char place serves fried rice in some form it is a easy comparison.
On my return from the States I set about trying to rediscover all the good tze char places in Singapore. Sin Hoi San, a perennial favourite, was still decent to good (and still expensive). My dad used to take us to this one stall, Keng Kee, in the Amoy St hawker centre that was his favourite, but their star has long since dimmed. There were many options, but no true contenders. I despaired, for every Singaporean needs a go-to place for comfort food. And then, I found mine.
My mother recommended Joo Heng to me warily, as if once hooked on it I would forsake her own home-cooked food. She herself had been to dinner there with her colleagues, and had come back with only good things to say. Given that the restaurant has been around for a long while, I wondered aloud why I had never heard of it, and expressed my many doubts in no uncertain terms. I must say that I no longer have any.
The excellence of Joo Heng makes me mad that I had not experienced it while growing up, and cannot therefore “lay claim” to the place. For it is one of those places that families go to with unwavering dedication and in ritualistic fashion, and generations have been weaned on their food. Yet I was doomed to be a late convert, to have my eyes opened only in adulthood.
Joo Heng is located along Joo Chiat Road, a stretch littered with KTV pubs and other less-than-savoury establishments. It is obvious that the place has expanded from its original size, for it is made up of two storefronts – one of which looks much newer than the other. I have tried eating on both sides, and I must say that eating on the older side somehow makes the food taste better.
I hesitate to recommend any dishes at Joo Heng, for while they are not all stellar there are too many of the the good ones to list. The must tries include the claypot tofu, the sesame oil chicken, and the fish-head steamboat. I think its real strength lies in the wok hei of the food. Just from the aroma alone you can tell that it has been cooked at high heat, and the efficacy of the restaurant’s runners means that the food always reaches your table piping hot. A warning: do let your food rest a little before attacking it. The taste is unmistakable – flavours are melded together like they only can at high heat; ingredients are flash-fried for a crispy exterior and succulent, tender interiors. A great example would be their omelette dishes – where they fry up eggs with savoury ingredients of your choosing: crabmeat, prawns, etc. My personal favourite is the omelette with whitebait. Because it is cooked at high heat, the edges of the omelette are crisped perfectly, and the inside is just the right side of runny. The saltiness of whitebait is a perfect complement to the egg. I order this as an appetiser every time.
So now, I am hooked. After I discovered the place I went around asking my foodie friends if they had heard of it, and invariably they all did. Those bastards just conveniently forgot to tell me about it. Apparently this is one of those places that everyone makes an effort to keep on the down-low, the secret neighbourhood favourite that everyone is possessive of. Writing this blog entry may defeat that aim (although I doubt it, given the minimal readership of this blog), but I felt I had to share.
360 Joo Chiat Road
Tel: +65 6345 1503
It is hard for me to explain, to anyone who has not lived in Asia, what tze char is. It is not a cuisine, nor is it a technique. There are no rules, recipes, or common ingredients (well, if you don’t count oyster sauce). It can be Cantonese, Hakka, Teochew in origin, or can draw upon a host of other influences. Upon reflection it is even more difficult for me to pinpoint what makes good tze char. Is it the unmistakable char and texture of food that is cooked at impossibly high heat? Is it the liberal use of soy and oyster sauce, in dishes that are both sweet and salty at the same time? No one really knows. But most people in Singapore know good tze char when they eat it, and I am no exception.
First, a primer. Tze Char (煮炒) is loosely translated as “stir-fry”, and to me refers to wok-cooked food that can be found in any manner of establishment in Singapore: from the lowly hawker stall to the larger places that almost approximate restaurants. These mid to larger places typically serve a variety of dishes, sometimes including big-ticket seafood items like crab and lobster. Someone once remarked to me that the true test of a tze char place is its fried rice, which is true to a certain extent. I have found the quality of the fried rice to be a consistent barometer of the quality of the food at any given tze char establishment, and since almost every tze char place serves fried rice in some form it is a easy comparison.
