Bella Pasta

An excruciating number of reviews.

Too little time, I say. And so I wallow in the woes of this routine world with an expression of doubt but heart of hope. I was up this morning and thinking about the raw freedom of the mornings, as I listened to the whurr of the air conditioner and buzz of the coffee machine. The toaster was ticking and my heart felt light. All before the dawn of another school day, all before a slew of assessments and analysis and faces; which I love, but weighs down heavy sometimes. Only really because the after-effect of a normal Sunday takes its toll and I feel mentally hungover. Then again, what on earth is new? Time passes and these motions carry on with you trapped in the tide. Forced to flow.

But Saturday. Saturday always holds such heart-pounding possibilities whenever it comes to foodie adventures. Coming back to Robertson Quay that afternoon was a familiar yet almost dangerous encounter, since the possibilities were endless. I was nauseous with ringing starvation which drenched my entire body and soul with an aching melancholy. I only wanted to eat and eat and be stained with a brimming satisfaction, though not sickness.

i swear I was heaving and sweating with hunger by the time my mother and I literally rushed into this open Italian restaurant, surrounded by the gregarious native people of Italy and the soft waters snaking down the river. We sat right under the fan, away from the ignorant smokers. It was a rushed decision which went something along the lines of:

“Hey mum look this looks rather appetising I heard Bella Pizza has the best pizza in Singapore but hey food let’s sit down here instead.”

Mother: “Um alright… Italian?” (she knows that would never typically be my first pick)

“Yes, why not.”

Crunch, chew, crunch, chew, back again and maybe chew a bit more just to get the rings of tender rubber down.

But delightful in both taste and texture. That salsa had the right tang without being either too thin and salty. I got the case of one dribble too many, but probably only due to my breakneck pace and clumsiness (I should never, EVER go anywhere too hungry or I’ll ruin a perfectly prim night out. Atrocious.) That calamari of course, was tender and may I even say a little fluffy. It was good squid, and I could see why the only other customers aside from an Indian couple were all Indians, open and full of gung-ho at best. It felt good to know that this is where they come for a quick and true Italian fix.

charcoal grilled snapper on a bed of broccoli and tomatoes with a balsamic vinaigrette
linguine vongole

The mother attacked the latter and I, the beautiful fish. Because well, fish. Also because I wanted to pick at the bread and my mother’s delicately twirled mound of shiny pasta strands (the joys of mother-daughter bonding sessions). For almost $30, I got a minute portion which only satisfied me with the addition of that luscious but slightly too oily balsamic. Thick oil drops lazed about in excess on every inch of the dish, but yes, the fish resembled a shiny piece of ivory silk which broke away in delectable flakes of oiled flesh.

But no. It didn’t throw me off any board. The linguine was better, I thought, with rich and affluent clams sliding out of empty shells. Beautiful little creatures. I’d like to imagine downing 10 at a time, like I would do onions. Lovely, really.

This stuff was good though not excellent, and most definitely not worth the appalling price. Even the gelato only came in three flavours (chocolate, strawberry and vanilla), and at a supposedly homey original Italian restaurant! Come on.

Pity.

Quality is mostly there though, and I enjoyed the rosy-cheeked, round-bellied waiters bustling to and fro.

Rating: 3.2/5

Bella Pasta

30 Robertson Quay #01-09

Riverside View Singapore 238251

Tel: (65)6836 5692

Posted on February 25, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

New Ubin Seafood

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.

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:

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.

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 broth

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.

Rating: 4.7/5

New Ubin Seafood

27 Sin Ming Road

#01-174 Sector A Sin Ming Industrial Estate

Tel: 64669558

Posted on February 17, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

Five and Dime Eatery

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.

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.

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.

So strange. So strange!

Light indulgence.

Rating: 4.2/5

Five and Dime Eatery

297 River Valley Road

92365002

Posted on February 16, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

Chye Seng Huat Hardware

Yesterday was Friday, which means today is Saturday.

Dear me I’ve even managed to lose track of the common circadian rhythm without my trusty watch lately, even with clear view of the light of day and everything else which keeps sentience at bay (that rhymed oh yes). But the afternoon glow was evident yesterday, and I felt the sudden nonsensical urge to investigate and explore some half rural part of the island. And of course, I’d only do such an out-of-routine thing if that meant sipping a cuppa good espresso. This time, I went here. I yearned for some solitary coffee time and to relish a new surrounding with possibly a new coffee clan, one of which is already nicely acquainted with some lush and hip hideout. A switch from a typical Orchard Road hopping about. A change to perk me up, with caffeine to weigh my worries down.

The camera quality is nothing short of terrible here, though admittedly I was in a rush for a caffeine hurricane.

Chye Seng Huat, or CSHH as affectionately known by loyal indie coffee goers. It was Friday (yes I do remember quite clearly now that it was indeed a Friday and precisely 20 hours ago) after school and I hopped down there specifically to try their famed milk espressos and catch up on some logarithms and exponents practice, because that’s just what would go perfectly with a warm-souled brew at 4pm. I got my coffee and carefully walked out of the door and into the sunlight, only to return back inside 5 minutes later due to a paranoid fear of sun damage to my skin (a helpless obsession which has seen my cupboard go from bone empty into full blown wacko).

At $5.50, this regular-sized espresso packed in some dynamo bean quality in every smooth and silky sip. When it comes to coffee, it’s impossible for me to guzzle down unabashedly. It’s foam-tipped milky splendor caressing an intoxicatingly rich brew. I watched the barista deftly apply his craftsmanship, patience and skill as he wove a beautiful design of steamed whole milk through the full-bodied coffee. He smiled at me and I looked wistfully at the displays of coffee brewing equipment in little wooden cubby holes stuck in a neat grid on the side of the wall.

Hip, casual, Papa Americano. The buzz of elevator music lifted the cozy area entirely, casting a nostalgic haze over the couple tables which seated some rather trendy youngsters sipping caps behind large frames and striped sweaters. I looked down at my black flats and school uniform, somehow feeling both out of touch with coffee-going gear, yet totally suited to a longer study session. I was surprised at the line of people at the counter as I entered, and took a long look at the unique menu whilst waiting for a couple of pink-haired Chinese ladies to order their French toast and egg omelettes. I’ve always wondered at how people could have large meals in between meals. A good mix of admiration and jealousy, for I would never be able to savour such platters on a full stomach. Nothing like a late afternoon hamburger for them, I’m guessing.

There was one moment whereby I was just sitting there, espresso in hand, sun blazing high up in the blue infinity of this world, and I felt rather infinite myself, or perhaps as if my finite being was comfortably subject to the ruling infinite comforts under a hatched roof.

Rating: 4.8/5 (based on coffee tasting alone. Making a self reminder to revisit this unfortunately half rural place oh so conveniently located smack in Jalan Besar)

Chye Seng Huat Hardware Coffee House

150 Tyrwhitt Road

6396 0609

Posted on January 19, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 2

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

alexcrumb

recipes, catering, creativity

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Tag: restaurant

Bella Pasta

New Ubin Seafood

Five and Dime Eatery

Chye Seng Huat Hardware

Pique Nique