5 meals in singapore
the taste of summer 2024 is forever embedded in my palate
“Go ahead into life, full-blooded, courageous and leap for the adventure. But you must do it soon—before the summer of your youth has cooled off into caution… You are not a watercolor. You are carved out of life—and there can be no petty hesitancies about you.”
— Ruth Reichl, For You, Mom. Finally.
To me, a meal is never just a meal. It’s a story, a snapshot of flavors that paint my understanding of the world and my place within it. How do I explain this to someone who sees dinner as mere fuel for the body? For me, dinner is the melting warmth of family, a mother’s tender embrace. It’s sunlight and soil rendered edible, a testament to our place in nature. It’s a metaphor for childhood, for last summer, for today. A first meeting and a last meeting. Falling in love.
A meal is an occasion infused with life, where all senses are evoked and challenged— not only through the dishes but through the conversations and atmosphere. In a society that worships productivity, eating is often viewed as insignificant, even a bother. Yet every bite is a taste of life itself, both literally and metaphorically. Our existence is woven from infinitely small occasions like breakfasts and dinners; what matters most is often subtle.
Having recently left Singapore for China, I want to capture and savor a few brief yet rewarding moments. Here are five meals that have left an indelible mark on my palate, dishes I will crave time and again.
Nestled in the charming Kampong Glam district, The White Label offers an innovative fusion of local Malayan elements and French cuisine. We arrived after a visit to the National Museum of Singapore, where we learned about the country’s history from its role as a trading port in the 1300s to the recent modernization. It felt fitting to have dinner at a place that pays tribute to the Malayan influences that have shaped Singapore. I chose The White Label for my friend, who follows a halal diet, and it turned out to be one of the best halal-certified restaurant I’ve ever visited.
The starter was an octopus dish coated in brown butter, so tender it nearly melted in my mouth. And the curry sweet bell pepper coulis—oh my goodness, I shamelessly scraped the plate clean with French fries.
The spaghetti in laksa lobster bisque startled me with its bold heat, while the steak frites, cooked a perfect medium rare, satisfied my friend’s intense cravings.
Throughout the meal, we ate with such passion that we hardly spoke, except to comment on how delicious everything was. The silence was one of comfort and mutual understanding, each of us lost in our own foodie heaven. We spontaneously decided to order another main course to share, with the giddiness of children. As I often tell my college roommate, “everything must be in moderation, including moderation.”
The jumbo chicken leg, accompanied by well roasted garlic, stuffed us to the brim. I was ecstatic, not only from enjoying the food myself, but from witnessing my friend’s happiness. There is no greater joy than making sure others are well-fed. To those who raise their eyebrows when I say I love eating, here is the proof.
Local Durian Stand
Alright, technically durian isn’t a meal, and the stand is in Malaysia, not Singapore. But who cares? My summer has been dotted by food-driven travels across the border, much like my spontaneous trips to New York City during the academic year. My controversial love for the so-called “king of fruits” is obsessive. It’s to the point where I’ve dropped the freshest chilli crabs from Grand Seafood just to rave about this polarizing delicacy.
Durian is a fruit that fiercely divides opinion; people either love it or hate it, with little middle ground. I fall firmly in the camp of adoration, and cannot fathom how anyone could despise this magnificent spiky ball of wonder.
Consider the smell. Perhaps I possess some unique gene that shields me from the foul descriptions others offer, like dirty gym socks and rotten eggs. To me, the fragrance, though potent, is sweet and fruity, a tantalizing hint to its extraordinary flavor. Durian flesh is soft and rich, like creamy butter peeling from fiber, with the perfect hint of bitterness that adds complexity to its custard-like sweetness.
In Singapore, I’ve indulged in boxes upon boxes from local grocery stores, sampling varieties including Black Thorn and Red Prawn. I’ve visited durian cafés such as Ms. Durian and 99 Old Trees Durian for their Mao Shan Wang cakes, pastries, and chendol, which I can’t recommend highly enough. But my favorite way to enjoy durian is to devour a whole, freshly cut fruit all by myself. Twice, I’ve done this at a stand in Malaysia frequented by locals—an effective indication of quality. Both times, my companions, staunch members of the hater camp, watched in stunned silence, sipping coconut juice.
The thought of not having fresh durian back in North America nearly brings me to tears. Sometimes, I wish I could trade places with those in Malaysia who don’t love durian (and according to my Malaysian friend, there are many such people…).
There is nothing quite like savoring raw crabs while my Myanmar-born friend unravels her crazy life story. Go Gi Jip, a lively Korean BBQ house, specializes in soy-sauce marinated crabs with succulent umami-infused flesh. With banchan free-flowing like soju, the casual, bustling restaurant makes the ideal backdrop to laugh over life’s absurdities. And as a bonus, I’ve been praised as an ✨elegant crab-eater 🤪
My friend’s tale is nothing short of astonishing. She secretly dropped out of Tufts University to spend six months in New York City, surviving on odd jobs and bitcoin investments. Then, in a dramatic turn of events, she fled to Australia, evading a psychotic, possessive ex who chased her from the States to Asia. She ultimately finished her degree down under.
