Laurent Bernard Chocolatier

Basically I have this problem. And no, I’m not talking about my pathetic sense of direction or the fact that I cannot walk in a straight line.

And this problem has manifested itself slowly and silently throughout my teenage years.

The problem is that I hardly ever go out to tea. And yet such a sophisticated English Rose occasion is crazily ubiquitous; millions of the common folk go out to experience this pinkies-up-whilst-drinking-earl-grey phenomenon. Yes, even here in the not-so-quaint Singapore. I remember going out for pain au chocolats with the maman and sister in Kensington, London, back when I used to live there. I’d hop onto a buggyboard at the back of my sister’s pram and we’d all stride along the leaf-littered streets just to chance upon a myriad of cafes, offering the tempting smells and charming, traditional sights. I cautiously sipped my mother’s cappuccino and crinkled my nose, not understanding the power of such a drug which I would only come to know of many, many years later. It’s rather nice to think about how many years I’ve lived, for it makes me reminisce and ponder and yet sadly, feel remorseful over. Everything there was sweetly carved in white brick and rustic wood, as if no other material would live up to the quintessential English Rose cafe. Even here, there are so many little quaint bistros, cafes and specialty dessert places which allow one the privilege to live the life of an uptown aristocrat from the 16th century. Perhaps not as aesthetically pleasing, but delightful all the same. Delightful.

Just an hour or two, but that’s really enough. The chance to sip tea and dig into petite cakes and souffles with a couple good friends was beyond what I consider to be privileged. Just a note: this all happened after Ruru and I managed to actually find the place.

The Pier?

Yes. The Pier!

Where on earth is that!

Somewhere on Mohamed Sultan Road. But I swear I can’t see it. I swear I swear.

Google Maps is utter crap.

I know, it should be here.

Panic, panic, panic. Before we politely asked a passer-by. She looked behind her and calmly mentioned that The Pier was right ahead.

In big letters too. The Pier.

Joy of joys. We sucked in our embarrassment, straightened our blouses and hurried over. The best things are always the most esoteric nowadays. Or perhaps it’s always meant to be this way to prevent hyperactivity and overly sensational ravings from the common peasants who wander along Orchard Road and nowhere else.

Charming, charming.

Their coffee and wine selection is most agreeable, with a whole section dedicated to connoisseurs of either.

Burns a hole in your pocket, too. My old school camp facillitator Aik Seng treated Ruru and I, and wanted to engage in some appalling splurging. That single-shot espresso macchiato right there was round about nothing less than $5 or $6, if I may correctly recall. I never was one for such price memorisation. It surged with the strength of real caffeine. Believe it or not I saved that little square of (hopefully) dark chocolate in the misty corner of my black tote, waiting for the right time. Today isn’t right, and tomorrow probably won’t be either. Somewhere, sometime in heaven perhaps.

Even though no one will be there anyway.

We quickly ordered the chocolate soufflé, since Ruru warned that it typically takes quite a while to prepare and then serve. I hurried the waiter, who I’m afraid to say failed to impress on any level.

At all. It took about 5 times before he stumbled towards our table, hefty with the pains of everyday life and almost steaming with a mild sense of rebellion. Service-wise, it was a terrific disaster.

This actually made my mouth water when I saw it make its way through the empty lit cavern, a dark-skinned king hailing triumphantly from the Land of the Oven. It rose almost obnoxiously from the pristine, gargantuan white thing of a ramekin, coupled by a lovely little scoop of raspberry sorbet.

Or in other words, its saving grace. I’m that type of person who can’t have a molten, gooey dessert my itself; it must certainly be accompanied by some wildly cold partner to lax its richness and offer some breezy, white-hued relief. The relief this time was in a becoming shade of baby carmine, good and icy, yet full of that frozen raspberry twang and punch.

Soft but not to the point whereby it was perfectly scoop-able and oh so dangerously fragile. The lady came with a tiny jug of hot chocolate sauce, which we all expected to flow out gracefully like a reincarnation of Wily Wonka’s chocolate river. Dark and seductive, making a nice small hole in the middle as it hit the centre, cracking its tissue-like surface and ravaging the fluffy holey interior.

We could not have been more wrong about anything in our entire lives.

The lady didn’t even pour anything, so we did so ourselves. Woe and behold, the sauce was thicker than the consistency of frozen nutella right out of the fridge. We literally had to force it out in thick , rounded globs. That chocolate flavour, I admit was well on spot, with the slightest hint of orange or perhaps even a tinge of Grand Marnier, to complement the rich electricity of dark chocolate. Could’ve had the whole jug if no one was watching (not like something like that would ever happen ever). It was just that terrible, terrible consistency which made my heart sink to the floorboards beneath and beyond.