On my return from the States I set about trying to rediscover all the good tze char places in Singapore. Sin Hoi San, a perennial favourite, was still decent to good (and still expensive). My dad used to take us to this one stall, Keng Kee, in the Amoy St hawker centre that was his favourite, but their star has long since dimmed. There were many options, but no true contenders. I despaired, for every Singaporean needs a go-to place for comfort food. And then, I found mine.
My mother recommended Joo Heng to me warily, as if once hooked on it I would forsake her own home-cooked food. She herself had been to dinner there with her colleagues, and had come back with only good things to say. Given that the restaurant has been around for a long while, I wondered aloud why I had never heard of it, and expressed my many doubts in no uncertain terms. I must say that I no longer have any.
The excellence of Joo Heng makes me mad that I had not experienced it while growing up, and cannot therefore “lay claim” to the place. For it is one of those places that families go to with unwavering dedication and in ritualistic fashion, and generations have been weaned on their food. Yet I was doomed to be a late convert, to have my eyes opened only in adulthood.
Joo Heng is located along Joo Chiat Road, a stretch littered with KTV pubs and other less-than-savoury establishments. It is obvious that the place has expanded from its original size, for it is made up of two storefronts – one of which looks much newer than the other. I have tried eating on both sides, and I must say that eating on the older side somehow makes the food taste better.
I hesitate to recommend any dishes at Joo Heng, for while they are not all stellar there are too many of the the good ones to list. The must tries include the claypot tofu, the sesame oil chicken, and the fish-head steamboat. I think its real strength lies in the wok hei of the food. Just from the aroma alone you can tell that it has been cooked at high heat, and the efficacy of the restaurant’s runners means that the food always reaches your table piping hot. A warning: do let your food rest a little before attacking it. The taste is unmistakable – flavours are melded together like they only can at high heat; ingredients are flash-fried for a crispy exterior and succulent, tender interiors. A great example would be their omelette dishes – where they fry up eggs with savoury ingredients of your choosing: crabmeat, prawns, etc. My personal favourite is the omelette with whitebait. Because it is cooked at high heat, the edges of the omelette are crisped perfectly, and the inside is just the right side of runny. The saltiness of whitebait is a perfect complement to the egg. I order this as an appetiser every time.
So now, I am hooked. After I discovered the place I went around asking my foodie friends if they had heard of it, and invariably they all did. Those bastards just conveniently forgot to tell me about it. Apparently this is one of those places that everyone makes an effort to keep on the down-low, the secret neighbourhood favourite that everyone is possessive of. Writing this blog entry may defeat that aim (although I doubt it, given the minimal readership of this blog), but I felt I had to share.
Turning Japanese
Kazu Sumi-yaki
5 Koek Road
#04-05 Cuppage Plaza
Tel: +65 6734 2492
I will be the first to admit that I have a weak knowledge of Japanese cuisine, which is perhaps a gap in my culinary and gastronomic understanding. One always reads about top chefs going ga-ga over Japanese food and I have never fully comprehended why. I suppose Japanese cuisine must be taken in context – that is, you have to eat it in the right surroundings and go through all the right rituals (preferably in the company of a beautiful Japanese woman, of course). It doesn’t help that I have never had a transcendental Japanese culinary experience, or that even though I feel full at the time of eating it, I am invariably hungry again after two hours.
I met Winnie for dinner the other night and we (or rather I) decided to try out Kazu in Cuppage Plaza. One of the benefits of being such a snobby pain-in-the-ass about food is that people – at least the ones who love me – always let me choose the restaurant. However, it must be said that the weight of expectation can also be a curse sometimes. In any case, Winnie had also heard good things about this establishment, and she was quick to agree to the choice.
