Jokbal

1

The jokbal (족발) arrives with weight and presence, as if the dish itself were crafted rather than cooked. The skin glistens in deep amber tones, the thin layer of fat pressed gently against the meat, never showy, never stingy. Pick up a slice and it springs back with life. Bite down, and the gelatin clings to your tongue before yielding into a slow, mellow richness. This is not just food — it is patience and fire distilled into tenderness.

The table is already crowded with accompaniments. Kimchi sharp and fiery, garlic with its raw bite, green chili with its clean crunch, and pickled radish bright with sweet acidity. They are the chamber music, the supporting notes, waiting to lift the star into focus. A leaf of lettuce or perilla becomes the stage curtain — wrap the pork inside, take it in one mouthful, and the fresh against the rich, the crisp against the yielding, strike the chord that defines a Korean meal.

Cold noodles sit ready, their chilled strands tangled in a sauce that is at once spicy and sour. On their own they are bracing, but paired with jokbal they become a duet of fire and ice. Nearby, a plain broth waits quietly, the kind that resets the appetite, wipes away the fat, and leaves a soft warmth in its place.

About fifteen minutes in, the manager comes by. Tall, glasses perched neatly, carrying a smile both genuine and restrained. With a small bow he says, almost like a secret: the vegetables can always be replenished. It is a detail so slight you might miss it, but it turns the meal into something more than service — it becomes hospitality.

And yet, for all the dishes, all the flourishes, memory will only hold the jokbal. Each slice is a different composition: skin taut and springy, fat melting on the tongue, lean meat with its firm honesty. Some will argue for the jelly-like cuts that dissolve instantly, others for the parts with tendon and bite. Either way, the chopsticks keep moving, always searching for the next perfect piece.

When it is over, the table is a scatter of empty plates and spent side dishes. The cold noodles gone, the broth finished. What lingers is the image of those shining slices of pork — the true star, never once dimmed.

豬腳（족발 / Jokbal）一端上桌，整盤沉甸甸，像一件工藝品。皮色發亮，透著深琥珀般的光澤，脂肪層薄薄貼在肉上，夾起一片，彈牙，咬下去，膠質立刻黏住舌尖，帶著微微的韌性，隨後散開成溫潤的香氣。

桌面還排滿小菜（반찬）：泡菜的辣，蒜片的辛，青辣椒的脆，還有酸酸甜甜的醃蘿蔔。它們全都在側，像幕間奏鳴曲，等著襯托主角的風采。生菜和紫蘇葉更像是舞台上的布幕，捲起豬腳，一口吞下，清新與厚重交錯。好久沒吃過韓式餐桌的經典味道。

十五分鐘後，經理走了過來。人高高的，帶著眼鏡，眉眼後面藏著一股細緻的禮貌。笑容不吝嗇，卻很真誠。他輕聲問候，提醒我們蔬菜可以隨時加。這樣的細節，讓整個用餐體驗有了溫度。不是單純的服務，這一桌菜不只是吃飽，而是一種款待。

還有冷麵（비빔냉면）。冰涼的麵條纏繞著酸辣的醬汁，單吃爽快，與豬腳同入口，更有妙趣。還有清湯，看似樸素，卻在最後關頭為胃點上一盞溫柔的燈，把油膩抹去，留下一口平衡。

但所有這些安排，仍舊只是陪襯。真正讓人記住的，是那一片片豬腳。皮、脂、肉的三重層次，沒有一口是相同的。有人偏愛入口即化的膠質，有人欣賞筋膜的韌性。整場下來，你會發現自己一再伸筷，永遠覺得下一片，才是最完美的一片。

到最後，桌上滿是凌亂的碟子，心裡卻只留下那一盤晶亮的豬腳。真正的主角，從頭到尾，不曾失去光彩。

2

A hopper looks deceivingly simple, but there’s real craft hidden in it. When it arrives at the table, it’s shaped like a delicate bowl—edges burnished gold and brittle, the center soft and pale, carrying the gentle tang of fermented rice and coconut milk. Bite into the rim and it snaps like a potato chip; move to the middle and it shifts, chewy and cushiony, almost like a steamed rice cake. Two textures, two moods, contained in a single, fragile circle.

The stage for this little performance is Kotuwa’s new home at New Bahru. Once a Chinese school, the site has been reborn into a compound of restaurants and studios. The red-brick walls remain, but step inside and it’s contemporary energy. The bar greets you first, bottles glowing under amber light like lanterns at a Colombo night market. The room isn’t large, but it thrums with a tropical elegance—wooden chairs, woven rattan, dark timber accents—South Asian warmth given Singaporean polish.

Back to the hoppers: they’re not meant to be eaten plain, but to host supporting characters. Crack an egg into the center and suddenly it’s an egg hopper—the whites barely set, yolk molten, begging to be scooped up with shards of crisp edge. Add a spoon of fiery pol sambol, and coconut, chili, and lime ignite across the tongue like fireworks.

At Kotuwa, servers sweep out of the open kitchen with stacks of hoppers fresh off the pan. Steam and fragrance spill across the long table before they even land. With ten of us crowded around, someone always reaches first, aiming for the thinnest, crispest piece.

By the end, you realize the hopper is, in its own way, very Singaporean—open, adaptable, a canvas anyone can make their own. And Kotuwa mirrors that spirit. It’s not simply Sri Lankan food in Singapore; it’s a dialogue between city and flavor, where old brick walls, tropical spice, and shared laughter converge in one meal.

