Tag: #food

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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Brown

  • ‘Life has taught me that 95% of people are always wrong.”

That actually deserved its own bullet point. Don’t know where that’s from? Go have a little Internet peek. In fact no, scrap that, there’s really no need. What good will that do? Sometimes things are best appreciated without knowledge of every minute detail, with every painful little aspect fixed and screwed down in front of you. Analysis is one way of dealing with life, and then there’s a vague, casual, breezy bliss.

You’re probably wondering where all this is going.

I’m talking about brownies, friend. Brownies.

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Baking is an art which requires painstaking precision and by-the-book loyalty. There are typically a few tweaks here and there, as most of my fellow baking friends would agree whenever it comes to tackling recipes made by different people from different parts of the world. Thing’s like surrounding temperature and ingredient quality/origin and oven tolerance all varies from place to place, from country to country. I tried making a Nigella meringue once with my mother and realised only at the very end that no, our 40 degree weather was not the same as ‘room temperature’ in South London (we worked something out in the end). All in all, the ratio’s got to be right down pat.

Um.

Yes, brownies. I looked into my pantry and heard myself physically sigh as I realised there was no more dark, treacly muscovado sugar left. Can’t treat anyone or myself to dense, chewy, fudgy goodness anymore, I assumed. But just as how 95% of people are usually wrong, so was I. Wow, I can’t discount myself from anything anymore.

I stumbled across this recipe online, entitled ‘Robert’s Absolute Best Brownie Recipe’. You’re most likely not a human if you are not tempted by this alluring title, and really, who doesn’t indulge in some excessive link clicking. It looked too good to be true. I remember the first time I tried it I didn’t follow the instructions perfectly. Since there is so little flour (quarter cup only) in a whole batch, I turned up my nose and added more.

And more.

But there’s a science to this, and after my first try, I realised I was quite foolish. Childish even, for not being able to wait. The next attempt yielded something quite magical. And you have to be the one to try it before you can come close to understanding what exactly I mean. I think I should just get on with it.

~

INGREDIENTS

  • 6 tablespoons (85g) unsalted or salted butter, cut into pieces, plus more for the pan
  • 8 ounces (228g) bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, chopped
  • 2/3 cup sugar
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
  • 2 large eggs, at room temperature
  • 1/4 cup all-purpose flour

DIRECTIONS

  • 1. Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C).
  • 2. Line an 8 or 9-inch square pan with 2 long lengths of aluminum foil or parchment paper, positioning the sheets perpendicular to one other and allowing the excess to extend beyond the edges of the pan. Lightly butter the foil or parchment.
  • 3. In a medium saucepan over low heat, melt the butter. Add the chocolate and stir by hand until it is melted and smooth.
  • 4. Remove the pan from the heat and stir in the sugar and vanilla until combined. Beat in the eggs by hand, 1 at a time. Add the flour and stir energetically for 1 full minute—time yourself—until the batter loses its graininess, becomes smooth and glossy, and pulls away a bit from the sides of the saucepan. [Editor’s Note: There are two crucial elements in the making of these brownies. One is throwing yourself into the making of them by stirring them “energetically,” as the recipe stipulates. The second, also spelled out in the recipe, is making certain you stir the batter thusly for a full minute. It may appear to separate a few seconds into stirring, and it may appear grainy midway through, but when you stir with vigor for a full 60 seconds–and we do mean a full 60 seconds, along the lines of “One Mississippi, two Mississippi…”–you’ll end up with a batter that’s rich, thick, satiny smooth, and glossy as can be. Therein lies the difference between dry, crumbly brownies and the world’s best brownies.]
  • 5. Scrape the batter into the prepared pan and bake until the center feels almost set, about 25 minutes.
  • 6. Let cool completely before cutting.

I adjusted the amount of sugar and removed all the additional nutty additions just to present the purity of the batter on its own. And see the bolded clause? That right there is the most important part. Get it wrong and the entire thing will crumble before your eyes. These things are depressing, so just follow and be honest with the timing. What you’re looking for is for the batter to suddenly pull away from the sides, yielding a glossy chocolate pool, almost gurgling and bubbling with stick and bick, rich and thickly dripping.

This is a base batter, so go ahead and add whatever you like before thrusting it in the oven, be it nuts, marshmallows, berries, cream cheese, or hell’s bells, more chocolate. The intense stirring time might vary actually, from 1 to a full 5 minutes. Mine took a full 5, whilst the other time I’m sure it took much shorter. My biceps were fit to look part of a rock crag. Though after sufficient bicep rest, I took these babies out of their scorching hell and let them rest, like a sighing thing, settling down, fudgy bellies swelling.

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Bedrock Bar and Grill

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The best way to start. Soft, buttery garlic and butter on crusty pita. A melting pool of mush and oil.

I love my uncle, but perhaps I love his invention even more.

Why Bedrock? I asked my aunt. Something to do with the Flintstones, I remember her saying. So it had been a while since I consciously registered the details of Fred and Barney. My childhood…! Well, it was my grandma’s birthday celebration and we all know of her undying infatuation with the perfect, seasoned oysters here.

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red wine-shallot mignonette

Just, inexplicable divine.

And then, this.

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tomahawk steak with classic béarnaise, whisky wholegrain mustard (my personal favourite) and red wine sauce.

Well obviously, the king of all the dishes. This 400-day grain fed ensured the perfect amount of fat streaked through these lovely slivers of medium rare meat, seared soft wooden at the edges. The interior was gloriously juicy and not too rare.

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‘Steak’ Diane- grilled portobello mushroom with Diane sauce and truffle fries.

