Anthesis- the period when a flower becomes sexually functional. Oh it’s functional, alright.
Just two doors down from Toby’s Estate, one of my other favourite coffee joints. I was tempted by their new menu additions and charming interior, but this other wooden dream did the trick (almost) as well. I needed a coffee and I needed some damn french toast to satiate this pining ache, this whining brunch stomach. An iced coffee for me. I’m not ordering a cap on this sun-drenched morning, no. Without the syrup, the complex notes of the Bean shine through immaculately. Fresh, and the size was quaint.
I have this obsession with eggy bread. French toast. Pain perdu. Whatever you deign appropriate for the breakfast queen. No but really, absolutely nothing compares to the words ‘french toast’ on a menu. Yes, not even eggs. This right here is their magnificent french toast stack layered with beautifully caramelised bananas, whipped cream, mascarpone cheese and butterscotch sauce. It took me a while to move my eyes past the provocative oozing and dripping of the cream down the dense and crisp, eggy edges. The square stack was an edible jenga tower, and I could make the first move. My knife creeped in, and all hell broke loose. I drizzled the sauce over everything- a thick brown coating of lust. A little embarrassing when you’re dining alone, as the sweet cream splays everywhere with bits of bread and mushy bananas. I probably looked ridiculous and greedy and terrible. The cheese was a nice touch, offering a fine savoury edge to the otherwise overly sweet mish mash of stodge and sugar. The bread could have been a tad less dense, such as the french toast I had at Skyve Elementary, another place I should get around to doing a review on soon. The eggy flavour here was half pronounced, and the cream was a little excessive between bites. Nevertheless. It’s french toast.
I couldn’t leave without stealing one of their passionfruit yuzu meringue tarts (!!) This was a slow and sinful home degustation. Gorgeous meringue flecks atop a rich and tart curd. The crust held all its own, lightly sweetened and firm, even after being out of the fridge for a while. The curd was on the more wobbly, fragile side, and the meringue full and sweet. I’m going to try their sea salt chocolate version next time.
Basically I have this problem. And no, I’m not talking about my pathetic sense of direction or the fact that I cannot walk in a straight line.
And this problem has manifested itself slowly and silently throughout my teenage years.
The problem is that I hardly ever go out to tea. And yet such a sophisticated English Rose occasion is crazily ubiquitous; millions of the common folk go out to experience this pinkies-up-whilst-drinking-earl-grey phenomenon. Yes, even here in the not-so-quaint Singapore. I remember going out for pain au chocolats with the maman and sister in Kensington, London, back when I used to live there. I’d hop onto a buggyboard at the back of my sister’s pram and we’d all stride along the leaf-littered streets just to chance upon a myriad of cafes, offering the tempting smells and charming, traditional sights. I cautiously sipped my mother’s cappuccino and crinkled my nose, not understanding the power of such a drug which I would only come to know of many, many years later. It’s rather nice to think about how many years I’ve lived, for it makes me reminisce and ponder and yet sadly, feel remorseful over. Everything there was sweetly carved in white brick and rustic wood, as if no other material would live up to the quintessential English Rose cafe. Even here, there are so many little quaint bistros, cafes and specialty dessert places which allow one the privilege to live the life of an uptown aristocrat from the 16th century. Perhaps not as aesthetically pleasing, but delightful all the same. Delightful.
Just an hour or two, but that’s really enough. The chance to sip tea and dig into petite cakes and souffles with a couple good friends was beyond what I consider to be privileged. Just a note: this all happened after Ruru and I managed to actually find the place.
Yes. The Pier!
Where on earth is that!
Somewhere on Mohamed Sultan Road. But I swear I can’t see it. I swear I swear.
Google Maps is utter crap.
I know, it should be here.
Panic, panic, panic. Before we politely asked a passer-by. She looked behind her and calmly mentioned that The Pier was right ahead.
In big letters too. The Pier.
Joy of joys. We sucked in our embarrassment, straightened our blouses and hurried over. The best things are always the most esoteric nowadays. Or perhaps it’s always meant to be this way to prevent hyperactivity and overly sensational ravings from the common peasants who wander along Orchard Road and nowhere else.
Their coffee and wine selection is most agreeable, with a whole section dedicated to connoisseurs of either.
