Kith Cafe

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).

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.

top: 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

Posted on February 14, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

Ministry of Food

NEX, Serangoon. Don’t bother asking me what NEX stands for or who came up with it. So elusive. Terribly bizarre.

That’s where we were heading. I crossed my fingers for decent finds, considering the fact that I had no idea what to expect and how I hadn’t stepped into any other part of Singapore other than around the bustling lights of Orchard Road for a painfully long time.

Yesterday was the official first session of the Culinary Appreciation Society, so we were put into a few groups to visit a myriad of different places. This society has the words ‘culinary’ and ‘appreciation’, so that was good reason enough to join. Mind you, savoury over gorging, as goes my motto. I highlight right here to all food chums: Japanese food can throw my control right out the window sometimes.

And here I present to you banana fritters with vanilla ice cream, topped with whipped cream, slivered almonds and a gruesome maraschino cherry (if it’s one thing I’ll never be able to tolerate, it’s maraschino cherries).

On a partially full stomach, I was only willing to share little edible trinkets here and there, whilst gobbling down everyone’s available (and hopelessly neglected) caramelised onions. Onion Chomper is destined to be my middle name, both in this life and the next. I swear on my life. Those banana fritters were fried to a crisp, lava-hot texture and consistency, which went wonderfully with the frigid vanilla accompaniment. Not real vanilla bean ice cream or anything similar, of course. One mustn’t expect too much in order to be pacified or satisfie. Those after-school munchies got the better of me though, so I sacrificed some ordinary pleasure.

Two choices here: heavily ‘breaded’ or ‘crispy’. The crispy ones turned out like mini sweet spring rolls, whilst the breaded resembled dessert-like frozen orange fish fingers waiting to be drenched in some white chorus of a sauce. Almost incongruous, but yet fit in reluctantly. A little boy wearing a pink hat, I should say. Most unfortunately, Ruru and I agreed on how they went soft, cold and soggy after a while, failing to uphold a sustainable crisp factor. The beauty never lasted, but the slivered almonds were an appropriate accessory. And to be perfectly honest, they should have served it with a knife and fork, to cater to the common motion of the common human hand.

You can see the second picture right there, a golden halo praising the wonders of the almighty Japanese ramen. Not my choice, but I picked at it with high hopes. The bowl hid a dozen treasures locked within a thick, sodium-choked translucent broth. The meatball I tried was lacklustre and seemed to have lost all its flavour in the heat of the noodle-themed excitement. Broth was salty but almost addictive. I found more satisfaction in its brown-mirror like visual appeal, poking around just to see the appealing ripples. I’ve had more round tasting, chewier strands before, though perhaps I’m not the one to propose a full-blown review on this dish, since I’m not the biggest fan of noodles in the first place. Let’s not stubbornly claim the superiority of a single personality!

Now what I do love are the extended features of this gargantuan menu.

Sorry, my mistake.

Three menus. Or was it four? Someone correct me. I felt like a helpless baby seal standing amongst schools of fish, scared of picking the wrong one, yet at the same time half-ready to pounce on each choice out there. Frustration tingled and the displayed visuals were magnanimous. Too much and annoyingly kind. I watched on as one member wolfed down an entire pizza whilst another savoured some smoked salmon aglio olio. This was the food community I have come to know of in one unpretentious evening; just one group with a gluttonous inclination and adventurous spirit. Other groups hopped down to Prata Wala, a famous and apparently extremely brilliant prata place, Carl’s Junior for some puzzling reason and many other little stops.

Good company is a plus point, elevating the entire scene, whilst juxtaposed with multiple dishes. I looked sadly at all the ordered glasses of water. 30 cents for such orders? Dear.

May I also quietly add that some people had to wait quite a long while just to get simple (and mediocre) dishes such as soft-shell crab. On the whole, it was a decent introduction to what I may expect to come in the following weeks, and I’m so pleased to be part of a group which shares the same passion for noshing. To really just enjoy having our heads buried in menus or in a bowl or plate of some delicacy or another. We shall unite in appreciation, and gastronomic absurdity.

A pleasure and privilege indeed.

Rating: 3.2/5

Ministry of Food (MOF)

23 Serangoon Central

#02-01/02/03 Nex

66344610

Posted on February 2, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

Pique Nique

Being MIA has instilled within me a rushed urge to pen down (or type out, rather) some sort of spilling from my head, my memory, my any form of past experience or happening. Just anything. A deep urge to merely engage in some good outpouring.

