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.)
Please mother, let’s go. I know you like your darling fried oysters but come on.
Yes.
Another one of those post-Saturday yoga haunts with the dear old mother, who if I’m lucky enough and she’s in a breezier-than-normal or content state of life and mind, will helplessly succumb to my ever-earnest pleas to investigate some off-road eatery. As we drove past Mohamed Sultan, I caught sight of the new Spathe eatery and made a strict mental note to come here one blissful day in the incalculable future. I thought back to the paper’s reviews on its caramelised onions and meat and Ruru’s similar gushing and excitement, hence my heart went aflutter.
Next time, next time. I promise myself.
But back to work. This time it was charming Five and Dime at River Valley Road. All the way at the end, standing there in proud display of its bantam cuteness, offering a sweet sense of diversion from the rest of this unsettling world. Bus exhaust, wet umbrella, black-dreched heart. Forget it all and pop by here to tuck into some light indulgence.
Oh, and by the way, I’m re-writing this entire post because lovely WordPress was being vexatious and decided to delete everything after I typed the whole lot up, words, pictures and all. I probably pressed something somewhere.
Don’t judge. Technology is beyond my human capability.
But what in the world. Light indulgence? Really, Alex?
Well that’s what I feel most appropriate to call it. The only phrase to invade my mind once I think back to the 40 or so minutes spent there chewing over life and eggs and the present-day problems of a 16-year old with my mother. As I looked up at the American diner imitations of hang lamps, as I stroked (yes, the sense of touch is potent alright) the 1960s-esque font splattered in diagonal strips all over the table mats. It struck me right there and then.
Light indulgence. This was light, but the whole experience felt such a special and heavy treat. Little couples dotted the modestly sized area, whispering post-Valentines sweet nothings injected with the occasional giggle, delicately wiping each other’s mouths and eating off each other’s plates. Perhaps I exaggerate. But the light and angelic air of the place makes me manifest these fairylike and angelic details which probably weren’t there to begin with. All chimerical but not too airy or lacy. Hip but sweetly secluded. Even the waiters were minuscule, scurrying back and forth to take orders and accept reservations. Carefully serving double portions of delicious whatsabobs, sided by little ramekins of side dishes and spindly forks and knives.
Hey mister, some iced water please, I’m parched. My mother will have the grapefruit juice. Ah, what else is on the menu?
Oh me oh my.
Let’s count, shall we.
One, two, three… ten main course options in total.
10, 10, ten, ten. No, don’t bother flipping the thing. You’ll be greeted by strange words such as Eton Mess and Nutella Brownie.
I was torn between the spinach tamago and big brekkie. But hear me out please. I’ve been on an egg roll (get it, egg roll) the past few days and anything eggy gets my heart up and running as if i’ve just been on full-on climbing mode WITH a physical training session. I proudly went with the latter since it looked so orientally majestic next to its predictable Western neighbours like eggs benny and fish and chips. Eggs are just so wholesome and versatile and wonderful so how on earth could I pass up this moreish twist.
And I really do love spinach.
spinach tamago
I saw a cuboid.
I was in geometric food heaven. This is their twist on eggs florentine, where the wilted, salted spinach is not squashed under great hulking bellies of poached egg, but instead are scattered in flattened bits and silhouetted within the spongy layers of Japanese egg omelette. Sitting on an obese slice of white bread with fluffy brown crust. The big egg boy was accompanied by its pretty date of fruit salad (banana coins, half-grapes and strawberry slithers).
Never out-shined by the helping of bacon-slathered roast tots in the corner. Those were probably just jealous little things. I went at the fruit first in order to prep my palette for a more plush tamago flavour when the time was right.
Off with the fruit, now for the Big Egg Boy.
Um, was that sweet?
For a second I forgot the definition of tamago. I expected salt and pepper and a strict savoury personality. I worked my way through half the rectangle before realising that the sweetness was indeed emerging from the egg itself. Subtle but very appealing.
I must say, if the egg were smart I’d still be stupid.