Hoppers（Appam）這東西，看似簡單，其實暗藏玄機。端上桌時，一張像碗一樣的薄餅，邊緣金黃酥脆，中央卻白嫩柔軟，帶著米漿與椰漿發酵過的香氣。那邊緣，咬下去咔嗞一聲，像薯片般脆；中間則像蒸米糕，帶點黏牙卻不膩口。兩種口感同時存在，一張薄薄的圓餅就演了一場對比戲。

而這戲碼的舞台，正是 Kotuwa 新址的餐廳空間。它位於 New Bahru，一座由舊南僑中學改建的複合場域，紅磚外牆仍在，裡面卻是當代的熱鬧。推門進去，首先見到吧檯，金色光線映照在酒瓶上，像科倫坡夜市的燈火。空間不大，卻有一種精緻的熱帶喧嘩：木椅、藤編、深色木材，帶著南亞的氣息。

回到 hoppers，它不是單吃的東西，而是舞台，等著其他角色登場。你可以在中間打顆蛋，立刻變成 egg hopper，蛋白嫩滑，蛋黃半熟，跟餅身混在一起，讓人忍不住用手撕邊緣來蘸。再撒一點 pol sambol（辣椰絲），椰香、辣意、酸味交織，像在舌頭上放煙火。

在 Kotuwa，侍者端著一整疊剛出爐的 hoppers 從廚房裡走出來，熱氣和香氣立刻在長桌間流竄。十個人圍桌，總有人眼睛發亮，伸手去搶那張邊緣最薄、最脆的。

吃到最後，你會發現這餅其實很新加坡——融合、開放，誰都能加點料，誰都能找到自己的方式。Kotuwa 的氛圍，正好襯托了這種精神：不是僅僅在新加坡吃斯里蘭卡菜，而是讓人在一頓飯裡感受到空間、城市與味道互相呼應。

3

A bowl of mee rebus — yellow noodles cloaked in a thick, golden gravy that smells faintly of the sea and something sweeter you can’t quite name. Sweet potato gives it warmth, dried shrimp its whisper of depth, curry powder a little swagger. It’s the kind of dish that doesn’t shout but hums, quietly confident, like the rhythm of everyday Singapore.

The sauce glows like morning light caught in amber. It’s sweet, spicy, and rich, but never heavy. You can tell it’s been coaxed, not rushed — mashed sweet potato and spices simmered till the air itself starts to sing. At Kaffe & Toast, where the air is cool and orderly, the smell drifts out of the kitchen like a small rebellion. The noodles are cooked just right, firm yet gentle, soaking up the sauce as if they’re listening. A halved egg, a few bean sprouts, crisp shallots, and a scatter of green chilies — every element has its cue, no one trying to outshine the other.

Nutritionally, it’s comfort food, not penance. Around six hundred calories of pure contentment — mostly carbs, a touch of protein from the egg, a breath of beta-carotene from the sweet potato, and vitamin C from the lime. It’s food that fills you, not flatters you. Life, after all, is better with a little roundness.

But mee rebus is more than a meal; it’s the edible logic of Singapore. Cultures and accents, sweet and spicy, Malay heart meeting Chinese order and Indian fire — all stirred into harmony. The sweetness sharpens the spice, the spice deepens the sweet. Somehow, it works.

And as you reach the bottom of the bowl, the sauce still warm, you realise it’s saying something quietly profound: life tastes best when it’s thick, warm, and just a little messy.

一碗 mee rebus（馬來燙麵），黃麵被濃稠的金醬纏得服服貼貼，香氣裡混著甜薯的溫柔、蝦米的鹹香、咖喱的熱情。這碗麵，不用多說，是新加坡的日常詩篇。

湯汁像晨光裡的琥珀，甜中帶辣，濃得恰好。那不是隨便熬的，而是用心熬出來的節奏。甜薯壓碎成泥，與香料慢火相守，直到香氣從鍋邊溢出；那一刻，整間 Kaffe & Toast（Kaffe & Toast） 都像在唱歌。麵條煮得剛熟，滑而不糊，吸著湯，像人吸收故事。

一顆滷蛋切成兩半，幾片青辣椒、豆芽、炸紅蔥，再擠上一點酸柑（lime）——所有味道在舌頭上握手寒暄，誰也不搶風頭。

營養嘛，別太計較。一碗下肚，大約六百多卡，主要是碳水化合物，甜薯裡帶點β-胡蘿蔔素，蛋補一點蛋白質，酸柑給你維他命C，算是中規中矩。這種食物不講究瘦身，只講究安慰。人生有時太瘦，反而不好。

細想起來，mee rebus 不只是食物，更像這座城市的縮影。各種文化、香料、口音都進了一口鍋裡，沒有誰被排外，沒有誰需要讓步。甜的讓辣更亮，辣的又讓甜更深。這是新加坡的智慧：讓差異滾成濃湯，結果居然這麼好吃。

吃到最後一口，你會發現湯底還在溫熱。它提醒你——生活也該如此：濃一點、暖一點，別太清淡，也別太怕燙。

4

It was a lazy afternoon when I wandered into Mama!—a casual offshoot of Singapore’s Michelin-starred Putien Restaurant. Same coastal roots from Fujian, but this one wore a T-shirt instead of a tuxedo. The space was bright and busy, filled with the hum of lunchtime chatter, a soft echo of sizzling woks, and the faint brininess that only seafood kitchens carry.

Right at the entrance, a small screen played a looping video about oysters. The film showed fishermen hauling baskets from the sea, shells glinting under the sun, waves crashing in rhythm. “From Xinghua Bay to your table,” the narration declared. A little sentimental, sure—but somehow touching. It reminded you that every bite here had once lived in saltwater.

I started with the Putien Lor Mee. The broth was cloudy and rich, the noodles thick and slightly chewy, clinging to the spoon like silk in seawater. It wasn’t salty—it was deep, the kind of depth that comes only from time. Layers of shrimp, pork bones, and mushrooms mingled into something you don’t just taste—you remember. A spoonful and suddenly you’re back in a quiet kitchen, someone humming, soup ladle knocking softly against the pot.