I felt rather greedy when the other two had stopped picking at the souffle, but I continued to scrape and poke and prod and lick anyway. Story of a chocolate addict.

Thanks to my small lunch, I believe. I can be practical okay. If I possess some degree of sentience and sanity.

We attacked the middle to indulge in the tender warmth of its belly, before proceeding to enjoy the slight chewy crispness of the outside edges, warmed from the oven’s kiss and broil. All made just perfect with the contrasting tang of the raspberry. The one downside was that it was a smidgen dry, but the dense core and bottom were not lost, since even the little bits left over were obviously still very moist and slightly fudgy. But still a smidgen dry (and crumbly). Not as good as the strawberry one in La Bastide last year in December, but then again that would be like comparing little master with grand master in its native home. Partial comparisons make for no good comparisons at all, oui?

And no, you can’t go and have tea with a couple other lovely people and some riveting conversations on our lives and other random happenings with just one dessert.

Honestly. Be honest. Please, for you and for me.

It’s just not practical or sane. So we ordered another.

warm chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream

And that rounded the whole event off to make it perfect and beautiful and complete.

With a spoonful of whipped sweet cream for good measure (as if that will ever live up to the glory of the humble vanilla bean ice cream.) Comparatively, I actually preferred the texture and flavour of the chocolate souffle compared to this. Anything cakey or crumbly is not typically my cup of tea (all puns intended), but this was sufficiently moist. It said cake, not molten lava, so thankfully I was not let down by my own disappointment when there was absolutely no evidence of anything molten. Couldn’t help that small tinge of sadness, of course, but it was pleasing all the same, especially when paired with the sweet and aromatic vanilla. I quite enjoyed the bed of crumbled crackers which the ball of ice cream rested on. Textural variety is probably what I live for.

It’s Valentine’s Day today, isn’t it?

Wonderful! Let me revel in the magnificence of being absolutely single and elated in the blurred joys of life and raw freedom.

Rating: 4.4/5

Laurent Bernard Chocolatier

80 Mohamed Sultan Road #01-11
The Pier @ Robertson Singapore
6235 9007

Posted on February 14, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

Kith Cafe

This 11a.m. affair was not meant to be. I was at the height of my excitement. All prepped to sip apparently some very excellent caps at Toby’s Estate.

Part 1 of untold adventures yesterday. Robertson Quay. A darling right off the heart of the city. I hopped over to Toby’s, trailing a wide alley which snaked off of Rodyk Street. 8 Rodyk Street, I remembered. I kept to the right and saw it: all lovely and glowing. I saw a blondie sipping something whilst furiously typing away at his Mac Pro. A tiny cuppa rested in the right of his hand, furrowed brow nested on top of round, almost pained eyes. He caught a glance of me staring in to admire the chic and rustic wooden decor.

CLOSED.

Opening tomorrow! It said. My heart sank as I forced myself to confront the truth of the matter. I was to meet my dear girlfriends Claire and Ruru for a lovely brunch at this raved hole in the wall. Scrutinised all the reviews I could get my hands on online. Amazing and Great coffee and Charming, they said. And only I was to be faulted on that slightly drizzly Wednesday morning-cum-afternoon. Only I was to be so beseeched as to fall victim to the hands of Chinese New Year’s annoying Hey-I’m-Closed dates. I told C and R and we all went into a frenzied panic. I knew Kith was just round the corner somewhere, somehow, but something in me wanted to face the second truth- that it too was just as closed as its more hip and (might I say) attractive neighbour.

I walked. I heard the laughter of babies and mums clear in the naked sunlight.

I saw it.

Jackpot.

And so I told C and R to meet me here instead. Free wifi and all, to set up a new literature blog with Ruru. The excitement was uncontainable! I got to work looking at everything on the quirky blackboard menu, analysing the choices and combinations and of course, prices (decent enough, may I say, for the quality provided).

I looked out to the wrinkly ochre waters we call the Singapore River. Old fashioned shophouses stood like weak soldiers next to each other. Stood aghast at its appalling state. Nothing’s ever perfect. I needed a frigid wake-me-up, a cold calling to relive my nervous system of the restless humidity. Sweet and milky, just like its name promised. I typically don’t ever order lattes or anything which screams of excess white to distract from the fine texture and aroma of the coffee bean. I did so anyhow, for despite wanting something cold, no other option was sweet enough, and this provided some serious instant gratification.

