Botak Jones

Within minutes of entering Ang Mo Kio Ave 5, I knew unofficially out of Brag-Free Zone.

Bernie, the follically-challenged owner of Botak Jones, is one person who knows his goods and isn't afraid to indulge in "bragologue" (Marci Aboher, New York Times). Case in point: a 10 page documentation of sordid descriptions and self-praise, thinly disgusted as a menu.



Though we were told there would be a waiting time of 20-30 minutes, the stuffed jalapenos arrived within 10 minutes. Jalapenos stuffed with Danish mozzarella cheese, coated in Japanese bread crumbs and deep-fried. Best enjoyed when hot for that Mister Fantastic effect. I sustained slight numbness at the tip of my tongue, this is definitely for those who like it haute hot.



Decent lamb chops are a thing of rarity these days, thus I was particularly taken with Botak Jones's rosemary lamb chop, which bore an unmissable smoky char-grilled aroma.



The burger nut in me had to try their Botak Burger. The hand formed beef patty was all 150g meat with perhaps 3% body fat. While it was vastly different from drug-test-positive patties, I found it a little too dry. The sesame buns and cheese less also than exciting. Having said that, the beauty of this Botak Burger is freedom of choice- you could do simple with a single patty or spruce it up cheese, sauteed onions or score a death wish with an extra patty or two.



Unless you were the feature creature in Jurassic Park or Jaws, chances are this burger is too huge to fit into your mouth. Then again, in this nondescript coffee shop where style counts for close to nothing, you could always try -gulp- to achieve the unglamorous.



Dad swears by their Australian Ribeye Steak and this hunky-dory slab deserves a blue ribbon for living up to expectations. Armed with thumb-to-middle-finger tenderness, this was one of those dishes where you whisper a silent prayer, mouth "thank you god" before tucking in. I didn't even bother with the undistinguished brown black pepper.



The coleslaw and greens were plebeian but the spicy fries landed us in a state of starch-induced delirium. By the end of dinner, we were half-wishing there was a forklift outside waiting for us.

The folks at Botak Jones jolted my system. From the cashier to the guy who laid our table, thee seemed genuinely passionate about their jobs. I'm sorry I'm just not use to seeing smiling service staff at a coffee shop. Let me lie down for a few moments and I'll be fine.

PS Cafe, Paragon

A most disappointing lunch at PS Cafe, Paragon

Each time I visit PS Cafe, I wind up not having dessert thanks to the big-is-beautiful portions. This time round, I sought to resolve this by asking them to serve dessert first but that didn't work out too.



PS Cafe's sticky date pudding is supposedly one of the best in town but my experience was short of desirable. I found the pudding overly dense thus heavy and every bite delivered a mindless overdose of sugar. I gave up halfway but not before lapping up the toffee sauce and vanilla ice cream.



I needed something savoury to erase any traces of the saccharine sweetness and was pretty much looking forward to the roast beef sandwich. Tough as bark roast beef slices. Rawish peas. Stale bread, which made slicing impossible. To make things worse, I actually finished it because I was in dire need of something ANYTHING to coying sweetness of dessert.

Restaurant Ember, a year later

22. Finally.
Came home to beautiful fushia pink roses by my bed and chocolate crunch cake.



THANK YOU for all your well-wishers.

Quite honestly, I wasn't looking forward birthday meals.

I don't know about you guys elsewhere in the world but here in Singapore, I feel like birthdays serve as occasions for people to gather and overeat. And because my social circle consists of mini cliques, I end up having several good meals to the point where apathy strikes and I feel like one of the daughters from Eat Man Drink Woman.

Thus lunch at Restaurant Ember was supposed to be my hover-around-my-birthday-but-not-quit-my-birthday lunch. Uncannily enough, I visited Ember for the first time a year ago for a birthday lunch with my mum and sister. A year ago, I fawned over the tofu, lavished terms of endearment on the lamb shank and blew kisses at the banana tart.

I was sure I would return- just didn't expect the gap year.

