Wimbly Lu Chocolates

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I write this as a sailor stranded to my bed, the cold shivers churning my skin blue and green and all sorts of unnatural tones. I hate sickness. I hate what it does to you; the freedom it strips away from you. Food poisoning is actually the worst. So to make myself feel a little better, I’ve decided to talk about waffles. Which is easy enough, except these were particularly good waffles, and not the mediocre sort you would get from trying to make it yourself at home from a pack. Granted I’m no waffle expert, but I think I know a good one when I taste/see one. Welcome to Wimbly Lu, everyone.

Be careful, though. The chances of your bottom ruining the dainty, feminine chairs laid out as if for a 24/7 tea party is monstrously high.

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foreground: waffle with honey cinnamon ice cream with toffee sauce– $8.50 background– waffle with salted caramel ice cream and maple syrup– $8.50 nutella chocolate pie– $6
foreground: waffle with honey cinnamon ice cream with toffee sauce– $8.50
background– waffle with salted caramel ice cream and maple syrup– $8.50
nutella chocolate pie– $6

Worth it. Every single cent.

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I never really thought myself a diehard waffle fan. But I GET the appeal of these– outrageously crisp exterior, wonderfully fluffy interior. The ice cream topping was lovely, though I wish they had larger ice cream scoops. The ratio was a little off, and this fact was made even more evident as the sun ran its course, and the cream slithered into all the cute little square syrup traps and down the sides, soaking each nook and cranny, but there was just not enough of it to provide a more moderate degree of pleasure.

Honey cinnamon and salted caramel aside, they also have flavours such as cheesecake (dear lord, I was close to picking that one), rum and raisin (alright, that too), milo, brownie, chocolate truffle and vanilla bean. Doesn’t that just sound decadent.

Gosh, the crunch on that thing. My ears perked as my knife made shingle sounds, as it cut into the wonderful, brown crust. I have to say though, the waffles from Artistry still have my heart glued to its perfect little crevices.

I didn’t expect much from the nutella pie, but goodness, it was pretty much the richest chocolate pie I’ve ever had, laced with the childlike whimsy of nutella. A deep, dark ganache, not overly cloying, so thick, so beautiful. The pastry was only lightly sweetened to play off the carnal chocolate notes. It worked magnificently.

Lemon Meringue Pie–$7
Lemon Meringue Pie–$7


Why hi, ungroomed toes.

I read quite a bit about their famous lemon meringue pie, and I almost felt inhuman if that meant not taking one of these babies home. Just one slice, at a shocking 7 bucks, but at least it was one of those humongous slices that could last one for days on end. Quite satisfied, yes. The interior is a buttery lemon curd, topped with swirls of sweet, torched meringue, all lying on a strong pastry base, sweeter than that of the nutella pie, but justly so, for a mild sweetness was necessary to offset the jaw-tingling tang of lemon. I loved it. You will love it. Go get it.


Wimbly Lu Chocolates

15 Jalan Riang

6289 1489

Tues-Thurs– 12 30 to 10 30pm

Fri– 12 30 to 11pm

Sat/Sun– 9am to 11pm

Closed Mondays





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Here’s an introduction not by me, but by one of my favourite people in the world. In other words, the dashing guy you see right above (: :

Nothing will ever beat meals cooked at home. There’s just something about food cooked by individuals for others in the comfort of their own home that gives it an edge over the most exquisite fare in top restaurants. It’s the warmth that breathes through a messy but lovingly made dish, the loud laughter echoing across the table and the comforting presence of close friends. Maybe it’s love.

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I’m actually not sure what compelled me to ask for rare cuts. I would’ve gone straight for the bleu stage, but my parents were there and they would’ve sliced my fingers off. Living on the edge calls for some necessary sacrifice. Sometimes. The goo of that red meaty interior, the pairing of a rustic baguette, the cool crunch of beans bathed and massaged with a tender vinaigrette. Stick your knife in the wobbly belly of a slice, poke a few greens, layer it all on a bite of boule. Tossed together on the honesty of a white plate, made perfect over hours of talking and drunken merriment. That was easily the best part. An easy flow of musical conversation, booming voices and laughter to weigh down the aimless night air. It was all too spectacular, and all too comforting.

