Chin Mee Chin Confectionery

So I came here with my hopes exceeding that of the 1960s shophouse-esque roof, laced with a stark, in-your-face blue all the way round. Very high.

Windswept hair tied back. Sunglasses on in the evil face of the sun’s Sunday rays. My father drove my two younger sisters and I all the way to East Coast, succumbing to my months-long pleas of trying out this famous confectionery, affectionately named CMC by old-timers. My hair is still piecey and slightly greasy as I type. Arrived with high expectations and unfortunately, was let down, all the way down to the nearby drainpipe, quite a fair bit.

We signalled to the lady politely, only to be received by a sour grunt and waist-low wave.

Wait, you darn fools.

Well alright then, we shall. And we did. We sat next to a couple of ladies in the crowded little 10 square feet (yes I am exaggerating) cuboid. I observed them picking out the huge yellow slabs of butter from their kaya buns and leave them on the sides of their plates, and I suddenly felt a tinge of annoyance. That bit’s clearly the icing on the cake, though I must admit that too much is a little daunting sometimes. Not spectacular for the frame, either. Walking in, one notices the proud sign, homemade baked goods displayed at the counter and old-fashioned checkered tiles. Somehow felt uplifted amongst the slightly cramped and frumpy area. It’s crowded on this Sunday morning, I think to myself. Must be good (or so I hoped.)

My dad expertly cracked open the promising eggs, only to be faced with mighty raw whites. The edible sun was missing half its face, and we were forced to adapt to dribbly transparency. Note I say transparency, not translucency. I ordered a kopi c, which was not half as strong as what I’ve had at other places. Fragrant, yes. Flavourful, well less so.

I had a terribly hard time slurping down my eggs with ease as what would usually be the case at another coffee shop. Translucent to the point whereby it was hard to pick up a string of jelly since the whole thing was like piece of wobbly glue. No white pepper could salvage it. Yes, quite disappointed.

Ah, the famous Chin Mee Chin kaya buns.

Wonderful, they said. How the harmony of local flavours sing a rapturing tune!

I waited to be flabbergasted, to fall away from my plastic grey stool in awe at the very first bite. What really happened was my being taken aback by how… predictable the flavours were. I was startled by my own reaction. Could it be? Now this is usually the case when one possesses too high an expectation. Perhaps I heard one too many a good review before my arrival, leading me to associate more emotion than necessary with what arrived on my plate. It was a nicely toasted bun all right, with a good spread of kaya and nice rectangle of half melted butter.

I then noticed the commonness of the kaya; how I must have tasted the exact same thing before at least once in my life. Nothing screamed of originality (apart from the unique buns themselves). I expected more depth in flavour and less sweetness. There it was, a bun with a nice hat to top it all off. Simple, satisfying, good even. But nothing which would make me want to come back for more. I normally dip the toast into the egg (or coffee, if I’m feeling particularly odd one day), but thanks to the unpalatable eggs, I was more than unable to do so.

I was let down a fair bit, but I should like to admit that I am definitely glad I can now cross off ‘visit CMC Confectionery’ off my list. The surprising satisfaction from such dissatisfaction…

Rating: 2.5/5

Chin Mee Chin Confectionery

204 East Coast Road

63450419

Posted on January 6, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

Marmalade Toast

How wonderful it is to spend time with one’s own thoughts. Reflections and sentiments can become overwhelming sometimes, even in a little cafe with not much to say or do. Hence I must talk about this little nook hiding in the corner of Takashimaya, my loyal always-there cafe. My place for alone time.

Won over. Since I’m coming here again tomorrow to meet a friend, I was suddenly jolted with the realisation that I never have actually talked about this place yet.

Perhaps that’s why I venture into this specific alone. A solitary journey takes me away from the bumbles and mishmashes of communication (and how horribly unsocial I sound right now but bear with me, for my mood takes on different directions every minute of every day), and take my word for it or not, but the best things may be discovered, either covertly or overtly, on your own.

I come here all the time. That’s it. All the time and not much less, to be frank. I’m the sort who’d rather blow some cash on a good meal rather than 5-inch stilettos. And no, I’m not saying that this place does indeed demand some degree of wealth and whatnot, but there’s no harm trying the $12 wrap with a double cheese topping, accompanied by friends such as an iced mocha and lemon tart. The stuff adds up, I won’t lie. But just go there for lunch alone or with one friend, and enjoy the harmony or both flavour and ambience. Read a magazine or your book, ruminate the meaning of life as you chew on a piece of white lettuce in your salad. Not to mention the salads here are quite fantastic.

I remember the good old day when this was made a special, written in Narnia-esque swirls with a white marker on their wide-screen mirror. It directly faces the line of seats opposite so I can admire my less than attractive face any time I come. I can acknowledge the fact that they made that mirror to heighten my level of self-consciousness or confidence, depending on what time of day and the quality of my complexion. It was a surreptitious attempt to throw me over and no one else, I just know it. Oh those horrid people.

