Travelling to Singapore
Forget Singapore's namesake cocktail and pig out at the backstreet food stalls.
It’s 11 a.m. in downtown Singapore but after a joyless 20-minute encounter with a frenetic slot machine in a mammoth subterranean casino, it feels like midnight. Luring silk-shirted high-rollers from China and beyond to its mirrored 55-storey towers, Marina Bay Sands – one of Asia’s largest resort casinos – reflects the city-state’s long-held role as an avaricious wealth magnet.
Since my “wealth” – I’m more of a low-roller – has just disappeared into a greedy one-armed bandit, I grumpily cut my losses and hit the streets. Scrubbed clean by decades of single-party rule, Singapore seems like a sterile settlement of designer shopping malls, gum-free sidewalks and bleached concrete walls where graffiti fears to tread (if Banksy was really a rebel, he’d try stencilling here).
But it’s not long before I find out what makes the locals tick. Wiping my sweat-slicked brow – the heat here is like a hair dryer assailing your face – I slump into a waiting taxi. English is widely spoken in Singapore and I tell the sleepy cabbie that I’m hungry for some local grub. He beams, puts his foot down and launches into a saliva-triggering monologue on his favourite laksa stands.
Everyone’s a foodie here and locals can’t wait to share their latest discoveries. In fact, there are so many backstreet stalls and steam-shrouded markets that it’s hard to imagine any Singaporean cooking at home. The prices help – dishes are $3 to $4 – making this a world capital of accessible budget dining.
First stop: Maxwell Road Hawker Centre, a clamorous, open-sided hall lined with aromatic, family-run stands. Quickly collecting a few dishes, I teeter over to a large, round table, beckoned by a young couple taking a break from their shopping. Once they’ve told me how much they love Vancouver (“It’s so beautiful – like paradise”), they watch approvingly as I dive in.
The centre’s signature – roast chicken on rice with chili and ginger sauces – is good but a little bland. Then there’s a glistening plate of spicy wok-fried noodles, teeming with tender clams and prawns. But it’s the piping-hot, deep-fried oyster cakes that hit the spot and I’d happily guzzle them until exploding. Instead, I make a mental note to buy pants with an elasticized waist.
Hungry for context, I head across town to the tasty hawker food exhibit at the National Museum, the best of a surprisingly large number of Singapore cultural attractions. In a handsome white stucco colonial mansion, it’s also one of many mothballed reminders of the pre-1962 British administration – including one that echoes the old empire beyond its grand façade.
Resembling a giant, walk-in wedding cake, the palm-licked Raffles Hotel retains its raked gravel drive, elegant Sikh doorman and pinky-fingered afternoon teas. Originally where monocled Brits tweaked their handlebar moustaches, recent years have seen its arched walkways colonized by camera-wielding tourists.
All are here – itchy backpackers, timid British seniors and overweight American cruise shippers – in the hotel’s packed Long Bar. It’s a teak-lined, 1920s drinkery aimed at visitors en route to the gift shop for their Raffles baseball caps. But first, they have to try the famous tipple purportedly invented on site.
At $20, my Singapore Sling should be one of the best drinks of my booze-loving life. Instead, it’s a cloyingly sweet, factory-produced alcopop that’s as far from a good cocktail as it’s possible to be. Disappointed, I abandon theme-park colonialism and jump back in with the locals. Now, where was that laksa joint the cabbie recommended?
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