Next came the Xinghua Fried Beehoon—a dish that matched Singapore’s tempo: quick, lean, and full of quiet precision. Each strand was springy and dry-fried, not a trace of grease. Tiny cubes of yam hid among the noodles, crisp outside and creamy inside. Dried shrimp and roasted peanuts played counterpoint—salty, nutty, fragrant. It was a plate that said, “Life’s good when you don’t overdo it.”

Then, the grand entrance: Claypot Yellow Croaker Rice. The pot hissed as the lid lifted—steam, heat, and smoke all at once. The fish had melted its fat into the rice, and the bottom layer had caramelized into a golden crust. A spoon scraped the edges, releasing that burnt, toasty perfume that makes you forget every diet you’ve ever sworn to follow. The croaker was tender and silky, carrying a whisper of charcoal. It wasn’t delicate cooking—it was cooking with courage.

Around me, life went on: a pair of aunties chatting in dialect, a student scrolling through his phone. On the wall, a giant photo of the lor mee looked almost alive. Outside, that little oyster video kept playing on a loop—the waves rolling, the light shimmering, like a heartbeat from another coast.

That’s the magic of Singapore: Michelin stars don’t always need chandeliers. Sometimes they show up in a shopping mall, beside an escalator, under fluorescent light. You sit down, take a sip of soup, and realise—there’s wind and sea inside this bowl.

A bowl of lor mee, a plate of beehoon, a claypot of yellow croaker rice—nothing fancy, yet together they speak of patience, home, and quiet joy. Happiness, it turns out, might just be sitting right here, in Mama!—no passport required.

午后走進這間藍白色招牌的「媽嗎！（Mama!）」餐館，像誤入了一個新加坡式的福建夢。人多得像巴士轉站，老人、上班族、學生並肩而坐，桌上都擺著三道經典：莆田滷麵（Putien Lor Mee）、興化炒米粉（Xinghua Fried Beehoon）、黃魚砂煲飯（Claypot Yellow Croaker Rice）。三樣菜，像三種人生的滋味。

這家「媽嗎！」可不是無名小卒。它其實是新加坡名店「莆田餐廳（Putien Restaurant）」的副牌，正宗那一間早已拿下米其林（Michelin）星星，在烹調與精神上都有股自信的老派光輝。而「媽嗎！」則像是那位星光餐廳的輕裝版兄弟，把莆田味搬進商場裡，少了幾分講究，多了幾分煙火。門口那台小電視不斷播放著一段關於海蠣（Oyster）的短片——海浪翻滾、漁人撈蚵，畫面生猛，彷彿提醒每個人：這碗麵的靈魂，來自海。

滷麵最溫柔。湯色乳白，麵條微寬，柔韌有勁，像個不愛多話的老朋友。湯頭不是靠鹽，而是靠時間熬出來的深意。海味在裡面打著旋，蝦米、豬骨、香菇，一層一層滲進去。那香氣一到鼻子，人立刻軟了下來。喝一口，像回到媽在廚房裡的背影，手裡那支湯勺輕輕敲鍋沿的聲音，叮的一下，比任何交響樂都動人。

興化炒米粉（Xinghua Fried Beehoon）就不同，它爽快、俐落，有點像新加坡人的步伐。炒得乾香，一絲油也不多餘，米粉滑得像春風。芋頭粒在裡頭藏著，外酥內糯，蝦米添了鹹香，花生一咬，香氣爆出來。這盤米粉講的是節制的快樂，不張揚，不媚俗，像一個做事乾淨俐落卻不忘風趣的朋友。

至於那黃魚砂煲飯（Claypot Yellow Croaker Rice），就像一場炭火裡的表演。鍋蓋一掀，熱氣撲面，黃魚的油花滲入米粒，底層焦得恰好。那一口鍋巴香，有點野，有點倔強，像老水手在碼頭喝完最後一杯酒的味道。魚肉細白如絲，咬下去又帶一絲煙燻，這不是矯情的料理，而是生活的粗礦與柔情同時在口中翻滾。

抬頭看牆上的海報，巨大的麵圖像在呼吸。旁邊幾位阿姨吃得安靜，年輕人滑著手機，一桌一碗，時間忽然慢了。門口那台小螢幕依舊播放著海蠣的故事——畫面一閃，浪花在陽光下飛濺，這一幕比任何廣告都真誠。

這就是新加坡的妙處——米其林星星可以變得平民，副牌也能做出情感。你不一定要進正店花一百塊，只要在商場裡坐下，喝一口湯，聽著那台電視裡的海蠣呼吸，就能明白：一碗麵裡，也有風，也有海。

一碗滷麵，一盤米粉，一鍋黃魚飯，不過幾元錢的午餐，卻吃出一種人情的厚度。有時候，幸福不用飛去遠方，就藏在這樣一間「媽嗎！」裡。

5

I’d been to The Soup Spoon a few times, but only that afternoon did I actually notice the wall by the entrance. At first glance it looked like decoration — neat rows of vegetables under bright white light — but when I stepped closer, I realised it was something else: a quiet lesson in how to live better.

Each item had its own little caption. Red capsicum: rich in vitamin C. Yellow capsicum: brightens your mood. Asparagus: detoxifying. Purple onion: antioxidant. Tomato: good for the heart. Even the herbs had their own credentials — basil for stress relief, rosemary for alertness, thyme for your lungs. All printed in soft, well-behaved type, each phrase ending with a faint moral undertone, as if the wall were gently saying, Eat well. Live long.

The colours were almost too perfect — red against white, green against beige — so orderly it felt slightly unreal, like nature after a good round of PowerPoint formatting. But the longer I looked, the more I liked it. There was something calming in its precision, something almost tender in the way those ingredients stood together like well-mannered classmates.

Then I turned and saw the other wall — the warm one. There were photographs of roasted chicken, smoked salmon, and chicken tikka, gleaming under yellow light, unapologetically alive.