Satisfaction it was. Not perfect and justifiable, but satisfying all the same. I had a sip of Ru’s ice blended latte and that hit a small spot as well.

top: smoked bratwurst, bacon, poached egg, caramelised onion and mustard hotdog

This entire corner, hole-in-the-wall thing really reminded me of Marmalade Toast tucked away in the red marbled nook of Ngee Ann City. Almost secluded and deathly private, yet so open and bustling. Not so much on a Wednesday of course, but nevertheless, I could pretty much smell the growing business within the calm solitude, surrounded by green and wood and rusty waters.

What infinitesimal portions. I looked down at my toastie and realised that I might as well have made the same thing (thrown together some tuna and fresh fruit) in my sandwich maker at home. I could taste the brand of wholemeal bread (not multigrain or wholewheat, mind you) and the crusts just weren’t crusty enough. My first bite exceeded any expectation though, as I savoured the uniqueness of that unusual pairing. The tuna was succulent and not too drained of flavour, the apricot offered a tangy sweetness to overlap the fishy layers and give bulk to the pathetically sized thing. The whole bits of apple thrust into an extra ramekin was a little unnecessary though, I thought.

But that hotdog.

It shone like a million diamonds in comparison to my putrid portion. I stole bites of caramelised onion and egg yolk from the poor girl next to me, and was offered a bite of the actual dog.

You sure?

Sure.

You very sure?

YES JUST.

Heh, alright you sweet thing (well I didn’t say that, but well, you know.)

The dog had a juicy give and slight chomp when I bit in. A molten and savoury comfort perforated my mouth and yielded a gracious robustness. Meat and white bread and mustard and onions. Simple. Oh, the onions. It went very very well together, though the poached egg you see on top does look a little down and sombre, doesn’t it? Admit it, it needed more love and care. ad more TLC. The poor yolk was only half covered by its white blanket. I wanted to whisper It’s Okay to it. You’ll be fine once you succumb your darling pocket of yellow yolk. Now come here. Almost silently provocative, now that I think of it. Some bits were runny and the rest was a tad overcooked (till slightly solid yet tender), but on the whole it was reasonable egg which decanted its golden love over every nook and cranny of the hotdog. Just the right size. The bread though, was half-hearted and could have been twice as crusty with some sort of down-to-earth, all-American twist. This was merely some predictable white bread thrown together with more delicious condiments.

The pretty star student in hotdog school, donned in an eggy onion dress.

Cream of the crop.

The next time I come here, I’ll be sure to dig into those ravishing, sauce-dripped meatballs.

Oh, but I’ll probably go to Toby’s Estate first, of course. No missed opportunity.

No. Missed. Opportunity.

Rating: 3.7/5

Kith Cafe

7 Rodyk Street
#01-28
Watermark at Robertson Quay
6341 9407

Posted on February 14, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

Tonkatsu Ma Maison

Another one of those pre-rain Saturday late mornings spent with my ever-starving mother. Now that Chinese New Year’s just round the corner (well tomorrow, to be precise, not that I’m ever good at remembering specific dates let alone consider history as one of my principal passions), I knew many cafes I wanted to try out were all closed. Five and Dime, no. House at Dempsey, no. Jones the Grocer… Let’s give it a shot. And so we scurried over to Mandarin Gallery, expecting our bellies to be greeted and filled up by a wholly Western spread.

I still remember my uncle exclaiming all the glories and wonders of this jewelled Japanese eating house, tucked away in the quite aisles of Mandarin Gallery, hushed and hidden from the calamity of the bustling outside world. Order and serenity restored. A disguised quietness lending savoury appeal.

The entire box of tables and chairs outside the main eating area was totally filled with reserved signs, like ghosts waiting to be settled in graves. A little weird, but that was the first thought which came to mind. Black, black everywhere. The fact that I paired hot pink lipstick with bright red cropped pants was also probably a contributing factor in my aberrant mental state. Sometimes outfits lend a little more attitude than necessary.

Mine certainly did.

And I still haven’t changed out of it.

The little pot of soy sauce came with the icy block of tofu, so we assumed that the tofu lacked enough flavour in order to be eaten by itself. After pouring a generous amount, we realised we made a terrible mistake, for the purity of that pasty cuboid was lost amongst the stinging saltiness. I picked instead at the untouched scallions and crumbled white bits. I just love tofu; that firm and angular belly begging to be cut through, refreshing any palette it chances upon.

