There’s just something about stuff on toast. Sometimes, it’s not just about the smushing together of peanut butter and jam. Oftentimes, a more savoury and nourishing hat rattles the old engines and breathes life into mornings. So easy you feel guilty. But guilty at pleasure’s stake.
roasted grapes with ricotta on grilled sourdough
baked eggs in baked beans
A fork affair. Moist avocado ‘crumbs’ and the warm tang of fresh, halfway-there compote.
smashed avocado and raspberry compote on dark rye
chia infused banana bread
I’m excited.
For what?
For the possibilities this world holds when it come to breakfast. The sacred routine of waking up, pondering a little, hovering a little, before either following a set recipe, or perhaps just mixing unexpected ingredients together, just for the sake of amateur experimentation, laden with a golden hope.
Clearly, one may observe that a squid clad in converse and a cropped tank with shorts would look right out of place here.
Today, I was that squid.
My mum, two sisters and I originally headed to Osteria Mozza for some impromptu Italian fare, however we were slammed in the face with the heaving sigh of a monstrous crowd, all elegantly dressed up for, yes, pizza and spaghetti. And so we headed north. To the bright amber lights and wooden decor of DB Bistro Moderne. Apparently the name comes from Daniel Boulud (is it just me or are the names Daniel and David just the easiest to mix up?), which reminds me of the word boule, or bread, and makes for pleasing mental imagery. Below, ignore the distracting slice of paper stealing light from the divinity of those mushrooms. Chanterelles, stems, butter, everything. Almost provocative, but humble and warm all the same. Delightful.
side of mushrooms- buttery, fragrant, musky
They even had a charming little kids menu, which I thought was rather considerate in such a flamboyant, mature space. Orders of tomato and butter parmesan ear pasta were minuscule but thankfully not to waste; the al dente textures supported hearty flavour, each bite abound with sharp parmesan sprinklings. Only for the rich kids, I caught myself thinking.
french onion soup- onion and beef consommé, gruyère, croutonsThe Yankee Burger- beef patty, iceberg lettuce, tomato, onion and gherkin on sesame seed bun
May I just say that that french onion soup was marvellous. Stringy, soft, caramelised onions clung to the tips of my fork, drenched in the dark honeyed pool of rich wine-like soup. Piping hot, with a healthy serving of gruyère and soggy croutons. I don’t mind soggy, no I don’t. If possible, I would have preferred less chunky matter and more broth, the purity of onion flavour paraded in the modern affection of a white cup.
As for the burger, I was, shock behold, quite let down. Disappointed, to say straightforwardly. I asked for medium rare, and yes medium rare it was, but flavour-wise, it was not. I looked wistfully at the menu by the side, wishing I ordered the signature foie gras and sirloin burger (I didn’t because there were too many reviews on this one burger, not all were up to expectations and this seemed like a standard option to judge). The middle was a little too moist, but not in the complementary sense. Meaty flavour was nowhere to be found and not even the tomato, onions, solo gherkin or elegant platter of three side sauces sufficed. Tolerable, but bland. On the other hand, the mini bun was toasted and buttered to absolute perfection. Picking at the crisp brown sides was childish play and pleasure. The fries were crisp and simple. Without a doubt, the stodge beat the protein. There was not an ounce of struggle in this battle of chaw.
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.
Those spur-of-the-moment meet ups with someone special.
We ambled in, unsure of what to expect, I myself a little doubtful of the humongous crowd and booming noise level. And yet, half of me ached to just try. Flock, like a bird. A dynamic freedom, a short escape. Sometimes, it doesn’t really matter where you are if you’re blessed with the best company.
After browsing around Books Actually, I needed at least a little fuel in the form of fare of little pretentious degree and biting caffeine (as usual. I’m scarily predictable. Maybe it’s just Saturdays). I relished the thought of just sitting down to some stimulating conversation, some heavy comfort. It was hot, dry and balmy outside, and the inside offered a hushed promise of something good. I also loved what was written on the walls:
Morning has broken
Mr. Coffee has spoken.
It really got the tune rolling in my head, that. It was even in swirly letters. I was quite happy, that’s a given.
Believe it or not, I manage to amuse myself sometimes. I mistook at least two young women to be the waitresses, and dropped my camera. I’m the best at subjecting myself and my poor companions to public humiliation. But about the waitresses, I can’t blame myself really. They all look the same, with identical giggles and smiles and ponytails. I swear on it.
Oh Lix, you tried. And the orders were still mixed up. Still. First, I wanted a cortado. I changed my mind and ordered an iced black, only to have an iced white salaam me soon afterwards. But it was alright. I got my black in the end. All is good with patience and forced smiles. Gosh, the things I do for something to hit the spot. Lix had an earl grey, which was warm and fragrant.
pork cheek and gruyère sandwich (hand shredded braised pork cheek, gruyère, mustard and ciabatta)banana brioche french toast and crispy bacon
After a mid-lengthy wait, the sandwich came, then the french toast.
I was surprised by the texture of the pulled pork cheek, which was tender and rather juicy. The slathered mustard was mild and complementary, offering a sharp creaminess and savoury touch to the dish. Not luxurious enough to the point whereby you wouldn’t mind anointing yourself with it, but appealing nonetheless. Well it wasn’t my dish, but obviously I stole a bite. I’m not all that doggerel in nature, you know. We are all dignified human beings. I didn’t have enough of it to criticise it fully, because eating that whole thing would be more of a journey than a brief side throw comment. I do appreciate the words ‘hand-shredded’, though. Fitting in some elbow grease is always a good thing. Like kneading bread. You just can’t turn that sort of thing down.
My french toast demanded a long wait, but goodness, when that primed platter finally arrived, I knew I was in for some herculean effort. A maple syrup-drenched (not coated) obstacle course, laden with crisp slivers of bacon and soft banana. More effort should have gone into something like bruleeing those yellow slivers instead of drowning the crisp, fried mass in a litre of syrup. At first glance, it looks decent, almost prim, but get a little closer and you spot the shrinking pool of maple pulling in at the edges, every square inch dying to be soaked up by the ever-benevelont brioche, those airy, moist and dangerously buttery inch-thick brick slabs. I thoroughly enjoyed the texture of the brioche. The outside gleamed with a fresh seal of heat, and as my fork broke through a mildly soggy (thanks to you know what) crust, a little whisper of steam escaped from a white-yellow interior. Dense enough for me to wham some bacon and banana against its belly, light enough to be pleasurable on the tongue. However, it was all too much after a while, and I had to stop and gulp down more icy coffee to balance the heady sweetness. Small qualms. Otherwise, the coffee was decent and the fare, satiating. If I do warrant another visit, I might crack down on some eggs.
But once again, thank goodness for the best company. To say I was duly satisfied would be…
‘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.
alexcrumb 