So I thought, why not talk about the book I just finished, or perhaps my first week at school (which was more fun that what I had initially playing out in my head, with a ton of dirt and soap and ruggedness and hearty laughter). Then I thought, hey, there’s that food post I missed out on. So I opted for a missed call rather than something relevant to my own present. I’m absurd and boring that way, yes. Basically, this is the restaurant I went to a few days before I left for France for a food and ski escapade, one which whom everyone probably already knows about.

Pique Nique. Literally pronounced picnic, quite unlike what I had in my head whenever I walked by the new place a few years ago, my uvula ringing from a post French word half horse grunt. It’s in an open area where everyone can admire their collection of whoopie pies and blueberry cheesecakes. A quirky little space which I believe replaced Mcdonalds or something or another, though the genuine quirky factor is dimmed down by the somewhat unprofessional gimmick of service; slow and amateur to say with full politeness.

The burnt-coloured chairs look heavily inviting. Plush exterior to mislead the eye, for once one sits down, you are brought back to a 1950s red bar booth with a cheap plastic cover. Very homely and chic, though.

I believe there is a mighty correlation between a person’s age and his/her attraction to a dish such as carbonara. I remember as a child I would happily wolf down a full plate of this after school, made lush and complete with lashings of Thai sweet chill sauce, since I believed it cut through the opaqueness of such a thick white swimming pool and made the crisp bacon bits even more distinct. Now I watch my two youngest sisters ordering the stuff whenever available in a restaurant. It’s always the cream pasta and meat which appeals to the palette, though I myself fail to keep up with childhood memories and have stopped ordering it altogether. Call me what you may, but I’m certainly not the sort to order the same thing over and over again at different restaurants, for fear that the lack of variety may one day end up killing the sentience of my taste buds and whatever there may be present to provide me with the ability to distinguish between flavours. It’s mostly fear, and a little boredom.

Stole a bite from my dear cousin’s plate just to be sure that they weren’t serving it for the sake of Western tradition. A good sauce and slightly overcooked pasta. Tasty, albeit predictable. And the predictable stuff is only half worth it, oui?

I actually found the most interesting thing the salad, which was really well dressed, and had the correct components of everything in a delectable ratio. I was guessing that the salmon might be a tad too salty, and indeed it was. I sound incredibly cynical and snarky. To guess and be correct is a satisfying feeling, since it offers peace of mind and less hefty an emotional price. However this case presents a more disappointing sort of correctness, hence the satisfaction is not achieved. The egg was sufficiently poached, but it was the sort of dish which made you wonder if good quality would be maintained time and time again, long after the hype diminishes and the spotted teenage waiters move on.

The thing I was most disappointed about was the terrible lack of drinks available. We perused the menu and ordered iced chocolate and iced lattes, only to find out that ‘none were available’. None. The word cut me up on the inside. We were forced to resort to tea, water and coffee. Oh yes, and a glass of apple juice (the sort which you could taste the carton brand of). Of course it had to be our fault for coming to eat on the wrong day at the wrong time with the wrong expectations. The disappointment almost turned to enragement, but I kept my hat on and merely scowled for a few seconds. It’s not the end of the world.

So. My dish. I saw the fried egg of course. That sort of said quite enough once I opened the coffee-dipped menu. I’ve tried Croque Madame a good few times; enough to tell whether something of this profound size would behold enough taste to prove it’s worth.

Plainly saying, it was overwhelmingly bready. I was forced to cut through rounds of dry white bread, with each piece failing to soak up enough eggy goodness. It’s all about the yolk, but the gargantuan portion of cheesy bread was putting me off. Cheese was present; all lovely and crusty and sometimes even gooey between the two-inch thick slices. The only wrong thing was the disproportionate ratio. Portion= utterly westernised. Not entirely a bad thing, but evidently it was perhaps too much of a normal thing. Nothing to blow my (non-existent) socks off. These cases present to me something more unattractive than appetising, even if I was absolutely ravenous.

And here you may admire the luscious serving of crusty Belgian waffles which I recommended to my overwhelmed 5-year old sister, since I am a selfish human being and wanted to have a few bites myself. One of the better waffles out there, which don’t rapidly melt away into a soggy mess with something like ice cream and whipped cream on top. Each bite was wonderful, and the ice cream itself wasn’t full of that artificial, Hersheys-esque aftertaste. A half-real chocolate taste, which was impressive considering the decent price. The ratio in this case was spot on. The ice cream could coat the whole thing with an ample, plump brown blanket, creamy and nourishing. Waffles were simply spectacular, what with the golden edges and crunch throughout its ridged, pressed body. The chocolate was just asking to be sploshed into every square cubby hole, lying there to soften and sweeten a hardy bread texture.