Between those two walls, you could feel the whole human condition at play: reason on one side, desire on the other. Standing there with my soup, I thought — maybe that’s what eating really is: part discipline, part surrender; a quiet attempt to find balance between what’s good for you, and what makes you feel alive.

那天在 The Soup Spoon，等湯的時候，視線無意滑到入口那面牆。以前只當它是裝飾，這回才看清楚，原來那是一幅「食材百科」——不只是圖片，還有小字說明每樣食材的好處。

紅椒：維他命C的冠軍。黃椒：能提亮心情。蘆筍：排毒。紫洋蔥：抗氧化。番茄：護心。花椰菜：幫你清腸。連那些小香草也不甘寂寞——羅勒（Basil）被稱為「天然的抗壓劑」，迷迭香（Rosemary）提神醒腦，百里香（Thyme）對呼吸系統有益。每個名字底下，都附上一句像營養師寄語的小標語，語氣柔中帶命令，彷彿在提醒你：「吃好一點，活久一點。」

那牆白得乾淨，字體卻有點太乖。看久了，你會覺得自己像站在醫療海報前，被溫柔地訓話。可是同時，那些顏色、那些細節，又讓人忍不住微笑——原來健康也可以這麼漂亮。

再往右邊，是另一面牆。那裡沒有訓話，只有誘惑：烤雞、三文魚（Salmon）、提卡雞（Chicken Tikka），油亮亮的照片，幾乎能聞到香氣。

兩面牆像一對性格迥異的兄妹，一個講理，一個動情。站在中間，你忽然明白：吃飯這件事，本來就該有一點理智，一點放縱；一點維他命，一點油香。

6

Saturday lunch at SBCD Korean Tofu House (Bukchang-dong Soon Tofu) was unusually quiet. The mall’s air-conditioning drifted lazily through the space; there was no rush, no crowd, just the soft echo of cutlery and the gentle hiss of soup bubbling on portable stoves.

The Soon Tofu stew arrived without ceremony—no raw egg cracked in midair, no theatrics, just a small warning from the server: “Careful, it’s hot.” The broth shimmered in shades of red and gold, steam rising like a curtain. Beneath the surface, cubes of tofu swayed gently, so tender they could collapse at the touch of a spoon.

The first sip wasn’t fiery; it was a slow warmth, the kind that spreads from the throat outward, carrying a faint trace of garlic, the sea, and a memory of chili. The tofu was impossibly soft—almost weightless—while the small side dishes sat in tidy rows: kimchi, bean sprouts, pickled potato, each one distinct yet understated.

With fewer diners, the kitchen moved at its own rhythm. Somewhere behind the counter, metal lids clicked, and a burst of Korean chatter drifted out before fading again. Light from the glass façade caught the soup at an angle, making it glow as if lit from within. You could take your time here; the meal had no deadline.

Beside the stew, the hot stone rice waited, its surface still gently crackling. When the lid came off, a puff of earthy steam escaped, carrying that toasted rice aroma. Toward the end, a small pour of corn tea loosened the crisp layer at the bottom—turning it into a light porridge, simple and soothing, a quiet finale after the spice.

In Singapore’s humid afternoon, this felt like a short escape into winter. Outside, the sunlight was sharp; inside, the soup still breathed heat. There was no performance, no noise—just a calm bowl of stew that made time slow down, one spoonful at a time.

星期六的中午，SBCD Korean Tofu House（北倉洞順豆腐）靜得出奇。商場的冷氣穿堂而過，桌與桌之間都有空隙，只有湯鍋上來時，那陣「咕嚕咕嚕」的聲音，把整個空氣都暖了起來。

那鍋 Soon Tofu（嫩豆腐湯） 一上桌，紅湯翻滾得細緻，沒有刻意的誇張。侍者沒有拿雞蛋，也沒有表演的動作，只是輕聲說：「小心熱湯。」湯面冒著熱霧，豆腐一塊一塊沉在底下，柔軟得像剛凝固的雲。

第一口下去，是溫順的辣。不是重口的衝擊，而是慢慢滲開的暖意，帶著一點海味，一點蒜香。豆腐幾乎不需要咬，湯匙一滑就碎開。配菜整齊地排在小碟裡——泡菜、豆芽、馬鈴薯絲，味道乾淨，不搶戲。

那天人少，廚房的節奏也放慢。偶爾聽到鍋蓋碰撞的聲音，遠處傳來韓語交談。窗邊的光線剛好照在那碗湯上，紅得透亮。你可以慢慢吃，不必像工作日那樣匆忙。

旁邊那碗石鍋飯還在保溫。掀開鍋蓋，飯香混著石氣，有一層淡淡的焦底。吃到最後，加點玉米茶進去，讓那層焦米浮起成粥——輕盈、清香，剛好收掉湯的辣。

在新加坡這樣潮熱的城市裡，這樣的一餐反而像是小小的冬日儀式。外頭的陽光明亮，但桌上的湯冒著熱霧，時間忽然變得緩。沒有喧囂，沒有表演，只有一鍋安靜的熱湯，讓人不急著結帳離開。

7

Kway Chap is a bowl that knows how to keep quiet.

It doesn’t flirt like Chee Cheong Fun — the translucent beauty that sits demurely in a teahouse — but hides instead in a hawker corner, its dark broth glowing under the fluorescent lights. When the steam rises, the air fills with star anise and soy, the scent of something that has waited patiently to be perfect. The broth isn’t really soup; it’s collagen made visible, time boiled into flavour. Duck bones, pork belly, soy sauce, spices — they’ve all been gossiping softly in the same pot for hours.

The rice sheets drift in it like clouds half asleep. A stir, and they wake, soft yet springy. The first sip is all savoury warmth; then comes a faint medicinal sweetness, the kind that lingers. Add a slice of braised egg, a piece of duck intestine, and the world outside seems to pause. That’s the spell of Kway Chap — it doesn’t rush to please you; it lets you slow down enough to hear yourself chew.

