VivoCity

1

At the library in VivoCity, it’s almost impossible not to take a few extra steps afterward and wander into the nearby pet shop. The scent of paper and ink still lingers from the books, but your feet move on their own, drawn toward the rows of glass enclosures. Each little dog sits inside like a tiny exhibit, eyes bright and restless, as if waiting for the right person to stop and say, you’re the one.

Three names stand together — Maltipoo, Cavachon, Cavapoo — not as items on a menu, but more like three neighbors who live right next door. Each with a different temperament, each with a different charm, and all equally disarming.

The Maltipoo, born of a Maltese and a Poodle, is the friend who is lively yet mindful of boundaries. Its snow-white coat feels like a passing cloud, and when you bring it to a café, it settles quietly under the table, never demanding attention, yet always making you feel less alone. Agile, playful, but never overwhelming — that’s the kind of companion you can take anywhere without a second thought.

The Cavachon, a mix of Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and Bichon Frisé, has the round, gentle eyes of the sweet kid who lives across the hall. There’s an easy warmth in the way it looks at you, always ready to tag along for a walk. Its thick coat needs regular care, but with a little effort it turns into a soft, elegant halo, almost aristocratic. Being with a Cavachon feels like having a cheerful neighbor who drops by often, just to share the day with you.

The Cavapoo, another Cavalier–Poodle cross, is the spark of the trio. Its eyes shine with clever mischief, curls bouncing with energy. But more than anything, it craves closeness. A Cavapoo is the kind of friend who wants to follow you everywhere — onto the sofa, into the next room, even just to sit nearby. Leave it alone too long and it wears loneliness like a shadow, tugging at your heart the way a letter unanswered does.

If you had to sum them up: the Maltipoo is the considerate friend, the Cavachon the warmhearted neighbor, and the Cavapoo the inseparable companion. No one is better than the other — they’re simply different shades of connection.

In Singapore, where space is precious and homes are built high into the sky, their small size makes them especially well-suited. An HDB flat may not be large, but a dog’s quick jump across the floor is enough to fill it with life. Take them out to the grass at Marina Bay, and you’ll see them tumble in the sunlight — and with that, the weight of a long workweek seems to lift. That’s the pact these little dogs make with city life here: no grand houses needed, just the simple joy of being close, and the home feels whole.

到 VivoCity（怡豐城）的圖書館，很難不走多幾步，到附近的寵物店。翻完書，腦子還留着字裡行間的餘香，腳步卻偏偏不聽話，像被什麼香氣牽引，飄過去瞧一瞧那些小狗。一隻狗一個透明櫃，彷彿展品，卻又透出生命的呼吸，眼神閃閃，好像在說：「還不快把我領走？」

三個名字排在一起，Maltipoo、Cavachon、Cavapoo，不是什麼甜品的代號，而更像三位住在隔壁的鄰居。你天天在走廊遇見，互相點頭寒暄，各有姿態，各有性格，卻同樣讓人親近。

Maltipoo ——Maltese（馬爾濟斯）與 Poodle（貴賓犬）的溫柔結合。白毛如雲，手一撫就散開。這孩子活潑卻懂規矩，像那位陪你去咖啡館的朋友，走進店裡自動乖乖趴在椅腳，不多事，不搶戲，但存在本身就讓你心安。小動作靈活，卻不喧鬧，正是可以放心帶出門的伴侶。

Cavachon ——Cavalier King Charles Spaniel（卡瓦利爾查理王小獵犬）與 Bichon Frisé（比熊犬）的優雅後代。眼神圓潤，帶點撒嬌，像鄰家小孩，抬頭一望就讓你心軟。毛髮厚密，需要每日細心打理，若肯花功夫，就能梳出如貴婦髮型般的雍容。和牠相處，就像那個常常敲門要約你散步的鄰居，帶著天然笑意，令人難以拒絕。

Cavapoo ——Cavalier King Charles Spaniel 與 Poodle 的火花。聰明伶俐，眼睛亮得像玻璃球，還閃著小小的狡黠。捲毛一團團，活力四射。但最特別的，是牠對人的依戀。這孩子就像那個最要好的朋友，無論去哪裡都要跟著，甚至坐沙發也不肯離你一步。若被冷落太久，立刻表現出孤單，好比一封久久未回的信，讓你忍不住心生愧意。

若真要比喻：Maltipoo 是那位懂得進退的小夥伴；Cavachon 是能溫暖人心的鄰家小孩；Cavapoo 則是走到哪裡都要跟著的死黏朋友。這三者之間，沒有誰高誰低，只是性格不同，正如人生中遇見的朋友，各有各的好。

在新加坡這樣寸土必爭的島城，這些小狗的小巧體態，正好契合。HDB 的空間或許有限，但只要牠們一跑一跳，屋子裡立刻有了生氣。帶牠們到濱海灣的草地，看陽光下翻滾撒嬌，心裡積壓的悶氣早就散了。這就是牠們與獅城的默契——不需要大屋大院，只要有牠們在身邊，足夠了。

2

At unauna, while waiting for my unagi don (うな丼) to arrive, the aroma comes first. That caramelized sweetness of charred skin mingling with thick soy glaze floats across the room, and the thought sneaks in: why does a bowl of grilled eel over rice cost so much?

The story begins long before the kitchen. The Japanese eel (Anguilla japonica) is a born wanderer, swimming from the sea back into rivers, a kind of heroic migration in miniature. Artificial breeding isn’t fully solved yet, so farmers rely on catching glass eels—those transparent slivers of life—as seed stock. Their numbers have collapsed over the past few decades, and bidding for them is fiercer than a stock exchange at opening bell.