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Last course: fromage platter. I put some blue on baguette (fanciful alliteration made all too appropriate here), and allowed the rich velvet to combine harmoniously with the fresh bread in my mouth. Crunch and cream. A galaxy of flavour. I could carry on talking about the humble and dazzling dishes, but I’m sure the pictures speak for themselves, and I’m not inclined to treat it all as a normal cafe or restaurant review. Needless to say, the experience of it all, with the company and ambience, overwhelms a breakdown of dish by dish statistics. They are no longer necessary in the golden entirety of such nights.

And it’s during nights like these when you can lay back with full satisfaction, heavy, blushing, dizzy with happiness. Because the best company on Earth is absolutely irreplaceable.

Flock Café

Those spur-of-the-moment meet ups with someone special.

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We ambled in, unsure of what to expect, I myself a little doubtful of the humongous crowd and booming noise level. And yet, half of me ached to just try. Flock, like a bird. A dynamic freedom, a short escape. Sometimes, it doesn’t really matter where you are if you’re blessed with the best company.

After browsing around Books Actually, I needed at least a little fuel in the form of fare of little pretentious degree and biting caffeine (as usual. I’m scarily predictable. Maybe it’s just Saturdays). I relished the thought of just sitting down to some stimulating conversation, some heavy comfort. It was hot, dry and balmy outside, and the inside offered a hushed promise of something good. I also loved what was written on the walls:

Morning has broken

Mr. Coffee has spoken.

It really got the tune rolling in my head, that. It was even in swirly letters. I was quite happy, that’s a given.


Believe it or not, I manage to amuse myself sometimes. I mistook at least two young women to be the waitresses, and dropped my camera. I’m the best at subjecting myself and my poor companions to public humiliation. But about the waitresses, I can’t blame myself really. They all look the same, with identical giggles and smiles and ponytails. I swear on it.

Oh Lix, you tried. And the orders were still mixed up. Still. First, I wanted a cortado. I changed my mind and ordered an iced black, only to have an iced white salaam me soon afterwards. But it was alright. I got my black in the end. All is good with patience and forced smiles. Gosh, the things I do for something to hit the spot. Lix had an earl grey, which was warm and fragrant.

pork cheek and gruyère sandwich (hand shredded braised pork cheek, gruyère, mustard and ciabatta)
banana brioche french toast and crispy bacon

After a mid-lengthy wait, the sandwich came, then the french toast.

I was surprised by the texture of the pulled pork cheek, which was tender and rather juicy. The slathered mustard was mild and complementary, offering a sharp creaminess and savoury touch to the dish. Not luxurious enough to the point whereby you wouldn’t mind anointing yourself with it, but appealing nonetheless. Well it wasn’t my dish, but obviously I stole a bite. I’m not all that doggerel in nature, you know. We are all dignified human beings. I didn’t have enough of it to criticise it fully, because eating that whole thing would be more of a journey than a brief side throw comment. I do appreciate the words ‘hand-shredded’, though. Fitting in some elbow grease is always a good thing. Like kneading bread. You just can’t turn that sort of thing down.