The restaurant looked the same but instead of the passion-red handbook, a ratty-tatty pin-me-together posed as menu. Inside, the menu looked largely familiar, save for the array of foie gras starters and a scattering of items here and there.



Above: Superhero Agent Mop-Up-Sauce disguised as commonplace sundried tomato bread. Yum.

Coincidentally, my lunch companion and I both chose crabs for starters.



I was well acquainted with the soft shell crab from last year's visit. It was less of an epiphany because I've never had a disturbingly bad soft shell crab. Unless it had been a benchwarmer at the buffet line, chances are you can't go wrong with anything deep-fried. Dab on a little wasabi aioli and you have a crowd-pleaser on your hands.

I'm not a food snob, well maybe just a crab cake snob. It's a dish I don't order very often because most of the time, people stuff God-knows-what into the crab cakes and you need CSI Luma Light to pick out the crab strands. Though the accompanying oriental sauce sounded as gimmicky as Singapore Noodles, the spiced crab cake sang Take A Chance On Me and I caved in, against better judgment.



Unlike the Morton's chunk-ified cake, Ember's crab cake was a ball of fine sinewy shreds, mixed with Asian garnishes, coated in thin batter and deep fried tawny brown. Good to know there wasn't a need for the Luma Light. The gimmicky oriental sauce turned out to be a peanut-butter-based sauce, spiked with Asian garnishes. Its smoky aroma complimented the ballsy Asian garnishes. However it was a sauce that I liked there and then but would probably not order again. The soggy bottom of the crab cake confirmed my suspicion that it was better off with the wasabi aioli.

Like the crab cake, not the sauce.



As for the mains, we had the chargilled beef striploin with seasonal root vegetables and crispy duck confit with stewed white beans and bacon, spiced duck jus. The striploin bore a faint blush of pink- could definitely have been pinker. The seasonal root vegetables did a fine job of wooing me back. I love root vegetables- they remind of French Mercats and delightful anecdotes of John Burton Race.



The duck confit basked in confit-dance and glory. After tasting one too many duck confits which could easily have been passed off as dental floss, I found comfort in Ember's tender offering. The plot of stewed white bean looked deceptively insipid but was delectable, spruced up by the bacon and duck essence.

Just a mini bite-sized suggestion: Chill on the salt content.



For dessert, the chilled mango soup with pomelo and grapefruit was quite a laugh. If I were to have this blindfolded, I could just imagine myself at a 10-course Chinese banquet; "Yum-Sengs" in the background and this was dessert after the dastardly ee-fu egg noodles. What was it doing on the menu? Aintgotaclue.



I was most delighted to seethe basil crepe on the menu. Caramelised banana wrapped in a basil parcel and topped with vanilla ice cream. The basil lent a novel touch to the otherwise been-there-served-that dessert. However this dessert was impertinent to those looking for something light- towards the end, I needed a lifejacket to rescue me from the load.

A year on, lunch at Ember felt somewhat less refined; yet despite the bumpy edges, I had a lovely time. Service was determinedly warm, though not helpful (she recommended the steak but it was the duck that flew). Despite the misses, Restaurant Ember manages to charm and I can only hope that my next visit will not be a year later.

Shiraishi, Ritz Carlton

Shiraishi.

Undeniably one of the top guns in the Japanese scene, the vibe- corporate lunch, the budget- corporate account.

So what was I doing at Shiraishi, Ritz Carlton? Lured out of my intern's budget into the realm of corporate accounts. My defense is that every now and then, we need to be freed from our rodent-cage, intern-food-court routine.

The three of us (plus Mia and friend, Joan Marie) were seated at the sushi counter -best seats in the house- the equivalent of Box Seats in Yankees Stadium or where our cabinet ministers would sit during National Day Parade. I get a kick out of sitting at the sushi counter as entertainment value is the highest and you get to make small talk with the sushi chef.



And that's what Mia did. Upon the chef's recommendations, Mia took on the sushi set, which consisted of 8 nigiris and 6 makis. According to her, plus points for the rice and fish slices, deduct a couple for the variety and tamago.