Cuppage Plaza is a rarity along Orchard Road: it is a relatively old shopping mall that is a far cry from the brisk, crowded havens of mass consumption that flank it. The upper floors are dominated by Japanese karaoke pubs, massage parlours, dance studios and Japanese restaurants – things you don’t often see in the cut-throat world of retail that is Singapore’s premier shopping district. For some reason the Japanese expatriate community has made Cuppage Plaza its own, and there are many businesses catered to the Japanese population in Singapore. It is never crowded, and walking from the always bustling Centrepoint into Cuppage Plaza always feels sort of like stepping into an oasis of calm. There are no words to describe why this is the case.
Kazu Sumiyaki, then, is a tiny restaurant on the fourth floor of Cuppage Plaza that serves sumiyaki – Japanese barbeque – basically skewers of meat and offal grilled over an intense charcoal flame. Despite its popularity among both Japanese expatriates and Singaporean locals it has never expanded, and so reservations on a weekend are a necessity. The place itself is small, and seems to have been built for the Japanese. By that I mean to say that the chairs and tables are not only small but also arranged in very close proximity to one another. For people like me who like to shift 45 degrees in my chair and sprawl out at the end of the meal, it is an absolute nightmare.
Compared with the American way of eating, which emphasises the protein in a single large portion, Japanese dining is markedly different. Starch is the staple – be it rice or noodles or something or other – and it is then supplemented by small portions of many different foods from all food groups. I read a study once saying that the Japanese consume 30 different foods on average in a single day. This, then, might be one of the keys to what is possibly the healthiest cuisine on earth – variety in minimalist portions. (That, and the low fat, high salt content and predominance of seafood.)
Winnie and I ordered some rice, and then set about picking as many different skewers of unidentified things as possible. The menu is very extensive at Kazu, and is dominated by meats – chicken, beef, pork. I had been exhorted to try the Kurobuta pork belly, and that was the first thing I asked for. Unfortunately Winnie is allergic to shellfish, and doesn’t eat liver, gizzards or hearts, so those were off the table (pardon the pun), out of respect to her. She did, however, make an exception and agreed to try the foie gras.
As the skewers started arriving fast and furious, it became a near impossibility to try and remember which was which, and we concentrated on getting as much into our mouths as quickly as possible. The foie gras was a major disappointment, nowhere as fatty as French foie, and only a fraction of its deliciousness. The Kurobuta pork belly on the other hand was nice and fatty, but needed a little more salt. Enoki mushrooms wrapped in beef were delicious, as was crispy chicken skin. The quails’ eggs were also done wonderfully, as was a dish of halved eggplant roasted, topped with ground pork and drizzled with a black bean tare sauce. Oysters wrapped in bacon were sheer decadence, and the beef tongue that I had all to myself was stellar as well. One of the surprises of the night was a recommendation by our waitress – mochi wrapped in bacon. Mochi is a Japanese glutinous rice cake typically eaten for dessert, but here it was light and impossibly fluffy, its sweetness underlined by the saltiness of the bacon. It only served to prove what I had known all along – that you can add bacon to anything and have it be delicious.
Kazu made me think about why I don’t eat Japanese food that often (although I remembered why when the bill came). But all glibness aside, the sheer variety of the foods we sampled was a delight in and of itself. It was like appetiser heaven. The waitstaff were friendly and the food came quickly and it did not stop. I could have sat there all night but it soon came time to go and I sighed as I dragged myself up off the chair. That, I suppose, is vindication enough of a good restaurant.
5 Koek Road
#04-05 Cuppage Plaza
Tel: +65 6734 2492
I will be the first to admit that I have a weak knowledge of Japanese cuisine, which is perhaps a gap in my culinary and gastronomic understanding. One always reads about top chefs going ga-ga over Japanese food and I have never fully comprehended why. I suppose Japanese cuisine must be taken in context – that is, you have to eat it in the right surroundings and go through all the right rituals (preferably in the company of a beautiful Japanese woman, of course). It doesn’t help that I have never had a transcendental Japanese culinary experience, or that even though I feel full at the time of eating it, I am invariably hungry again after two hours.
