Dispatches From Singapore

Dispatch - 3 September 2009 - A weekend in Japan

Tokyo.  Incredibly familiar and at the same time utterly foreign.  It started on our anniversary, when Lisa said. "Let's celebrate our 13th in Japan"  I immediately agreed and in less than a week found myself on the overnight to Narita, my camera bag stocked with Lonely Planet and print-outs from the Internet.  It wasn't until somewhere between standing in the wrong bus line and getting off at the wrong hotel when I realized that, despite my preparations, I was completely unprepared for Japan.  First of all, scanning the street signs and endless array of neon edifices and anime billboards, I had absolutely no idea where I was, since I could not read a thing.  Japan, I discovered, while having pockets of tourist-friendly haunts, is a huge, proudly homogeneous society made up of - well - Japanese people.  And the vast majority of those people do not speak, read or write English.  And shocking as it seemed to my ethnocentric thinking, they don't feel a need to cater to westerners hunting the streets for "cos-girls" and conveyor belt sushi.  

We quickly decided to peel off of our original plan of just traversing Tokyo's many neighborhoods and head out of town for a day.  After all, living in Singapore, one need not travel to Tokyo to window shop.  And if culture and history was what we wanted, someone advised, Kyoto was the place to go.  So off we went to find the train station.  

The Shinkansen, or "bullet train," is a wonder of modern technology.  It's spotlessly clean, comfortable and very, very fast.  Averaging about 240 kilometers per hour, with some stretches nosing around the 300 mark, the 520 kilometer trip from Tokyo to Kyoto took just 2 hours.  And despite that wind tunnel pace, the train seemed to float, as if on rounded rails of air, barely jiggling or swaying as it weaved its way south.  This was definitely not Amtrak, I thought, as the blur of green countryside raced silently by.

The Shinkansen: Tokyo-Kyoto in 2 hours!  Shinkansen: pristine serenity, at 300 km/h.

Kyoto is rich in history and culture, thanks to the oversight of bombing raids during World War II. Scattered throughout this city of a million and a half are temples, shrines and Shogun castles dating back to the 600's or earlier, with many of those original structures still standing today.  Others -- the newer replicas -- were rebuilt more recently like, say, in the 16th or 17th century.  In other words, the culture, art and architecture in this place is old; and not "old" a la the United States or Australia, but Asian old, which is to say predating by centuries the time when Marco Polo was even a twinkle in old Niccolo's eye.

  

Nijo Castle (above); Rokuon-Ji Temple ("Golden Pavilion") and Jisho-ja (below).

 

Now, I wish I could tell about the places we saw, explaining the history of emperors and Shoguns, or the samurai warriors and Buddhist monks who squeaked along the nightingale floors of castles, knelt before gilded shrines in the countless pavilions and temples, or contemplated the graceful lines in the sand or bends of the gnarled branches of bonsai trees in the gardens.  But I can't, because as much as I was stirred to the core by the muted stillness within in these noble and elegantly simple structures, I just don't know much about them.  I wish I understood the deep sense of peace which enveloped me when I padded across the cool, straw tatami floors in bare feet; a longing perhaps of unrecognized Buddhist sensibilities and values, causing me to commit one day -- perhaps as a very old man -- to return and again walk the Path of Philosophy; this time understanding its true meaning.  But as we were in Japan for just a long weekend, I need to table that idyllic dream and focus here on my present bank of knowledge and more earthly desires.  In other words, food.

 

The Path of Philosophy, Kyoto.

Just as Kyoto is a stronghold for Japanese culture and Zen Buddhist understanding, it is also the hallowed home for a culinary discipline to which I have had little exposure:  Tofu.  Sure, I've had my share of that vegetarian meat substitute - a block of semi-firm, cream-cheese-looking mash - and even some of the better stuff, packed in thin, milky liquid and having the texture of high grade buffalo mozzarella.  Invariably, it has been served by proletarians in woven, tie-dyed shirts offering nuts or grains or other organic specialties as an accompaniment.  And in nearly every instance it has delivered little in the flavor department and served more as a filler than as the center of edible attention.  That's what I thought tofu was, and honestly, I never understood what the fuss was all about.  But, I reasoned, since for fifteen hundred years Zen Buddhists here have virtually lived on this soy product, there must be something to it.  So I decided that if ever there might be a place where I could resolve my tofu conundrum and satisfy my curiosity about this substance as a source of dining enjoyment, Kyoto would be it.  

Upon someone's advice we wandered along a narrow street just beside the Heian-Jingu shrine and, after passing it a few times (unable to read the Japanese name) we wandered into a tiny, local tofu restaurant.  We removed our shoes and followed the kimono-clad woman through a small, half-curtained archway and across the woven rice straw floor to a traditional Japanese table where we sat on the floor, facing a small zen garden.  The walls hinted of pastel green and the wood trim of the rice paper partitions was natural, imparting the sense of a Japanese sanctuary created by a visionary zen master as a private place for soulful introspection. Sounds were muffled and the few others in the restaurant spoke in gentle, hushed volumes.  And it was in this lovely, serene setting that I quietly achieved a higher level of tofu enlightenment.

 

The menu was elegantly simple and entirely tofu-focused.  Our all-tofu lunch, the various portions of which were served in lacquered black and red dishes and pots, included delicate skewered bites of tofu with a miso-infused shitaki mushroom; panko fried tofu engulfing perfectly tender, steamed vegetables; paper thin tofu skins atop slivers of slightly marinated micro-fungus; a delicate bed of baby greens with tofu angel hair with a thin tofu vinaigrette; and the highlight of the meal: a covered clay pot of fresh, uncooked tofu.  It rested on a small burner with flames gently licking the sides, which slowly cooked the milky liquid and produced a luscious, barely firm tofu which shimmered pure white and was as light as a feather.  The smooth texture on my tongue and clean, eloquent flavor was what I can only describe as True and Pure -- the food of angels served as a cloud. And like an epiphany it opened my mind to the magic that is tofu.  We ate slowly and carefully, savoring each new taste.  There was no need for loud exclamations or a rolling of eyes over the mouthwatering dishes; it was instead a gentle, personal discovery which we each shared with furtive glances and hushed commentary.   