Even if you get the fry, raising them is a gamble. It takes eighteen to twenty-four months for one eel to reach the right size, and they’re finicky to the extreme. A degree off in water temperature, a shift in quality, and the whole pond can die overnight. Feed is expensive, tanks require constant attention, and every harvest carries risk.

Then comes the craft. In Kanto, the eel is steamed before grilling, yielding a soft, cloud-like texture. In Kansai, it goes straight to the fire, crisping at the edges and staying firm within. Either way, it’s not just grilling—it’s a test of fire control, timing, and patience. The sauce, often guarded across generations, is the true soul of the dish. What’s on the grill isn’t simply fish; it’s the chef’s accumulated philosophy.

Culture adds another premium. On the midsummer “Doyo no Ushi no Hi,” eating eel is tradition, a ritual believed to restore strength in sweltering heat. Once food becomes ritual, it’s no longer priced in ounces of flesh, but in layers of memory and habit.

And above it all is the global market. Japan, Taiwan, China—all compete for the same dwindling glass eels. The species is listed as endangered, with international restrictions tightening supply. Rarity, regulation, and demand combine into an economic inevitability.

Finally, the wooden box arrives. Lift the lid: gleaming fillets lacquered with glaze, resting on white rice like brushstrokes in a painting. This isn’t just dinner—it’s scarcity, risk, skill, tradition, and stubborn human devotion distilled into one meal. Bite through the char and sweetness, the tenderness and resilience of the flesh, and you realize: what you’re tasting isn’t just flavor. It’s persistence made edible.

在 unauna 等鰻魚飯（unagi don / うな丼）上桌時，香氣先到了。那股炭火焦糖般的甜香，混著醬汁濃郁，在鼻腔裡打轉，讓人心裡直想：這一碗飯，為什麼要這麼貴？

答案其實藏在魚身上。**日本鰻（Anguilla japonica）**要從大海洄游回河川，好比武士逆旅，天生就帶點悲壯。人工養殖還不能完全自立，得靠捕撈「鰻苗（glass eel）」接力。這些透明小東西比新股還難搶，行情一夜翻倍，誰拿到誰就贏。

養成大魚更不省事。一尾鰻魚要花上一年半到兩年，卻嬌貴得很，水溫差一度，可能整池翻肚。飼料要精挑細選，養殖池得精心維護，金錢和運氣一樣不能少。

進了廚房，挑戰才真正開始。關東講究先蒸後烤，入口鬆軟如雲；關西則火力全開，外焦內嫩。表面只是烤魚，其實是在考驗火候、眼力和耐性。再加上家傳醬汁，師傅烤的不是魚，而是自己的人生哲學。

文化也推了一把。在「土用丑日」，日本人非鰻魚不可，說能抗暑補身。當料理成為習俗，就不再是單純的菜，而是一種心靈暗示，價格自然水漲船高。

更何況國際市場也在拉扯。日本、台灣、中國都在搶鰻苗，鰻魚還被列為瀕危物種，捕撈限制一層層加碼，於是這條魚多了稀有的光環。

終於，木盒被端上來。打開蓋子，金黃油亮的蒲燒鰻靜靜地臥在白飯上。這不只是食物，而是自然的稀缺、養殖的風險、師傅的功夫與人類的固執共同拼湊的畫。咬下一口，甜中帶焦，肉嫩而有韌性。那一刻我懂了——昂貴的不是價格，而是這份執著。

3

On the bright yellow plate from Seng Kee Hokkien Mee, the combo carrot cake tells its story in two chapters. The black half is bold and smoky, the radish cake cubes caramelized at the edges, the eggs clinging to them in savory clumps, with just enough sweetness to keep you reaching for another bite. The white half plays the opposite note—light, clean, the cubes tucked into a soft omelette, their natural rice-and-radish fragrance coming through without distraction. In the middle, a few plain pieces sit untouched, like the raw sketch before the painting, reminding you where both sides began.

The charm of the combo is contrast. The black side comes on strong, almost like fried kway teow in its richness. The white is gentler, closer to breakfast simplicity. Switching between them keeps the palate awake—sweet, smoky depth, then a reset with something airy and honest. Together they make you realize why indecision can sometimes be the best choice.

It’s Sunday lunchtime in the food court, the tables filling fast. Around you, voices mix—English fired off quickly, Mandarin in softer tones, a burst of Malay laughter, the rounder rhythm of South Asian accents. They fade into the background hum while you stay anchored to the plate in front of you. One forkful from the dark side, one from the light, and the meal feels whole: two faces of the same dish, sharing the same stage.

一盤 combo carrot cake，黃盤子裡黑白分明。黑的那半邊，炒得焦香，醬油收乾，糕粒邊角帶點脆，蛋與蒜頭緊緊黏著，嚼起來甜鹹交織，帶火候的力道。白的這半，顯得溫和，蛋皮薄薄裹住蘿蔔糕，入口更突出米香與蘿蔔清甜，乾淨俐落。中間幾條素白的糕，像是刻意留下的素描線條，讓人記得食材的本相。

這黑白雙拼的吃法，妙在對照。黑的濃烈，像濃墨；白的清淡，似留白。交替夾入口，既不會膩，也不會單調。特別是黑的那邊，蛋碎和醬香融合，帶著一種幾乎像炒粿條的厚重；白的則更接近家常，像清晨早餐攤的隨性。

週日午餐時間，食堂人多卻不喧嘩。耳邊有英語的快節奏，也有中文的輕聲細語，偶爾傳來馬來語或印度口音的笑聲。這些聲音只是背景，真正的主角還是眼前這盤黑白蘿蔔糕。夾一口黑，再接一口白，嘴裡像在轉場，戲味十足，卻只需一副叉子一雙筷子，就能完成。