Close the curtains, whip out the knives. Attack the Alex.
Where on earth have I been? Well then, I believe life takes over sometimes. Over even what I wanted to ascertain as good old routine. And so I have been swayed from conformity and ended up on the wrong road with a heavy heart. I missed this. The whole process of writing and a-pouring-out. Quite a lot.
Back to this review. Wild Rocket was a place I visited may, many weeks ago. A sophisticated place for all things delectably local, with a Singaporean touch on every invention and mish mash of stuffies, like mahogany on green with a dash of pink. I believe my first time was some sort of celebration with the paternal side of the family. A set menu for a party of at least 10, the appeal established on the grounds of a romantic and dimly lit cove casually thrust in the centre of the place. Oh right, and good food. Come to think of it, I should like to visit this place in the daytime, for all I remember were shades of burgundy and brown- why, even the waiter seems to have a black face. Literally, from the stretching shadows.
pomelo coconut salad
Airy fairy, light and cold, cold, cold. The pomelo offset the creamy sweetness of the dish doused in this wonderful coconut cream. The oriental factor settled in so appropriately and wasn’t at all annoyingly out of place. A petite starter to get the juices flowing. I actually didn’t expect it to be so tantalising, but it was and I was happy and so I looked forward to the next seam of depth in this intriguing menu.
Stuffed pepper with crabmeat and potato mash
This was a filler move.
For the vegetarian maman. I myself was surprised at how well it turned out, with succulent crabmeat and a textured mash.
nori tsukudani spaghettini with arabian white prawns
Tingling, delicate, al dente, perfect. It was a tiny twirl of local goodness on a vast white thing of a plate, with the very arabian prawn (yes, the names of things alter my perception of them) sheltering each strand from any damage (oh God forbid.) But do go ahead, I implore you to not take a bite of this mini mountain of stringy bites. Isn’t the feeling of an explosion of skinny winny noodles the best in the world? When you’re in such a restaurant as this, at least, with the dim light caressing your hair and the moon watching over with a white jealousy. What can she do, for now you have are the king or queen of spaghettini treasure. The flakes added gorgeous spice, and the portion was perfect in the 10 course meal.
Wild rocket chendol
May I just say the best twist on this local dessert. Ever. Ever. The coconut cream shaved ice was glistening with the shower of thick gula melaka sinking into the smooth, shaven surface of the sphere, hiding the little worms of green chendol and multicoloured treasures. A local sea, if you may. I think I was halfway through when I realised that this was the one time whereby I wasn’t hit with an ounce of slight sugar-induced sickness, since all the components did not rely too heavily on each other and so the balance was absolutely spot on.
Missing these treats already. Such finesse within obvious complexity, and yet everything retained an air of refined elegance. More would be good, thanks. Brilliant, brilliant.
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.”
fried calamari with tomato salsa
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.
Before I blabber on nonsensically, I would like to first tell you about the literature blog Ruru and I set up for the benefit of all literature-loving peers: sjiinookofbooks.wordpress.com. Belles-Lettres was a good way to go. A feminine start to our bright passion! So do go and support us.
So now. Gotta shout it from the rooftop, hollering till my lungs fail and collapse and dissolve into the dense air. Declare it loud and proud. Before I proceed, I must warn you that this post might be extremely non-sequitur, since my mind likes to twirl and fall off a direct one-way path.
I have a very, very fishy fetish. Quite literally, too. I mean I can be fishy at times habits and personality wise but this, my friend, is an entirely different matter altogether. Most people cringe at my ghastly penchant for any animal with an attached edible head and most importantly, brain. For who am I kidding, that’s the best part! No incertitude there I promise.
Little twins. These two guys look very similar, though really they aren’t. One’s from Sushi Tei and the other, Ichiban Boshi. I actually prefer the former, since it bore more crunch and sourness (two things which encourage a great deal of guilty pleasure whenever I do feel like ordering this.) Squeeze on all the lime and liberally apply some crumbled radish or ginger or both. Cast away the knives and forks and all sense of common dining etiquette. Crack your knuckles and exercise your joints a little, just to get ready for the task at hand. Smile and tuck in like how our ancestors did thousands of years ago. We were born to do it like savages.
One bite of fish head warmed and softened by an ooey gooey light grey brain and slighter darker pituitary gland plops angels in the backdrop of this harmonious dream, singing an ecstatic chorus of fishy glee and rounding out my senses, forcing me to even close my eyes just to savour the wondrous saliferous joy of fish head. Fish tail and stomach is good, don’t get me wrong, but the joy of popping those bulging eyes of translucent, wobbly jelly is simply indescribable. You eat around the perimeter of the head before cracking the very middle with your teeth and swallowing the tender chewiness of that brain. Carnal? Yes. But oh so painfully pleasurable.
