Unless a cocktail includes egg whites as an ingredient—or demands frothiness—I’m a strict stirrer (I loathe tiny shards of ice floating atop my cocktail).

Cooking Issues’ Dave Arnold has “taken on the more ambitious task of summarizing everything [he’s] learned about cocktail science over the past year.” He posted Cocktail Science in General, Part 1 of 2 this morning, and I was fascinated to read this:

Think of stirring as inefficient shaking. It can take over 2 minutes of constant stirring to do what shaking can accomplish in 15 seconds. No one stirs a drink for 2 minutes, so the drink never reaches an equilibrium point. All the bartender-induced variables — size of ice, speed of stirring, duration of stirring, etc. — make a difference in stirred cocktails, so bartender skill is very important in a stirred cocktail.

Because stirring doesn’t reach equilibrium, stirred drinks are warmer and less diluted than shaken cocktails. Stirred drinks, unlike shaken ones, are not aerated. Stirring does not alter the texture of a drink — it merely chills and dilutes. A properly diluted cocktail stored at -5 degrees Celsius in a freezer is indistinguishable from a properly stirred one.

This immediately brought to mind my first visit to Bar Hemingway. As I watched Colin Field make my cocktail (whose name escapes me), I was fascinated by the inordinate amount of time he spent stirring this particular drink. Two minutes? Wouldn’t surprise me. Did the cocktail reach its equilibrium point? It must have, because it was the best cocktrail I’ve tasted.

Today’s post discusses our first true Singaporean feast—Red House Seafood Restaurant (1204 East Coast Parkway, #01-05 East Coast Seafood Centre), recommended by our wonderful local “handler”, Mags, who joined us and then ordered while we munched on boiled peanuts and chugged Tiger beer.

We started off with Crispy Fried Baby Squid, each tiny cephalopod crunchy and juicy and incredibly addictive. What a way to whet our appetites. I can’t imagine a better bar snack.

Next up were Steamed Scottish Razor Clams with Minced Garlic—although Mags referred to them as “bamboo clams”. The brininess of the tender clams was offset by the sweet garlic sauce. An absolute hit. Thankfully there was one razor clam per person; I can’t imagine the fight that would’ve broken out had there been a couple extras.

One of Red House’s signature dishes followed: Prawns Wok Fried in Creamy Custard Sauce. The honey-sweetness of the butter-based custard was a little surprising—what was I expecting with the word “custard?”—and, honestly, a little too much for me, despite its spicy undertones. Even when paired with the whole prawns (crunchy shell, juicy head), the sweetness was only slightly tempered. The custard never approached cloying; it was just sweeter than I like (though thankfully nowhere near as sweet as cereal prawns, the only dish in Singapore I didn’t like).

The dishes really started to come thick and fast now, but we were up to the challenge.

The Deep Fried ‘Yu Tiao’ stuffed with Cuttlefish Paste was another hit. So far on this trip I’d enjoyed my fair shair of yu tiao (deep fried dough, also known as Chinese cruller), but I’d never experienced it as a dish unto itself. Coated with sesame seeds, the yu tiao was crispy and savoury with cuttlefish flavour.

Our favourite dish of the evening appeared next: Crab Tossed in Black Pepper. Singapore may be known best for its chilli crab, but the black pepper crab is more memorable. Rich with butter and spicy with the deep-heated complexity you find in great peppercorns, this was the best crab dish I’ve tasted. The Sri Lankan crab meat is tender and sweet and marries perfectly with the pepper sauce. I wish we’d ordered a second, but there was still more food on its way.

Steamed Whole Scallops with Minced Garlic was wonderful, but my tastebuds were still lingering over the black pepper crab.

People were beginning to get full when the Garoupa Steamed with Superior Soya Sauce appeared, which allowed me to claim the best part: the cheek. Awesome. I ended up eating about half of the grouper; it was perfectly moist and melted on the tongue.

The Crayfish Wok-Fried with Sambal was another winner; its crunchy batter imparted a spicy zing.

Everyone was grateful that Mags ordered the Sautéed Baby Kai-Lan in Oyster Sauce, a perfectly executed dish, the kai-lain tender without any of that overcooked limpness common to greens under less watchful eyes.

And then came the Crab Red House Chilli Stew, the famous Singapore chilli crab. Don’t let the name fool you: this is a tomato-based sauce, thick and sweet, with only a little spice from chilli. Ribbons of egg add to the sauce’s creaminess. The Sri Lankan crab was tender, meaty, and rich. Is it the best crab in the world? It may well be.

I’m really happy to have tasted chilli crab, and I’d never turn it down . . . but on this sultry evening, my heart fell in love with black pepper crab.

A thousand thanks to Mags for a memorable dining experience and insight into the real, non-Disneyfied Singapore.