Magnifique.

Rating: 2.6/5

Pique Nique

391A Orchard Road
#B1-01/02 Ngee Ann City
62386705

Posted on January 12, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 2

France: La Bastide St Antoine

Only fools can revel in such selfish self-appraisal and a holier-than-thou attitude if they dare try rating a Michelin-starred restaurant. For honestly, what is there to rate at all? Alright yes, there is definitely some controversy surrounding what constitutes as Michelin material, however there is simply no question (if any at all doubt) here. Hence, I shall not name this a review, and will instead insert it fittingly into the ‘Babbles’ category. This will simply be my gushing over a place which deserves to be called a palace.

Plain and simple. This is what it is. Fabulous french food at a respectable cost, wrapped up nicely in a little package with a dollop of charisma, humour, perfect service and exquisite ambience. All decked out in glorious shades of ivory and mitten, as if ready to flex and expand once your belt and waist pops.

This lunch lasted from 1 to 4 30pm.

So yes, we dined for more than 3 hours. Dangerous. Very dangerous. But we came and we ate and we guffawed at every little Michelin-starred detail in sight.

This was a quartet of culinary daintiness. We were instructed (in rather stern yet soft French accents) to go from right to left, like this: cauliflower soup, pumpkin, pickled vegetables and rabbit. We followed that order, in order to allow the flavours from each petite compartment to meld into one another seamlessly. Oh it works alright. No to mention those little sporks are ridiculously adorable. The entire thing felt indeed to be more like a dream than reality, and the whole time I was simply wide-eyed, admiring course after course, half the time too scared to ruin the spell at the touch of my fingertips.

What more do I need to say here.

Ah, my entree. Mind you, more of an entire meal in itself. This was by no means a meagre, expectedly small portion. The French like to emphasise the strength of their dishes, and I guess this is exactly what they meant by a strong and unfaltering dish. There was a party of shellfish upstairs, and absolutely perfect, al dente, lobster-infused risotto downstairs. It came with a little jug of what appeared to be some amber sauce or reduction, and surprise surprise, the little French waiter next to me graciously poured every drop over the plate, careful to coat every grain of rice in sight. Taking my fork, I scooped a little before going straight in. And oh my goodness, was it perfect. Such precious moments render me speechless, and this was one of those priceless moments. The seafood sauce was creamy without taking away the pleasurable oomph and personality of that slightly chewy, alabaster risotto.

I’m personally not a huge fan of big portions for they dilute the personality of a dish after a while, but this was marvellous to say the least, and I ate up. I just did.

And this was my main course (thanks to my habitual obsession with any sort of fish). It was a hard time trying to sift through a list of options before coming to some risky and painful decision. Life choices, life choices. Magnificent, life-changing choices! The fish was surprisingly predictable albeit very well cooked. A good fillet is never actually as bland as many people assume to be when it comes to fish or other types of white meat. The saddest part was that I was already terribly full by the time my main course arrived (my small stomach hardly does me any favours).

I present to you the star of the desserts that bleak and wintery afternoon. This is no ordinary strawberry souffle, may I just first point out.

See that pouf? The high rising glory (before my spoon sank in, of course)?

It’s all sweet and mildly tangy whipped air in a ramekin. I still remember the slight give as my spoon made a curved cut, as if the little thing was too shy to reveal the pockets of strawberry-kissed air inside. You get the tender, slightly chewy meringue edge, followed by the bliss of whipped nothingness. Nothingness with substance, that is.

All of a sudden you seize up and shut your eyes, just to quickly catch what you just experienced. A soft spot amongst the mountains of other rich and dense dishes. The souffle managed to retain the perfect tang of strawberries, even with the airy fairy sweetness. And here’s more. Keep in mind that that entire dessert platter you see below was totally complimentary. Mr Chibois, the head chef and top mastermind of the restaurant, is a humble genius.

This was no meal. I was privileged enough instead to enjoy an entire experience that afternoon (and half the evening). To simply sit there and watch plate after plate come and go was both visual ecstasy and sensory delight. Each waiter entertained us with such wit and charm, and served us olive and raisin bread between each course. So unlike the common wooden waiters here in Singapore. Then again, I’m only being mean since it’s also pretty common for people to have their bad days, no? (Though I must say, if ever these lovely French waiters DID have a bad day, I doubt they would show it).