Raw, liquid tofu cooking gently in a clay pot.

The meal was ended magically by a dollop of tofu pudding infused with Japanese lime and ginger. Picture talcum-weight key lime cheesecake without the cloying sweetness or filmy residue.  Two small spoonfuls sated and closed our palates in an extraordinarily satisfying way.  But then, who would expect anything other than such a perfectly balanced conclusion to our zen-like culinary experience.

I will never forget this small, delicate place where tofu is the guiding principle.  And I will, at least in my mind, make periodic pilgrimages back to reset my proper Tofu Thought.  Sadly, however, I am unable to identify this wonderful little restaurant by name.  But I did pocket their card so that I can one day present it to a cab driver outside of the Kyoto Train Station, look desperately into his eyes and say, "Made onegai shimas." (Please take me there....)

If you seek Tofu Enlightenment (and can read Japanese), this is the place!   

Dispatch - 17 August 2009 - Shark!

The wet markets of Singapore; how do I begin to describe them to one who has never been?  Do I simply explain that they are open air food stands contained under a common roof and offering fresh food to buy?  I could write a tome listing the endless array of fruit, vegetables, meat, seafood, poultry and a host of things that I don't exactly know how to classify but nevertheless look great.  Or do I describe them as a gathering of different vendors in every neighborhood in Singapore selling meat, produce and dry goods specific to the predominant ethnicity of that area?  That could become and even bigger tome. As I learn the specialization in some of these markets I can often choose which one to venture into depending on the category of my peckish sentiment at the time.  If, for example, I want lamb or mutton, along with ghee in which to cook it and banana leaves on which to serve it, I head to Tekka market in Little India.  If pork tickles my palate, I avoid Tekka (the Muslims don't carry much of that!) and head to Tiong Bahru where one can buy the entire swine's skull or -- for the more particular -- just the ears or tails or trotters, not to mention all (and I mean all) parts in between.

The heart/lung combo at Tiong Bahru - is this still called "pork?"

If, alternatively, my menu calls for fully intact chickens or ducks; whole pigs; live frogs; squirming eels; lotus root packed in mud; any variety of live crabs; preserved duck eggs (which, by their blackened, straggly feathers and overall semi-decomposed appearance, may very possibly be the ultimate misnomer); nearly any variety of dried sea flora or fauna or piles of tender, soft noodles, it's off to Chinatown's market.  The list of options available at the many Singapore wet markets goes on and on.

  

A typical wet market vegetable aisle.

 

My favorite Muslim mutton man.

 

Chicken the way is should be sold.

A typical fruit stall at wet market.

  

Dried chilies, shrimps, and other treasures of sea and land in a wet market.

But every now and then something shows up that intrigues even the most well-seasoned marketeer and is worthy of special note.  And this day was no exception.  I walked into Tekka market in search of lemon grass for a refreshing "tea" that cuts through the tropical heat simmering within my core after a crowded morning slogging through the fish-scaly puddles and fleshy air of a wet market.  When I happened upon a shark. Not a shark like the smaller ones in every fish stall - black tip reefers or the ubiquitous dogfish used to make an affordable interpretation of shark's fin soup.  But a rather biggish shark -- stretching nearly 2 meters.  In other words big enough to cause your average expat holiday snorkeler to unexpectedly contaminate the clear waters of a coral reef.  Its pinpoint eyes--piercing even in death--caught my attention first, following which I momentarily scanned its length, estimating the height of its dorsal fin and, inevitably, the diameter of its wide mouth.  I stood there, admiring the catch of the day, with its tawny sandpaper skin, intricate leopard spots and creamy underbelly.  I touched it.

  

You never know what surprises await in a Singapore wet market.

 

"You wan buy?" the Chinese fishmonger barked at me from across the crabs and squid.  I could sense from his dubious expression that he already knew the answer.  But I played along.

"How much?"

"Seven per kilo." No doubt, a "special price" for the sweaty ang mo with the Nikon standing before him. "But must buy whole fish."

"How heavy?"  I replied, eyeballing the beast as if sizing it up for my wok at home.

"Fifty five k-g.  Very nice!"

I did the math and wondered if in Princeton, New Jersey one could buy a fresh 120 pound shark for $260. That's about $2.15/pound.  Not bad, I thought, trying to picture our maid's expression when I slapped that bad boy down on the kitchen counter so she could get to work.  

But apparently I was not the only one with such grand ideas, because before I knew it a more ambitious Singaporean stepped forward and, speaking rapidly to the vendor in short, sharp words, pointed to the fish. I glanced at him, my face demonstrating disappointment at his attempt to usurp my family's dinner.  My competitive spirit flared and I nearly leaned in to begin the bidding war.  But he had the advantage -- Mandarin -- and the negotiation went fast and furious, until he handed over what appeared to be a much smaller amount of currency than previously required, and sealed the deal.  "Xie xie," my fishmonger friend nodded at my victor before dropping the money into a tin and turning away to address an enormous grouper in need of filleting.  

And so ended my shark tale at Tekka.  But that's okay, because tomorrow is another day in the wet markets of Singapore... 

and I'm going back for goat....

  

Just a sampling (really!) of the vast and exotic selection of fresh seafood in a Singapore market.

