The Juke Joint

Friday afternoon saw me hanging out at Pek Kio hawker centre (near Farrer Park and Little India) with a friend who, like me, appreciates good food and happens to be a walking encyclopedia of eating places. On this occasion, we were there for a good cup of coffee before meeting some other friends for lunch at Little India.

My friend waxed lyrical about this particular stalls’ coffee, but also mentioned the eccentric nature of the man who made the coffee. An old-timer with perfectionistic tendencies, he was known to evaluate cups of coffee by using a metal teaspoon to scoop up some coffee and let it drip back into the cup, presumably to check on its consistency or colour. If it did not meet his exacting standards, he would pour it away and start over. He would also insist on keeping his cups hot, in the belief that making the perfect cuppa requires everything to be maintained at a high temperature.

When I went to order the coffee, I got to observe him making a new batch of brew. He was a quiet man, speaking only to clarify orders, otherwise they would be acknowledged with the slightest of nods. His face had an intense expression, framed by his grayish fringe which would have been neatly combed up but dropped down the side of his face. Faded polo T-shirt, bermudas held up by a leather belt and rubber slippers are the de rigueur attire for most hawkers, and he did not stray from that. His female helper, perhaps his wife, did most of the talking to customers and helped to spoon in the milk and sugar after he put down the cups of black coffee.

The stall itself is like most other hawker stalls, a small squarish cubicle slightly less than 2m x 2m, decked out with stainless steel cabinets, sinks, stoves, counters, cabinets etc and having just enough space for two people to stand in. In his little corner he had an assortment of coffee making paraphernalia, like the long spouted conical pot, coffee filter, assorted stainless steel mugs and spoons, all arranged neatly and hung within easy reach, as would the tools at a good workbench.

To start off, he poured away the bottom portion of coffee in his conical pot. With a large metal mug and deft motions, he scooped up hot water from a heated reservoir to flush the pot. He then scooped out some ground coffee powder from a biscuit tin, mixed it with hot water and proceeded to pour it into the conical pot through the filter, repeating the filtering process a few times. Amazingly, at the speed at which he did all this, he never splashed any hot water around or got burnt. He then produced 2 small ceramic cups on plastic saucers, the traditional coffee-serving utensils. Pouring the freshly brewed coffee from the spout of the conical pot, he mixed in just the right amount of hot water from his metal mug to taste. The final step was for his helper to add the sugar or milk according to the customer’s order. The entire process was carried out with the kind of practised precision which comes only from years of repetition.

The final cuppa was a marvel. I had mine with sugar, without milk (ie. Kopi-O in local terms). The familiar coffee aroma had a bold character with a lingering aftertaste, without being overpowering. The sugar blended with the coffee flavour in a subtle manner to complement, rather than to tone down the bitterness. It had a delightfully light texture with a slight hint of roast to top it off at each mouthful. There was no hint of the burnt, smoky pungence that characterizes the local Starbucks brews, nor was it overly acidic or astringent to leave the tongue feeling dry or raw.

My friend and I sipped our coffee at a leisurely pace, seated at the outer edge of the hawker centre, which was windier. Hawker centres are usually located in the middle of public housing estates, managed by the Housing Development Board (HDB). Comprising mostly high-rise flats of varying room capacity, this is the kind of housing that most Singaporeans live in, and these estates are probably the best place to observe a typical day in the average Singaporean's life.

It was filled with the usual hawker centre denizens. There’s the ubiquitous office worker, long sleeved-shirt rolled up and tie tucked in between the buttons for a quick and cheap bite before heading back to the grind. The middle-aged, immaculately-coiffed towkays (bosses) decked out in gaudy shirts and tasteless displays of wealth like huge gold chains, Rolex watches etc. The average HDB apartment resident in all their singlet-and-slippers glory. The frail, elderly woman who ekes out a living collecting used drink cans or peddling tissues. And of course, who can forget the old retiree idling away to an afternoon beer? Don't forget the leg propped up on the neighbouring seat.

It was in the midst of this low-cost relaxation therapy that we stumbled upon a frightening thought. These old fellows making the good coffee and good food don’t seem to be passing on their skills to anyone, like some reclusive gong-fu master with no disciples.

When these guys die off, what are we going to eat?



We didn’t have an answer to that. We just ordered another cup of coffee.