Tamago, for goodness’ sake. I downed every bit, tossed salad, the mildly sweet hollandaise, bacon bits and all. I usually can’t care for roasted potatoes so I picked at the bacon bits instead, and stole all my mother’s too. I’m ever so gracious. But she understands, the lovely woman.
eggs benny
More salt, she said. But pretty, isn’t it.
Paltry, putrid baby eggs sitting little goggles on a mini rectangle of bread. The hollandaise was perfect but not out-of-this-world drool worthy. Touch of dill glimmered.
Yolk’s peeped out just like Claire’s poached ones at Kith’s. Almost crying. Half the size of my hulk of an omelette. My mum did not look half satisfied as she downed that last bite. No ham for Mother the Vegetarian. No bacon either (and that was in my good cause).
Nah, no brownies for us. We came home and snacked on CNY goodies to curb those odd cravings which typically never occur post-lunchtime.
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).
iced honey milk latte
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.
tuna, dried apricot and cheddar toastietop: 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
Yesterday was Friday, which means today is Saturday.
Dear me I’ve even managed to lose track of the common circadian rhythm without my trusty watch lately, even with clear view of the light of day and everything else which keeps sentience at bay (that rhymed oh yes). But the afternoon glow was evident yesterday, and I felt the sudden nonsensical urge to investigate and explore some half rural part of the island. And of course, I’d only do such an out-of-routine thing if that meant sipping a cuppa good espresso. This time, I went here. I yearned for some solitary coffee time and to relish a new surrounding with possibly a new coffee clan, one of which is already nicely acquainted with some lush and hip hideout. A switch from a typical Orchard Road hopping about. A change to perk me up, with caffeine to weigh my worries down.
The camera quality is nothing short of terrible here, though admittedly I was in a rush for a caffeine hurricane.
Chye Seng Huat, or CSHH as affectionately known by loyal indie coffee goers. It was Friday (yes I do remember quite clearly now that it was indeed a Friday and precisely 20 hours ago) after school and I hopped down there specifically to try their famed milk espressos and catch up on some logarithms and exponents practice, because that’s just what would go perfectly with a warm-souled brew at 4pm. I got my coffee and carefully walked out of the door and into the sunlight, only to return back inside 5 minutes later due to a paranoid fear of sun damage to my skin (a helpless obsession which has seen my cupboard go from bone empty into full blown wacko).
At $5.50, this regular-sized espresso packed in some dynamo bean quality in every smooth and silky sip. When it comes to coffee, it’s impossible for me to guzzle down unabashedly. It’s foam-tipped milky splendor caressing an intoxicatingly rich brew. I watched the barista deftly apply his craftsmanship, patience and skill as he wove a beautiful design of steamed whole milk through the full-bodied coffee. He smiled at me and I looked wistfully at the displays of coffee brewing equipment in little wooden cubby holes stuck in a neat grid on the side of the wall.
Hip, casual, Papa Americano. The buzz of elevator music lifted the cozy area entirely, casting a nostalgic haze over the couple tables which seated some rather trendy youngsters sipping caps behind large frames and striped sweaters. I looked down at my black flats and school uniform, somehow feeling both out of touch with coffee-going gear, yet totally suited to a longer study session. I was surprised at the line of people at the counter as I entered, and took a long look at the unique menu whilst waiting for a couple of pink-haired Chinese ladies to order their French toast and egg omelettes. I’ve always wondered at how people could have large meals in between meals. A good mix of admiration and jealousy, for I would never be able to savour such platters on a full stomach. Nothing like a late afternoon hamburger for them, I’m guessing.
There was one moment whereby I was just sitting there, espresso in hand, sun blazing high up in the blue infinity of this world, and I felt rather infinite myself, or perhaps as if my finite being was comfortably subject to the ruling infinite comforts under a hatched roof.
Rating: 4.8/5 (based on coffee tasting alone. Making a self reminder to revisit this unfortunately half rural place oh so conveniently located smack in Jalan Besar)
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.
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.)
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.
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…
alexcrumb 