Dispatch From Singapore - 8 August 2009 - Dinner In Toa Payoh

In my world of social contacts there are some people with whom I just know I will have a great meal no matter were we go or what we eat.  This is because they know good food.  Not necessarily gourmet food, or even anything remotely trendy -- especially anything remotely trendy.  Rather because they, like me, search for authenticity in their dining pursuits.  And authenticity usually requires a low-to-the-ground approach; a willingness to delve into places not covered in the tour books or by Zagats.  It takes a certain kind of spirit to follow one's curiosity into small back rooms, down narrow alleys or even into the homes of complete strangers to see what they are eating and how to make it.  These are the people I am most drawn to.  The culinary explorers.  And for them, Singapore is an international hallowed haunt.  A Mecca of culinary mystery; a treasure trove of gustatory adventure.  And singularly the top reason why I have fallen for this place like a scurvy-ridden sailor sighting a voluptuous mermaid dancing on the rising crests of an approaching storm.  

This is my Singapore.  Not the glistening high-end stores with all the products seen in the pages of Esquire or Elle.  Not the exotic Italian super-cars rumbling down the wide streets or the towering edifices or high-tech everything that establishes this tiny island state as one of the most modern, hip and organized places on the planet.  It's the food.  But not just that -- good food can be found everywhere -- it's the food culture.  An intense passion for freshness and variety and robust flavors seems to be wound within the DNA of every Singaporean.  People here know good food.  They demand good food.  They live for good food.  Wherever I go, be it a food court in an Orchard Road mall, any one of the countless wet markets, or a local housing development hawker center, I have this blossoming sense deep within telling me that I have arrived in food-Valhalla.  And I ain't leaving until I try it all or die fat and happy, face down in a banana leaf of randang with a chili crab in one hand and a chunk of roasted pork in the other. 

So when our expat-cum-locals-cum-deaparting friends said we were going to dinner somewhere off the beaten path, I knew I was in for a memorable evening.  We headed to the "heartlands" of Singapore -- in this case the local residential neighborhood of Toa Payoh; a conglomeration of those tall Government Housing Board (HDB) flats which house 85% of Singaporeans, jutting up from bustling streets lined with shophouses, markets and, of course, food centers.  This place, like the country's other, similar communities, is the real thing.  And just as the coined label suggests, these neighborhoods really do form the "heart" of Singapore.  Where people of the four principal ethnicities, when not working or shopping in the fancy areas of town, live and learn and grow up and die.  And eat.  So if you want to see what makes Singapore the magical place it is, skip the sugar-sweet sling at Raffles' Long Bar and head into the heartlands.  This is where Singapore lives.

In the center of Toa Payoh, Singapore

We headed to Mellben Seafood, Lorong 8, in the hawker center. Mellben is a step above a hawker stand, despite its location essentially within the food center itself.  It's a real restaurant, with a few tables arranged under the roof of the shallow, coffee shop-style eatery and a neon sign above. But the real action is outside it's open-walled storefront in the common courtyard. Communal tables are scattered around the open concrete plot for use by patrons of any of the restaurants and food stalls surrounding it.  This gives Mellben a casual air about it; like a hawker stand which grew up and burst beyond it's three square meter cubicle and burgeoned into a full-blown food institution in a sea of other eateries.  But the feeling of the place has not, I am sure, changed a bit.  The casual, partially-english-speaking aunties charge around the crowded courtyard with aplomb, knowing exactly where their customers are and who ordered what.  My new foodie friend, John, was already sitting at one of the outdoor plastic tables when we got there, having had the good sense to arrive early and land a seat.  Well at work on a cold Carlsberg, he happily announced that the food had been ordered. Not knowing his culinary tastes or anything at all about this small seafood establishment, I shrugged, abandoned my food-related type-A tendencies and ordered a beer for myself. 

  

The bustling Toa Payoh Food Center courtyard gives a meal at Mellben a festive feel.

The food rolled out in perfect order, each dish complimenting the other.  And as I surveyed the culinary landscape before me I realized that John was no amateur - either with the menu at Mellben or in the art of ordering Asian food.  It started with Hawaiian prawns, followed by cubes of Guinness infused pork ribs (which is the first time I have ever enjoyed that beer).  Playboy chicken was next; crispy and light with a crunchy, cooling swirl of cucumber on top. Then a delectably fresh order of kailan greens seared in garlic and chilies, fried mee suah noodles and - the highlight of the evening - Shimmering Sand Crabs.  The crabs sat majestically in a pale yellow creamy sauce, sprinkled with crispy oat "sand."  Accompanying it was a fresh batch of Mantou which, like tiny pillows of gently fried sponge cake, absorbed the insanely rich sauce, leaving little work for the dishwashers in the kitchen.  The sounds around our table as we took our first taste of each newly-delivered dish oscillated between delicate slurping, inescapable lip smacking and excited exclamations.  Then the crab was presented -- and the noise level dropped to that sacred hush which the initial attack of exceptional flavor causes in people who understand good food.  Time stood still during those brief moments when the creamy sauce waltzed with the sweet crab in the ballroom of my mouth.  And not just for me--the Mellben newbie--but for the veterans, too, as we looked wide-eyed at each other before emitting breathy words like "ohmigod" or, as in my case, a guttural, stone-age groan of ecstasy.  I could wax poetic about the succulence of the crab; so moist and perfectly cooked.  Or the buttery balance of the sauce with the puffy mantou.  Or even of the refreshing sensation of the cold beer cleansing the cream from my palette in preparation for the next, profoundly flavorful bite.  But it really won't do justice to the food or the saporus reactions of my new friends who understand the difference between what's "tasty" and what's really good.  So I won't try since, even while in the midst of my savory daze, the most articulate comment I could whisper was something along the lines of "This is crazy...."

