The annotated budak

Guttered

We made the mistake of choosing a table right in front of Heng Huat's stall, and the lunchtime crowd offered no chance of a second seating. A hipster with a skateboard and unruly beard occupied the next row, sandwiching us against the lone Malay stall in that section of Pasir Panjang Food Centre, whose owner was calling it a day, having disposed of his morning stock of curry puffs, sweet potato fritters and assorted kueh-mueh. We made a mistake, for every minute or so, after Ah Huat had stirred a plate of kway teow and smothered it with an unnaturally thick crown of lightly fried chye sim, he would grab hold of a whistle and blow the bojangles out of it. Each shriek easily reaches the far end of the food centre and slaps down all conversation in Ah Huat's corner. It silences the nasal whine nearby and bounces off an ageing port worker in overalls who dribbled gravy on the floor as he slouched by with a hand of Hokkien mee. Ah Huat blows and beckons without apology until he catches the eye of each customer, who bears the burden of ignoring persistent calls to pick up their order pronto and put paid to the din.

Maps indicate the presence of a park beside the food centre, but forget to add that it is now a lot more paved. Still, mature sea almonds tower above the vehicles and offer shadows that make the mid-day slightly less maddening: smokers, nappers, drivers and other slackers cluster in the shade to wash down their meals, wait for the next delivery or let their minds wander in a space that is more gray than green. Weaver ants, dislodged by the breeze, land on random heads and are brushed off shoulders onto the wayside, where grass blues flutter and fight over coat buttons, goatweed and touch-me-nots. The street directory also fails to fully mark out a canal that runs behind the food centre, separating the cars from the wharves and bridging the woods of Kent Ridge Hill to a long-buried beach. The public side of the waterway, once named after the nypa that must have lined its banks, is guarded by a low fence that allows curious bucks to lean over without taking leave of their senses. The railings hail from a sadder time; the stakes are modest and rough hewn, a dirty wash of white, stained by lichen flakes and infested by salticids, some bearing setae that mask their flanks, others sporting bars that holler at mates. A shiny solitary wasp hovers and halts, but she posed no threat to the spiders, being a fiend only to vermin from the gravy train. 

There are few tidal drains these days, when the Kallang Basin and Singapore River flounder and drool in their dotage into a bay of fresh water and financial plenty. But ditches on the peripheries of the island still suffer regular invasions by the straits and Sungei Nipah offers a view of the front line. Figs loom over the water, harbouring in their branches families of scaly breasted munias which descend when the coast is clear to hop on algal mats and pluck at loose filaments. A scarlet-backed flowerpecker and two yellow-vented bulbuls swoop into the trees, drawn perhaps by clumps of tropical mistletoe. Painted jezebels also lurk by, seeking the hemiparasites not for their fruit but their foliage. Plain water and salty deposits also lure a spotted dove and striped albatross to these confines, where they sip within sight of crescent perch that play in rivulets on a bed of sand and urban sediments. A bright red dragonfly, possibly Urothemis signata, stands guard, with his tail to the sun, from a twig that forms a miniature arch above the stream, but later abandons his post when post-noon shadows engulf it. Another odonate, Pantala, floats nearby, gliding, cruising, banking, braking, pushing the limits of its wing loading and straining against the elements that meet, mingle and melt into each other in this zone of convergence and confusion, of flux and fluctuating concentrations of salinity and sweetness, of brooks forced to abide by right angles and granted no chance to linger and wonder where it all went wrong. 

Tiny flats have formed among the flotsam and crumbling ledges on the flanks of the canal, and in this landscape of bottles, boards and other broken things play little crabs and lithe mudskippers, which amble in silty pools and dine from man-made lookouts. A house shrew patters through the gaps on the concrete, while a polyclad flatworm with the colour and composure of phlegm slides over shards of damp goo. Just a few metres downstream of the dragonfly, a population of creeper snails appears on the mud, marking the point where the stream dries up and the sea begins. Something caught the eye of the men by the fence: two blue-spotted mudskippers, noticeably larger beasts than the gobies on the fringes, were foraging close to the current, swiping their gapes from side to side as they inched forward on stubby pecs. The larger of the pair raised his flag every now and then, whenever the other crawled towards him. But both fish were more concerned with lunch than love, and gave just lip service to the business of courtship, which on this lonely stage offered meagre competition and modest reward, the promise of all too familiar faces in a circle that has grown so narrow there is little left to discover other than the scraps of faults entrenched.

