Lunch at the Hawker Stand

The week in Singapore has largely gone well; the weather has remained consistently steamy and the need to wear undershirts has never quite been so critical. Amongst the facets of Singaporean life that have become most clear are the following: the country is run like a corporation and there's little else to do here other than go shopping and eat. The latter point is not necessarily intended to disparage Singapore, the country is a tiny island and there are only so many ways to create entertainment in such a confined area. To that end, Singapore has decided to make air conditioned malls its primary attraction—and, of course, its hawker stands.

On more than one occasion I've made the right decision to ditch the comforts of a climate controlled restaurant for a hawker vendor. The food is usually of a better quality and the price clocks in at about a third of what one would pay at a place more attractive to pampered western tastes. Nonetheless, a few of the people travelling with me on this trip continue to shun the more authentic experience in favor of comfort. So be it, they can have their trip and I'll have mine. For example, take yesterday's lunch. We had a few minutes on our hands prior to visiting the SingTel offices near Orchard Road. On a nearby street lay a strip of restaurants capped at the end with hawkers. We strolled the length, surveying what each place had to offer: Thai, curries and supposedly good Japanese food. Then we reached the hawkers. Kway teow, laksa and murtabak, they had pretty much everything I wanted to consume. While my enthusiasm for planting my backside on a plastic seat in the midday heat as I slurped down a bowl of laksa was evident, it wasn't shared by the rest of the group. "We're going to go to the Japanese place," they said, "we don't think we can handle being outside."

"Fair enough," I replied, "but I'm going to eat here." They left me alone. Was I unhappy that I'd been ditched? Not a bit. For $3 I snagged a bowl of laksa and relished every minute of it. The clams swam in a perfectly spiced coconut milk gravy while I did my utmost to stop the noodles from whiplashing the sauce onto my white shirt. I failed in my efforts to remain clean but accepted the orange marks an occupational hazard. The meal met every expectation.

Once the meal was done I went in search of the rest of the group but couldn't find them. I had no idea where they'd gone. As we reconvened after lunch we traded tales of what we ate. It turns out the rest of group chose the Thai place instead of the Japanese restaurant. The service was sluggish and the food was expensive and of poor quality. Somewhere inside me a vindicated voice shouted "yes!".