Mellben's Shimmering Sands Crab with Mantou is hard to beat!

After the plates were whisked away the topic of a proper "ending" to such a feast was raised when the girls eyed the selection of fruit bubble tea in a nearby stall.  I frowned, wanting the wondrous party in my mouth to continue unendingly and having no desire to extinguish it with a sugary epilogue.  So when John quietly suggested instead that some nearby roasted chicken wings and another cold beer might make an even better dessert, I blinked at him and for an instant felt like Rick Blaine on the misty airfield staring into Captain Renault's eyes and murmuring "This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."  

Barbeque chicken is all they do at Sheng Pin Xiang, and they do it well.  Really well.  The wings were roasted over a perfect bed of grey and red glowing charcoal -- not those little brickets, but real, blackened sticks and chunks of carbonized wood.  The smokey aroma alone broadcasted the wonder of this unassuming, one-item food stall.  Now, I know chicken; especially in its basic, fire-cooked state, so I was anxious to try for myself these wings that John proclaimed to be the best in Singapore.  They were complete from the shoulder to the tips, and roasted to a deep, golden gloss with just a tinge of crispy carbon along the edges.  The slightest, sweet/tart essence from a mystery brew that was thinly brushed on the skin elevated the juicy free-range flavor to heights which, in its live state that chicken could not have flown, and sent me into my own tailspin of culinary delight.  It was, in a word, amazing.  Maybe it was the charcoal, maybe the sauce, or maybe even the chicken itself.  But whatever it was, these wings were better than any I have ever had.  Anywhere.  So far, that is, because I will be going back there again and again and again....

 

The chicken wings at Sheng Pin Xiang are the best I have ever had!

Dispatch From Singapore - 11 August 2009 - Sea Gypsy Resort, Pulau Sibu, Malaysia

 

Pulau Sibu is a small island off the southeast coast of Malaysia where we recently went for 5 days.  And it was, in a word, GREAT!  Sea Gypsy "resort" is a very laid-back, rustic island eco-getaway, with a large, all-sand beach with nice waves for boogie boarding, and lined with swaying coconut trees.  Owned and operated by Aussies, this expat-friendly enclave offers 20 or so accommodations which are rustic by most standards -- thatched roofed, wooden huts with open windows, a tiny bathroom (cold water only), mosquito nets over the beds and, of course, no A/C.  But with ceiling fans and the steady coastal breezes we still used the sheets over us at night.  It is the closest thing to "camping" on a platform by the beach as you can get; a welcome escape from the urban onslaught of Singapore.  The great room and dining rooms consist of 2 large, thatched-covered verandahs with a well stocked bar, many games and books, and music wafting throughout.  There is even a small but excellent dive center, along with kayaks, little sailboats and beach toys all there for the taking.  It is heavenly for those who want to get away from it all in a barefoot/tee shirt/expat-kind-of-way (I actually overpacked with my 4 tee shirts, 2 bathing suits and 3 shorts!).  For my family, it was fabulous!

The Great Room & Dive Shop, Sea Gypsy

Our Chalet at Sea Gypsy

The food was good, too -- basically Malaysian, it consisted of buffet breakfasts with rotis, sweet vegetable curry, fruit and either eggs or some other protein.  Lunch was also a mixed buffet and dinner was family-style, table served courses consisting of spicy rice or noodles with fresh fish, lamb, curry, rendang, or other tasty delights.  There was also a separate kids' dinner hour with easier-to-palate food.  The kids loved it - especially  since it was not with the parents (it was, after all, our unofficial cocktail hour).  We never knew what was on the menu until it was time to eat, as everything is brought daily from the mainland village on the resort's 25 foot launch.  And after snooping around in the sparse, open air kitchen I was impressed at the high quality food these people produce with limited resources.  While I would not categorize Sea Gypsy as a food-focused destination, I did note that I, along with everyone else there, enjoyed all of the meals.

Sea Gypsy's simple kitchen turns out good food. 

One highlight for us all was the Kids' Club, a colorful hut and grassy area filled with arts  & crafts, games, jungle activities and a couple of rope swings.  A nice Aussie girl (~20 yrs) ran it and all the kids were enraptured from the get go.  By popular demand my boys went to the Club on 3 of the 5 days from 9-12:30, giving Lisa and I great beach reading time, while still having the rest of the day (and late nights) with the kids playing games or getting waterlogged.  It was super-high-quality Family Time with no distractions from the likes of TV or computers.  And when not with us, the boys were off like barefoot wild animals with new-found friends.  To add to the excitement were the 10km boat trips in the launch to and from the island; a wet and wild adventure ride!  So for a Gilligan's Island, family-focused, kid friendly getaway, Sea Gypsy takes the prize.  And at just 3 hours door to door from our flat in Singapore, we will most definitely be returning! 

A typical landing of the Launch At Sea Gypsy

Chillaxing!