Back to the innocent sandwich. Sitting there, just a sandwich. But a wonderful sandwich it was. Bread on the slightly toasty and chewier side, which I enjoy. Cheese and relish perfectly complimented the lightly seasoned tails of chicken breast, washed with coarse cheddar. Simple but satiating. And I was sated all right.

I said the word fantastic, and I’ll say it again. They’re all pretty fantastic (unless you happen to come on a day whereupon every member of staff is moody and piles stuff on your plate disproportionately. That would be quite sad). I’ve tried all the them, including tofu and pumpkin, wild rice and greek. Mix and match, it’s up to you. What grand satisfaction arises from the simplest of choices.

You won’t get anything thin and crisp here (for more crispy porn, I recommend looking at this post). In fact, that was precisely what I was expecting- a good, lightly charred toastie just like how they do the ones at the country club. Filling filling, and read that with awareness of a double entendre.

But no. These coins of bread were obese, fluffy and doughy. Not majorly doughy though, simply more of a heavy bread factor. Teeming with ‘bread’ personality and mildly sweet, if that makes any sense at all. The filling is in the right ratio, so each bite is brimming with the sticky, dense marriage of smooth peanut butter and ripe banana. Sweet upon sweet, which I am not a huge fan of. Nevertheless I ordered it just to try, and pushed the rest to my mother who can eat three boxes of chocolate in one sitting and have nothing adverse happen to her. Ever.

Going back to when I first ordered this, I took a sip, enjoyed the sweet iciness weaved into the mocha. Stir, stir, stir, sip. Repeat until at least half finished. It’s like a stunning ice cream blend, and thankfully not the horrid mess I got at the coffee club a few days earlier. The sort of drink you want post yoga class, and you have a half-appetite holding a grudge at the core of your stomach.

It’s a loyal friend, this one. They manage to get the char on the wrap just right every time, and even if it’s the more brown side, knowing me with a penchant for anything lightly burnt, I’ll take it. Stuffed to the brim with moist, ripe avocado, which lends a soft hand to the otherwise bland strands of chicken breast. Wiped with tangy mayo and a sprinkle of cheese. The same sort of pleasure achieved when you wipe some roast chicken with chilli and creamy mash.

What you see above is without a doubt one of my favourite picks. Routine is infectious to me, and so once I enjoy something, it takes courage for me to give it a switch once in a while. I love how they include the succulent chicken skin here, and the pairing with sweet mango is absolute heaven. The suppliers provide only the freshest and ripest ingredients for maximum taste and appeal, which I notice every time the man comes strolling in with his huge trolley full of fresh fruit and greens. Who cares if there are a few dark spots on the avocado or mango. To me this only shouts ‘hey eat me, I’m good and ripe and rustic and true.”

Everything is going to be okay my friends, once you come here and indulge in simple fare.

It’s all okay.

Rating: 4.8/5

Marmalade Toast

02-11 Ngee Ann City
391 Orchard Road

6733 8489

P.S. On a side note, I have a friend named Natasha who is truly talented when it comes to fashion design. She designs beautiful gowns and refined clothing with the simplicity of line and tasteful texture. You can find her blog here!

Posted on January 3, 2013February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

Fresh Starts? And impromptu cafe babble

Little bits of nitbobs before I start.

This is the 31st of December, am I correct?

No, I can’t be.

Not the 31st, no. Can anyone actually put their head around that? Absurd. Ludicrous. More so than I have ever felt in the past few about-to-be years. Well the rain is beating hard and that always makes me feel more in tune with certain situations. But the surety of such a happening has crossed into the frightening zone, whereby I can no longer comprehend such speed. Honestly, the stuff that’s been digging holes into my awareness of the real world. Rapes, protests, Christmas, journalling, France, Instagram, Stephen King, then… School. Marvellous.

After a good Vinyasa 2 yoga session today, I hopped my way to the closest cinema (yes, that would have to be youth magnet Cathay Cineleisure) just to watch The Hobbit, the screening I am far too behind on. Somewhere in there the big-eyed, less than debonair fellow mentioned how time devours everything. You could say from a more morbid point of view how that is so painful yet true; it consumes every minute of our very being and existence. We are never spared in any state of our lives, wherever we are or whatever we may be doing.

Mind starved of some caffeine and protein, I settled down to have a solo lunch somewhere where I could oversee the hordes of angry bumper-to-bumper cars and savour the dim chill of splitter-and-pop raindrops.

See those little chocolate syrup worms at the bottom? On the menu, this had a little star next to it saying ‘highly recommended’. To me, that immediately translated into ‘this will actually have the taste of proper coffee and mocha and not be overly sugar-ridden’. Alas, what am I to expect? Having too high an expectation simply leads to inevitable disappointment. I shut my mouth, ordered the thing, gave it a chance. A slight let down with the (predictable) lashings of sugar sugar sugar, but it was a mocha all the same. It even had a dollop of ice cream, and I craved a few cold scoops.

I saw the fried egg so of course I had to give it a go. Good portion size as well given the price tag. It’s a perfectly symmetrical sun softly calling my name, eventually killing me on the inside if I ignore its all-day pleas. The tragedy of this is that I actually like to taste the cheese and mushroom in a dish. The rustic tang of swiss, the rubbery cut of buttered shroom. Minus copious amounts of mayonnaise and a half-tasteless medium patty (I enjoy mine rare.)

