Culinary tales of Singapore

Singaporeans apparently like eating. A lot.

It’s difficult to explain the Singaporean passion for eating. In my month-long stay in Singapore, I saw more restaurants and food outlets than I had previously seen in my life.[break] The shopping malls there have more than their share of restaurants, food courts and doughnut shops; the zoo and other nature parks have restaurants tucked in wherever they can go; and even the world’s biggest Rotay Peeng (Ferris wheel), the Singapore Flier, will turn into a restaurant if you are rich enough (for slightly more than S$250).

It was my first week in Singapore, and I experienced my first cultural shock abroad—a culinary one. I thought years of watching English films and TV sitcoms had prepared me for everything Singapore had to offer. I was right, to a point. I didn’t bat an eye when young couples got intimate—frequently—in empty train cars. The humongous shopping malls that make our malls look like tea stalls surprised me but didn’t shock. I grew surprisingly quickly accustomed to Singapore’s almost-perfect law and order situation where the government has to remind its citizens that crime actually does exist (slogan: “Low crime does not mean no crime”). I even got over the fact that everyone seemed to have a genuine designer label clothing or bag. What shocked me was how much Singaporeans adore eating.

Less than a day after I had landed in the island state, I went to a nearby shopping mall to familiarize myself with the area. The mall was packed, and even more so were the several food courts in it. In the beginning, I justified the crowds by assuming that it was festival season, since it wasn’t a weekend. However, as days went by, the crowds around the restaurants showed no sign of decreasing. The realization that the crowds wouldn’t go away, and daily long lines outside good restaurant outlets were usual phenomena, was difficult to get by. The only similar crowds I had seen in Kathmandu were outside the KFC when it opened, and I had then thought it was rather stupid of people to line up for a restaurant. Looking at those Singaporean crowds during weekends now seemed pretty tame.

With so many big-brand names, and the untouchable rents, one would think food would be terribly expensive, too. I discovered there, however, that a lot of neighborhood food courts are a lot cheaper than comparable Nepali shops. A plate of masu-bhaat with fish, eggs, and a can of cold drink at a non-branded food-court costs a third of what it would here. For the Singaporean equivalent of Rs 160, I had had the following in a very hygienic place, every day: all the rice I could eat, reasonable helpings of chicken gravy, fish, fried eggs, two types of vegetables, and a can of Pepsi.

I liked the combo so much that for a week, I was afraid to experiment with new items. One day, I decided to be brave and got myself different types of fish species with rice. And then I immediately understood my fear of experimentation. Out of the four types of seafood I had ordered (I did/do not know what they were, only the fact that they were marine creatures), three were pretty good, and the fourth still haunts me. It was crispy, slightly sour, and very very sweet. Perhaps it had been cooked in honey, perhaps artificial sugar had been added to it, I’ll never know—I was too fearful even to talk of it there onwards—I still am. Shudder.

Fortunately, the culinary mishap was a freak accident. I later tried French, Japanese, Chinese, Italian, American, and British cuisines, all in their specialty restaurants, and I never regretted ordering anything. Of course, there was this time when I ordered a dessert because it looked fabulous on the menu, only to discover it was all marshmallows—the vile ones. I gulped down the entire bowl with crushed ice, so that its taste wouldn’t linger around in my mouth.

Singaporeans, who share our staple diet of rice and wheat, have come up with interesting ways of eating traditional foods. Invented perhaps by some hapless mother at Mosburger whose child would simply not eat rice, the Rice Burger is one innovative way to eat masu-bhat. Instead of the regular buns, this burger has its outer crust made entirely of rice. Inside, it has a big chunk of fried chicken with gravy, and tomato sauce. It’s like the everyday masu-bhat-achar. Also, our simple roti is no longer interesting for Singaporeans, so it’s called roti-prata, and comes in packets, and can be cooked by two-minute heating. My requests for Roti were never comprehended, but Prata was universally understood.

And then there was this freakish thing—Singaporean donuts don’t have holes. It bothered me throughout my entire stay there: if it doesn’t have holes, why should it ever be called a donut? It should be called pastry or sweet burger, or something else, but definitely not doughnut/donut. And yet, millions of Singaporeans eat this wonderful bakery item everyday, calling it a donut, unaware that they have been fooled into using a misnomer by commercial giants like Dunkin’ Donuts and Donut Factory. I understand that Singapore isn’t the only country with donuts without holes, but law-abiding people as they are, they should start the wave of correcting the name of this delicious delicacy.

My rendezvous with the culinary heaven ended on a fine note: on the return flight, Thai Airways kept filling me to the brim, and even though the foods weren’t exquisite in any way, it was way much better than the bhat and roti I had here every day. But perhaps, some day, some daring entrepreneur will come up with something refreshingly new, yet deceptively simple that will make even the dullest of meals exciting and adventurous. Until then, I wait, cherishing the memories of the culinary heaven I was in Singapore.

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