 

There are a couple of other, small eco-resorts on Sibu which to see one must hike to through the jungle, as there are no roads of any sort on this remote island.  We hiked a moderate, 3km trail to Rimba Resort to do some snorkeling.  At the base of the mountain along a coconut-lined sliver of sand and reef, Rimba is very small, very austere and completely remote.  It is designed after a Kenyan coastal village, so I was immediately drawn to the architecture -- consisting also of thatched huts, mosquito nets, and cold water. It had a twig-built great room and bar, with plush pillows scattered about the floor to recline on with a cold one.  The art -- what little is needed in such a wild, open air place, is a mix of island/Kenyan and just right for this exotic setting.  There is a very small dive center -- indeed the coral beach is on the edge of a good diving wall -- and while the pebbly beach is not ideal for kids, the snorkeling at Rimba is excellent.  We walked to the end of the coral/granite/iron ore rock formations comprising the northern side of the cove where Rimba sits and entered into a naturally-formed open "tidal pool" which was easy to slide into.  It was the first real snorkeling in coral reef that Oliver and Cooper did and after a couple timid moments, they dove right in.  The reef was very healthy, with a large variety of coral, and countless fish ranging from standard, low-on-the-food-chain residents (sergeant majors, clownfish, snapper, etc.) to more exotic parrotfish, angelfish and others which I should, but can't, name.  We also saw many wonderful, long-spined urchins, large sea cucumbers and colorful clams. And with visibility of at least 40 feet, the conditions were excellent.  But perhaps what made it so magical was that the four of us were the only souls there--an absolutely pristine family snorkeling adventure.  It was reminiscent of my wonderful Indian Ocean snorkeling days as a kid near Twiga Beach in Mombasa, Kenya--a natural coral reef abundant with aquatic delights below, but private and deserted above. 

Hiking the jungle trail to Rimba!

 

Cooper getting ready to dive in at Rimba!

We also took the launch to a small island for a group snorkel (~10 people). It was very nice; pretty good coral and fish, with wonderful white sand to chillax on afterwards.  Hard to beat when coupled with the boat ride to and from.  But honestly the actual snorkeling at Rimba was superior.

 

Snorkeling on a tiny deserted isle.

We met a British sailing cruiser couple in the bar at Sea Gypsy one morning and they reminded me of my brother and his wife, although a bit older, haggard and more weather-beaten than Carl & Kathleen.  They were working their way toward the Mediterranean and seemed in no rush to leave this place.  I gave them Carl's email address to get some local knowledge of Lankawi, Malaysia (where his own sailboat now floats) with the hope that the 6-degrees-of-separation thing kicks into gear with my brother, who is currently in Afghanistan.  As I jealously ogled at their Island Packet 42 moored off shore I couldn't help but wondering if my own brother has visited this wonderful part of the South China Sea.

Paradise found!

Dispatch From Singapore - 6 July 2009

I’m sitting on the large balcony of our flat in Singapore feeling a little guilty. After a very nice weekend together, Lisa had to get up for work this morning while I pretended to sleep. Ruth was already busy in the kitchen, revitalized after a Saturday night and Sunday filled with Majong and beaching on Sentosa Island with friends. The boys were happily eating fresh mangos and toast. So finally I dragged myself out of bed to have Ruth make us coffee, which definitely helped Lisa’s mood. Then I stood at the street with her while the cab came. And as I watched it disappear around the bend of idyllic Nassim Road, I reminded myself of how fortunate all of us are to be here and have this amazing international experience; all because of her hard work and excellence in everything she does. So as I sit here now, overlooking the pool beneath the towering, orchid-laden trees with exotic, melodic birds warbling away, I realize I have embraced my identity as “Trailing Spouse” more quickly than anticipated…. And I take a moment to say to my wife: Thank you.

The weekend started out with dinner with our friends Mala and Darrin. Soon they will leave Singapore for San Francisco. A great opportunity for Mala, but we will miss having them in Singapore almost as much as they will miss being in Singapore. This is their second time living here – and leaving here – and I don’t know how they can do it; even for The City on the Bay. But I guess we will all have to deal with saying goodbye to this wonderful place someday.

They took us to Raj, a vegetarian Indian restaurant in Little India, just near the famously chaotic Mustafa Centre, where if they don’t have it, you don’t need it, and everything is negotiable. Mala apologized upon our arrival for the unusual presence of caucasians – swearing that one rarely sees anyone but Indians in the place. Indeed, there were two other tables of Aussies, but they seemed to know what they were doing, so I trust they were local expats. Still, as Mala’s tone implied, there goes the neighborhood….

There’s something about eating in a local joint where you stand out as a token foreigner – the food is always better. And Raj was no exception. We glanced at the menu and promptly abandoned ourselves to Mala’s wisdom and experience. She ordered quickly and authoritatively and the dishes came out fast and in perfect order. The highlight of the meal were 2 very large Dosais; one – masala dosai – filled with curried potatoes and vegetables with fragrant spices; the other – rava dosai – filled with cheese, onions and spices. Each of these wondrous, crispy crepes could be dipped into a five alarm red sambal or, on the other end of the spectrum, a yogurt raita-like concoction, which cooled the spiced fire with a refreshing, minty flavor. The triangular, folded pastry was remarkably delicate and golden brown , and not at all greasy. I have seen attempts at these in other Indian joints around Singapore, but never have they appeared to be so picture perfect or delicious. The smooth folds of the wafer thin crust exposed the expertise of the unknown hand which made them, no doubt bending the thin batter with an easy turn of the wrist. One of those things that a true chef makes look so easy, temping foolhardy wannabes like me into actually believing I could recreate it without the lifetime of experience required to do it right. But I’ve learned to just leave some things to the pros – and this definitely falls in that category.

The way I see it, Indian food – at least really good Indian food – is much like sushi. Its just cutting fish and dropping it on a chunk of rice; anyone can do it, right? But to reveal the unspoken wonder of sushi takes years of study. Whether cooking the perfect rice with just the right stickiness and complimentary backdrop, to selecting the fish and then slicing its crisp flesh at the precise angle and thickness in one clean, continuous guide of the blade, a true sushi chef –none of whom are young – can take what appears at first glance to be the chow you grab at Sushi Boy in the mall and transform it into a gustatory experience that transcends the mere sum of its ingredients. This describes the difference of eating at one of the many tasty Indian stalls in food courts along Orchard Road and eating the food at Raj. The delicate balance of flavors and aromas, coaxed out lovingly by the chefs in the back, transformed the meal at this simple vegetarian eatery into an authentic tour of Southern India’s very best culinary offerings. And while I have never been one to shy away from the flesh of living creatures on my plate, at Raj the absence of meat is not only unnoticed but actually welcomed. And while the amazing food has not exactly inspired me slip on Birkenstocks and embrace a vegan lifestyle, it certainly has changed the way I think about vegetarian dining.