Seafood flavours today’s post . . . and will continue to flavour the rest of my culinary tour of Singapore.

Rojak

Before I wax euphoric about rojak, let me quote one of my favourite Singapore food bloggers, ieatishootipost:

If you ever have to describe the ingredients that go into rojak to a westerner, I am sure none of them would want to eat it. I mean seriously, does fruit salad dressed with a sauce made from fermented prawns sound delectable?

No, it doesn’t . . . but to this Occidental, rojak may have been my favourite discovery during ten days of non-stop eating in Singapore. So taken was I with rojak, that I don’t have a single picture of any of the rojaks I ate, only mouth-watering memories.

Sweet, salty, spicy, sour . . . syrupy, crunchy, chewy, juicy . . . a symphony of flavours and textures.

My favourite rojak of the trip came courtesy of Toa Payoh Rojak (Old Airport Food Centre, Blk 51 Old Airport Road #01-108). This rojak was also the most savoury; there was no disguising the sauce’s base of fermented prawn paste. Mixed into the warm viscous sauce tinged with chilli were cuts of pineapple, cucumber, jambu air (“water apple”), you tiao (deep fried dough, also known as Chinese cruller), and tau pok (deep-fried tofu). Before being served, the uncle topped the salad with ground peanuts.

More than a few locals noted their surprise at my love for rojak. I don’t understand how someone couldn’t be smitten by this brilliant, slightly unusual sweet-savoury salad.

Fishball noodles

One description guaranteed to turn off the Occidental is “fishball.” It conjures abattoir-floor horrors usually associated with street corner hot dogs . . . made worse by the fact seafood’s involved. Sorry, but I’ll take fishballs any day.

Intensive research directed us to Hui Ji Fish Ball Noodle – Yong Tau Fu (Tiong Bahru Market & Food Centre, #02-44 30 Seng Poh Road) for seriously shiok, authentic fishball noodles.

Hui Ji offers tah, or “dry”, fishball noodles; the soup is served on the side—a delightful broth sweet with the fresh flavour of seafood, not the slightest tinge of “fishiness”. It tasted like a whiff of clean ocean breeze. Hui Ji also offers a variety of noodles. I asked the customer ahead of us her preference and she pointed toward the mee pok (flat rice noodles). When in Singapore, eh?

In addition to the handmade fishballs, there was her giao (fish dumplings), fried fish cakes, pork slices, crunchy bits of deep-fried pork lard, and spring onion, in a light gravy of vinegar and fish sauce. The fishballs had a wonderful light texture, not the rubbery texture I’ve read comes with factory-made fishballs, and, again, a fresh flavour reminisent of clean ocean breezes.

For my first taste of fishball noodles, I can’t imagine doing any better than Hui Ji. Another culinary revelation.

To be continued . . .

Today’s journey takes us from China to India without ever leaving Singapore.

Bak kut teh

I love breakfast, but not the bacon-and-eggs variety enamoured by my Occidental brethren. Give me phở or bak kut teh any day.

OK, I admit it: I’m a broth man. And Ng Ah Sio Pork Ribs Soup Eating House (208 Rangoon Road) had me at the first slurp of its Teochew-style peppery broth.

Bak kut teh literally translates as pork rib tea and there are as many creation stories as there are ingredients that make this wonderfully complex broth: Chinese herbs, cinnamon, cloves, dang gui (female ginseng), fennel seeds, garlic, star anise . . .

The spare ribs jutting out of the broth were tender and full-flavoured, but I didn’t really care about them. The broth’s the thing. Whenever I came close to draining my bowl—and thus revealing the residue of garlic and crushed Sarawak peppercorn at the bowl’s bottom—an “auntie” magically appeared with a metal pitcher of steaming broth and asked if I’d like more. Let me quote Molly Bloom: “yes.”

In addition to the ribs, we ordered plain white rice, shiitake mushrooms in a soy broth, you tiao (deep fried dough, also known as Chinese cruller) for dunking in the broth, and Cai Sin, a soy-braised leafy green with rather thick yet easily eaten stems. The Cai Sin was the other revelation of the morning; some of the best greens I’ve eaten have had some sort of Chinese heritage, and we devoured the Cai Sin with the same speed we slurped the broth.

Bak kut teh isn’t bak kut teh without the teh—in this case, “kung fu” tea brewed in a clay pot. Our auntie recommended the Xiao Yue Gan, a sweet liquorice-tasting tea that provided the perfect accompaniment to the broth.

Mutton biryani

After reading ieatishootipost’s review of Bismillah Biryani (50 Dunlop Street), I had no choice but to go to Little India in search of Singapore’s best mutton biryani.

The restaurant’s not much to look at from the outside—though you can’t miss the red vinyl banner hanging below the signboard quoting “an authentic customer statement” about Bismillah’s greatness—and it’s not much to look at from the inside, either—though, thankfully, the wall-mounted fans do keep you cool . . .