Chlorophyll

There is an item in the menu of a local fine restaurant, an interlude of soft and saline portions in an evening of choice cuts, called Chlorophyll. The confection, a blend of soybean paste, Japanese kelp and roasted buckwheat, is garnished by spinach leaves and what appear to be clusters of miniature grapes. The latter, reminiscent of plump, green peppercorns, would be familiar, though, to those who frequent domestic flats, who would have seen blooms of composite fronds draped over outcrops of rubble. But few, if any, go as far as to sample the alga, whose stolons creep over sand and stone, sending out minute filaments that anchor the multi-nucleate cell to its shallow refuge.

At least two species of Caulerpa show up on tables in the far east, particularly in the Philippines and Vietnam, where lentillifera is cultivated for animal feed and salty salads. Racemosa is somewhat less favoured, though this variable seaweed, with fronds that terminate in stalked spheres, flared discs, bells, cones or clubs, still has a significant fanbase in the region. Sea grapes, sensu stricto, produce densely packed bunches of globose branchlets, which veer little from the phenotypic norm and offer handy portions that fit into most mouths and slide down the gullet with slippery ease. Each bite of this berry, every nibble between fleshy lips, releases a drop of flavour that is nothing less than a burst of light and little more than a drop of the ocean in a ray of cytoplasm, the sliver of a cell with few nods to sophistication and sporadic accounting for taste.

All good things come to a (k)end

It wasn't too long ago when slightly oversized bowls of alkaline noodles in a savoury broth, with optional toppings of a stewed boiled egg, pork slablets and bamboo shoots, were but a footnote in the minds of local diners. Born in China but perfected in Japan, ramen has fed the cityzens of a post-feudal island state since the 1860s, when hand-pulled noodles known as shina soba were introduced to the archipelago. By the 1920s, batteries of la mien carts had conquered the empire, while fresh supplies of wheat in the post-war years encouraged the flourishing of regional variations as well as the experimental machinations of a man called Momofuku. Sapporo becoming a shrine for fans of a distinctive blend of miso and pork, Tokyo emerged as the capital of tsukemen, a double serving of undressed noodles and a tangy soup for those who like their noodles in the dip end, and in Japan's deep south, the black hogs of Kagoshima provide the bones to pick for a fragrant tonkotsu. 

Today, ramen fills the bellies of urban decay from Tokyo to Tampines, giving suits and scruffy shirts alike a fix of energy that fuels the gap in time between Büro and bar as well as a dose of nutrition that satisfies far more than a bite between two buns. Ramen joints now grace every other mall on this island, drawing lines of famished souls every evening with variations on a stocky theme. Some establishments bank on pedigree, touting the creations of culinary stalwarts or a faithfulness to far-flung styles. Others, unconstrained by the charters of tradition or compelled by the corporate logic of chained upstarts, eschew the plainness of shio (salt), shoyu (soy sauce) and miso (fermented bean paste), giving pride of placement in their menus to concoctions formulated to satisfy (or scorch) the palates of tropical tastebuds. In the likes of shabu shabu ramen, 'lum lum men', 'burger men', collagen ramen, tom yam ramen, spicy lala ramen and other souped-up atrocities, patrons gifted in aromatic undiscernment and with little inkling of organoleptic nuances can enjoy the best of both worlds in bowls that reek of adventure culinaire but burn with the comfort of all-too familiar flavours.

A mall way past its en bloc sell-by date, Orchard Plaza greets passer-bys on the way to classier outfits with a sidewalk of electronics dealers, speedy tailors and tacky souvenirs. For most shoppers, the block is of middling interest, for it boasts no boutiques and offers few marques. The passages within, which tout a balm of clutter and chaos from the dash of a magnificent mile, come to life only at night when restaurants, public houses and karaoke lounges in the upper floors open their doors to feed and water the sons of the rising sun. But for about nine years till this May, a rear portion of the building, far enough from high street to deter casual explorers and nestled amid a tourist trap, was the site of occasional pilgrimage for devotees of noodly appendages who sought to imbibe a dose of craftsmanship that was a world away from the impersonal assemblies of factoried food outlets.

A mere hole in the wall in its early years, Noodle House Ken opened in 2003 to a clientele that initially comprised expatriate or visiting salarymen and sundry tourists from nearby hotels. Helming the shop was Kenji Misawa, a former sushi chef who had paid six years of dues at a Japanese restaurant in the Ritz-Carlton. Little else is known about him, save that he was stout, taciturn and probably a staunch believer in the metaphysics of quality who insisted on doing all the cooking himself. Word of his rich double-boiled broth, springy noodles and thick char siew soon got around and a sprinkling of locals began to haunt the house and sample the menu, which was so spartan that a lady, clearly smitten with irredeemable quantities, once sat down, studied the fraying, laminated card and loudly declared to a waitress, "So, is that all you have?"