Even the edamame had a lovely sprinkling of salt to partner the sweet, al dente bean within.

fried oyster (2 pieces) and white fish (2 pieces) set, with brown rice

I got brown rice whilst the maman got white, since I find the taste and woof of brown grains to be twice as pleasing and interesting. Sticky, with a nice bite and reluctance to give in totally. We gave our orders to the amateur waiter, only to have our rice choices mixed up later, with my mum getting brown rice and me, white. Woe betide us all! Not the best first impression, considering how our food didn’t even come at a quick enough timing. Sitting at the counter, we could clearly witness the camaraderie going on between the chefs as they chopped up tonkatsu, joked with each other, mixed dressings and radishes.

Those oysters were mighty flavourful, packing in a lot of heart in a smaller than usual portion size. A good squeeze of lemon and a magnanimous drizzle of tonkatsu sauce and you’re pretty much good to go. Tuck in, maybe with a smidgen of rice soaked in a little frothy soup.

And I can now declare that the tonkatsu sauce here is officially the best I have ever tasted.

Some lack enough Worcestershire and ketchup, others are simply not tart and sweet enough. This had the perfect balance of everything, right down to the consistency and the way it coated everything with a strong tang. What a privilege.

The soup is thicker than what you would get in a typical Japanese set meal with miso soup. This had bits of shitake, stringy unidentifiables, tofu and radish. Comforting and a tad more complex. Hot delight to shake up the frigid air all around.

The lady called it black forest and something else (was it roasted tea?) jelly. I never took a liking to any sort of jelly in the first place, though I took a bite nonetheless. Despite being a tad watery and bland, the individual flavours could be picked out carefully if one paid any attention to doing so at all.

Tonkatsu here is quite something. I’m taking my dad here next time.

I promise.

Rating: 3.8/5

Tonkatsu Ma Maison

333A Orchard Road

#02-35/36 Mandarin Gallery

Tel: 67334541

Posted on February 9, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

Re-review: Casuarina Curry

I’ve said it before and gratefully (no, not customarily) I’ll say it again. CC is an old friend I’ll never really be able to totally let go of. It’s more of an emotional attachment, though not to the point whereby I’ll refuse to admit its flaws and slightly fallen standard. A little gem in Upper Thomson, bursting with gaudy colour and advertising itself with greasy A3 menus, serving one of the most decent plates of hot, crisp and chewy prata in town. You can read my previous review here.

So. The second official session of Culinary Appreciation Society. Casuarina Curry, our group leader said. Typically when confronted with such a familiar sound, I’d immediately feel a quick tinge of doubt, weighing the pros and cons of such an option. My mind opened its eyes once more to the delectable memories of brown, crisp rectitude. The humble paper prata, with its spongy egg interior and fried, chewy exterior. Couldn’t ask for any more, and frankly, afraid of going against gut-fired impulse.

Honestly couldn’t help snapping up a shot of some rather moreish-looking leftovers. Includes double egg, egg onion and cheese, minus the slathering of moisturizing masala.

Us three girls shared chocolate and onion cheese pratas. Clearly, the one above is the wafer-thin, crackly, chocolate neighbour of the tissue paper. I enjoy sitting back and admiring the view of the menu, mentally taking in all the possible cheese/egg/onion/banana (and other such) combinations which these lovely Indian fellows came up with. i can almost imagine them designing the layout and choice of words, throwing connectives such as ‘and’ between words such as ‘mushroom’ and ‘cheese’ out the window to give straightforward and authentic sounding gorge lists. We decided upon those specific two to provide some taste variety; they nicely ticked the savoury and sweet boxes. The only heart-breaking thing, unfortunately, is that they don’t use real melted chocolate. Chocolate tissue paper never was their specialty, lets get straight to it. These guys are famed for their fish head curry, prata, murtabak and thosai, not flimsy, left-of-field inventions to add some chimerical distraction for the children who hopped by with their parents. Clearly it’s Hershey’s Artificial Chocolate Syrup, however the texture is still there, the paper-like consistency still in tact. The texture and infallibility is what I’d be happy to rave about, and not much else.

Onion and I go way back.

This was the onion cheese option. Apologies for the unappealing lighting, but sometimes one has to make do with such case and circumstance. The texture could not be failed, though the onions were unimpressive. I don’t expect a french onion soup texture or specific cutting/caramelising technique, however these onions could definitely have been more caramelised and daintily dealt with. These were unimpressive and pastel to the core, with only a hint of translucency in some. I would have happily waited another 10 minutes if it meant superb onions lying in a formation fit to look part of one of Picasso’s modern day cubism pieces. Square and wilted rectangles hanging in a morose, burnt, submissive state, enveloping each mouthful of crisp stodge and cheese with a great deal of mild sweetness and round earthiness.

Scrunch and crunch.

A flashing note: if there’s any drink to order here, it must be the teh tarik. Forget your kopi or iced milo (which is always diluted at this nook). Just get this creamy, frothy, provocative shade of sienna. Savour and ignore the slight burn on your tongue.