Joan Marie's colour-popping chiraishi bore an uncanny resemblance towards a pack of skittles. To me, the scrap fest just didn't work. It's the "minced wagyu theory" where textures and blah blah are lost when you mince blah blah. Working through it was like performed an autopsy on the mangled fish.



I actually heaved a sigh of relief when my bento arrived. With a smattering of itsy-bitsy side dishes, I couldn't wait to tuck in.



Regarded as the backbone of the restaurant, the sashimi was undisputedly fresh- I wouldn't have tolerated anything less.



In the adjacent box, I found a medley of little dishes that were good but not worth losing sleep over: conjoined rice cracker mushroom thing (ingenious but short-lived pleasure), cod fish glazed in teriyaki sauce (well-acquainted), tamago (too soft for comfort), konnyaku (yawn), tofu (yawn), green salad (yawn).



A warm plum orb partially submerged in icy waters posed as dessert. Cute but too bad "cute" wasn't going to earn Shiraishi any brownie points.

At the risk of becoming Public Enemy #1, I left Shiraishi unimpressed and underwhelmed. They had the audacity to charge me for mediocre daikon dish. You should have seen my face when I saw that on the bill- a real Kodak moment, if you will.

BP @ PB

I didn't even realise the significance of the date 20072007 until a friend pointed it out to me.

So I held my SHH-Don't-Remind-Her 22nd birthday party at Pitch Black...Though it wasn't celebrated in most lavish of ways ala Conrad Black, to borrow a line from Frank Sinatra himself, I "did it my way". I took the name tag idea from InStyle Weddings and the photo frame idea was inspired by one too many Homes & Gardens magazine- just very typical reading materials of a 22 21 year old (I only turn 22 this coming Thurs)...



Friends had get their name tags, scribble down their names and include a little known fact connecting themselves to the birthday girl (that's me). I read it was a great icebreaker but I thought it saved us from those ever-embarrassing "Hey we so totally hit it off, but what's your name again.. " moments.



Zhu and I went down to Ikea last week to get these frames.

The Hall of F(r)ame awaits



To my friends, thank you for sharing this joyous occasion with me. It was also real neat of you guys to turn up with your sunnies, henceforth turning up the party spirit by several SHADES.





Frame
I'm gonna live forever
I'm gonna learn how to fly
High



Favouritest frame of them all- the affectionately-termed 'National Geographic Frame'.



I also managed to get a last-minute cake from Swissbake- Hazelnut Crunch cake. I love Hazelnut and as soon as I saw the word 'Crunch', the auction hammer descended in the manner of a guillotine...

"Sold to the almost-salivating buyer!"



It was alright. There was a whole lot going on but the hazelnut flavour had eluded me.

And of course, all this wouldn't have been possible without my party planner, ZHU!, who ran a one man show on the Executive Committee. Watch out, David Tutera- Zhu's half your size but double the fun without the diva-esque canter.



Despite playing the movie Paris, je t'aime(Paris, I love you) twice, I didn't manage to watch it . The two-hour film consists of 18 5-minute mini Polly Pocket films, each written and directed by internationally-acclaimed Joes and Jennys from the Director Block. In addition, the principle cast list is impressive, held up by recognised artistes (who you calling an actor?) such as Fanny Ardant, Juliette Binoche, Steve Buscemi, Gérard Depardieu, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Bob Hoskins, Nick Nolte, Natalie Portman, Elijah Wood.

I got to make it a point to catch it though.


Filled up name tags


The morning after... Sweet notes that almost made me urn on the Tear Tap.

Sorry I couldn't resist. See this is why you get a blog.



You get to indulge in free flow of narcissism. Best of all, it's calorie-free.

And just in case you were wondering what "BP @ PB" is... It stands for 'Birthday Party at Pitch Black'.