Darrin & Me about to dive into a dosai at Raj, Little India, Singapore.

After dinner we headed to the Opium Bar for mojitos. Only one word describes this place for me: groovy. Gentle, jazzy music wafted through the outside bar, our only light the purple illumination from within our table – as we sat beneath the stars and overlooked the river and the fabulous Fullerton Hotel. And while no hallucinogenic hookah was passed our way as the name might suggest, this spot, as cityscapes rank in my book, reached the top of the list for modern architectural gazing. The styles of the buildings – brand new all of them – are intriguing and even attractive; granite and marble and glass – sharp and crisp – piercing the sky. The masculine edifices of downtown Singapore exude the sheer commercial success of the this Asian financial bull’s-eye. Like Hong Kong used to be, only newer, younger, hungrier. The river bends gently, dappled from the lights in the trees along the paseo and shimmers in the wake of crisscrossing old style bumboats slipping by. An urban paradise which, regrettably, my camera could not rightfully capture. 

Mala & Lisa chillin' at the Opium Bar, Singapore

City Centre & the Merlion Fountain (off!), Singapore.

Dispatch From Singapore - 26 June 2009

Last night I went to a restaurant with our friends, Mala and Darrin, and had a meal which I can honestly describe as surpassing the very best of Lee How Fook. And to those of you who know me and my addiction to that remarkable Philadelphia Asian Eatery well - that is one hell of a statement. The place (Sin Hoi Sai, block 55 in Tiong Bahru) was outdoors but mostly covered by a roof with dozens of slowly turning ceiling fans and florescent lights. We had to pass by tank after tank of the most exotic edible fish and sea life that I have ever seen. A dozen different types of crabs -- some very tiny; others VERY large and white like albinos. Huge fin-fish ranging from carp to snapper and parrotfish, to sharks and eels and many brightly coloreds smaller ones, each for a different recipe. Live speckled flounder rested on the bottom of a 3 meter tank; shellfish of all sizes were stacked on steel screens with cold water rushing over them, including the most amazing live scallops in their shells. And geoducks -- hundreds of them piled in a tank like armored, squirting tubers, each at least half a meter long. 

The food was incredible in this super-casual place. Including Sri Lankan Chili crab, lightning hot Pepper Crabs, baby octopus dusted in panko and flash fried until their delicate purple tentacles were perfectly crisp (not a drop of grease), bamboo clams steamed in garlic and aloe vera and drizzled with thick, black soy syrup -- the list went on. But the highlights of the night for me were the coffee-soaked pork rib chunks (the coffee flavor in it was so robust I could hardly believe it) and -- BEST OF ALL -- Fried Fish Skins. These thin, grey skins were dusted in a salted powder, flash fried (again, absolutely no greasiness) and then quickly baked in like a 800 degree oven. Stacked on a platter with a scattering of tiny minced chillies and presented with a fiery sambal sauce to dip in -- they were sublime -- better than LHF's salt baked squid. I know, I know: "Impossible," you say, and I would have, too. But when that first crispy chunk of curled skin danced on my tongue a melange of emotions streaked through me. I almost cried. I mean, these things are ridiculously delicious. 

Fried Fish Skins at Sin Hoi Sai

So it was a great evening of food decadence. Which, by the way, followed on the heels of my going with a new friend to the Tekka wet market in Little India in the morning -- where I bought beautiful produce and tropical fruit, ogled over a vast array of sea life which I have never before seen, pointed to the part of the hanging carcass that I wanted a butcher to cut meat from, and washed down a fabulous fresh chicken pratha with a really cold Tiger beer (at 10:00 am!) And dirt cheap prices, too. In the afternoon we took the MRT to Chinatown and I bought a 12 kg round chopping block (literrally a 3" thick cross section of some very hard wood tree). Oh yeah, I also dove into some pork dumplings with -- you guessed it -- another cold Tiger.... 

You may be asking yourself, "how is it that he is so able to shirk his parental duties to galavant around Singapore like that?" Well, our soon-to-be helper/maid, Ruth, watched the boys after they finished summer camp and then whipped up a wonderful chicken pot pie from scratch with a fresh chicken from the market (including heads and feet). The boys were thrilled and ate almost the entire pie. With Ruth at the range, perhaps Oliver's skinny days are coming to an end....

   

Just a small sampling of fresh fish at Tekka Market, Little India, Singapore.

My Muslim Lamb guy, Tekka Market.

