Tag: #breakfast

Group Therapy Café

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I stumbled across this hidden gem a good chunk of a while back now, back during the summer holidays, which was God knows how many weeks ago. However the last time I went, I only had a swig of bitter Ethiopian iced brew; the sort which stings a little on the tip of your tongue, before running its way down all throughout your system, jolting your nerves, almost harassing them.

This time, I went in for an actual bite. A nibble, a dig if you will. I craved the same darling nook I visited 5 weeks ago, and so Group Therapy it was. Just that this time it was solo therapy, which was just as good, and in fact probably better. The place opens at 11am, and when I arrived at 11.13, the best window seats were already occupied. I choked down my disappointment and hobbled over to the back area, where there are lovely high metal chairs which are actually rather light when you have to physically pull them out and plonk your bottom on one.

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iced Ethiopian brew; flavourful acidic notes
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piccolo latte

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Let’s talk coffee. I wasn’t so much as excited for the latte as I was for the brew, mostly because I almost never order milky coffees since they make me a tad nauseous afterward and I’m always in need for something refreshing to envelope my throat with.  But I did anyway because I live on the edge. This piccolo was done with master professionalism, despite the obvious lack of caffeine concentration. At $4.50, it was decent pay.

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sunny side ups atop two slices of grilled ham, mashed avocado and thick toast

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Apologies for the blur first shot of those beautifully cooked sunny side-ups. I was torn between this and the poached eggs and hollandaise with smoked salmon on thick toast option (gosh that’s a mouthful), but I went with this instead, because I was curious to see how they would incorporate the mashed avocado into the rest of the dish, which is practically an eggs benedict with the eggs fried and not poached, sans the creamy yellow blanket of snow on top. To my initial disappointment, I realised they did not include small chunks of avocado, or slathered moist clumps of the stuff like a rotund bed of pale moss under the eggs, but literally smoothed the mash across like peanut butter on toast. Luckily for me, the helping was generous enough to seep through the airy pockets in the thick white toast, which was bordered with a most appealing brown yet forgiving crust all the way round. That crust. The seeping made each bite a partial swarm of green, offering a light earthiness and opaque moisture to the salty ham. I only found fault with the portion size and thickness of the crust, which was at least 2 inches in width. Eating this one dish meant pulling up your sleeves and stabbing the belly multiple times before making it possible to get down to the  very bottom. which was quite an unnecessary hassle at times. They should either have thinner toast for maximum flavour impact or cut it into two for better handling. All that cutting and tugging made for a slightly inconvenient ordeal.

Overall, it was a good meal, even if that meant not finishing it. Pities of the world. It would also be nicer if the waitresses wouldn’t constantly look from a distance at the customers, standing and observing, twitching themselves whenever I moved. The coffee is not bad and the fare slightly above expectations, albeit nothing really special. They have a chilli crab tart here as well, which doesn’t look half bad. Promises lie in such hearty packages.

Rating: 4.3/ 5

Group Therapy Café

49 Duxton Road

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Meng Kitchen Bak Chor Mee

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You know, I love those Daddy Days. And what I mean by that is just being with my father, the only person who bothers to settle for an early alarm (cough 7am) each Sunday morning just to accompany me to some either popular or ever so slightly obscure breakfast place in the heated heartland here in Singapore. I’ll be leaving for London tomorrow, so I thought it only fitting to talk about all things wonderfully local. I’m talking prata, eggs or bak chor mee, though some days I just can’t stand overly stodgy breakfasts since it makes me feel lethargic and pudgy about an hour later. If enjoyment without consequence existed, I would definitely be over there right now, instead of just talking about it. Talk is cheap sometimes, isn’t it?

The coffee, I could pass. A true trachle to finish. I found myself forcing down the liquid in an attempt not to waste it. Ordering kopi c siu dai (black local brew with less sugar, since my uncle did the same and I did not wish to complicate matters) was my own mistake. It seemed as if they were eager to heap in more of the white stuff. If you’re heading to Thomson for some brekkie fix, be it pancakes or prata or noodles, you must, must have the mushroom minced meat bak chor mee. Note I say have, not try, for I give you only that choice and that choice alone. Our national dish (yes yes, after Hainanese Chicken Rice) is one which at a glance effectively disguises the gleaming, golden river of thick balsamic vinegar sauce. You get the mound of tender, flat and yellow al dente noodles, the pressed, slightly porous bits of chicken liver and soft mushroom. The spring in the noodles soak up all the flavour and exhale a rich aroma. The tornado of flavours coalesce and marry spectacularly in your mouth, unleashing a weapon of sharp flavour- dense, pungent, tangy, whole. Watch the sauce coat every strand before you take the first slurp. Despite this, I don’t think they are on par with the mee pok at Tai Hwa, which is another haunt you should check out for the best bak chor mee in the world.

