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!