Chee Cheong Fun lives in another universe. It’s the morning mist of Hong Kong dim sum — translucent, folded like silk, shrimp glowing faintly beneath. It’s steamed, not stewed; it slips down like a sigh, dressed in sweet soy or sesame. One lives for lightness, the other for depth.

If they ever shared a table, Chee Cheong Fun would be the lady in silk; Kway Chap the craftsman in a sweat-stained shirt. She whispers; he nods, stirs his bowl. Yet here in Singapore, both thrive. One belongs to Imperial Treasure in the bright hours of the morning; the other to the hawker stall in the lazy heat of the afternoon. This city has room for both — for the scent of steam and the perfume of soy.

Nutritionally, Chee Cheong Fun is a fling — light, quick, a little indulgent. Kway Chap is a marriage — heavy, comforting, full of memory. The first satisfies the tongue; the second, the soul.

That’s its real allure: Kway Chap isn’t just a Teochew tradition, it’s a philosophy. You can’t rush flavour, or tenderness, or life. The best things, like this broth, demand time. In every hawker stall ladling out Kway Chap in Singapore, you taste not only food, but patience — the kind that bridges generations.

You don’t just drink the soup.

You taste history, one quiet spoon at a time.

粿汁（Kway Chap），是一碗懂得沉默的飯。

它不像腸粉（Chee Cheong Fun）那樣溫文爾雅、端坐茶樓，而是躲在熟食中心的角落裡，散發著滷湯的深褐光澤。熱氣一冒，仿佛整個早晨都帶著八角的香氣。那碗湯，不是湯，是歲月熬出來的膠質。鴨骨、五花肉、老抽、香料，全在鍋裡低聲交談。

粿片像一張張沉睡的雲，被熱湯一喚，就滑溜地醒來。入口那刻，軟中帶筋，滷味的鹹香先來，接著是一絲藥材的回甘。配上一塊滷蛋、一口鴨腸，世界的雜音頓時安靜下來。這就是粿汁的魔法：它不急著取悅誰，只讓你慢慢在嘴裡找到節奏。

腸粉就不同了。那是另一個世界的嬌客，晶瑩剔透，像港島早茶裡的霧。薄如宣紙，一卷一卷地堆疊，蝦仁透粉若隱若現，淋上甜醬油，入口即化。它講究的是輕、是滑、是姿態；而粿汁講究的是厚、是香、是實在。

兩者若同桌而坐，腸粉是穿絲衫的小姐，粿汁是穿汗衫的師傅。她說話細聲細氣，他不多言，只是默默喝湯。可偏偏這對看似不搭的組合，在新加坡卻都活得好好的。前者屬於 Imperial Treasure 的上午，後者屬於熟食中心的午後。那是這座城市的寬容：不論你是滷香還是蒸氣，都有一席之地。

營養上，腸粉輕盈，像一段戀愛；粿汁濃重，像一場婚姻。腸粉給人瞬間的滿足，粿汁卻能讓人飽到心裡。

這就是粿汁的魅力——不是潮州的傳統而已，而是生活的寫照：滷得夠久，才會入味；捨得用時間，才會有溫度。新加坡的粿汁檔口，不只是賣食物的地方，更像是一座時光的小碼頭。每一碗端上來，都帶著上一代的呼吸與耐心。

湯面閃著油光，香氣仍在衣袖間打轉。吃完抬頭，風從走廊口吹來，遠處傳來一聲鍋蓋敲響——你才忽然明白，這碗粿汁，吃的是人情，也是歲月。

8

Block 51 along Old Airport Road still smells faintly of its past. The name comes from the old Kallang Airport, the island’s first civil airfield built in 1937, long before jets replaced propellers and glass towers took over the skyline. When the runways closed, the hawkers arrived. The air stayed warm, filled now with steam, wok smoke, and a kind of devotion you can taste.

At stall #01-155, Freshly Made Chee Cheong Fun keeps its rhythm steady: a ladle of rice batter spread thin, steam rising, a roll formed around shrimp or char siew. The soy is light, the chili a quiet heat. Around three hundred calories, mostly rice flour and protein, but somehow more comforting than it has any right to be.

A few stalls down, the Oyster Omelette seizes attention with the clang of metal. Eggs, sweet-potato starch, and oysters from the market pan-fried into a lacy edge, soft heart. Each bite delivers sea and smoke together—rich in zinc, iron, and memory. Roughly four hundred fifty calories if you care to count, though nobody here does.

Between dishes, a Lime with Sour Plum cuts through the oil. The acidity presses reset on the tongue; vitamin C and salt do their quiet work. For a few seconds you feel clear, clean, awake.

Then the Prawn Noodle Soup. The broth simmers from prawn shells and pork bones until it turns the color of old amber. The noodles keep their bounce, the shrimp stay firm. Three hundred fifty calories, give or take. It’s the kind of bowl that steadies you in the middle of noise.

The food centre sits where planes once landed, yet nothing here ever really departs. People come for breakfast, stay through lunch, talk louder as the heat climbs. It isn’t nostalgia they’re chasing, but continuity—the taste of something that refuses to move on. You leave full, yet slightly suspended, as if the air itself were still holding its breath.

