Open Door Policy

Impromptu meet ups at nice, tucked away corners with old faces may cost a lot physically, but I don’t put price tags on the reliving of old brother-sister moments. Brunch, you say? Hell yes. I’ll be there, 11.30am on the dot. I’d like to make a reservation for two please, sir. Oh, and in natural daylight if that’s possible (yes I did say that on the phone). I’ll wander all around Tiong Bahru if that’s what it takes to finally live in the moment of the cynosure of this adorned café.

roasted field mushrooms with wilted greens on toasted brioche with black truffle purée

Look at that. Basically, it was fantastic. The mushrooms were tender, unbruised little baby ones without too much oil suffocating their gills. You can see that after the knife cut, the brioche was yellow, sweet and fluffy, making it an angelic bed for the muted savoury tones of everything on top. The one thing I didn’t like was how when my plate came, the brioche was nowhere to be seen. And I prefer to observe and appreciate each component. Otherwise, it merely looked like a meat eater’s leftovers, neatly placed to the side for the rabbits.

What I really loved was that truffle purée. It looked like the liquid which you would skim off soft bricks of ebony sludge, but the flavour and texture was all right. The best thing to mush on top of the crisp, toasted sides of the skinny brioche wall, laden with a few mushroom stalks and set off nicely with the flat, forgiving greens. Fragrant, thick goop.

ODP pancakes with Grand Marnier and orange

And right here you may observe my tartan-clad self attempting to handle my friend’s gem of a film camera.

The pancakes were disappointingly dry coins. As if its spirit was sucked into a vacuum before they served it. Sapped of all life. The Grand Marnier itself could not suffice. Yes there was liquor and orange, and it didn’t look all that bad at first, but I took one bite and declined another. The other thing I could not stand was the woman next to us who wouldn’t stop scrutinising our every little moment. Hovering, waiting. The sort whereby whenever you looked in her direction, she was already looking in yours. But I may forgive her, because she was new and I was in a hey-I’m-not-an-odp-virgin-anymore sort of mood.

The next time I come, I’ll try the scrambled eggs and smoked salmon. I will, because I can, and well, salmon.

Rating: 3.6/5

Open Door Policy

19 Yong Siak Street

Posted on July 22, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

Physiognomy

= the art of judging someone’s character by examining his/her facial features.

Do not lie. You have done so before. And even if you’re a God sent cherry-faced cherub living on Earth to witness and record all human sin to report back to heaven in preparation for the throwing of us all in a deep dark pit once we die, you know that such judgement is both ubiquitous and unforgiving.

Careless example right here. Look at the man above. I caught sight of him in a café the other day and took a sneaky picture, pretending to be fiddling with my cold brew and adjusting the aperture for the damn window lights, before I finally let loose my inner Warhol and started sketching his beard. Clearly, my life requires odd fulfillment. Because the thing is, if I didn’t draw him, I would have felt inclined to steal something from him, just to obtain some physical souvenir from this fascinating creature.Unshaven, almost bohemian, dare I say Australian. Rugged, pale lobster. Isn’t it amazing how these are my judgements and my judgements only? I don’t even know the guy and here I am thinking he earns a living painting portraits and riding horses. The Love Traveller with a Macbook.

Another one. Angelina Jolie is known as the most beautiful woman in the world. The chiselled rectangle of a face, pearl-like complexion, as if her face were set in stone centuries ago and emerged only now to separate true beauty from mediocrity. Sleek feline, killer jaw, ravishing plump mouth. Not that I disagree with the fact that she is considered such; I’m much more interested in the meticulous and fascinating science which established all this. What scientists call the ‘golden ratio’. Phrenology. Physiognomy. I read in an article today that we typically unconsciously fall victim to our surroundings, mentally suggesting preconceived notions on what lies beneath the human face. What a terrible world, you must be thinking. It’s so obviously wrong, allowing our egos to thrive or be bust with each turn of the head, with each examination. But everyone does it, and everyone does it without a conscience.

The human face is fascinating because everyone has a life and everyone has a story, yet we allow ourselves to make such rapid judgements, usually without even taking into account how others may perceive our own selves. Wouldn’t you love to walk up to a clone of yourself and get some conversation flowing? To see what it’s like outside of your precious set of organs, outside of the two holes on your face.

To really see you for the first time.

Posted on July 20, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

Drury Lane

I like adventures.