Postscript: It was only a few nights after my epiphanic introduction to Sin Hoi Sai that I awoke to find myself siting upright in bed -- the blue lights of the clock dancing some numbers in the hour of 4 -- and chanting "must have fried fish skins" like Homer Simpson just before a Cool-aid cocktail in Jonestown. And like the warnings my sixth grade teacher gave about how "just one puff" can send you spiraling into a world of instant addiction, I knew I was in trouble. I had to have more of my new, crispy drug of choice. And that monkey clung to my back for the rest of that night and throughout the next day until the dinner hour when I could actually do something about it. It was only fair, after all, that I share my new favorite restaurant with that one and only girl of my dreams -- my wife. And after all of the quixotic raving she had been forced to endure, she was all for the experience; if for no other reason than to shut me up. So off we went with the kids. We sat outside in an open alley between the old part of the restaurant and the newly, covered area. It was between other small buildings in an almost public courtyard setting beneath the long poles laden with drying clothing extending from open windows above. The bustle of activity in Tiong Bahru filtered between the housing complexes, adding to the exotic feel of this wholly local eatery. In addition to the mandatory fish skins and coffee-infused pork chunks, we also had "boiled" baby octopus, which when they arrived, sent us both reeling with new, opiate-like reactions. Each bite was a perfect little octopus, nicely fitting in the tips of the chopsticks and presenting a perfect little package. The little morsel was purple and plump and fully intact from the head, past the tiny, crunchy beak, to the tips of its spindly tentacles. Not really boiled, they were perfectly steamed in a broth which enhanced the meat with subtle hints of garlic and ginger. Delectable in flavor and soft to the touch, each bite brought a surprise explosion of the small ink sacks within the body. I initially refrained from pointing out that little discovery for fear that the notion might turn my family away from the otherwise wonderful dish. But honest food in its most natural form doesn't deceive, and it quickly became my wife's favorite dish of the night. Enter, a monkey of her own....

Dispatch From Singapore - 11 July 2009

Doing business in Asia. A formidable undertaking by all accounts. It's a different business culture than what I know in the US. Priorities are different. Instead of our direct, win/lose approach, it's stuff like saving face, establishing harmony and avoiding conflict. But still winning. In Asia, its always about winning. I've read books on doing business in the region; attended cultural sensitivity lectures on such differences as: "yes" does not mean yes, it merely avoids embarrassment. And agreeing with you does not mean they agree with you, or even exactly understand. So when I decided it was time to make the jump into hard-nosed business negotiations I approached it with some trepidation. See, if I'm going to gallivant all over this island, off the beaten expat path and even out of the range of the world class MRT transit system, I'm gonna need a car. Not a new car, mind you. The sticker shock of new cars in Singapore had jerked me away from the notion of that new car smell like the leather-sourcing cow against an electric fence. I simply can not bring myself to pay upwards of $80,000 for a Honda Accord. No, I decided, a used car; about 2 years old with low miles. And I was pretty sure I could find a good used car for less than half the price of new which, in Singapore, is still more than a new car in the US. So I decided what we needed, did my research, and stepped into the abyss.

The process for leasing cars here is different from in the States, in that you can have a one-stop shopping experience right in the comfort of your own home. You simply call a dealer and tell him what you want. So I thought I'd give that a try. The first car that my car guy, Mr. Loh - a soft spoken Singaporean with an intense stare - brought to me wasn't exactly what I asked for but was as close as he could come to it. "Very popular," he warned in a whisper; "hard to find and it will go quickly." He came with a Chinese couple whom, I assumed, worked for him. Nice touch, I thought, not one but 3 people helping me out. Gotta love that Asian service mentality. But such was not the case. As I pulled away from the curb on my maiden Singapore test drive with both the man and woman in the car, I thought it was funny that she kept telling me from the back seat how nice the car was and how they loved it very much. Until I realized that they were the owners of the car, selling it on the open market. Good thing I didn't criticize it, or I think she would have broken down in tears. Turns out in Singapore if a dealer doesn't have the car you request they'll go out and find it. If you like what you see, the dealer will buy the car and lease it to you. Somewhere in there is a profit margin for the dealer, but after comparing prices between buying and leasing -- at least for used cars -- I couldn't find it. So it seemed that my soft-spoken Mr. Loh was just a middle man. 

Well, I didn't take the car, but that didn't slow Mr. Loh down, and he swiftly appeared the next morning with exactly the right car, replete with a new, overzealous original owner. And having worked out the pricing before I even looked at it, with all costs transparent, he promised me that the only surprise would be how nice the car actually was. 

So looked at it I did, and I drove it, and I liked it. I was ready to make the deal. And in an effort to establish a congenial, hands-across-the-continents, sense of harmony, I told him so. I would take the car, I said. That's when Mr. Loh announced he needed to "further prepare the car for me," which he said would take a few days. I eyed him suspiciously. Ah ha!, I thought, this is where the shenanigans begin. What was next next? Some hidden cost would emerge, right after he had hooked me and slowly reeled me in, dollar by dollar. But I had screwed up -- I told him I wanted the car. Amateur Expat Mistake #1. 

Mr. Loh shook his head slightly and sucked through his teeth. Here it comes, I thought, ready to proclaim righteous indignation and storm through the door into my flat. He looked at me somberly and murmured, "There is just one slight problem..." 

"And what might that be?" I snided, poised to pounce on the suddenly unscrupulous Mr. Loh. Asian business culture indeed, I almost blurted out.. We had worked it all out up front; just like you're supposed to do. I had made it clear to him: no tricks, no add-ons, no hidden expenses. Not even tax. And he promised. But maybe a promise isn't a promise in this business world. Isn't there something about "good karma" and "harmony" and all that when a Buddhist makes a promise? Where did that suddenly go?

"Your temporary car is not of the same brand." He said looking at his feet, avoiding eye contact. I looked at him and blinked. My temporary car? He never mentioned that. But I quickly regained my street smarts and glared, as if to say, And what will that set me back?

He reached out his hand, a set of keys dangling. "It has a full tank of petrol. But...it has cloth seats. I do apologise very much. I hope it will be acceptable for a few days."

