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.
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.
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.
red wine-shallot mignonette
Just, inexplicable divine.
And then, this.
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.
‘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.
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.
fish and chips with tartarbangers and mash
These two were the simple kids dishes. Homey, comforting, large in both heart and soul.
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.
Rating: 4.5/5
Bedrock Bar and Grill
96 Somerset Road, #01-05 Pan Pacific Serviced Suites
My uncle and aunt are lucky enough to stay literally approximately and at most two stones’ throw away (remember I said literally, in a very literal sense therefore it is only right for you to take my advice in the most literal way possible, am I clear?) from this rugged local eatery.
You get hot, you get sweaty and sticky and maybe a little bothered sitting there under the 50-year old fan, waiting for the delights of local cuisine to magically pop up in front of you to savour alongside the people who have known and loved the place since they were wee bits of human.
Don’t you worry. Sit there and enjoy that still breeze, the looks of rosy assuagement once folks of young and old get their garish orange platters of deliciousness. Stimulating the appetite and nourishing the heart, rekindling local flavours and embracing the all-Singaporean flavours and textures.
smoked duck fried ricefried honey brinjal
I can already hear all my friends.
Ew, eggplant! Or brinjal, or solanum melongena, whatever you call the slimy ghastly things.
Stop. See those brusque edges of golden wafer? An almost-burnt triumph, if you ask me. You hear the crackle and soft dup as you take a little bite. Just a little one, before you stuff your face with more and more. Really though, it’s 10 times more addictive than chocolate potato chips (which i had the chance to sample at Royce’s a few days back). A slight warmth and aroma permeates the dish, whetting your appetite and wetting your palate. Sweet, softly spicy, with burnt and caramelised bits dotting the perimeters of each juicy and fragrant slither of brinjal. It’s just so perfect, and one of the best parts of the meal each time I go with the fam.
You could call the fried rice normal, with the exception of the smoked duck. Tasted like duck alright, but it’s plain to see that that was perhaps added to give the otherwise plain-as-a-white-whistle dish a bump up from its sombre status. Only good when drenched in sauces like this beauty right here:
chilli crab
Looking at it tickles me silly.
Could it be?
Yes, chilli crab. I love it way too much for my own good. I might die in a grave with my hair sprayed with a chilli crab perfume with notes of perhaps oyster and uni.
The sweet, pungent river lies fluffed and plumped up around the king crab like its melting carpet of red sea gold. It has been stolen from its throne in Crab Land and plopped on this platter, with everything in tact, legs, claws, eyes and all. Take a bit of mantou (squares of fried white bread) and thoroughly soak each square inch in the thick orange gloop. This one is better or perhaps comparable to the one at Chin Huat. The sauce is less hot but more addictive, I find. Drip it over everything and anything and bathe in it while you’re at it. I mean it’s pretty simple when you’re an idiot like me and decide to wear white stripes in the soft moonlit outside, dressed in blue-highlighted lights up top. I may be an idiot but I try not to think too much about my level of intelligence when I’m going through bouts of painful pleasure.
Down to every plump and white flake.
foreground: salted egg yolk prawn bites with petai background: sambal kai lan
I told you it’s painful pleasure. Salted egg yolk is one of the most divine things to ever exist and please the mundane nullity of mankind.
The bites are chewy, though of course are absolutely nothing if it were not for the lovely salted egg infusion, to provide a soft saltiness with miniature granules of pulpy yolk.
pork lard black fried rice
Diets begone. This wildly seductive creature shall come knocking at the doorstep of your dreams in the depths of the night and have you on your knees, begging for just a spoon. It gleams like a dark knight. Honestly I was really only expecting a nice spoon of hot and dark fried rice. What you see is what you get.
But my first taste of that heavenly rice fried in the glorious fat of poor piggies was so wonderfully sinful that I had to take a bit more.
And a bit more.
Each grain is bursting with such a woody, scented flavour. It screams and shouts the wonders of pork. I usually take fried or steamed fish over the former, but this was too good, too, too good. it’s just really good all right? There are even some crusty bits for the sake of painful pleasure and calorific content. The sort of thing which looks a mess when eating but nullifies all one’s worries, at the same time keeping your heart’s rate up because it’s right there in front of you and you can’t stop wondering at how such an ugly black thing could prove such al dente perfection in each fluffy bite.
I mentioned something about having some chilli perfume in my dead hair, didn’t I.
Well I should also like a light backdrop of fish head, thanks.
steamed soon hock in a mildly sweet soy brothbeef with potato wedges
Damn right you see those gorgeous rings of caramelised onions. No one else bothered with them so I grabbed the lot. The meat is bold and tender and juicy. You are welcome to dismiss the plain wedges, though.
What was left in front of me. The remnants of my gluttony. Yes, I ate the whole crab and fish head.
There’s something about heads of any kind of animal which I take a gross pleasure in tucking into, whether I’m at an upscale Thai restaurant or local hawker centre.
C-can I have the fish head?
Go right ahead, Alex (my uncle speaking).
You sur-
Yes yes just take it I know you love it you may thank me later now eat please go on.
So I tucked in and gnawed away at the gooey eyes and crisp tails and liver and that really sweet spot right between the fish’s cheeks. It’s a small, grey ball of moist sea sweetness which gets me so high each time. If I did have a picture of it on here I’d probably be banned from accessing the Internet since little children might think it something else like drugs or poop and so the world carries on.
And if no one’s going to pick at the sweet and delicious crab roe hidden in the little crevices of its sharp interior features then can I also take the cra-
TAKE IT.
And so I did, and I was happy. I prefer wet and lumpy roe more than doing biology internal assessments for school but this was severely lacking here. The roe was stiff and quite resembled lifeless orange slabs. But dip in it the chilli and you’ll survive. And I tell you, it’s all pure adrenaline. The licking, the cutting of the fingers, the chilli dipping, the water breaks and hand washing in between.
Love it love it love it.
The place was so crowded I was scared the bolting waiters might crash and burn each time they took a new set of orders. Good food, noisy local atmosphere, hot and humid but altogether so strong at heart and stomach-pleasing.
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.
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.
chocolate soufflé
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?
would you look at that
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
alexcrumb 