Written September 17, 2015
On our first or maybe second night in Singapore, some co-workers invited Will and I and a few other newbie-Americans arrivals to an authentic meal at a dimly-lit tiny hole-in-the-wall outside of town. A cab ride away from our corporate apartment on the modern, glitzy and glittery Orchard Road, this restaurant was in a row of small and similarly run-down stucco-walled establishments. The cab dropped us on the curb, and we followed our hosts down a dirt path around the other side of the building. Chickens and roosters pecked and scratched lazily in the flowerbeds surrounding us.
Inside the place was filled with mostly locals. We may have been the only Caucasians in the place, and it showed; most of us Americans towered over our hosts by several inches to a foot. The maître d’ showed us to our table that was up a rickety staircase to a second story balcony. We were shown to a huge round table and our party of 10 sat down.
Once seated I glanced around. I immediately noticed something scurrying up the wall to my right. Further inspection showed it was a gecko, and there were tons of them crawling up the walls in search of bugs. Geckos soon became a mainstay of our time in Singapore, for although they were absent in more modern buildings (I never saw one in our apartment or in Will’s office tower) but plenty of public buildings around the island seemed infested. These cute little lizards didn’t seem to harm or bother the people and so we simply lived in symbiosis.
The waitress came around to take drink orders and at this time the natives at the table began ordering appetizers and entrees. I will stop here to admit I’m not sure exactly what kind of food I was eating, I assume it was mostly Chinese. But it was amazing. Rich sauces smothered seafoods, scallops, shrimp. Chili pepper abound. Noodles swimming in hot broth. A salad with a dressing I’d never tasted before. Finger-foods fried or wrapped or chilled or crunchy. It was all so good.
Then the waitress sat a bowl of live giant prawn in front of one of the native Singaporians. They were swimming in a brown liquid marinade and crawling over one another in a funny glob of eyeballs and legs. Called “Drunken Shrimp,” this dish is often eaten live or only partially cooked; the alcohol in the marinade helping to make raw consumption easier. Our host picked up the bowl, inspected a few shrimp, smelled the marinade, then handed it back to the waitress nodding. The bowl disappeared. Ten minutes later the waitress arrived with the same bowl. Draped over the sides of the bowl were the prawns: cooked, pink and limply – yet artistically – hanging over the lip, their beady eyes now dull and flat. Our host picked up a shrimp, pulled off its head and shell and legs and tail, dipped the huge chunk of pink flesh into the sauce and proceeded to pop the whole thing in her mouth. Then she passed the bowl to us. We copied her movements exactly.
It was the best shrimp I had ever eaten.
I have no photos of that restaurant or that meal, so here’s a picture of the blue ball fountain at Cuppage Terrace (near our apartment).
talesfrommorchinland 