And why on earth am I suddenly talking about this?
It got me thinking, as I sat down to another round of head gorging last night, as I sucked on crab roe and bit into a chicken head’s brain for the first time in my life. (I am now extremely proud to say that I, Alexandra Lim, am no longer a chicken head virgin.) Heads bring me such inexplicable joy and excitement it’s ridiculous, childish, absurd. Never mind the weird looks my friends give me, or the slight twerk in my heart as a little show of guilt whenever I imagine that animal as an unborn embryo cooped up in its promising shell before the first signs of cracking. But by gum I just love it. Not just me, of course. Many share the same fishy passion as I, though I’m pretty sure the majority don’t. It’s like the whole durian thing again. And may we all just admit that messy eating is the best thing ever.
But how do we really perceive something to be ‘odd’ or ‘strange’ in the first place?
Bring on the TOK (Theory of Knowledge) talks. I was listening to my ex-math teacher Mr S a few days ago, on human perception and ideals in realism, or how we assume things to be the way they are in the real world. Hell, we are humans with two eyes and a nose and mouth. But how on earth can we take that to be normal with our partial comprehension of the ever strange and glorious world which surrounds us, and which we face on a daily basis? All these shapes and silhouettes make up a minuscule fraction of what actually exists, that is, if we take all those scientific conjectures to be full-on true. Incredibly shattering just to think about this one side of a notion. We looked at the story of Helen Keller, who was an extraordinarily gifted woman in spite of being BDD (blind, deaf and dumb). But to her, this never was a disability, since she never could fully or freely experience the other three senses. She was trapped in a mental gate lock which only her helper Annie Sullivan could pull her out of, with unbelievable persistence made doable by the miracle of love. Nothing is strange or odd or a disability if one has never experienced the fullness of life without any shortcoming. We must be pretty miserable creatures since we only possess only 5 out of a possible 1000 senses. Just because we don’t live in darkness and can enjoy stuff like foie gras terrine.
Charles Baudelaire said that ‘strangeness is a necessary ingredient in beauty.’ Looking at it one way, I like fish because ever since I was younger I’d crave the simplistic and pure white flesh of the red snapper or the juicy amber goodness of the common salmon. I saw no joy in much else, except peas perhaps, which my father would pour on the ledge of my high baby chair as a toddling duckling. Pick and mash and mush and happiness galore. Nothing strange about eating fish head, but maybe what gives it an odd edge is the fact that I find it almost to be just like a drug. I have to have it at least twice a week. Ice cream is similar, though not half as much as my love for fish head and gory bits and bobs which people pick out and happily leave on their little places. And I now come to my second honesty claim: I am a dreadful picker.
Can you imagine how annoying it is for me when I’m surrounded by people at a table who don’t lick out the bone marrow of chicken thigh bones or don’t polish up every little strand and nickel of fish hanging limply on their scales? It’s chaotic mental paranoia. I’m almost afraid that by not engaging in this OCD with bony bits, they might actually miss out on a fleeting taste of heaven. So strange but absolutely part of me. This is the sad way my mind works. Only natural to feel my brain cogs turn and clack when I see a pile of abandoned onions or half picked at fish or chicken bones. I become fretful and worried. I think I even started sweating once. No, Baudelaire, this is not a beautiful trait of mine, but I have indeed almost come to embrace it once or twice, as I feel so accomplished when I feel the fish head snuggling in the pit of my stomach, not gone pitifully to waste. But it’s sad how I only enjoy these leftover, unwanted nicks and nacks. As if by eating them comforts the inanimate things into knowing that no, they are never always abandoned.
So to me, this is normal, and to other people, strange.
To people who wear a lot of makeup regularly, such habit comes naturally, but i find it the oddest thing in the world to wake up at 5 every morning just to perfectly conceal that one red smidgen of a dot on your upper cheek.
People like white chocolate, but I (and Ruru of course) find it so one-dimensional.
People throw on a purple or green blouse or dress as and when they feel like it, but I just can’t bear to. Unless I actually feel an aggressive chemical connection, of course. Now that’s an exception. All these things I find strange, strange, strange, but the only thing which separates me from you is our perception of the world and all the existing things in it.
And I find the combination of familiarity in all the stored memories of my existence as well as a cold oddness inherently beautiful.
‘There is no excellent beauty that hath some strangeness in the proportion’ – Francis Bacon
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.
smoked duck fried ricefried honey brinjal
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:
chilli crab
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.
pork lard black fried rice
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 brothbeef with potato wedges
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.
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.
spinach tamago
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.
eggs benny
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.
alexcrumb 