走進舊機場路熟食中心（Old Airport Road Food Centre）Block 51，空氣裡有一種熟悉的厚度。這裡原是三十年代的加冷機場（Kallang Airport）舊址，新加坡最早的民用機場，飛機離開了，油煙卻留下。攤檔一間接一間，風扇轉得慢，聲音裡有節奏，像一場從沒停過的午餐。

01-155號的「現做豬腸粉」（Freshly Made Chee Cheong Fun）是最安靜的一角。老闆舀起米漿，在布上攤開，一陣蒸氣過後，薄得幾乎透明的米卷就成形了。蝦仁、叉燒或豬肝包在裡面，滑得幾乎要逃出筷子。醬油微甜、辣椒溫柔，是那種一口就能讓人放鬆的味道。熱量不高，大概三百卡上下，清爽卻飽足。

轉個身，鐵板上響起「嗞嗞」聲，是蠔煎。雞蛋與番薯粉翻炒，蚵仔在高溫中冒著香氣。邊緣焦脆，中心柔軟，鹹香裡藏著海的氣息。這一盤油多一點、熱量高一點，卻實在過癮。

吃到這裡該來一杯酸梅萊姆（Lime with Sour Plum）。冰涼的酸鹹交錯，一口下去整個人都醒了。維他命 C 驅走油膩，喉嚨裡剩下一點乾淨的果香。

最後是蝦湯麵（Prawn Noodle Soup）。湯頭紅褐，蝦殼與豬骨熬出濃厚的底氣，蝦肉緊實，麵條吸湯後仍有彈性。若不全喝湯，鹽分剛好，熱量約三百五十卡。這碗湯有一種溫柔的力量，讓人安靜下來。

舊機場路不只是吃飯的地方。這裡的熱氣、油香、喧鬧，是城市的心跳。人們來來去去，卻總會在某個攤位前停下——為了一碗湯、一份滑腸粉、一口真誠的味道。吃完走出去，肚子飽，心也被留在那片老屋簷下。

9

What does Xiang Ji’s lor mee taste like, especially when you add fish?

The first mouthful hits you with its thickness—the gravy clings to your tongue like humid air that refuses to leave. It’s dark, almost glossy, with the scent of garlic, vinegar, pepper, and that slow-cooked depth that speaks of patience more than technique.

The fish is the twist. It’s not shredded into nothingness, but torn from fried fillets that still carry a faint crispness. Once they soak in the sauce, they soften, releasing a quiet sweetness that rides on the broth’s salty backbone. Every bite carries contrast—firm edges, tender core, and that unmistakable umami that lingers.

Half an egg rests on the side, the yolk steeped in the same broth until it turns dusky brown. A spoonful of raw minced garlic sits boldly on top, waiting for you to stir it in; chili and black vinegar are at your discretion. The stall doesn’t chase balance—it trusts you to find it.

Nothing about this bowl tries to be elegant. The noodles are thick, the sauce unapologetically sticky, the flavors loud but honest. You finish with your lips coated in starch and garlic, and somehow, that feels right. Xiang Ji’s lor mee doesn’t aim to impress—it simply fills you up, and leaves you wanting to return to that same stall again.

香記的 lor mee，加上魚肉，是什麼味道？

第一口下去，濃厚的卤汁先衝上舌頭，像午後的濕氣，有黏性也有重量。那深褐色的湯面閃著光，蒜香、醋氣、胡椒和滷料的氣息同時散開，濃得幾乎可以當作一種空氣。

魚肉的存在是驚喜。炸過再拆絲，表層帶微焦香，吸飽了湯汁後，外略韌、內鬆嫩，一口咬下去像在聽滷鍋裡的故事。湯的鹹甜與魚的鮮氣纏在一起，既厚重又不膩。

半顆滷蛋靜靜躺在邊上，蛋黃吸了卤味，入口帶一絲微苦。蒜末鋪得大方，辣椒與黑醋則由客人自己決定分寸。這種自調的自由，正是這攤麵的性格——不討好，只給選擇。

這碗麵沒有精緻的擺盤，卻有誠意的層次。濃湯包著麵條，像是舊時小販的堅持，重手也重心。吃完會覺得口裡黏黏的、手上還有蒜香，但那種滿足，是不需言說的。香記的 lor mee，吃一次就知道：這是樸實，也是一種沉默的自信。

10

Can You Handle Authentic Food? — A Taste and Nutrition Look at a Bowl of Cendol

The bowl lands on the table with a faint chill in the air, mist curling around its rim. Green pandan noodles twist through crushed ice, red beans gleam, coconut milk lies pale as a monsoon cloud, and the dark palm sugar syrup (Gula Melaka) drips slowly to the bottom. It’s not just dessert—it’s the tropics condensed into glass. In an old Singapore coffee shop, the ceiling fan groans above you, and that bowl seems to breathe on its own.

The first spoonful hits cold and fast, like a jab. Sweetness follows—thick, smoky, almost sticky, but never cloying. The coconut milk glides across the tongue, the caramel note rises from the throat, the red beans melt softly while the noodles bounce lightly between the teeth. Cold against creamy, sweet against fragrant—this is how the tropics speak in flavor. It isn’t a refined European dessert; it’s direct, warm-blooded honesty in a bowl.

Some people taste it once and complain it’s too sweet. They just don’t understand the logic of the weather. Cendol isn’t meant to be savored slowly; it’s meant to rescue you. It was born in the humid hours after lunch, when heat presses down and sweat becomes a second skin. Halfway through, the ice begins to melt, the sweetness eases, and everything turns smooth again. The ring of water left on the table feels like the city exhaling.

Nutritionally, it’s far from light. Sugar high, fat rich—but it recharges you fast. The red beans lend plant protein and fiber; the coconut milk brings medium-chain fats, quicker to burn than butter but just as satisfying. One bowl runs three to four hundred calories, the cost of a long afternoon walk. Ask for less sugar or lighter milk if you prefer balance—the pandan’s grassy scent will rise, clearer, like air after rain.

Cendol’s soul lives beyond the bowl. Picture a Singapore afternoon: pavement hot enough to shimmer, kids in school uniforms running past, the vendor wiping sweat as he shaves more ice. Time slows as the ice melts, and what looked like a snack becomes a pause in the day.