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Ok. The Fuzhou fishballs here are officially the best. Ever. Fishballs bursting with sweet, juicy minced pork filling and an explosion of scalding soup at your first bite. If you’re not a noodle person, I urge you to indulge yourself with these babies. The vegetables and hot broth complement them perfectly. Like those creme easter eggs. You can’t really wait to reach the middle.

I’m not a regular, so I can’t vouch for consistency. But mind you, I’m making a mental note to make a brief visit again soon.

Tangy, vinegary noodles to nourish the mind and soul.

Meng Kitchen

4.4/5

246B Upper Thomson Rd

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A Breaking Down of Days

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ToTT, the all exalted kitchen wonderland

A series of baked experiments and starry-eyed dawns. With a few new buys and several bouts of angst or ecstasy. Dream journalling and paper perusing.

This ToTT place you see in the last picture above in the heart of Dunearn has all the most wonderful culinary equipment available known to man. Stocked up on ramekins, a stiff french whisk, French Food God Michel Roux’s book on all things eggs and goodness gracious lo and behold, a fine and hardy white hand-mixer. I took one look at its gleaming skin of fresh plastic and saw my name scribbled all over (for what on earth is sharing.) I’m the type who’d rather get down on my knees and scrub wood into dirt, but when it comes to something like omelette making, these things could make a ceramic plate fluffy.

The one downside: there was not one common non-stick baking spray. You can imagine how I scrutinised every shelf for one miserable spray can. The disappointment was mentally toxic.

Tried to hide the glowering response. That long, black, attractive face of mine.

But days.

You know.

Those things which melt and dissolve into months and years in shades of memory and perhaps a tinge of melancholy. Right, and you’re expected to have a better sense of self as the digits in your physical and mental age add up (or good heavens, multiply.)

Perhaps it’s the dim light and minor-key indie music that’s putting me in a disconcertingly nostalgic mood, the sort which leaves me feeling absolutely and utterly drained; not of life, but perhaps the present itself. When I merely can’t be bothered to pay attention to the common blusterings or happenings of the world around me and all that’s left are the tumultuous shadows of soft-edged memories and maybe even a little lament. Good lord, the past is pretty rousing in its shades of wondrous gold and somnolent greys.

‘Life is but a walking shadow’

Come on, March.

(I’d talk about the lovely March wind or accompanying emotions with glorified weather here but alas, that romantic aspect is much lacking in this ever-hot dredge.)

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Chin Mee Chin Confectionery

So I came here with my hopes exceeding that of the 1960s shophouse-esque roof, laced with a stark, in-your-face blue all the way round. Very high.

Windswept hair tied back. Sunglasses on in the evil face of the sun’s Sunday rays. My father drove my two younger sisters and I all the way to East Coast, succumbing to my months-long pleas of trying out this famous confectionery, affectionately named CMC by old-timers. My hair is still piecey and slightly greasy as I type. Arrived with high expectations and unfortunately, was let down, all the way down to the nearby drainpipe, quite a fair bit.

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We signalled to the lady politely, only to be received by a sour grunt and waist-low wave.

Wait, you darn fools.

Well alright then, we shall. And we did. We sat next to a couple of ladies in the crowded little 10 square feet (yes I am exaggerating) cuboid. I observed them picking out the huge yellow slabs of butter from their kaya buns and leave them on the sides of their plates, and I suddenly felt a tinge of annoyance. That bit’s clearly the icing on the cake, though I must admit that too much is a little daunting sometimes. Not spectacular for the frame, either. Walking in, one notices the proud sign, homemade baked goods displayed at the counter and old-fashioned checkered tiles. Somehow felt uplifted amongst the slightly cramped and frumpy area. It’s crowded on this Sunday morning, I think to myself. Must be good (or so I hoped.)

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My dad expertly cracked open the promising eggs, only to be faced with mighty raw whites. The edible sun was missing half its face, and we were forced to adapt to dribbly transparency. Note I say transparency, not translucency. I ordered a kopi c, which was not half as strong as what I’ve had at other places. Fragrant, yes. Flavourful, well less so.