But I wasn’t looking for ambience . . . I wanted Singapore’s best biryani—a rice dish whose name comes from the Persian word “birian” which means “fried before cooking”—and though I can’t vouch that it’s the best, it was damned tasty and I wouldn’t hesitate to return.

The Basmati rice—the grains remained separate, the sign of authentic Basmati—was fragrant with spices and the mutton was tender and flavourful, though missing the gaminess the word usually conjures. A thin yet savoury curry gravy and crispy pappadums were served on the side. There’s often the tendency to over-spice Indian food, but the chef manning the biryani pot had a steady yet assured hand—amazing when you consider that no ghee is added to flavour the rice.

Bismillah Biryani touts its food as “healthy.” Don’t let that stop you from trying it the next time you’re in Singapore’s Little India.

To be continued . . .

Seventeen years ago, novelist William Gibson called Singapore “Disneyland with the death penalty.” It’s time to retire Gibson’s conceit. Disneyland never had such wonderful food. And honestly, perhaps the death penalty for drug trafficking would curb America’s childish enthusiasm for illegal narcotics. (That, however, is another post.)

My next few posts will instead concentrate on my favourite drug: food.

Now I’d read how much of a food destination Singapore was, but I didn’t believe it until I went. Today’s post will focus on two new discoveries: chicken rice and laksa.

Hainanese chicken rice

Often considered the national dish of Singapore, Hainanese chicken rice is a deceptively simple looking dish of boiled chicken and white rice served with sliced cucumber, dark soy sauce, chilli sauce, and ginger.

Located in Singapore’s most famous hawker centre, Maxwell Food Centre (South Bridge Road and Maxwell Road), Tian Tian Hainanese Chicken Rice is touted by many to be Singapore’s best. The queue that forms before the stand opens at 11 a.m. certainly testifies to its popularity.

Indeed, I was pleasantly surprised by the amount of flavour in the two main components as well as the tenderness of the skin and the juiciness of the chicken. Too often chicken that’s been boiled ends up as dry and tasteless as chalk.

Our local “handler”, however, steered us in the direction of Wee Nam Kee Chicken Rice (Novena Ville, 275 Thomson Road) with the promise, “This place serves the best chicken rice in Singapore. I have been coming here since I was young.”

And you know what? Wee Nam Kee’s chicken rice edged out Tian Tian’s. Of course, the ice-cold Tiger beer I washed the chicken rice down with on that blisteringly hot and muggy day may have contributed to this decision.

Having not been brought up with chicken rice, I don’t know exactly what constitutes a perfect plate; all I can go on are my Occidental taste buds and Wee Nam Kee’s tasted just that little bit better. I’d still go back and eat at Tian Tian without reservation, and I certainly recommend Tian Tian to neophytes. If you get the chance, however, give Wee Nam Kee a try, too.

Laksa

I must admit to only trying one stall’s laksa, a spicy coconut milk-based noodle soup, on this trip—Depot Road Zhen Shan Mei Claypot Laksa (Alexandra Village, Fine Taste Eating House, 119 Bukit Merah Lane 1)—but it was so damned delicious I went back a second time (instead of searching out other laksa stalls). Research guided me to Zhen Shan Mei for a particularly thick and creamy laksa (read: rich) which is also served in a claypot—something rarely seen anymore, but excellent at keeping the soup hot, which is, of course, what you want on a sweltering day.

The flavours of coconut milk, dried shrimp paste, and sambal dominate (especially since I added more sambal before sitting down), but every few slurps the sharp briny bite of cockle cuts through the spicy richness. In addition to the cockles, the bowl is full of noodles, prawns, shredded chicken, deep fried tofu, and bak you pok—deep fried pork fat—which adds a delightful and necessary crunch.

This was my favourite breakfast of the trip . . . until I tasted bak kut teh . . . and then I realised I’d have to become a Hobbit to justify embracing the second breakfast.

To be continued . . .

They don’t make restaurants like Auberge Le Quincy anymore, and that’s a great shame. There seem to be a lot fewer restaurant owners like Le Quincy’s Michel “Boboss” Bosshard, too, which probably accounts for the lack of cubbyhole restaurants that give the impression you’ve stepped into someone’s slightly cluttered home, warm with comforting laughter and even more comforting aromas.

As soon as we were seated at the red-and-white checkered table, the always-smiling Boboss cut a couple thick slices from the saucisson tucked under his arm for us to nibble on while we perused the menu of classic country cuisine. He quickly returned with two small glasses of sparkling white Loire wine, also on the house.

When I asked Boboss about the tête de veau he disappeared into the back of the house without a word, returning shortly with a beautiful white veal head on a silver platter. “The freshest tête de veau in all Paris,” he laughed.