Oh goodness I've been so busy at work, I haven't even had time to get a cake for tomorrow's party. I can't believe I'm throwing a party tomorrow. What would I do without my party planner, ZHU (!?!?) I'm starting to feel like one of those workaholics who forgot to turn up at their own hen party.

I haven't held a birthday party since I was ten... How out of touch can I get? At my last birthday party, people were having fried fishballs and samosas, drinking bandung and ice cream soda, playing let's-see-who-reaches-the-finishing-line-without-dropping-the-egg-on-a-spoon. Though I never had a magician, I remember theater folks from Act 3 and their Cinderella skit. I remember being secretly envious of those held parties at Macdonald's but on hindsight, my Cinderella act was cooler.

What's it going to be tomorrow?!

I must... breathe.

If you are coming, I hope you have fun. Or rather, I know you'll have fun because you guys are a bunch of fun-loving-mambo-groovy folks.. =)

Tra-lah lah, how am I going to find a cake at this hour?

Buko Nero

I don't mean to be judgmental (hah, maybe I should try a little harder) but there are some things that I would never do for food. Like queue xx hours for a box of Donut Factory Donuts (nothing quite screams, "I need a real job" than that lurid orange box). Having said that, there are some things I wouldn't mind 'queuing up' for.... Like say Buko Nero, where I called to ask for "the earliest possible lunch reservation" and actually put my name down for a reservation for 2 weeks later. Well so long as public humiliation isn't on the menu, make it a table for three.

The 20-seater restaurant obviously doesn't buy the 'Economics of Scale' theory. Hello? What happened to that 'Quick let's churn out dishes like a sweatshop, the faster we turn tables, the higher our profits?' mission statement? Obviously here at Buko Nero, there isn't an inch of truth to that saying and that's why this tinier-than-tiny eatery has been around for years even without a self-titled dotcom and advertising.

Its reputation precedes itsel- Chubbyhubby calls it "The Hardest Reservation in Singapore". Many have warned of a "month-long advanced booking"... Come on people, it's just food?! Then again, is 'food' ever just 'food'? Well if that were the case, people like Ruth Reichl and Jamie Oliver would be living on food stamps.

After our orders were placed, a basket of sun-dried tomato bread sticks made it to our table and my 'say yay to rice, nay to bread' sister wolfed down a couple in minutes. We also received a complimentary Chef's appetizer of fried quail's egg and mashed pumpkin on toast. Naturally we oohed and aahed over the amuse bouche, which resembled a hobbit-sized egg on toast.



For starters, we had the beef carpaccio and soup. The paper thin sheets of beef carpaccio, lemon dressing and pine nuts eased down gently.

Quite frankly, the green pea, watercress and crabmeat soup sounded like a recipe concocted by Dr Seuss and Roald Dahl. I was taken aback by the surprisingly light flavour. In fact, I felt it needed a good pinch of salt. Big Name for Little Flavour.

I was disappointed by the main courses offered braised chicken thigh or penne with braised cod and zucchini ragu. To me, it was a decision to be made between the most boring meat that ever walked the face of this earth and well, instant noodles.

Between 'dullsville' and 'dullsville', I went for 'dullsville'.

Figuring my marginal utility would be maximised by the presence of cod and zucchini, I chose the penne. Whoa, even with that rationale behind the dish, I had to be coaxed into finishing half my plate. The penne was done perfectly al dente but I was bored in 5 forksful. The cod was somewhere out there but nowhere to be found and I could only seek comfort in the zucchini niblets.

The crab and prawn pasta spotted the same problem. It had a richer taste, compared to the slightly creamy penne but I was bored in .... *snooze*

Fortunately, dessert perked me up. The coffee ice cream was served in the cutest spade and bucket. The chocolate coconut cake partially submerged in still-warm gula melaka was the next best thing to my favourite comfort food- vanilla ice cream and ruffles original potato chips.



At the heart of this restaurant stands husband-and-wife team Chef Oscar and his wife, Tracy, who could easily give Barbara and Allan Pease a run for their moolah. Tracy demonstrates caring but non-intrusive service while the food Chef Oscar creates mirrors his own marriage: a cross-cultural Italian and Asian love tale.