I met Winnie for dinner the other night and we (or rather I) decided to try out Kazu in Cuppage Plaza. One of the benefits of being such a snobby pain-in-the-ass about food is that people – at least the ones who love me – always let me choose the restaurant. However, it must be said that the weight of expectation can also be a curse sometimes. In any case, Winnie had also heard good things about this establishment, and she was quick to agree to the choice.
Cuppage Plaza is a rarity along Orchard Road: it is a relatively old shopping mall that is a far cry from the brisk, crowded havens of mass consumption that flank it. The upper floors are dominated by Japanese karaoke pubs, massage parlours, dance studios and Japanese restaurants – things you don’t often see in the cut-throat world of retail that is Singapore’s premier shopping district. For some reason the Japanese expatriate community has made Cuppage Plaza its own, and there are many businesses catered to the Japanese population in Singapore. It is never crowded, and walking from the always bustling Centrepoint into Cuppage Plaza always feels sort of like stepping into an oasis of calm. There are no words to describe why this is the case.
Kazu Sumiyaki, then, is a tiny restaurant on the fourth floor of Cuppage Plaza that serves sumiyaki – Japanese barbeque – basically skewers of meat and offal grilled over an intense charcoal flame. Despite its popularity among both Japanese expatriates and Singaporean locals it has never expanded, and so reservations on a weekend are a necessity. The place itself is small, and seems to have been built for the Japanese. By that I mean to say that the chairs and tables are not only small but also arranged in very close proximity to one another. For people like me who like to shift 45 degrees in my chair and sprawl out at the end of the meal, it is an absolute nightmare.
Compared with the American way of eating, which emphasises the protein in a single large portion, Japanese dining is markedly different. Starch is the staple – be it rice or noodles or something or other – and it is then supplemented by small portions of many different foods from all food groups. I read a study once saying that the Japanese consume 30 different foods on average in a single day. This, then, might be one of the keys to what is possibly the healthiest cuisine on earth – variety in minimalist portions. (That, and the low fat, high salt content and predominance of seafood.)
Winnie and I ordered some rice, and then set about picking as many different skewers of unidentified things as possible. The menu is very extensive at Kazu, and is dominated by meats – chicken, beef, pork. I had been exhorted to try the Kurobuta pork belly, and that was the first thing I asked for. Unfortunately Winnie is allergic to shellfish, and doesn’t eat liver, gizzards or hearts, so those were off the table (pardon the pun), out of respect to her. She did, however, make an exception and agreed to try the foie gras.
As the skewers started arriving fast and furious, it became a near impossibility to try and remember which was which, and we concentrated on getting as much into our mouths as quickly as possible. The foie gras was a major disappointment, nowhere as fatty as French foie, and only a fraction of its deliciousness. The Kurobuta pork belly on the other hand was nice and fatty, but needed a little more salt. Enoki mushrooms wrapped in beef were delicious, as was crispy chicken skin. The quails’ eggs were also done wonderfully, as was a dish of halved eggplant roasted, topped with ground pork and drizzled with a black bean tare sauce. Oysters wrapped in bacon were sheer decadence, and the beef tongue that I had all to myself was stellar as well. One of the surprises of the night was a recommendation by our waitress – mochi wrapped in bacon. Mochi is a Japanese glutinous rice cake typically eaten for dessert, but here it was light and impossibly fluffy, its sweetness underlined by the saltiness of the bacon. It only served to prove what I had known all along – that you can add bacon to anything and have it be delicious.