Personally, I like personal adventures. So I pretty much pounced on the opportunity to hop down to the newly opened café, named after a street around the Covent Garden area in London. A little burst of sunshine in the middle of Tanjong Pagar. I needed to try, and try I did.

There are so many cafés here, though not half as many as the sprawling bundles in London. I turned up at 10:43 this late morning, armed with my cam, only slightly casual garb and a stomach for eggs and caffeine. The things I do to hold on to the past.

My heart was beating. Believe it or not, I was excited. There were stacked boxes and an ‘upstairs’. Who doesn’t like an upstairs? I think it was the red paint. Or maybe I was having another post-yoga high. The glisten of glowing pink cheeks and a clammy forehead. Don’t I sound attractive.

Iced double espresso. These guys add a dollar to your bill if you want anything iced. Which in my opinion, is not worth it if one is forced to tolerate the harmful heat of Singapore. They should add a dollar for anything that’s not iced. This brew really was what I needed. I felt my soul awaken, my nerves tingle. There was an almost spicy aftertaste, nudging the back of my throat, after the fragrant stream of black finished lingering at the back of my tongue. Glad it was iced. So, very glad. On a side note, my table number was 17! (in other words, the best number in the world, because it blessed the world once before, around 17 years ago in the month of November).

marmite and cheese toast soldiers with two half boiled eggs

I won’t lie, I wanted to drop to my knees and cry out in exasperation and despair when this was brought to my lone table. All alone I sat there, looking at the two pathetic blobs for five minutes. Excuse me sir, could I please have two proper half-boiled eggs please, and not this limp white spider of a once-embryo, I wanted to ask. But my mouth only quivered, because I believed in the place. Watched the awkward waiter walk back down. I tested my luck and pried one open, praying for a golden river.

Alas, golden river it was not. It wasn’t even soft-boiled with a tad bit of runny yolk in the centre. It was soft in the middle, but otherwise a hundred percent overcooked. Nothing flowed, nothing to coat the toast. The toast itself was overly drenched in what seems to me a mixture of butter and marmite, betraying its could-be texture of crunch and fluff. Furthermore, the word ‘soldiers’ shouldn’t be used lightly here. I wanted thin soldiers, not obese and soggy white men. The edges were nicely toasted, and the cheese had the right degree of tag and sharpness. Sadly, everything else was a mess. The world could end one day if all yolks just stood still.

In fact, I wrote a poem titled ‘The Day the Yolk Stood Still.” I kid you not. It was great to just be alone for two hours, writing and drawing and thinking, just bombarded with my own thoughts and the dazzling rays shining through the shophouse windows.

Great coffee, lovely ambience… pity about my second breakfast of the day. I’m quite sure there are much nicer, more aesthetically pleasing items on the menu. I’m sure, I’m sure. It’s still new, after all.

Rating: 3/5

Drury Lane

94 Tanjong Pagar Road

Posted on July 16, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 7

London- Joe’s

SS.

What?

Sorry. I meant Sloane Street. Ah yes, and the first place we visited for some grub in London. Not that it was expected though. It’s not even a stand-alone cafe or restaurant with a holy reputation. Just some three-dimensional block pop out letters next to mannequins. Just an innocent little hideaway in a posh suburb, under a blanc floor of expensive and shiny ladies clothing. Shiny because for some funny reason, that’s how I remember it to be. And I always believed there was some correlation between shininess and drawing attention.

I adored the vintage black and white portraits hung in a neat row alongside the arrangement of little square tables, as if the people in the portraits were determined to ensure smooth-sailing flow of emotion and conversation throughout a romantic meal just by looking over them. My cousins and I babbled away, probably much to the annoyance of the waiters who might as well have been French and snooty with curly, rigid moustaches. We were downright lucky to be in the presence of fine-mannered gentlemen who even offered my younger sister a starter of lemon 7-up. Too kind, really.

fresh white crab with diced mango and avocado

smoked salmon, mango, avocado and cornish crab salad with grapefruit dressing

The fare was quite splendid, though I struggled to find the avocado in my crab dish.Turns out some slices were sneakily lurking under the little bed of greens. Looks are really quite deceiving, for the dishes are about a thousand times bigger than how it looks. Splitting things made business easier, and the enjoyment factor was pushed up because of this too. Every ingredient was fresh and ripe, which was what made the whole experience almost a rejuvenating one. However, nothing particularly stood out to me like a cat’s eyes at night. Nothing dazzlingly brilliant, though their slices of rye at the start were indeed impressive.