My french toast demanded a long wait, but goodness, when that primed platter finally arrived, I knew I was in for some herculean effort. A maple syrup-drenched (not coated) obstacle course, laden with crisp slivers of bacon and soft banana. More effort should have gone into something like bruleeing those yellow slivers instead of drowning the crisp, fried mass in a litre of syrup. At first glance, it looks decent, almost prim, but get a little closer and you spot the shrinking pool of maple pulling in at the edges, every square inch dying to be soaked up by the ever-benevelont brioche, those airy, moist and dangerously buttery inch-thick brick slabs. I thoroughly enjoyed the texture of the brioche. The outside gleamed with a fresh seal of heat, and as my fork broke through a mildly soggy (thanks to you know what) crust, a little whisper of steam escaped from a white-yellow interior. Dense enough for me to wham some bacon and banana against its belly, light enough to be pleasurable on the tongue. However, it was all too much after a while, and I had to stop and gulp down more icy coffee to balance the heady sweetness. Small qualms. Otherwise, the coffee was decent and the fare, satiating. If I do warrant another visit, I might crack down on some eggs.

But once again, thank goodness for the best company. To say I was duly satisfied would be…

A tad bit of an understatement.

Rating: 4.0/ 5

Flock Café

78 Moh Guan Terrace (Tiong Bahru)

Human Categories?

Before I babble, a few favourites and faraway-summer-dreaming.




Dungarees bring back memories of England. I’d slide in the buckle and feel all countryside yet proper. Rustic warmth in denim fibres.

To the point.

So you see, I’m always laughing on the inside.

When I see a girl or boy on the street trapped in a bubble. Of the latest trends or ways of communication. Of happiness and nonchalance. Of bits and bobs of life’s seemingly finest. Polka dots and stripes and all the huppdeedoo patterns in between.

Of course, who am I to judge. They’re probably just like me or far greater under all that. They feel obliged to present themselves in such a manner and perhaps I myself am trapped in a bubble of dissonance and lowly curtness. I, Alex, The Psychotic Observer of this peaceful and harmonious world (well sometimes, especially after the Boston fiasco. My prayers reside amongst their graves, together with those in the Middle East. We tend to talk heavy on a western bias when it comes to death, don’t we?)

No, these people are probably not blindly following trends for the sake of doing so; that girl with 5 inches of make up, bright pink stilettos and purple peplum top might just have earned a PhD in economics at Harvard university.

Same goes for that round and soft human being hanging around corners in a baggy shirt with peace sign logos and jodhpurs. On the other hand, someone who looks the most smart or put together may not necessarily be just as so on the inside. This might sound as stupid as saying a girl eating a croissant isn’t always French, but then again, sometimes circumstance and context throw me off board, together with a human sentience and empathy threshold. Really, it does, and sometimes I’m plain embarrassed by it. Every day I walk past people I don’t know personally and immediately fasten them into categories; categories they might not even belong in or which they only feel inclined to be a part of due to selection pressures in the Great Social Survival.

I recall walking around with my dad at the Botanic Gardens and coming across a meek old man with stiff and oily silver locks half covering thick spectacles, which in turn gave his small eyes a demeaning glaze. He stopped for a while to adjust his stained brown running shorts. Sweat made his translucent singlet fully transparent, with some bits clinging to rather unflattering areas.

‘Hey, Prof!’ Dad walked over to Brown Man. The latter held his ground, his stare thoughtful and a tad crazed, if I might.

So. Professor and lecturer at NUS (National University of Singapore). Taught my dad in the 80s and still going strong. I could literally feel an outpouring of speechless respect and unknowing adoration from this selfish and judgmental soul of mine.

There was a huge barbecue party at my house once, thanks to an abundance of leftover charcoal from the robust remains of last year’s soiree (newly stocked!) An olive-skinned, gangly woman in her 30s or 40s came in looking every part the look-at-me Caucasian socialite. Her perfectly manicured fingernails could have killed a tiger cub. That crotch-skimming dress reeled in all the looks. All this whilst I was on my second serving of homemade tiramisu, hair a straggly mess. When I greeted her and offered some champagne, I must’ve looked like I was sprouting algae.

But oh wait, she’s only a doctor with a professional background in the Art of Violin Playing.

I guess my assumptions are my mistakes. Lesson learnt.

Heavy Eyes, Restless Hearts


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.