Kazu made me think about why I don’t eat Japanese food that often (although I remembered why when the bill came). But all glibness aside, the sheer variety of the foods we sampled was a delight in and of itself. It was like appetiser heaven. The waitstaff were friendly and the food came quickly and it did not stop. I could have sat there all night but it soon came time to go and I sighed as I dragged myself up off the chair. That, I suppose, is vindication enough of a good restaurant.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Oldie but goodie
I have written about it before so I will spare everyone the gory details, but I revisited the Blue Duck Tavern on my recent trip back to DC, and once again had a delightful experience there. The only exception was the terrible wines that we had to drink, but that might have been more a consequence of a limited budget. The first one we ordered, a 2007 Morgone from Marcel Lapierre, was absolutely undrinkable. We had to send it back, which Ty did with a wonderful touch of class. We left it to the waiter to pick a replacement for us, which was only marginally better.
You could argue that it is the sommelier's responsibility to make sure all the wines on the list are enjoyable - even the cheap ones - but hey, you can't please everyone.
This was a special for the day - advertised as a New Orleans gumbo with duck breast. Not much of a gumbo, and not enough spice, but still very delicious. The best part about the Blue Duck Tavern is that everything is brought to the table in these serving dishes, so it is very easy to share (and steal) food.
I regretted that my simple iPhone camera could not capture the true magnificence of the beef short ribs.
When in Rome, right? I was only in that part of town for so long, and I had to eat crabcakes. These were served on a bed of fennel, which could have been cooked a little longer but was quite tasty nonetheless.
Everything here is simple and heartwarmingly good. No fuss, no muss, no complications and/or avant-gardism. Just food done tavern style, done well and presented with pride. It is one of my favourite places in DC for lunch, not least of all because of the beautiful light it gets and the stunning open kitchen.
You could argue that it is the sommelier's responsibility to make sure all the wines on the list are enjoyable - even the cheap ones - but hey, you can't please everyone.
This was a special for the day - advertised as a New Orleans gumbo with duck breast. Not much of a gumbo, and not enough spice, but still very delicious. The best part about the Blue Duck Tavern is that everything is brought to the table in these serving dishes, so it is very easy to share (and steal) food.
I regretted that my simple iPhone camera could not capture the true magnificence of the beef short ribs.
When in Rome, right? I was only in that part of town for so long, and I had to eat crabcakes. These were served on a bed of fennel, which could have been cooked a little longer but was quite tasty nonetheless.
Everything here is simple and heartwarmingly good. No fuss, no muss, no complications and/or avant-gardism. Just food done tavern style, done well and presented with pride. It is one of my favourite places in DC for lunch, not least of all because of the beautiful light it gets and the stunning open kitchen.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Surprise, surprise
Café Strindberg
Pohjoisesplanadi 33,
Helsinki 00100, Finland
Tel: +358 9681 2030
I must admit that it has been a long while since I have been surprised by a restaurant. These days, I rarely go out to eat without a thorough consideration of the options available to me, accompanied by extensive consultations and online research on the worthy candidates. I can’t remember the last time I just popped into a restaurant, in the hopes that it would be good. On the one hand, life is too short for mediocre meals, so any advance preparation and an element of discrimination must be worth it – right? On the other, this also means that by the time I actually set foot in a restaurant, I would have at least some inkling of what the restaurant was all about – who the chef was, what kind of food it served, what it was known for. For better or for worse, this takes the magic of unexpected surprises out of the dining experience.
I was in Finland recently for work, and our meeting counterparts had suggested a place close by their offices for a working lunch. In my mind I had written this meal off – expecting a simple sandwich place and a quick, hurried meal interrupted by the taking of notes and the back-and-forth of negotiations and explanations. As such, I didn’t bother researching the restaurant, and when I got there I had close to zero expectations of the place. It turns out that I had severely underestimated the Finnish.