No justice done without at least a little starch. Now, every time I look at ketchup, which by the way is a marvellous accompaniment to a myriad other things in life, I can’t help but cringe at how some bakeries (*cough PAUL) don’t allow such condiments in house. Whilst having lunch with a friend today, I was astounded by the polite ‘I’m sorry, but we don’t provide ketchup here’. I was having eggs so, that statement was more appropriate as a joke. The fries were good, the bread, excellent, but the price… I’d rather not mention. Then again, it too comprised of quality service and fresh produce. Oh right, and the dizzying shopping ambience above and across the street. Gosh, the shopping itself deserves a whole post on its own. I felt like a sliver of plankton thrown amongst the gushing waves of human scents and faces and skin.

Joe’s was a good start for more great things to come.

Rating: 4.0/5

Joe’s

16 Sloane Street, London

Posted on July 9, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

London Restaurant Festival 2013

At the top: Red ripple whippy on a red velvet cone. A laughable attempt at the classic whippy, for despite it’s fantastical Alice-in-Wonderland loopiness, the thing’s still a McDonald’s vanilla cone at heart. And apologies for the ghastly red nail.

Regent’s Street was full to brimming, even when the clouds above were hovering and pregnant with imminent rain. My uncle, grandmother and I fought to share one poor, battered black umbrella.

That man was staring at me in the eye, thinking, ‘oh these Asians nowadays, can’t do anything but take pictures. Always pictures, pictures, pictures’. Embarrassedly, I walked on into the frigid arena, crowded with long-legged socialites, dedicated foodies and yes, more cameras. This is the real life, people. You can’t walk anywhere in the 21st century and not document every precious, london-lit second. I was walking around starry-eyed, and believe it or not, the rain soon stopped. I swear.

An innocent take on lamb rendang. It was superb, I must say, though a little too sweet for my liking and perhaps not spicy enough. Not one of the special highlights, but a calm starter.

pulled pork shoulder with pickled red cabbage and a slice of cornbread

It’s around 11pm now and my mouth is watering at the sheer sight and memory of that gracious, sacrificed piece of meat. Good heavens it was good. The pulled pork was just, once again, perhaps a tad too sweet, but on the whole I couldn’t care less for it went so wonderfully with the soft bite of cabbage and buttery cornbread. The first forkful (which was not to mention, incredibly fork-tender) sent me to porky heaven. Dripping with marinade, slightly chewy, soft and sharp. How ridiculous.

roasted apple ‘burger’ with caramelised onions, mayonnaise and pickles

How unusual! I exclaimed. I inched closer and closer to the little counter, and delicately asked for what they labelled as a roasted apple burger. Of course I didn’t expect much meat in it. I respected the fragility of a good roasted apple. The man at the front immediately placed a plate in front of my uncle and I, said ‘thank you miss’ and rushed away to attend to the bottomless mosh pit, armed with hunger and fuelled by the new London heat. The apple itself was soft, though not sappy and sloppy, with the perfect amount of filling. I loved the whole idea of an apple burger, and the size was so becoming.

1. Pork and chilli dumplings. Altogether, really nothing outstanding, but I appreciated the insertion of Chinese cuisine amongst the oodles of burgers and Middle Eastern get-ups.

2. Oxtail doughnut with apricot jam. Yes, this was a glorious, fried, doughnut. A prying open of the crisp and battered surface, like golden, compressed crumbs, revealed a tender oxtail stew, coupled with a lightly sweet jam. What genius, what spectacular cruelty.

3. Lamb and yoghurt. You see a trend happening here?

4. And lastly, the best ice cream I have ever tasted in my life. Pictured is the banoffee flavour. We also tried the fresh berries and clotted cream, which was more subtle, less sickly sweet but just as magnificent. I never thought anything could beat the luxury of Haagen Dazs, but I guess I was wrong. Purbeck Ice Cream nourished my heart and soul for a good 5 days after my first bite. As creamy as a molten white river having just turned solid on a sudden snowy night, blessed with the richest virginal quality and orgasmic aftertaste.

One of the best days of my life, to put it lightly.

Posted on July 5, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 1

alexcrumb

recipes, catering, creativity

alexcrumb

Tag: miscellaneous

Open Door Policy

Physiognomy

Drury Lane

London- Joe’s

London Restaurant Festival 2013