A tragicomedy in three acts

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No-one ever goes hungry in Singapore. No-one’s ever given the chance.

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Act 1, Scene 1

They call it street food because you can vaguely see the street from your table. Lau Pa Sat is the main “hawker centre” in Singapore’s financial core, an old market converted into a food court with close to 50 stalls spanning Asian cuisine.

Each stall is neatly enclosed with glass and a luminous sign showing pictures of their fare. Desmond, a local lawyer we befriended, negotiated the clutter of tables and humans with ease despite his wheelchair.

“The first order of business is to find a table,” he counseled.

A tall order. The place was mad with the lunchtime rush. But I spotted an empty table among the throngs. How civilized, I thought. They place a wet napkin pack at each place of an empty table.

When I quickly took a seat, a severe Chinese man shook his finger while barking something in Singlish. I knew it was Singlish because Wikipedia told me they sometimes add urgency to sentences with “lah” or “mah”.

“That table isn’t free,” Desmond said. It’s Singapore custom, we learned, to reserve a seat with napkins while you shop for grub.

Act 1, Scene 2

“So what’s the local specialty,” I asked Desmond while eyeing some red lacquered ducks hanging seductively from hooks at a nearby stall. I could almost taste the Chinese five spices.

Lawyers are good at reading body language, and Desmond promptly ordered one. He wheeled himself to a neighbouring stall and ordered two more dishes: fried oysters and char kway teow. Then he dropped by a fritter stand and bought three battered and fried bananas.

Singaporeans are in a hurry. Always an appointment to catch, people to see. Unlike their Southeast Asian neighbours, you rarely see a Singaporean just sitting around. As such, they don’t have much time to eat, which is why they generously lubricate their food to reduce chewing times.

We felt like we had made out with greasy frying pans, but it was all very tasty. The duck, especially, was stupendous. There was food left on the plates. Two bananas uneaten.

“Shall we get something else,” Desmond asked. We politely laughed at his little joke. His face turned puzzled.

Singaporeans don’t joke. Not about food.

Act 2, Scene 1

Late nights mean late breakfasts, so we usually hit the streets around noon with bellies full. But when we hooked up with a gentle Singaporean boy we hosted in Montreal via Counchsurfing, he was hungry for lunch.

“There’s a place here famous for carrot cakes,” Daniel said after we met at a hawker centre in Little India. “Want some?”

“Get some for yourself and we’ll have a taste,” I replied.

He vanished for five minutes and returned with two plates. One had a stir-fried mess of white starchy cubes, grated carrots, and spring onions. The other was the same thing, but blackened by soya sauce.

Those are carrot cakes.

“When I was younger, I liked the black one more,” he said. “Today I prefer the white.”

Indeed, the white one was more savoury, loaded with garlic and spices. The black brother was notably sweet. Both were fantastically greasy.

He excused himself again and returned with rojak, a fruit and vegetable salad topped with peanut sauce.

We left two-thirds of each plate untouched. Any more would require an emergency stomach pump or bulimia. “Should we get something else,” Daniel asked.

Okay, they like to mess with tourists, we thought. It’s the national prank. You gotta have some outlet among all this order, all this cleanliness, all these rules.

Daniel got up, and again, after five minutes, returned with two bowls. One was filled with a black jelly-like noodle with ice cubes. The other a white, airy cream. Grass jelly and bean curd.

Both desserts were left 80 percent intact.

Act 2, Scene 2

The cash register at Ah Chew Desserts randomly selects a customer for a chance to win a second treat. I was chosen after paying for my almond paste with sesame rice balls and Daniel’s mango with sago pellets.

The owner told me to insert a rubber ball into a glass case filled with pegs. Quantum physics and gravity would then bounce the ball around until it fell into one of eight slots on the bottom. My ball fell into “Grass jelly with fruits”.

The owner then stamped the back of my receipt: valid for a free dessert up to 30 days from date of first purchase. Awesome. I could come back tomorrow.

Five minutes into my tasty almond paste – more of a cold soup, really – a waitress brings a bowl heaping with grass jelly and cubed pineapples, strawberries, and watermelon. She demands my stamped ticket.

“What,” she asked incredulously when I told her I didn’t want it right now. “You’re only having one?”

A hawker stall in Singapore. Every seller is given a letter grade on cleanliness.

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Act 3

Il Lido is a restaurant at the Sentosa Golf Club, a rich man’s playground at an islet south of Singapore’s mainland. We went as guests of local lawyers and entrepreneurs we befriended.

Desmond, a consummate lover of fine wines, suggested we all order the tasting menu, as he had brought four wines to pair with each course.

It started with a slice of pan-seared tuna, then two grilled scallops with crispy prosciutto, followed by tagliatelle with tomato lobster sauce, beef tenderloin steaks, and finished with lava cake and ice cream. Capuccinos and dessert wine for the cap.

In Singapore, any discussion, no matter how arcane, will inevitably turn to eating. Everyone’s an expert. No one is ambivalent. Consensus: the food was average and portions too small.

The backpackers were bursting at the seams, but abstained. We didn’t want to appear weak.

The bill came. There was little arguing over who pays. One person volunteers, and the rest vow to send their shares over internet banking.

One of the guests looked at me and said, “Do you want some real food now? We’re going for dinner. There’s some good beef noodles there.”

Politely declined. The next day, we heard the three who went ordered five dishes.

Epilogue

Declining food in Singapore is is as effective as asking a computer to hurry up. Insisting is just as foolish.

It’s a city that is a country and has no countryside, no ancient mythologies, no history as a nation older than 190 years. Food, brought by its three main ethnic groups at a variety, cost and quality unrivaled anywhere else, is what unifies them.

Food is how Singaporeans express affection. It is how they honour guests. It is what they know best.

It’s the foreigner’s task to channel his bewilderment – and upset stomach – into flattery.

And if he wants to be stinking rich, figure out how these people never get fat and make a pill out of it.