Café Strindberg is part of the Kamp Galleria, an upscale shopping complex in the heart of Helsinki. It is on a corner right off the Esplanad – one of Helsinki’s major pedestrian and traffic thoroughfares – and at first sight looked extremely promising. The ground floor is a café in the truest sense – with a deli and pastry counter, tables and chairs scattered in a cosy manner, and Finnish rugs adorning the walls providing the kind of atmosphere that is perfect for sipping hot chocolate. The second floor consists of a bar area, with both hightop counter tables and laid-back couches; and the restaurant, an elegantly designed eating area overlooking the Esplanad. The windows are huge and spotless – this is a trend very prevalent to the buildings in Helsinki; I found out later that because daylight hours are so short in the winter and the fall, the Finns like to make the most of natural daylight when they can. For lunch, this makes for very pleasant dining – for some reason sunlight and white tablecloths relax me in a way that few other combinations can.
The place is clearly a tourist attraction – we heard a smattering of foreign languages at the tables around us, and the dead giveaway was that they had the menu in English in addition to the Finnish. Yet for a tourist attraction it seems to strike an easy balance between the cosmopolitan (it would not feel out of place on the Upper East Side) and the local (Finnish delicacies like herring and salmon soup are just some of the specialties here). Our waitress spoke in fluent and distinctly American accented English, and did her level best to make us feel at ease in a foreign land.
The bread is one of the main draws here – for in addition to being well-baked it comes with a stellar spread of hummus, something completely unexpected. Who knew that you could find good hummus in Helsinki? I threw decorum to the wind and focused on demolishing the contents of the bread basket; I was probably never going to see these people again and so gave myself license to pig out.
I had a Caesar salad to start – admittedly a boring choice, but for all its good food it is terribly difficult to find decent treatments of vegetables in Helsinki, and I was in need of some. I asked for a topping of crayfish, which was surprisingly fresh. Some of my colleagues took the more adventurous routes of liver in lingonberry sauce, and escargot – both of which received a thumbs-up, but which I did not get to try.
Our hosts proclaimed Helsinki as being renowned for fresh seafood, and I went with the Artic char on a bed of lentils. I particularly liked the lentils, simply done and to the right consistency, and something I had not eaten in a long while; but the fish itself was a minor disappointment. It was cooked well, but the skin still bore heavy traces of the salt that had been used to dry it out, which made eating it almost impossible. The king prawn risotto that one of my colleagues ordered looked promising, but I saw her reach for the salt and pepper not once, not twice but three times. There is no worse crime, I think, than under-seasoning food. But in sum the reports from around the table were generally positive, with the whitefish being a standout dish.
I don’t think I would have enjoyed myself as thoroughly as I did if I had gone to Café Strindberg with any advance knowledge of it. It may not have been a standout restaurant, but the quality was enough to surprise me, and the atmosphere was top notch. It felt like a great place for a leisurely lunch, and the people-watching both in the restaurant as well as on the esplanade outdoors was first-rate. The restaurant was a tad expensive, but perhaps the downstairs café would have been easier on the wallet and a better alternative for frequent repeat visits.
On the plane leaving Finland (for London, DC and New York – where I will continue to eat my way through old favourites and restaurants that I know so much about), I couldn’t help but rethink my approach to eating out. Perhaps once in a while it may be a good idea to just throw caution to the wind and gamble on the restaurant in the corner that looks inviting despite the limited human traffic and lack of word-of-mouth publicity. I may rethink that strategy the next time I just jump into a place and have a terrible meal, but the potential for romance, I think, is just too enticing.
Pohjoisesplanadi 33,
Helsinki 00100, Finland
Tel: +358 9681 2030
I must admit that it has been a long while since I have been surprised by a restaurant. These days, I rarely go out to eat without a thorough consideration of the options available to me, accompanied by extensive consultations and online research on the worthy candidates. I can’t remember the last time I just popped into a restaurant, in the hopes that it would be good. On the one hand, life is too short for mediocre meals, so any advance preparation and an element of discrimination must be worth it – right? On the other, this also means that by the time I actually set foot in a restaurant, I would have at least some inkling of what the restaurant was all about – who the chef was, what kind of food it served, what it was known for. For better or for worse, this takes the magic of unexpected surprises out of the dining experience.