I had a terribly hard time slurping down my eggs with ease as what would usually be the case at another coffee shop. Translucent to the point whereby it was hard to pick up a string of jelly since the whole thing was like piece of wobbly glue. No white pepper could salvage it. Yes, quite disappointed.

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Ah, the famous Chin Mee Chin kaya buns.

Wonderful, they said. How the harmony of local flavours sing a rapturing tune!

I waited to be flabbergasted, to fall away from my plastic grey stool in awe at the very first bite. What really happened was my being taken aback by how… predictable the flavours were. I was startled by my own reaction. Could it be? Now this is usually the case when one possesses too high an expectation. Perhaps I heard one too many a good review before my arrival, leading me to associate more emotion than necessary with what arrived on my plate. It was a nicely toasted bun all right, with a good spread of kaya and nice rectangle of half melted butter.

I then noticed the commonness of the kaya; how I must have tasted the exact same thing before at least once in my life. Nothing screamed of originality (apart from the unique buns themselves). I expected more depth in flavour and less sweetness. There it was, a bun with a nice hat to top it all off. Simple, satisfying, good even. But nothing which would make me want to come back for more. I normally dip the toast into the egg (or coffee, if I’m feeling particularly odd one day), but thanks to the unpalatable eggs, I was more than unable to do so.

I was let down a fair bit, but I should like to admit that I am definitely glad I can now cross off ‘visit CMC Confectionery’ off my list. The surprising satisfaction from such dissatisfaction…

Rating: 2.5/5

Chin Mee Chin Confectionery

204 East Coast Road

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Casuarina Curry

6 years of loyal prata service. I remember my first time, hand in father’s hand, unaware of what jewels I was to behold. Crispy, chewy jewels that is.

Only for those who cannot resist a crisp, crunch and crackle. The holy trinity. Some people actually dislike such a texture, and prefer instead a more doughy and dog-eared chewiness. I quite like that too, but this is top-notch, unturndownable stuff. Nothing I love more than a good prata breakfast when I’m firmly set in my unhealthy-and-I-can’t-be-bothered-to-nourish-my-body sort of mindset. Really, it’s typically one of those hopelessly lazy Sunday mornings whereby my father and I look at each other and go, “Yes, prata.”

So we go. We come in our shorts, the lovely Indian guys take down our orders entirely by memory (due to years of hard experience and perhaps inherent talent). We are the inferior ones in their exotic prata world. We sit up straight before gradually descending into caveman slouches, digging excitedly into whatever’s in front of us. The CC syndrome, I’ll call it.

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I will politely point out that this has got to be one of the best curries around in Singapore. And yes ignore the unsightly contact between the kosong and (usually quite) dirty table. A succulent, almost fishy aroma dominates each casual metal plate of curry. It almost spills over, promising to do the same on your plate of prata. It promises a lot, and you trust the curry like an old friend. Coats everything with a good, chunky layer of greasy love. A munificent coat. It’s more important than enough butter on french toast, to be honest.

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onion and cheese prata

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Their menu is delightfully extensive. No skimping on the options here. Everything is laid out in appealing lists: banana, honey, onion and cheese, chicken floss (guilty pleasure), chocolate, egg and so on. Don’t forget your kopi or teh.

This is precisely what I love about this place; the classic traditional comfort (albeit rather garish orange and blue decor), good food and consistency. Each time. You will most certainly receive your plate in less than 10 minutes, if not for some large and annoying crowd. But patience, please. You will come and you shall experience the magnificent original invention that is the almighty prata. So crisp you might cry, and so wonderfully chewy on the inside that you will forget going anywhere else on a Sunday morning.

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honey tissue prata

Welcome my two lovely younger sisters, routinely downing their iced milos. The tissue prata here like to make a grand and rather concave entrance. Never scaly, never limp like the real stuff I blow my nose with.

Delicate and layered. Break the golden, honey-drenched arches down to reveal the sharp icicles of prata. I’m the type who doesn’t mind stuff half-burnt, and prata is no exception. I may come across as lenient in this category now, but I have no regrets. This prata place is an old friend still holding on to youth. Trendy in flavour, trustworthy in service.

6 years. I plan to go again since I haven’t done so in a while, just to relive memories and let people scoff at my garlicky, sticky fingers. Parading my good hygiene.

Rating: 4.8/5

Casuarina Curry

138 Casuarina Road
6455 9093

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