Burns a hole in your pocket, too. My old school camp facillitator Aik Seng treated Ruru and I, and wanted to engage in some appalling splurging. That single-shot espresso macchiato right there was round about nothing less than $5 or $6, if I may correctly recall. I never was one for such price memorisation. It surged with the strength of real caffeine. Believe it or not I saved that little square of (hopefully) dark chocolate in the misty corner of my black tote, waiting for the right time. Today isn’t right, and tomorrow probably won’t be either. Somewhere, sometime in heaven perhaps.
Even though no one will be there anyway.
We quickly ordered the chocolate soufflé, since Ruru warned that it typically takes quite a while to prepare and then serve. I hurried the waiter, who I’m afraid to say failed to impress on any level.
At all. It took about 5 times before he stumbled towards our table, hefty with the pains of everyday life and almost steaming with a mild sense of rebellion. Service-wise, it was a terrific disaster.
This actually made my mouth water when I saw it make its way through the empty lit cavern, a dark-skinned king hailing triumphantly from the Land of the Oven. It rose almost obnoxiously from the pristine, gargantuan white thing of a ramekin, coupled by a lovely little scoop of raspberry sorbet.
Or in other words, its saving grace. I’m that type of person who can’t have a molten, gooey dessert my itself; it must certainly be accompanied by some wildly cold partner to lax its richness and offer some breezy, white-hued relief. The relief this time was in a becoming shade of baby carmine, good and icy, yet full of that frozen raspberry twang and punch.
Soft but not to the point whereby it was perfectly scoop-able and oh so dangerously fragile. The lady came with a tiny jug of hot chocolate sauce, which we all expected to flow out gracefully like a reincarnation of Wily Wonka’s chocolate river. Dark and seductive, making a nice small hole in the middle as it hit the centre, cracking its tissue-like surface and ravaging the fluffy holey interior.
We could not have been more wrong about anything in our entire lives.
The lady didn’t even pour anything, so we did so ourselves. Woe and behold, the sauce was thicker than the consistency of frozen nutella right out of the fridge. We literally had to force it out in thick , rounded globs. That chocolate flavour, I admit was well on spot, with the slightest hint of orange or perhaps even a tinge of Grand Marnier, to complement the rich electricity of dark chocolate. Could’ve had the whole jug if no one was watching (not like something like that would ever happen ever). It was just that terrible, terrible consistency which made my heart sink to the floorboards beneath and beyond.
I felt rather greedy when the other two had stopped picking at the souffle, but I continued to scrape and poke and prod and lick anyway. Story of a chocolate addict.
Thanks to my small lunch, I believe. I can be practical okay. If I possess some degree of sentience and sanity.
We attacked the middle to indulge in the tender warmth of its belly, before proceeding to enjoy the slight chewy crispness of the outside edges, warmed from the oven’s kiss and broil. All made just perfect with the contrasting tang of the raspberry. The one downside was that it was a smidgen dry, but the dense core and bottom were not lost, since even the little bits left over were obviously still very moist and slightly fudgy. But still a smidgen dry (and crumbly). Not as good as the strawberry one in La Bastide last year in December, but then again that would be like comparing little master with grand master in its native home. Partial comparisons make for no good comparisons at all, oui?
And no, you can’t go and have tea with a couple other lovely people and some riveting conversations on our lives and other random happenings with just one dessert.
Honestly. Be honest. Please, for you and for me.
It’s just not practical or sane. So we ordered another.
And that rounded the whole event off to make it perfect and beautiful and complete.
With a spoonful of whipped sweet cream for good measure (as if that will ever live up to the glory of the humble vanilla bean ice cream.) Comparatively, I actually preferred the texture and flavour of the chocolate souffle compared to this. Anything cakey or crumbly is not typically my cup of tea (all puns intended), but this was sufficiently moist. It said cake, not molten lava, so thankfully I was not let down by my own disappointment when there was absolutely no evidence of anything molten. Couldn’t help that small tinge of sadness, of course, but it was pleasing all the same, especially when paired with the sweet and aromatic vanilla. I quite enjoyed the bed of crumbled crackers which the ball of ice cream rested on. Textural variety is probably what I live for.
It’s Valentine’s Day today, isn’t it?
Wonderful! Let me revel in the magnificence of being absolutely single and elated in the blurred joys of life and raw freedom.
Laurent Bernard Chocolatier
80 Mohamed Sultan Road #01-11
The Pier @ Robertson Singapore
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.
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.
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.
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 very sure?
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.
7 Rodyk Street
Watermark at Robertson Quay