I was in Finland recently for work, and our meeting counterparts had suggested a place close by their offices for a working lunch. In my mind I had written this meal off – expecting a simple sandwich place and a quick, hurried meal interrupted by the taking of notes and the back-and-forth of negotiations and explanations. As such, I didn’t bother researching the restaurant, and when I got there I had close to zero expectations of the place. It turns out that I had severely underestimated the Finnish.
Café Strindberg is part of the Kamp Galleria, an upscale shopping complex in the heart of Helsinki. It is on a corner right off the Esplanad – one of Helsinki’s major pedestrian and traffic thoroughfares – and at first sight looked extremely promising. The ground floor is a café in the truest sense – with a deli and pastry counter, tables and chairs scattered in a cosy manner, and Finnish rugs adorning the walls providing the kind of atmosphere that is perfect for sipping hot chocolate. The second floor consists of a bar area, with both hightop counter tables and laid-back couches; and the restaurant, an elegantly designed eating area overlooking the Esplanad. The windows are huge and spotless – this is a trend very prevalent to the buildings in Helsinki; I found out later that because daylight hours are so short in the winter and the fall, the Finns like to make the most of natural daylight when they can. For lunch, this makes for very pleasant dining – for some reason sunlight and white tablecloths relax me in a way that few other combinations can.
The place is clearly a tourist attraction – we heard a smattering of foreign languages at the tables around us, and the dead giveaway was that they had the menu in English in addition to the Finnish. Yet for a tourist attraction it seems to strike an easy balance between the cosmopolitan (it would not feel out of place on the Upper East Side) and the local (Finnish delicacies like herring and salmon soup are just some of the specialties here). Our waitress spoke in fluent and distinctly American accented English, and did her level best to make us feel at ease in a foreign land.
The bread is one of the main draws here – for in addition to being well-baked it comes with a stellar spread of hummus, something completely unexpected. Who knew that you could find good hummus in Helsinki? I threw decorum to the wind and focused on demolishing the contents of the bread basket; I was probably never going to see these people again and so gave myself license to pig out.
I had a Caesar salad to start – admittedly a boring choice, but for all its good food it is terribly difficult to find decent treatments of vegetables in Helsinki, and I was in need of some. I asked for a topping of crayfish, which was surprisingly fresh. Some of my colleagues took the more adventurous routes of liver in lingonberry sauce, and escargot – both of which received a thumbs-up, but which I did not get to try.
Our hosts proclaimed Helsinki as being renowned for fresh seafood, and I went with the Artic char on a bed of lentils. I particularly liked the lentils, simply done and to the right consistency, and something I had not eaten in a long while; but the fish itself was a minor disappointment. It was cooked well, but the skin still bore heavy traces of the salt that had been used to dry it out, which made eating it almost impossible. The king prawn risotto that one of my colleagues ordered looked promising, but I saw her reach for the salt and pepper not once, not twice but three times. There is no worse crime, I think, than under-seasoning food. But in sum the reports from around the table were generally positive, with the whitefish being a standout dish.
I don’t think I would have enjoyed myself as thoroughly as I did if I had gone to Café Strindberg with any advance knowledge of it. It may not have been a standout restaurant, but the quality was enough to surprise me, and the atmosphere was top notch. It felt like a great place for a leisurely lunch, and the people-watching both in the restaurant as well as on the esplanade outdoors was first-rate. The restaurant was a tad expensive, but perhaps the downstairs café would have been easier on the wallet and a better alternative for frequent repeat visits.
On the plane leaving Finland (for London, DC and New York – where I will continue to eat my way through old favourites and restaurants that I know so much about), I couldn’t help but rethink my approach to eating out. Perhaps once in a while it may be a good idea to just throw caution to the wind and gamble on the restaurant in the corner that looks inviting despite the limited human traffic and lack of word-of-mouth publicity. I may rethink that strategy the next time I just jump into a place and have a terrible meal, but the potential for romance, I think, is just too enticing.
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