Ah yes, and minus the top bun and fries, for I can’t care for excess stodge lying around and disrupting the purity of good flavour. Have mentioned this before, but all that bread is just asking to dilute the taste of a nice burger, no matter how well done. I came here previously to have this darling bowl:

Like most such green mountains, the saviour would normally be the dressing, a perfect balance of sweet and tang, and sometimes some spice. Good thing these guys added fatty unagi and cold cut tofu to provide bites well worth the adjectives wholesome and refreshing.

But that was salad day. Today was I-need-a-damn-burger-and-some-bulk day. Along with a dose of hairy-footed elves, goblins and a hobbit. Sad to think how it all ends here, right now, humbug in hand, a little mascara smudged on my lower lid.

They say a new year’s a new start with fresh resolutions and a will to keep them. Going back to my past with all my tested trials, I will hereby predict that some will be kept, and some will (might, I pray) be broken. I’ll just sit here with Stephen King for the time being, propelled back to the 1960s with Ford Sunliners and manual Cokes, and be comforted by the fact that 2013 may indeed be to my liking.

Perhaps time won’t leave a sour aftertaste in its wake, even after devouring everything.

Life turns on a dime.

Posted on December 31, 2012February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 0

Oriole Coffee Roasters

Don’t tell me you don’t like coffee.

Actually that’s alright because it really isn’t for everyone, though I’m strictly out of that category. Very very strictly. What wonder, what pleasure caffeine brings. The delectable joy of a sharp espresso just before or after a meal, or poured over vanilla bean ice cream with some coffee jelly cubes to go along. Pleasure is the only word that comes to mind right now. Pleasure and perhaps some sophistication. Je ne sais pas.

I’m sure most of you (Singaporeans) know about Oriole Cafe and Bar at 313 Somerset in Orchard, which is owned and managed by my uncle. However, most don’t know about its slightly shyer cousin, who hangs around Jiak Chuan Road, Chinatown like an old fashioned aproned grandmother chasing chickens or whatnot (random images like to appear in my mind and fail to run away unless I put it down in some abstract form).

A grandmother who whips up the best cappuccinos, piccolos and half boiled eggs in town. Sophistication and traditional kopitiam rolled into one. It’s pretty magnificent stuff, though it’s not the sort of breakfast place where you can freely put your legs up like a trishaw driver (and spit out some chicken bones on the table, if you like).

Legs crossed. Manners, please.

It’s airy and modern, whilst retaining old charm with wooden decor and old fashioned Chinese blinds. There’s even an entire coffee gadget area upstairs, if you dare venture up the creaky staircase. Oriole is a type of bird, and birds fly high. Caffeine makes me high. I finally get the connection. Revelations.

Now I have yet to go to some place like Melbourne for their wondrous cappuccinos, espressos and lattes, but as for now, I declare Oriole coffee highly refined and simply ah-mazing. The baristas wave their wands over each cup and churn out spectacular coffee with darling latte art each and every time. Some coffees just never actually taste of ground beans, and are dampened with too much milk or sweetener. As if the beans are stamped on, squashed and suffocated, prohibited from parading their exotic flavour (for the daring ones, I recommend downing an Ethiopian espresso at Oriole. It’s caffeine heaven; almost noxious but not too addictive).

I admit that I have had better slabs of beautifully buttered kaya toast elsewhere, such as Killiney Kopitiam and Toast Box. I admired the transparent, adorned platters for a few minutes before tasting. The toast was a tad too crumbly and the flavour of the kaya not as sweet or rich as i would have liked. It’s good, don’t get me wrong, just not mind blowingly excellent (yes, ‘blowingly’ is a word in my dictionary).

Or soft boiled eggs, however you would like to call it. LOOK at that tender mound of orange goodness, just waiting to pour out rich and luscious yolk at the slight prick of a fork. The most impressive thing is that they crack it for you, and the yolks come out in perfect, trembling balls. Give me an egg and the yolk will scatter everywhere.

Better yet, on both you and me.

These were perfect, perfect, perfect. The best ones I’ve tried so far, and that tops any other coffee shop I’ve been to. The yolk was rich and provided orange oomph, not merely liquidy and mediocre. The whites caressed the edges, healthy strings and pools of almost translucent jelly, which happily slithered down my throat.

Quaint shophouse exterior. Smell the brew and walk straight in. Enjoy those sacred early morning breakfast hours alone or with the family. Indulge and eye the colourful, old-fashioned chinese cakes and kuehs sitting on platters under glass bell jars.

Sip that Joe.

Rating: 4.8/5

Oriole Coffee Roasters

10 Jiak Chuan Road

6224 8131

Posted on December 26, 2012February 21, 2022 by alexcrumb 1

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

alexcrumb

recipes, catering, creativity

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Tag: #review

Chin Mee Chin Confectionery

Marmalade Toast

Fresh Starts? And impromptu cafe babble

Oriole Coffee Roasters

France: La Bastide St Antoine