The selection was indeed limited, with a choice of miso and kimuchiramen, plus a curious plate of cold noodles known as hiyashi chuka. Generous cuts of char siew were optional, as were bamboo shoots, butter, nori and Kyushu-style stewed boiled eggs with yolk that seeped out to overpower the senses and run away with your heart. The addictive consistency of the ajitama, which involves a precisely timed immersion of the ova, was probably one of Ken's many trade secrets, as were his sources of wheat noodles and pork. The house of Ken soon grew, taking over a nearby shoplot that furnished the civility of tables and chairs in an airconditioned soundscape of modern jazz. Both portions were amply equipped with Japanese magazines and shelves of indecipherable manga, but only in the original wing could one commune with a soul possessed with the pursuit of perfection in every bowl, if communing could be said to be the hasty act of slurping dunked noodles by a dingy counter before a steamed up wall of glass that separated patrons from Ken and his crew. There was Asahi Super Dry on tap, and gyoza and plum onigiri were available to whet the appetite while one awaited the highlight of a day in a concrete orchard. 

At some point in the later half of his tenure, Ken revamped his menu, replacing the old tattered cards and adding shio and shoyu ramen to the selection. But not a few detected changes in texture as well as a certain lapse in concentration that signalled, perhaps, a lowering of personal standards or, more likely, the frailties of a man whose heart was failing him. Still, this mere one-man show more than held its own in a market of fancier tricks, welcoming diners faithful and fresh to the day the muse died and bid farewell to a landmark that punched above its weight in the island's culinary landscape. Ken himself remains off the map, in his homeland as a middle-aged fugitive or in the grip of more fatal assaults, and with little hope of a return to form, all that remains after a near-decade of excellence in a sea of lacklustre eateries is a mountain of debt and the memory of his tare. 

Khao soi

One minor objective of a recent junket to Chiang Mai was to sample a regional specialty, a dish of egg noodles simmered in a mild coconut curry. Chunks of meat or fish and an obligatory side of pickles complete each serving of khao soi, a meal that satisfies through sheer simplicity and an unknowing nod at each food group in the nutritional pyramid.

Khao soi is thought to have originated among Chinese Muslim traders who braved the mountain passes that linked Yunnan, Burma, Laos and Siam in a time of absolute rulers and relative rules. Some settled at hubs along these routes, building communities around riverine mosques and blending culinary elements acquired during their travels with ingredients of local picking. Thus, some suggest that the Cin Haw spiced up a Burmese soup called ohn-no-kyaukswe with chilli and crunchy toppings of deep-fried noodles; others see an etymological link with a tribal concoction made from rice cakes cut into thin strips and added to a gamey broth. Over time, Cin Haw settlers replaced rice with egg and enriched the soup with coconut milk, despite the paucity of this raw material in a region of deep valleys and high ranges.

Located in a lane of small eateries and a makeshift market near the Ping River, Khao Soi Islam offers a motley choice of northern Thai cuisine amid plain tables and rickety chairs. Pride of place, however, goes to khao soi, which the establishment serves with a choice of beef, beefballs, fish or chicken. Packs of trademarked dry noodles line shelves by the entrance, but only here, at a corner manned by a lady with absolute mastery over the bowls that surround her workspace and the girls who convey orders and deliver plates, can a hybrid dish be savoured fresh and flavoured with a sauce of foreign tradition.

While we waited for our lunch, a family of Singaporeans passed by and stepped in with audible caution. Their cursory survey of the premises was enough to prompt a hasty retreat to presumably safer and more sumptuous quarters. But it did little to discourage those who were already seated: gangs of wrinkled men, families led by coiffered dames, the odd angmo wielding chopsticks with random dexterity. The noodles arrived without fuss, with generous portions of tart sides and crispy strands that invade every corner of the mouth and temper the warm, subtle notes of a meal drowned in silk and destined to play second fiddle to palates inured by richer fare.