Our upbringings couldn’t have been more different. She was raised by parents who were, to put it mildly, extremely lax. Her stories of teenage rebellion left me wide-eyed, as she recounted escapedes that seemed straight out of an R-rated coming-of-age drama. If her teenage life was an epic saga of parties, substances, and boys, mine resembled a tame children’s cartoon focused on academics, extracurriculars, and secret midnight anime binges. Yet, here we were as adults, having recently met at the Healthy Longevity Talent Incubator. Sitting at Go Gi Jip, exchanging stories, we found a surprising sense of camaraderie and mutual understanding.
Xiao Ya Tou, a restaurant bar in the heart of Duxton Hill, exudes a mischievous energy that draws upon Singapore’s history of guilty pleasure. Their Asian fusion menu is trendy and modern, while still paying homage to local flavors. Alone on a Sunday evening, enjoying a drink and bobbing my head to some of their old beats, I found myself utterly charmed.
The crunchy shell of Lobster Kueh Pie Tee gave way to a sweet, creamy mixture of lobster and prawns, with richness balanced by the sour tang of pickled mangoes.
The Charred Wawa Cabbage is a game-changer for anyone who thinks vegetables are boring. It was served in a milky broth with a touch of chili oil and topped with the rich flavors of ikura, shrimp cincalok, and crispy sakura ebi. The charred cabbage was so hearty and satisfying it could convert even the most ardent meat-lovers.
I’m going to be honest: I care about the vibes. I’m not one of those food purists who insists that taste is everything and the setting inconsequential. Some love to hate on restaurants whose main selling point is cute decor and impeccable plating, but allow me to defend them. Studies show that visual factors affect our perception and response to food. Our senses are interlinked; an enjoyable aesthetic invites us to slow down, observe, and appreciate every bite. Dining is more than about food; when we eat, we desire to lose ourselves to taste and company. What really facilitates that process is a beautiful space.
Sol & Ora, the highest roof-top restaurant in Sentosa, offers a stunning view of Singapore Straits to match the sunny coastal aesthetic of its Mediterranean cuisine. Our brunch, sandwiched between visits to the S.E.A. Aquarium and Universal Studios, was a calm oasis amid the weekend tourist storm. I persuaded my friend, a notorious workaholic, to take a moment to relax and enjoy the food.
‘La Bomba’ featured a crispy breaded potato stuffed with rich chicken ragout and cayenne pepper melted with cheddar and mozzarella. The Tagliatelle ‘Corsican’ Carbonara, made right at our table with fresh truffle shavings, had perfectly cooked pasta with a rich, yolky flavor. Instead of alcohol, I chose a mocktail called Sunset Swizzle, made with refreshing mango purée.
As we ate, I peppered my friend with questions, trying to understand someone who grew up in Hong Kong and now lives alone in Singapore, away from family. We are both solitary people, but our approaches to life are quite different. I spend a lot of time reflecting and seeking meaning within myself. He, on the other hand, prefers to sweep pain under the rug to optimize “doing,” because he finds purpose solely through tangible impacts. While I frown upon treating our bodies as productivity machines, who am I to claim his path to self-actualization is illegitimate?
During our last meeting, I conceded: “There’s nothing wrong with choosing to think about work 95% of the time. Some people seek work-life balance, but for you, work is life. You eat quickly and skip art gallery visits, but that’s your way of prioritizing what is meaningful to you. I can never be like you, and you can never be like me. But we shouldn’t try to become anyone but ourselves.”
In response, he gave perhaps one of the most genuine smiles I’ve ever seen.
While I clearly enjoyed the meals I’ve described, I must admit I couldn’t sustain them daily. Pete Wells, the renowned New York Times restaurant critic, provides a poignant example. He recently announced his resignation due to health concerns.
“My scores were bad across the board; my cholesterol, blood sugar and hypertension were worse than I’d expected even in my doomiest moments. The terms pre-diabetes, fatty liver disease and metabolic syndrome were thrown around. I was technically obese.”
Wells’ relentless pursuit of restaurants have significantly impacted his well-being. During a recovery from surgery, he realized his body craved simplicity—soup, salads, and walks that didn’t end at the bakery.
“And at some point in those two weeks, it occurred to me that I am not my job.”
I feel deep sympathy for Pete. Many consider eating out every night with carefully chosen company an enviable job. But consider the toll it takes on one’s body and appetite. Personally, I cooked most of my meals in Singapore using plain ingredients: red rice, black beans, fresh fruits and vegetables, tofu, nuts, seeds, and miso for a comforting soup. Handling meat has always been challenging for me, and considering its environmental and health impacts, I embraced a part-time vegetarian lifestyle.
“Seriously? Rice and vegetables? You?” asked a friend, surprised by my appreciation for the basics (I admit, I can be a bit of a food snob).
I choose simple meals not out of self-abnegation, but because they’re often the most nourishing. Poached gai lan (Chinese broccoli) might sound plain, but it has a wholesome quality unrivaled by the most elaborate platters.
“I once attended a banquet at a merchant’s house, with three whole courses and sixteen dim sum—nearly forty dishes in total. The host was mighty satisfied, but when I returned home after dinner, I had to boil up some congee to appease my hunger.”
— Yuan Mei, Recipes from the Garden of Contentment
Great restaurant food represents the punctum—detailed flavors that burst with life and demand attention. In contrast, my vegetarian home-cooking represents the studium—a comforting backdrop that soothes me to rest. Together, they form the vivid portrait of my summer in Singapore. I already crave another taste.
Love,
Jessica