Personable and surprisingly relaxing, eating at Buko Nero felt like attending a dinner party at a friend's home. It was also here at Buko Nero where I encountered my first "No Photography Allowed" restaurant policy, but no hard feelings as it wasn't as irritating as that "We Don't Serve Tap Water" restaurant policy.

My less than gratifying experience should be attributed to my aversion towards "fusion". To me, fusion feels an unwanted guest at the dinner table. It is the black sheep of the family, the socially inept and sexually confused cousin, who "went to boarding school".

Canele, Paragon

I grieved when Lazy Gourmet. It was as if a part of me died and I felt Brunch would never be the same again. Life after Lazy Gourmet was somewhat tumultuous, I threw myself into a whirlwind of flings from homebody Cedele to chi-chi does this make my butt look fat Marmalade Pantry. While some proved longer than a flash in the pan (read: Cedele), nothing ever quite compares to your first love.

Helmed by the same management (Les Amis), Canele hinted of a renewed love affair.

Perhaps I should have heeded the warning signs: a handful of pastries tossed to the back of the counter, ignored and condemned to cashier's back view. Signs like these warranted a quick jerk on the handbrake but you hold back for whatever reason, allowing yourself to stray into the realm of Last Night's Pastries.



Cold and undeserving of interest, the pastries were unapologetically stale. They were also quite washout structural-wise. I'm not going to delve into the anatomy of a croissant but anyone can see how uncharacteristically dense and un-holey the pastries are. Hmph, they wouldn't have amounted to much even if they were Today's Pastries.


Lunch date Zhu

The crab salad was just as disengaging as the vinaigrette sauce barely shielded the crab's fishiness. It's a real pity because you wouldn't expect anything less than 'oh yay' from Les Amis. Considering their past track record of 'oh yay' pastries, today's / last night's pastries is really unbecoming.

There's nothing sadder than finding something once lost and realizing it has changed for the worse.

Portrait of a Predator, Brasserie Wolf

According to The Harry Potter Lexicon, one becomes a werewolf upon getting bitten by a werewolf. Werewolves lose their sense of human awareness and will attack even their closest kins. I say, when you get bitten by Brasserie Wolf, you turn uncharacteristically muted, hardly daring to howl for fear of drawing unwanted attention to this gem.

Situated at Robertson Quay, this sizable restaurant sat about ten breathing souls during Monday's lunch hour. Now, that is peculiar for the set lunch amounts to a steal in broad daylight.



The pan seared duck foie gras spotted a texture not unlike that of your tongue, thereby commanding a 3-second melt-on-your-tongue piece. Paired with caramelized apples, the result was almost worth giving up your liver for.



The texture department was hotly contested by the veal sweetbreads salad. Flesh above the neck vertebrae was laced with a skirt of crisp skin, providing instantaneous pleasure to the adventurous and ignorant (I fell into the latter category).



We staked out our 'mains' territory with red garoupa and lamb tenderloin. The pan-seared lamb tenderloin assumed 'alpha' status with a Hannibal-friendly texture and fostered an unlikely alliance with the white beans ragout.



Keeping in pace, the pan-fried red garoupa, topped with diced red onions and tomatoes, bore a distinctive clean taste. Being an artichoke virgin, I was intrigued by the hardy fibrous artichoke, which felt like a hybrid between sweet potato and beetroot, only drained of colour.



The hunt ended on a sweet note as we chased down ours mains with mango sherbet and nougat glace.



The mango sherbet packed a punch and the summer-coloured ensemble suited those who craved for something uncomplicated but no less impactful.



I, on the other hand, relished in the nougat glace and mixed berries compote. Blood-red berries compote slathered over fair-as-pale-skin nougat glace. The tastebud-tickling compote and sweetish nougat bar tucked with hazelnut bits was made for a sensory unforgettable affair.

Wolves normally hunt in packs but when one spots a prey as enticing as such, it will definitely struggle to keep it to a secret.