La Bastide, I shall come for you again one day.

Perhaps with 2 more stomachs to help this pathetic one out.

Posted on December 25, 2012February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

P.S. Cafe at Palais Renaissance

Right so I like P.S. Cafe.

First for ambience.

Second for food.

Third (lastly) for coffee and desserts. And yes, those are meant to be placed in that specific order. I also appreciate how these lovely people bother to whip up some homemade baked goods to display at least a tinge of Mr. Flourman experience as well as the ability to hold up to a name, and keep it. Efforts=appreciated.

They are not an artisan bakery, so wasn’t expecting much when given a sourdough loaf. It held a fraction of the desired tang in a good and hearty sourdough, though its papery skin did not give way fast, and it took quite a while to finish in the house. Yes, minorly impressed.

I went last Saturday to catch up on some mother-daughter time (no, I am most certainly not the mom here), and ordered a cappuccino to start.

Please don’t expect a 6-star rating with their caffeine shots. The cap was satisfying though a tad too milky for my taste, and comes with a little biccie to dip into the coffee (hidden in the photo above, though I wouldn’t bother with stale ochre nibblets to begin with). Props to the beautiful latte art, though. One seriously requires a steady hand to master even the slightest pattern!

So, given the brunch menu at 2pm that day, I believed it only fitting to satisfy my belly with a nice Eggy Benny.

Yet somehow, after yoga, all I really crave is something monstrously fresh and healthy.

Like, yes, a meagre salad. But thank goodness for good and hearty salads here at P.S.. I got the P.S. Caesar with rosemary honey dijon chicken. I awaited some gorgeous spring green, parmesan-smothered plate with a wobbly poached egg nestled among the greens, accompanied by lashings of shredded chicken in and amongst every nook and cranny.

I was wrong.

I was instead greeted by a sausage-like chunk of chipotle chicken on a stick. Yes, a stick. I expected that stick to be dry and unbearably unpalatable, but once again (surprise, surprise) I was just wrong. Spot the pattern in my flawed perspective on chickens, yes?

**P.S. Caesar salad with rosemary honey dijon chicken- $24**

Egg was well done, dressing was ample, and the chicken was rather easy to pull apart and savour in small bites (you know me, all about savouring small bites). A good salad overall.

The mother got banana pancakes which, quite honestly, were rather dreadful. Zilch full picture here, but the stack of four was terribly pretentious, like a peremptory schoolteacher dressed in honey (you can see it in the background). Pancakes were dense and bland, and the caramelised bananas cowered in the yellow banality of the stodge, not doing much to help.

We then shared a lemon and florentine cake.

For those who wish to know, florentines are a moreish concoction comprised of candied fruit and toasted nuts. A dessert granola, more like.

**Sticky lemon and chewy florentine cake- $12**

Now the florentine was a tad too sugar-coated.

But that cake.

That magnificent 3-pound baby is literally bursting at the seams with candied lemon liquor. Forget trying to make moist cakes. Just come here. Each bite beckons as I speak (or type, rather). The citrus is not a clean-cut lemon, and i would have actually preferred a more punchy flavour in the works. One might even confuse such a slice for a moist orange cake, but who’s to blame. This aside, none of this sweetness would work without the cold, melting ball of vanilla ice cream next to it.

I’d kill anyone who takes a bite of that cake without some of its accompaniment.

Kill.

Ah, more?

Cod’s good, though by no means impressive, from what I remember. A good fillet should be glossy and translucent, flakes falling away as they shy away from the touch of a knife, cutting like butter. Mildly sweet, the least ‘fishy’ fish of the lot.

You can’t have a non-oily cod, because that would simply be another cardinal culinary sin.

Of course, the famous truffle fries, which are only ever spectacular with great heaps of cheese and truffle. I never took a liking to fries of any sort, though if ever I reach for a second one, they must be golden, almost burnt and covered in either honey mustard or chilli.

Come with an appetite, come with a friend.

Rating: 3/5

P.S. Cafe at Palais

Level 2, 390 Orchard Road

9834 8232

Posted on December 4, 2012February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

alexcrumb

recipes, catering, creativity

alexcrumb

Tag: #lunch

Kith Cafe

Ministry of Food

Pique Nique

France: La Bastide St Antoine

P.S. Cafe at Palais Renaissance