May I be pleased to declare that I am no longer a House virgin. May I also be pleased to declare that I actually needed help finding the stairs which led down to the restaurant. I need serious help in the directions department.
truffle taro fries
Skinny, hard, prickly things, but aromatic nonetheless. These sans truffle oil would have been paltry little shoestrings.
pork ribs with caramelised pineapple and crispy shallot rings
After flipping through the fragile newspaper-style menu, I decided on the caramelised pork ribs. When they came, I thought they might have swallowed me. Since I was at a birthday celebration, there were at least 4 other people who ordered something different, and the hulking pork salsas looked fit to take on any one in hands-on combat. The couple of enormous brown hammers were fastened into an incongruously elegant position, like elephants in tutus. But it wasn’t in the least bit awkward. This was mine, and my mouth was growing with more sticky heat and sweetness by the minute. I needed to neutralise the wonderful acidity by stealing one of my friend’s fondant carrots, which had a slight give and yielded a softly sweet crunch. The rib meat was not butter tender (and the middle was quite dry), but my knife enjoyed lolling around in the syrupy, sappy sauce, poking around at all the caramelised strips. I always believed the best parts are the stringy, almost rubbery, paper-thin layers you peel way from the surface of the bone, as compared to the meat itself. I’m not odd at all.
roast chicken with mash and fondant carrots
turmeric-roasted barramundi with sweet date sauce and chorizo
I would comment on the other two, but it would have been quite rude to poke around at everyone’s food. Have I mentioned I’m no longer a House virgin?
I had been meaning to come. After about… Let’s see now. 6 years? No, more. Trust me on this one. It’s the typical case of frequent pass-bys, a longing over-the-shoulder glance, before the trudging and shuffling of running shoes and legs. A blur of legs and beige. Every Sunday I run (well, to be fair it’s more of an extremely brisk walk) to the Botanical Gardens with my dad, and every time I pass by Cluny Court, I get a vague image of a quaint inside, the round golden domes of speckled sesame seed buns (yes, even though I thoroughly dislike top buns, they make very moreish mental imagery) dotting each table like parasites, juicy, fat meaty bellies, little sauce curds clinging to the sides and bottom of a thick-inch patty.
The waves of desire finally crashed upon the shores when Felix announced a similar longing. Of course! I said.
Of course. Relish.
The interior is so welcoming, with large windows all round to honour the strength of the day’s rays, rimmed with white wood, taking on the old colonial fashion of interior design. Slightly Scandinavian, I thought I heard him say.
Ram-Lee burger (ramly burger- beef patty, margarine, onions, cabbage, fried egg and Worcestershire sauce)open-faced soft-boned char siew burger- thick and sweet pulled pork and coleslaw on homemade focaccia
The shine and glisten. I ordered the latter.
I actually really enjoyed this. Paired it with a 5-buck pale and fizzy Limonata, which was tart enough to cut through the rich sweetness of the hulk of meat.
If you are strange enough to enjoy the consumption of fat like me, and I mean gloopy, translucent bits of fat, you will adore this dish. I remember the virgin tug of my knife revealed a wobbly hunk of fat beneath a thick and sticky burgundy blanket. Nothing more. I was pretty sure more than 50% of the topping comprised fat and cartilage alone. The char siew itself is not exactly authentic char siew in the sense that the texture was handled differently than what you would get at your local hawker centre, but it worked nonetheless with the sweet coat of flavour. Admittedly, there was a point in time whereby the heavy richness was a little too much to bear, and the paltry side salad lacked enough acidity to accentuate the dangerous sweetness.
After a while, it became slightly one-dimensional, but bearable because the flavours were maintained at a near-explosive level. I also would have preferred a crusty, more hearty cut of bread, as the softness of the ‘homemade focaccia’ all too easily soaked up the gluey sauce, almost rapidly disintegrating into a moist, white mass of stodge. Not all too unpleasant, but a rustic flavour was needed; something more authentic and hardy rather than soft and white and weak. As I picked at his spicy, pickled onions, I also picked up the smoky smell of Worcestershire and the caramelised edges of fried egg. Untried, but I still considered it contact.
‘Hey girls, guess what. You get a treat from me. Your mother. And you know what, we’re going to go have a lovely dinner tonight. Preferably without breaking the bank, yes?’
My mother’s honest words. We were considering all the decent, cheap options around town, when she herself suggested Basilico. Isn’t that quite expensive, I murmured. Not like I’ve ever been there, but ‘Basilico’ was clearly a more-posh-than-average Italian name with slight snake-related connotations. Or serpent or amphibian. Oh hell, it was an excuse to wear my Calvin Klein leather-topped sleeveless mini dress anyway. And so we headed for the Regent Hotel, aka the golden-knobbed house my country can show off to tourists. I was excited. We all were (I think).