When you finish, you realize it wasn’t just about cooling off. That sweetness, bold and unpretentious, has tuned your rhythm again. No matter how loud or hot the city gets, a quiet ease stays with you—carried in that single, melting bowl.

你要吃道地食物，你吃得了嗎？——從口味與營養看一碗煎蕊（Cendol）

冰碗一上桌，霧氣升起，邊緣結著一圈白。綠粉條蜷在冰碎裡，紅豆閃著光，椰奶白得像熱帶雲層，黑糖漿（Gula Melaka）緩緩沉下去，整碗像是南洋的縮影。坐在新加坡老式咖啡店的藤椅上，風扇咯吱一聲轉動，那碗冰就在桌上呼吸。

第一匙送入口，冰涼像一記短拳，甜味緊隨其後，厚、濃、黏，卻不膩。椰奶的柔滑在舌上鋪開，焦糖味從喉間竄出，紅豆細軟、粉條彈牙，一冷一熱、一甜一香，交錯成熱帶人最熟悉的節奏。那不是精緻的甜，而是一種帶溫度的誠實——直接、濃烈、毫不掩飾。

有人第一次嘗，皺眉說太甜；那是因為他還沒懂這碗冰的邏輯。煎蕊不是用來「品」，而是用來「救」。它生於午後三點的濕熱裡，是汗水與倦意的解藥。吃到一半，冰開始融，味道漸淡，卻更順口。碗邊一圈水漬慢慢擴開，像城市在吐氣。

營養角度看，它不屬於清淡派。糖多、脂高，但能瞬間補能量。紅豆給了植物蛋白與纖維，椰奶帶中鏈脂肪酸，比奶油輕卻仍厚實。一碗約三、四百卡，若搭配一日的步行，其實剛好抵銷。要健康些，也可以少糖、減椰奶，那時味道更清，班蘭（Pandan）的青草氣會浮上來，像雨後街角的濕風。

煎蕊的靈魂不只在碗裡，也在那一刻的環境。新加坡午後，街道發燙，孩子穿著校服跑過，攤主抹汗再刨冰。碗裡的冰融得慢，時間也跟著放緩。有人說甜點只是餐後餘興，但在這座城市，它是生活的中場休息。

吃完那一碗，你會發現自己不只是解了渴，也被那一口甜重新調整了節奏。城市再吵、天再熱，都沒關係——那碗冰已經在體內留下了一點從容。

11

What’s So Good About Coconut Water? — A Taste and Nutrition Look at the Tropics’ Natural Drink

A green coconut split open with one swift chop—juice glistening under the sun, air tinged with that clean, earthy scent. The hawker slides in a straw, and in that instant the Singapore heat feels almost bearable.

Coconut water isn’t coconut milk. It’s clear, lightly sweet, a little salty. The first sip cools the tongue, the second reveals a grassy freshness, the third leaves a gentle sweetness that lingers like rain on leaves. Some people say it has no taste; that’s because it doesn’t perform. It refreshes without trying—it’s the tropics speaking plainly.

Nutritionally, it sits between plain water and a sports drink. It carries electrolytes—potassium, sodium, magnesium, calcium—that help the body rehydrate fast. Each 100 ml gives roughly 20 calories, mostly from natural sugars. It’s clean fuel for a humid climate, but not for endless refills; those with kidney issues should watch the potassium.

The real magic lies in freshness. Once bottled, the fragrance fades, leaving only sweetness and memory. Drink it straight from the shell if you can—perhaps with a touch of ice or a slice of lime, though that softens its raw charm.

喝椰子水怎麼樣？從口味與營養學角度了解

一顆青椰被砍開，汁水微微冒泡，像是熱帶午後的一口氣。攤販手上利落一刀，插入吸管，新加坡的濕熱忽然有了出口。

椰子水不是椰奶。它清澈、透明、微甜帶鹹。第一口像喝進雨的味道，第二口有點青草氣，第三口開始覺得甘潤。這種味道，既不討好也不虛偽，是熱帶的誠實。對沒喝慣的人，也許覺得「沒味道」，但那正是它的魅力——淡得剛好，讓身體自己說話。

從營養角度看，它是天然的等滲飲料。含鉀、鈉、鎂、鈣，可迅速補水，比汽水乾淨，比運動飲料少負擔。每百毫升約20卡，糖分不高，卻足以回復能量。唯一要留意的是鉀含量偏高，腎功能不佳者不宜多飲。

真正的椰子水應該現劈現喝。瓶裝的味道平淡，香氣早逃走。若加冰或檸檬，雖更清爽，但那股椰殼邊緣的青香也會被削弱。

12

The Mindful Way to Eat Char Kway Teow: Heat and Bean Sprouts

Eating char kway teow is like watching a brief play. Don’t rush in—let your nose listen first to the fading whisper of the wok. The real stars aren’t the prawns or the sausage, but those plump little bean sprouts. They tumble through the heat, kissed by oil and fire, their edges slightly scorched while the inside stays full of life. That tiny pop when you bite in—it’s the sprout breathing, crisp and honest.

Heat carries the soul of the dish. Too cool, and the soy sauce sinks flat; too hot, and the noodles burn. The magic lies in that precise, fleeting warmth that feels like fire without pain. It’s the touch of a cook who knows the wok by heart—steady, patient, sure—like a short, gentle breeze on a humid afternoon, gone before you realize you were waiting for it.

Set the lard and sausage aside, and let the tongue focus. The sweetness of the sprouts, the fragrance of egg, the charred rim of the noodles—they build layer upon layer, a quiet rhythm of the city. When the plate is empty, a thin sheen of oil still glows at the bottom—not leftovers, but memory; a reminder that good food never shouts, it stays.