How could I resist?

Before I could indulge in tête de veau, however, I had the wonderful house terrine and cold, garlicky cabbage salad to start. I could’ve dined on these alone and been sated, but the tête de veau was calling my name. It still does. It always will until I return to Le Quincy and indulge again. Tender, unctuous cuts of cheek, tongue, and brain with potatoes and carrots folded into a tart and acidic sauce gribiche—boiled egg, Dijon mustard, olive oil, red wine vinegar, cornichon, capers, and herbs. One of my all-time favourite dishes.

The Wife’s starter of steamed green asparagus with butter and main plate of braised rabbit with shallots were wonderful, too. I imagine, however, that since I’ll always order the tête de veau, The Wife will have the responsibility of eating the rest of the menu.

If I had Le Quincy in my neighborhood, I’d eat there once a week. And on weeks when I needed a little extra comfort, at least two or three times.

Thank you, Boboss. You are, unfortunately, one of a kind.

Tucked away in Passage des Panoramas, the city’s oldest covered passageway, “lounge-restaurant” Passage 53 has divided online opinion during its brief existence; it’s also garnered a Michelin star, so The Wife and I decided to make this a destination. And I’m really glad we did. Chef Shinichi Sato presents French cuisine with such markedly clean flavours; it’s like nothing else I’ve eaten in France.

Besides the (very) low-slung chair I sat on with some discomfort throughout the nine-course €85 dégustation, I can think of no other negatives.

We started with the green pea velouté with green pea skin sorbet, a wonderfully refreshing amuse, sweet and fresh. The soup came with two delicate “tarts”: anchovy butter on one; onions and Osetra caviar on the second. The “pastry” was thin and shatteringly crisp, simply a way to deliver the intensely flavoured “fillings” to our expectant mouths.

Next followed tempura baby violet artichokes with raw oysters, finely diced apple, and onion foam. A delightful play on hot/cold, sweet/briny.

I’ve become a huge cauliflower fan over the past few years; the French Laundry’s Cauliflower “Panna Cotta” with Island Creek Oyster Glaze and California Sturgeon Caviar continues to haunt me in that “very special dish” kind of way. Passage 53’s quickly grilled calamari with cauliflower cream and raw cauliflower may return to haunt me, too. The squid was flash-flamed, and though tender still had a pleasant bite which matched perfectly with the creamy purée and the sweet crunch of the raw shaved florets. Monochromatic dishes usually don’t work aesthetically, but the white on white on white was as refined looking as it was tasting.

Never have I eaten as much wild asparagus as in this trip, and the next plate of white and wild asparagus with girolles and girolles foam may’ve been the best of the bunch. Another play on contrasts: sweet and bitter. The earthy, buttery girolles foam anchored the dish.

The last fish course was a meltingly flaky black cod fillet with radishes, fennel, cabbage, and tiny slivers of bacon, with a yuzu-spiked seafood foam. Another symphony of clean flavours.

To bridge the fish courses from the meat courses, we were then offered one of the best palate cleansers I’ve tasted: roasted foie gras with hot rhubarb soup and strawberries. After eating Le Cinq’s very different presentation of foie gras with rhubarb and strawberries the week before, I’ve decided the blend of tart rhubarb and sweet strawberry is foie gras’ perfect foil. I can’t recall another combination that so deliciously offsets the liver’s velvety richness; yet you could sup the soup by itself and be wowed.

The first meat course was poulet de Bresse with an intense and creamy sauce of slow-cooked egg, Parmigiano-Reggiano, and onions, a shiitake mushroom duxelle, and green asparagus. The skin was perfectly crisp, the dark meat moist and imbued with that deep flavour for which poulet de Bresse is known (and for which you pay a small fortune).

The last meat course was a perfectly-cooked cut of beef with an eggplant and peanut purée, fondant potatoes, fava beans, bok choy, and tarragon. To my surprise, the star of the plate was the purée. Who knew eggplant and peanuts worked so well together? And what a perfect accompaniment to the beef. Smoky, nutty, creamy. Oh my. A wonderful surprise.

Five small desserts followed: rhubarb jelly with rhubarb sorbet and diced raw rhubarb; mango and sago with pineapple and passion fruit foam; banana panna cotta; strawberries with strawberry sorbet and fresh almonds; warm chocolate tart. I don’t have the biggest sweet tooth, but I could eat that rhubarb jelly every day and not tire of it. The chocolate tart was another winner: gooey with just the right amount of sweetness.

At our waiter’s suggestion, we ordered a beautifully balanced yet complex Puligny-Montrachet (Domaine Louis Carillon, I believe), that complemented the dégustation.

Before our arrival—indeed, even after we arrived in Paris—we debated at length about going to Passage 53. I’m glad saner minds prevailed.