On a Saturday night, we were offered the choice of an antipasti and dessert buffet plus the choice of one main course from their a la carte menu. I couldn’t complain. Good God, it’s expensive, I thought, when the waiter said the buffet alone was a pocket-burner ($65, to be exact). Still. The rose-tinted, rustic yet sophisticated aura and scents made me dizzy with glee. I had to take it in slowly. Buffet and course choice it was. Saturday nights make me more adventurous and willing, I should think. I remained quite politic as I walked around the spread, eyeing the fresh fruit, cheese and wine. I must’ve stumbled on something from the dazzling aesthetics alone. I ended up with a plate of cold and crunchy asparagus salad, smoked salmon and caviar, eggplant, provocative vine tomatoes, a little mozzarella and mussel salad. Most things were pleasantly chilled, and the flavours of creamy mozzarella and exploding tomatoes savagely invaded my palate, in the best way possible. The eggplant could have done with a touch more salt, and some empty mussel shells were sandy.
Behold the kids pizza funghi.
Yes you heard that right. Kids. I was frightened by the monstrous slab which lay in front of my 6-year old sister. It was the fastest to come, and the most gargantuan. It was an animal, bigger than the slight consumer herself. ‘We’ll help’ , the rest of us announced, to compensate for the silent shock. The edges were thick, flour-crusted and fluffy, the body laden with a great deal of stringy cheese and clumps of nice and innocent Champignon slivers. The marinara base was appropriate in both taste and amount in proportion to the rest of the pizza, though the Champignons could have used more seasoning. That aside, I enjoyed the texture of the whole thing, the entirety of a single bite, even if I was just picking at bits on her plate. I’m a disgraceful, disgraceful picker.
grilled queen scallops with mushy peas, roasted tomatoes and chanterelles
Scallops for my main course. Six mini ones, at that. Branded with a beautiful sear on both sides, squished together with some brilliant, sweet mushy peas and a heavy drizzle of olive oil. The peas put me in heaven, and I could have had those alone. I willingly smashed them into the charred sides of scallop and warm burst of tomato juice, alongside the fruity, forest-flavoured chanterelles. What a great melding of juxtaposed flavours. The scallops, albeit juicy little things, weren’t sweet enough for my taste. Good, just not great.
kids spaghetti marinarapaper-wrapped sea bass
I appreciate the textural effort put into all the dishes served. My other sister had the spaghetti with marinara sauce, which was perfectly al dente, and my mother had the sea bass. The knife cuts were smooth, the delicacy enticing. The fish itself I did not find sufficiently flavourful, but the aroma and presentation almost fully made up for that.
I’m re-unearthing the wonders of honest Italian food. But if you wish to come here, be prepared for a wait. Especially if you’re ordering anything other than pizza on the menu. Just. Small warnings.
And funnily enough, this isn’t another one of my odd rambles (possibilities include facial symmetry, the symmetry of life and all it encompasses, how everything typically goes off the bend. Anyways.)
My camera received more than a few evil glares from unknowing passers-by.
I’ve read reviews on this place countless times and decided it was finally time to give this supposedly indie nook a go. ‘Hipster’, they called it. What could I lose, I said to myself, as I drew myself out of the bustling Orchard grounds. Eggs eggs eggs, my stomach chanted.
Portobello Benedict, with cheddar, hollandaise, hash and portobello duxelle
If I can take one word away from that experience this morning, it would be squashed. The first thing I saw, before the barista, before the lavish plates of eggy dishes, were human beings. All sorts, packing the little area to the brim. There, the ponytailed waitress pointed. I faced about 5 inches of wood; a skinny rectangular slab. I didn’t care, though. The seat was heavy but adorable, and my lashes fluttered at the menu. I always order some form of poached eggs at cafes because too, too many places serve rather mediocre or pathetic blobs of ivory, bursting with what? Usually not a golden river to set your heart aflame.
Portobello Benedict it was.
Took my breath away. Well oiled, plump ovals. Babies. The gentle prod of my fork unleashed an angry, tender flow. It energetically filled the crisp holes in the toasted, buttery English muffin, swamping a melting tang of cheddar. Complimented so perfectly with a hearty dose of duxelle, which is basically minced portobello and garlic. The cheese and hollandaise was the savoury cake’s icing, thin and slightly crusty around the edges. My palette was overwhelmed, but my heart was quite grateful. At $22, this is no cheap sacrifice, but every bite was absolutely worth it. Even the hash was beautifully crisp and golden, without being mushy in the centre.
That’s it. I’m trying the sur le pat, pain perdu and duck egg next time I come.
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 avocadosmoked salmon, mango, avocado and cornish crab salad with grapefruit dressingpasta of the day- tomato sauce ravioli
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.
alexcrumb 