炒粿條的專注吃法：溫度與豆芽

欣賞炒粿條，像看一齣短劇。別急著動筷，先用鼻子聽——那是鍋氣的餘音。真正的主角，不是蝦，也不是臘腸，而是那些胖胖的小豆芽。它們在高溫裡翻滾，被油火親了一下，外層微焦，裡頭仍藏著水分。咬下去時那一聲「啵」，是豆芽的呼吸，誠實又清脆。

溫度是這齣戲的靈魂。太冷，醬油會沉；太熱，麵條會焦。最迷人的，是那剛剛好的滾燙——有煙火的氣息，卻不灼人。那是炒手多年練出來的火候，穩、準、淡定，像午後一陣溫柔的風，短短一秒，卻讓人記得久。

豬油渣和臘肉先放一旁，讓味蕾專心。豆芽的清甜、蛋的香氣、麵條邊緣的焦黃，一層層疊出城市的節奏。吃完之後，盤底仍閃著細細的油光——那不是殘餘，而是餘韻；提醒你，好吃的東西從不喧嘩，只會靜靜留下溫度。

13

I have been to Paul at Paragon more times than I can count. Usually I walk in, order the usual without thinking, and get on with the day. This time I did something different. I read the menu as if it were a short novel, lingering on each dish a little too long. The more I looked, the less I knew what I wanted. So I let AI take a look and tell me what it thought.

It picked the pan fried salmon as the healthiest. I stared at the picture. A simple piece of fish, crisp on the outside, soft underneath. Nothing dramatic. It sits there calmly, like a friend who never raises his voice. Paul often does this kind of dish well, clean and steady, no fuss.

Next came the miso cod. AI praised it for being light, though I see it differently. Cod may look innocent, but a thin coat of miso turns it into something slightly seductive. The sweetness hides in the corners. The vegetables around it behave like polite companions, making sure the plate looks complete.

Third place went to the baked chicken roulade. A tidy dish. No smoke, no grease. Slice it open and everything is wrapped neatly inside. It tastes exactly as organised as it looks. You know what you are getting and it delivers without surprises.

The rest of the menu reads like a line-up of heavy hitters. Creamy pastas, big steaks, fried fish. These dishes win with bold flavour, then make you question your life choices an hour later. A meal can be like a night out with loud friends. Fun, until your stomach reminds you who pays the price.

Letting AI choose a dish turned out to be more amusing than expected. It does not get hungry, so it judges with a clear head. It looks at a menu as if it were a map, pointing out which route is gentle, which one climbs uphill, and which one leaves you catching your breath.

Next time I visit Paul, I might follow its advice or I might ignore it. Still, having a quiet commentator beside me adds a small twist to a familiar place.

到 Paragon 的 Paul，來了不知多少次，每次都是匆匆坐下，點個保險的老選項就算了。這一回心血來潮，把整張餐單翻得像翻小說。字看得清楚了，肚子倒更糊塗。乾脆讓 AI 出個主意，看看它的口味會不會比我這張嘴還挑。

它說最健康的是香煎鮭魚。我看著那片金黃的魚皮，心裡有點不服。鮭魚嘛，到哪裡都差不多，但 Paul 的做法倒真有幾分氣質。煎得剛好，不油，帶點香草味，像個簡單卻乾淨的朋友，坐下來陪你，不會吵，也不會搶風頭。

第二名是味噌鱈魚。AI 說它清爽，我倒覺得這道菜像個穿白襯衫的人，看起來純潔，實際上暗藏心機。味噌一抹，甜鹹之間很會討人歡心。旁邊的烤玉米和番茄像幾顆點綴的配角，任務很簡單，把盤子襯托得不那麼孤單。

雞肉卷則是第三名。烘烤的方式很斯文，沒有油煙，也沒有叫囂。切開來，雞肉捲著蔬菜，像是把家務事處理得井井有條的人。吃起來算不上驚喜，卻安穩，像你知道該期待什麼，也知道它不會背叛你。

其餘那些義麵、牛排、炸魚薯條，味道不用懷疑，香氣一起，人就先投降。但 AI 說它們重。奶油多，油脂多，熱量多。聽起來像幾位豪氣萬丈的朋友，點了肯定開心，吃完也肯定後悔。人生嘛，就是這樣的循環。

我倒是第一次覺得，AI 點菜也有點意思。它不會被香味迷惑，不會被餓意左右。把餐單當作一張地圖，指出哪條是平路，哪條是山坡，哪條走了會喘。

下次再來 Paul，我也許會聽它的，也許不會。但有個老饕在耳邊嘀咕，倒是挺好玩。

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Lard cubes on the street

The good

A small cube melts on the pan and the aroma lifts the whole dish. The high smoke point keeps the heat clean, greens stay crisp, eggs get a nice edge and noodles pick up better structure. Its monounsaturated fat content is higher than most people assume, so it is not as heavy as its reputation suggests.

The bad

It is still animal fat with a solid dose of saturated fat. If you lean on it for every meal, the overall diet tilts greasy fast. Some commercial versions go through extra processing that pushes the fat profile in the wrong direction.

The ugly

Poor-quality sources give off odd notes. Rancid lard smells dull and old, and once it hits the pan the entire dish takes the hit. Reused oil that has been heated too many times carries oxidised compounds that irritate the stomach and are not worth the trouble over the long run.

街頭常見的豬油粒

好的

豬油粒一入鍋就化開，香味直接把整道菜托起來。煙點高，炒青菜更爽脆，煎蛋邊緣更香，做麵食時也更容易出層次。它的單元不飽和脂肪不算低，比一般印象裡的更溫和。

不太好的

畢竟是動物脂肪，飽和脂肪偏高。若三餐都靠它提味，整體飲食會越走越油。市售的加工豬油有些經過氫化，脂肪組成更不理想。

比較糟的

原料不好，油味就會怪。劣質豬油容易酸敗，帶一股悶味，下鍋後整道菜都失色。若在大鍋裡反覆高溫使用，氧化後的雜質會刺激腸胃，長期吃下來划不來。

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