Sweet rendezvous.

Re-rating: 3.7/5

Casuarina Curry

138 Casuarina Road

Tel: 64559093

Posted on February 8, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

Ministry of Food

NEX, Serangoon. Don’t bother asking me what NEX stands for or who came up with it. So elusive. Terribly bizarre.

That’s where we were heading. I crossed my fingers for decent finds, considering the fact that I had no idea what to expect and how I hadn’t stepped into any other part of Singapore other than around the bustling lights of Orchard Road for a painfully long time.

Yesterday was the official first session of the Culinary Appreciation Society, so we were put into a few groups to visit a myriad of different places. This society has the words ‘culinary’ and ‘appreciation’, so that was good reason enough to join. Mind you, savoury over gorging, as goes my motto. I highlight right here to all food chums: Japanese food can throw my control right out the window sometimes.

And here I present to you banana fritters with vanilla ice cream, topped with whipped cream, slivered almonds and a gruesome maraschino cherry (if it’s one thing I’ll never be able to tolerate, it’s maraschino cherries).

On a partially full stomach, I was only willing to share little edible trinkets here and there, whilst gobbling down everyone’s available (and hopelessly neglected) caramelised onions. Onion Chomper is destined to be my middle name, both in this life and the next. I swear on my life. Those banana fritters were fried to a crisp, lava-hot texture and consistency, which went wonderfully with the frigid vanilla accompaniment. Not real vanilla bean ice cream or anything similar, of course. One mustn’t expect too much in order to be pacified or satisfie. Those after-school munchies got the better of me though, so I sacrificed some ordinary pleasure.

Two choices here: heavily ‘breaded’ or ‘crispy’. The crispy ones turned out like mini sweet spring rolls, whilst the breaded resembled dessert-like frozen orange fish fingers waiting to be drenched in some white chorus of a sauce. Almost incongruous, but yet fit in reluctantly. A little boy wearing a pink hat, I should say. Most unfortunately, Ruru and I agreed on how they went soft, cold and soggy after a while, failing to uphold a sustainable crisp factor. The beauty never lasted, but the slivered almonds were an appropriate accessory. And to be perfectly honest, they should have served it with a knife and fork, to cater to the common motion of the common human hand.

You can see the second picture right there, a golden halo praising the wonders of the almighty Japanese ramen. Not my choice, but I picked at it with high hopes. The bowl hid a dozen treasures locked within a thick, sodium-choked translucent broth. The meatball I tried was lacklustre and seemed to have lost all its flavour in the heat of the noodle-themed excitement. Broth was salty but almost addictive. I found more satisfaction in its brown-mirror like visual appeal, poking around just to see the appealing ripples. I’ve had more round tasting, chewier strands before, though perhaps I’m not the one to propose a full-blown review on this dish, since I’m not the biggest fan of noodles in the first place. Let’s not stubbornly claim the superiority of a single personality!

Now what I do love are the extended features of this gargantuan menu.

Sorry, my mistake.

Three menus. Or was it four? Someone correct me. I felt like a helpless baby seal standing amongst schools of fish, scared of picking the wrong one, yet at the same time half-ready to pounce on each choice out there. Frustration tingled and the displayed visuals were magnanimous. Too much and annoyingly kind. I watched on as one member wolfed down an entire pizza whilst another savoured some smoked salmon aglio olio. This was the food community I have come to know of in one unpretentious evening; just one group with a gluttonous inclination and adventurous spirit. Other groups hopped down to Prata Wala, a famous and apparently extremely brilliant prata place, Carl’s Junior for some puzzling reason and many other little stops.

Good company is a plus point, elevating the entire scene, whilst juxtaposed with multiple dishes. I looked sadly at all the ordered glasses of water. 30 cents for such orders? Dear.

May I also quietly add that some people had to wait quite a long while just to get simple (and mediocre) dishes such as soft-shell crab. On the whole, it was a decent introduction to what I may expect to come in the following weeks, and I’m so pleased to be part of a group which shares the same passion for noshing. To really just enjoy having our heads buried in menus or in a bowl or plate of some delicacy or another. We shall unite in appreciation, and gastronomic absurdity.

A pleasure and privilege indeed.

Rating: 3.2/5

Ministry of Food (MOF)

23 Serangoon Central

#02-01/02/03 Nex

66344610

Posted on February 2, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

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recipes, catering, creativity

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Category: Reviews

Laurent Bernard Chocolatier

Kith Cafe

Tonkatsu Ma Maison

Re-review: Casuarina Curry

Ministry of Food