Carrot cake and a stick to grind

The adage that nothing can be cheap, good and fast could be modified, in the case of the street food of Singapore, to the dictum that if an establishment offers the first two qualities, it is a phenomenon too good to last. The imperative of rent, both economic and excessive, and the expectations of consumers who crave high quality and cry blue murder when hawkers attempt to recoup the overheads of a service subject to contemporary cost structures conspire to edge out what were once hives of casual feasting and communitarian exchanges. Some proprietors succumb to the lure of franchises that profit from the mass production of coffee and curry puffs with little to boast of save names that may have once commanded a sense of currency. Others work themselves to the bone and vanish when leases are up and spirits are down, having little to show from years of toil but a legacy of smoke and fleeting flashes in the frying pan.

What passes for culinary tradition today is all too often an ill-thought affair of slick veneers helmed by cooks with no sign of pride in their craft or prejudice against creations made by hands with no heart. The craft of one century has not the wile nor the conventional wisdom to survive the penuries of an age that offers lip service to those who make a living from manual shifts but gives short shrift to the value of lowly aspirations. Those who manage have little in common from those who make, and neither do what they do for anything other than to earn a living. The few who do it for this thing called love harbour no illusions that a lifetime of mastery over wok and fire will not outlast a generation bred to shun cramped stalls for shackled cubicles.

The scent of fresh carrot cake (for ‘radish cake’ is an unnecessary concession to dessert islands of faraway parlours) is one that recalls empty streets in peninsular towns, hours after the last shop has raised its boards and flung sturdy locks around the weakest link of their iron gates. In this void of human activity, the hawker offers an oasis of light, a magnet of organoleptic stimulation that reaches beyond the surrounding block to tempt and entrance passing drivers (for many then still ate the wind with their windows down) to cave in to the desire for a supper of stir-fried daikon, which would be rapidly packed in waxed paper and devoured with toothpicks that pierced every last crumb.

Such scenes are now unheard of in a country of organised labour and sanitary streets. A few gems pop up (and quickly splutter) on occasion in the branded terraces that infest heartland malls, but by and large the clippings and star-studded accolades that adorn tattered panels mean little to hungry bodies and less to those hired merely to stir and serve. And when one is inclined to simply eat to leave, the reply that only dark carrot cake is available is met with resigned bewilderment. For the complexities of the modern food supply chain has rendered it impossible for a stallholder to refrain from adding a sauce of evil to the raw ingredients, and so what is delivered on a plate of doubt is apparently the final stage of a factory where batter is pre-mixed with soy and given a lukewarm touch of heat before distribution and sale to patrons who pay the price of bland fare and tasteless efficiencies.

Catty

There was a perceptible swarmlet of dragonflies yesterday evening as I waded through the town centre to procure dinner and pick up drycleaning at real risk of being discarded by the laundry after nearly a month of neglect. Even within the premises, a brace of glass tubes on the wall above the collection counter harboured two libellulids drawn to the cold white light. Other insects lurked on the upper corners of the lift landing and there was just enough illumination to make out one with a plain brown body and another with a reddish brown abdomen and small but distinct, pale patches on the rearwings. A quick check in the best available local reference eliminated the line-up to Tholymis tillarga, a species that hawks at dusk and hence eludes the eyes of hunters who worship the light but whose minds stay ever in the dark.

With faint intrique, I note that the meep kitten is not a few whiskers short of a full cat. Whatever trauma he endured alongside his brothers a few months earlier, he seems to have since imbibed a secret diet of wildlife documentaries, having taken to regularly tackling Angelmao in the manner of a lioness assaulting a full-grown elephant and with similarly dismal results.

At the hawker centre, over a bowl of wonton noodles, I noted an angmoh couple lugging a little dslr perusing the wares of the stalls in wry succession. It was telling that the mere presence of a similar machine in my hands would elicit palpable caution or genuine artifice in those who work or play in the vicinity. The foreign pair, however, sniffed the stuffed skins of a yong tau foo stand and pondered the fragrant offerings of a chicken rice seller to little alarm and no more than a passing, almost dismissive interest from diners who refused to let curiosity get in the way of their meals. In another time and a far more distant place, the tables were turned as my instinct to capture fleeting moments drew either warm banter or cold indifference from the inhabitants of a greater town.

With no visual tools in hand, my ears scanned the air for other signals of interest. Seated at a nearby table were a lady and her young charge, who shared a serving of fishball noodles. In sing-song English, she drew the mousy middleschooler into quiet conversation, exhorting her to finish up with a firm tone, asking “So when your exam finish?” with friendly eyes and remarking “You know ah, that Hokkien mee stall there not very nice…” with sisterly banter. It’s not my business to pry, but who would have thought that such low hurdles stood between the duties of one made with an accent and the care of an absent mother?