Yes, that is a dear mushroom my friends, but oh, a mushroom made king. The bite of the mushroom lent a gamey robustness to the otherwise weaker nature of the humble fungus. Status- elevated. Taste- right on. I mean look at the thing; it could pass for a hunk of meat. Well I certainly mistook it for such. It wasn’t a triumph on its own, of course, the Diane bathed the ‘steak’ in a warm and melting, oniony cream, without masking the texture and fineness of the cap. All vegetarians, come hither.

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bedrock mac n cheese

In many ways, the best and the richest. Cheesiest. Paint the insides of your mouth with the illustrious golden-and-white-cream-swirled mouthfuls, after taking in the perfect ‘crack’ of the spoon as it slides into the warm belly beneath minuscule crusty, shining peaks. I love the thin tubules instead of the blase curved macaroni. Fine and white, empty of ridges, softly calling.

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fish and chips with tartar
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bangers and mash

These two were the simple kids dishes. Homey, comforting, large in both heart and soul.

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grilled ribs

As a final conclusion, the best ribs in the entire world.

Yes, they beat Tony Roma’s and Chilis’s (but hey, I love those too). Unbelievably well marinated. Tart, sweet, thick reduction and yes there’s marrow so if you’re like me and can’t just stop at the outer layers of tender brawn, then get right in and smother your face in that milky, half bloody pulp. Go on, I won’t watch.

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Rating: 4.5/5

Bedrock Bar and Grill

96 Somerset Road, #01-05 Pan Pacific Serviced Suites

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Heavy Eyes, Restless Hearts

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Life really has gotten me out of breath. Waters fill the air around me and it gets rather hard to breathe sometimes. Mostly still caught in the web of sleep.

I suddenly stand alone in a corridor and think how absurd it must be to be a human being living right now going to school living by the books and all that I have come to know after 16 years of that incessant and hilarious process commonly known as life.

Funny how it’s going to be May already and I’m practically trying to keep myself propped up amongst the cushions of IB. Not the most luxurious or hedonistic, but firm and upright. How is one to live and survive fashionably? At least not totally recklessly, but don’t lie when you say you don’t wonder about life’s willful wonder and scary prospects once in a while.

Think about it in the shower.

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Wild Honey

When I’m sad I watch videos on how to poach eggs.

Current favourite: http://whiteonricecouple.com/food/video-poaching-eggs-appreciating-life-details/

And when moods coalesce and snowball into a ginormous thunder of unstoppable, guttural hunger, I go to Wild Honey.

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Nowegian Breakfast

The thing about eggs is that I can never tire of them, unlike a lot of people. They enjoy picking out the yolk or the white and frankly I may even be half-guilty on this one myself, since yolks may be my life’s vice aside from a really good fish head curry.

If one is HUNGRY, one must control thyself’s lazy Mickey Dees urges (depending on your level of sophistication, of course) and come to this one place, for some extensive menu choices and serious, heavy satisfaction. I was scoffing this Norwegian Darling when I came here with my mum and sisters once at Scotts Square, where the air is cold and the shops are lonely.

Avocado, grilled asparagus spears, two perfectly poached eggs wrapped with Norwegian smoked salmon, gorgeous homemade hollandaise and salmon pearls resting like jewels on top. I prefer hollandaise slightly tangier, with an orangey tinge right at the end when it curls and hangs around your epiglottis. This was more on the gloggy, boggy side, with more opaque notes. Back then I couldn’t care because I was so darn hungry. The salmon rated a 9 on the sodium scale, which made me less appreciate its indigenous origins; what made this dish unique in the first place. Ah, pity. The asparagus on the other hand, was beautiful and my incisors cut right through like creamed butter. The whole wheat bread was soft with a perfect crust, just right for supporting all its baby fat on top. The mother pillar.

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The bread spread is massively impressive. I just can’t be joking here. Quality stuff, this. the blackberry and strawberry jams were mighty fine, with a rocking depth beneath each sweet facade. I only could have wished for a less watery strawberry jam. There was sweet French brioche, whole wheat and white rolls, croissants and seeded breads. It reminded me of the stodge spread in Nice, France, where there were olive and sesame beauties parading their round, baked bottoms at every course.

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Portobello Road

So yes, it’s portobello, not portabello. Ooh the infuriating spelling paranoia.

Happening, justifiable, good.

Anything more?

Well yes, I believe the hollandaise was more decent this time round, and the mushrooms were actually bouncy and full-on juicy, without any of that banal nonsense. Happy, happy.

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‘Which one is the best?’

‘The steak sandwich, madam!” The blond waiter smiled. Being the only white person around, it didn’t take much for him to stand out. It was a redeeming feature in that dim red restaurant with a scowling queue lining up to look at one poor iPad.

Grass-fed sirloin, vine-ripened tomatoes, shaved onion and parmesan cheese, fresh horseradish and coriander mustard on toasted ciabatta. Right off the menu, that. And honestly, I was much less than impressed. It even left me with a proper frown in between bites. Perhaps I exaggerate, perhaps I am a lonely and fussy soul. But my tongue couldn’t deny the brittle dryness of that bread, which did not live up to its mediocre stuffings. Sandwiches and burgers with too much bread is quite a boring headache, and this was a little too greasy as well. For some reason the sirloin didn’t reproduce the tomato-juiciness I expected in such a tasty part of cow.

Despite some disappointment, this place could still claim a brunch crown. Come on, you can’t turn down a date here.

And well, if you love eggs…

Rating: 3.2/5

Wild Honey

6 Scotts Road

Level 3 Scotts Square

Tel: 66361816

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