And as I took my loaner for a spin to the Botanic Gardens and back, trying unsuccessfully to remember to stay on the left side of the road and dodge the signal-less cabbies, I realized that maybe I'm missing something here. Maybe Asian business culture, with all its differences from my Western senses, is not so different after all. See, the lower to the ground I get in Singapore, the more I like it. Away from the glitzy glare of global commercialism that this place is famous for, down at the the street level -- whether in a hawker center or wet market or riding in a cab -- people here are honest and fair. They give you a quality product or service for a fair price, without fanfare or dramatic haggling. Just a straight deal by good people. So from what I can see, that's how I would describe the Asian business culture. And it washes over me like a cooling breeze in this hot and humid tropical paradise.

Driving in Singapore can be a harrowing experience.

Dispatch From Singapore - 23 June 2009

We are enjoying the new experiences, sights and smells here in Singapore. This is a wonderful place; ultra-modern on its face, with all the conveniences of the US, but without the dirt, smog, crime and confusion (although we have our own brand of confusion here....). I forgot how much I enjoy living in a tropical climate, with all the exotic flora and fauna. It's really interesting and a refreshing change of pace from the NE, but I must say that it is truly HOT and humid. The air is thick with moisture and I seem to be sweating virtually all the time when outside. But I choose to accept it as a reality of being here, so the sweat doesn't bother me that much. 

 

"Hot & Humid" are words often gasped by Newbies to Singapore.

Leaving The States

Our flight to Singapore was perfect. We arrived at Newark and moved our luggage to the Singapore Air counter, where the people there jumped to our aide. There as no line at all and after quickly checking our bags and waiving the excess baggage fee as a courtesy, they personally walked us through security to the SG Air Lounge, where the boys and I have a very nice, free meal and relaxed in comfort for a couple of hours. they then returned and walked us to the gate, onto the plane before they started boarding, and handed us off to the flight crew. We were instantly swarmed by about 10 gorgeous flight attendants in their attractive dresses. They fawned over Oliver and Cooper, gave them toys and coloring books and hung around with us for 5 minutes. It was great. The plane was about 1/2 full with seats that folded out into flat beds with sheets, pillows, etc. The boys slept over 7 hours. They then proceeded to sit on the beds and use them as their own personal playpens -- playing with Lego’s and watching movies, eating meals and snacks, etc. Every couple of hours a flight attendant would come to one of the boys and sit with them, playing an laughing, just for fun. It was surreal. At the end of the flight the ladies came over and signed Cooper's cast. The boys were perfect travelers -- not even so much as an argument broke out between them during the 20 hour trip. And Cooper, a/k/a "The Mayor", worked his way along the aisle meeting and greeting. When we arrived in Singapore our bags came out in 5 minutes, and we breezed through Customs. It was 6:30 am and Lisa was there to surprise the boys. Our diver then whisked us off to our flat. It was so relaxing from start to finish. I should do an advertisement on it. I'll fly Singapore Air any chance I get. Singularly the best flight experience ever.

  

Lisa & me on our "look-see" in February

HDB Hawker Centre

On Sunday we met with Lisa's new assistant and her husband (both Singaporeans) at a hawker center in a very local area (Bedok - Housing Block 8). It was this bustling outdoor food center surrounded by HDB (public) housing for Singaporeans. Derrick, gave me a first hand tour of the place and the little market behind it, where I tasted fresh fruit which the vendors broke open and handed to me for free. The food we had at the hawker center was out of this world. It included dumplings, and noodle soups and stir fried oysters in a fiery sauce and Malay Roasted chicken wings and several other items the most notable of which was a spicy bbq'd stingray. We washed it down with sugar cane juice and finished with a bowl of warm rice soup with sweet sesame balls which was a perfect dessert. The boys loved it - especially the chicken and the satay -- and were fascinated with the hot, bustling flurry of strangers and exotic sights surrounding them. It was a great time and definitely not in the tourist guidebooks. We all shared the cost of the food -- a veritable feast -- and I think spent no more than $25 for all 6 of us. And despite that were the only Caucasians there, no one looked at us curiously or acted as if we were out of place. Indeed, we were not out of place, because such concept doesn't seem to exist in Singapore. The diversity is so rich and widespread that no one notices or cares who is there. Everyone is just part of the crowd. It was a wonderful, foreign but totally welcomed experience. 

 

Bedock Block 8 Hawker Centre with our new friends.

Hardship Living

Our air shipment came in today and it appears everything survived the transit. I do wish we have packed more basic things in it, however. We were about 200 lbs shy of our weight limit, so we have learned by the mistake. As an example, we should have packed some of our cookware in the air shipment, since the rental cookware is literally the size and quality of that cheap-o boy scout camping equipment that you buy at Wal-Mart. It is all very small and thin. Plus we have exactly 4 knives, forks, spoons, glasses, plates, bowels; one 8" skillet; one Quart saucepan, etc. But no mixing bowls, or anything like that. It is too basic to live with -- just enough for a weekend of "camping" at a Motel 6. The good news is I did include my good cooking knives in the air shipment, so I now can cut simple things like a mango instead of sawing at it with very possibly the dullest 6" blade I have ever held. Still, if this is as bad as it gets, then life is good. Ours is hardly a "hardship" assignment.

Overseas Family School

Lisa flew to Beijing this morning for the week. But 20 minutes before boarding she realized she forgot her Employment Pass Card -- necessary to reenter Singapore.  So she called me and I threw on some clothes, raced to a cab, tore out to the airport (the other side of the island) and handed her the card through the taxi window (in mandatory exchange for a latte).  She won't make that mistake again!

So after that little early morning travel treasure the boys started summer camp at Overseas Family School and loved it. They have already made a few friends and really enjoyed the computer and art classes. The school is perfectly understated on the outside -- whitewashed cinderblock and red-roofed buildings with open, covered breezeways to all the classrooms -- but chalk full of computers, books, musical instruments, etc. on the inside.  And the student body that we observed is truly international.  It's a real melting pot in which I think the boys will thrive.