I like adventures.
Personally, I like personal adventures. So I pretty much pounced on the opportunity to hop down to the newly opened café, named after a street around the Covent Garden area in London. A little burst of sunshine in the middle of Tanjong Pagar. I needed to try, and try I did.
There are so many cafés here, though not half as many as the sprawling bundles in London. I turned up at 10:43 this late morning, armed with my cam, only slightly casual garb and a stomach for eggs and caffeine. The things I do to hold on to the past.
My heart was beating. Believe it or not, I was excited. There were stacked boxes and an ‘upstairs’. Who doesn’t like an upstairs? I think it was the red paint. Or maybe I was having another post-yoga high. The glisten of glowing pink cheeks and a clammy forehead. Don’t I sound attractive.
Iced double espresso. These guys add a dollar to your bill if you want anything iced. Which in my opinion, is not worth it if one is forced to tolerate the harmful heat of Singapore. They should add a dollar for anything that’s not iced. This brew really was what I needed. I felt my soul awaken, my nerves tingle. There was an almost spicy aftertaste, nudging the back of my throat, after the fragrant stream of black finished lingering at the back of my tongue. Glad it was iced. So, very glad. On a side note, my table number was 17! (in other words, the best number in the world, because it blessed the world once before, around 17 years ago in the month of November).
I won’t lie, I wanted to drop to my knees and cry out in exasperation and despair when this was brought to my lone table. All alone I sat there, looking at the two pathetic blobs for five minutes. Excuse me sir, could I please have two proper half-boiled eggs please, and not this limp white spider of a once-embryo, I wanted to ask. But my mouth only quivered, because I believed in the place. Watched the awkward waiter walk back down. I tested my luck and pried one open, praying for a golden river.
Alas, golden river it was not. It wasn’t even soft-boiled with a tad bit of runny yolk in the centre. It was soft in the middle, but otherwise a hundred percent overcooked. Nothing flowed, nothing to coat the toast. The toast itself was overly drenched in what seems to me a mixture of butter and marmite, betraying its could-be texture of crunch and fluff. Furthermore, the word ‘soldiers’ shouldn’t be used lightly here. I wanted thin soldiers, not obese and soggy white men. The edges were nicely toasted, and the cheese had the right degree of tag and sharpness. Sadly, everything else was a mess. The world could end one day if all yolks just stood still.
In fact, I wrote a poem titled ‘The Day the Yolk Stood Still.” I kid you not. It was great to just be alone for two hours, writing and drawing and thinking, just bombarded with my own thoughts and the dazzling rays shining through the shophouse windows.
Great coffee, lovely ambience… pity about my second breakfast of the day. I’m quite sure there are much nicer, more aesthetically pleasing items on the menu. I’m sure, I’m sure. It’s still new, after all.
94 Tanjong Pagar Road