The Juke Joint

In keeping with my current tendency towards posts about food, here’s one about today’s lunch.

I went to eat wanton mee at Stirling Road with the same foodie friend as mentioned before. The stall is located in a small, non-descript coffeeshop tucked away in a little corner round a downhill bend. Most of the customers are there for the wanton mee, and the 2 of us were another pair of faces in that crowd.

It wasn’t exactly very crowded, but the husband and wife team running the stall had their hands full churning out bowl after bowl of noodles. He did the noodles and wanton, tossing them into the boiling water to soften and then transferring then to boiling soup, a simple process but timed to perfection for the right taste and texture. She handled the rest, adding the char siew, vegetables, chilli and then serving and collecting the money.

The man wore a stern expression throughout, a firm indicator that nothing should come between him and his noodles. Occasionally he would bark some orders, but generally kept his attention to his boiling pot. There was a sense of purpose in the way the duo operated, but everything went smoothly like a well-oiled machine. Still, the noodles took a while to come due to the overwhelming demand, but if you know you’re going to get good stuff, the wait adds pleasure to the eating process.

While we were waiting for our noodles, we noticed a few tables munching on curry puffs. The typical Singaporean in me immediately hypothesized that they must be pretty good, or else there won’t be so many people eating them. I went to investigate and found another small stall tucked away in the corner of the coffeeshop, manned by 3 elderly ladies who made the curry puffs. They were still in the process of making a new batch, so I decided to come back after eating the noodles.

When I did go back, they were still at it, so my friend and I waited around the stall. The stall counter humbly indicated “Muslim Food Stall”, and it was located just next to a partition, behind which was the public toilet. Perhaps that’s somehow related to the “C” hygiene rating which was displayed in the counter, but that never puts off dedicated delicacy-hunters like me.

The running joke, of course, is that “D” stands for Delicious, “C” for Can Eat, “B” for Better Not and “A” for Avoid.

Anyway, the stalls white-tiled interior looked rather worn but it was comparatively spacious and everything was neatly arranged. The 3 ladies split the work among themselves. One sat on a stool in front of the stall, peeling off wads of kneaded dough, patting them into a disc and putting them through a small, hand-operated roller. Another one took these flattened pieces of dough and spooned the filling into them, then folding the skin and deftly pressing the edges with her fingers to produce the characteristic ridges which serve dual functions as a seal and for aesthetic value. The final step was to lightly fry them in oil till golden brown, and this was handled by the 3rd lady. Once in a while, one of them would switch to preparing other ingredients like dough or boiled eggs.

All of them worked at an oddly relaxed pace, given the rate at which orders were coming in. The peaceful nonchalance with which they went about their manually-intensive work was a huge contrast from the wanton mee stall. Throughout the whole process they engaged in light banter, sometimes stopping whatever they were doing to make a point. I couldn’t understand what they were talking about, but it was probably quite humorous, judging from their smiles and occasional giggles.

One customer walked up to the stall and made her order, adding, “Must wait how long ah?”

To which one of them replied, “Long long”, drawing chortles all round, myself included.

**********

Watching them brought to mind the way some of us live our lives. Fresh graduates are expected to be young and dynamic, devoting all our energy to our careers so that we can earn lots of money, buy nice things and live the good life. But how good is good? When is good, good enough? Plunging all your energy into work, combined with the Asian concept of putting in face-time at the office, can be a deadly combination that’s lethal to the soul and mental health. It’s no surprise that the idea of “quarter-life” crisis has evolved. Even now in university, I see some of my peers getting so stressed-up and burnt-out, sometimes stuck in a course at odds with their passions. As a consequence, it’s easy to forget about slowing down, taking time out to indulge your hobbies and finding pleasure in your work and life.

Not that I advocate slacking off when you shouldn’t, but I always believe that a clear, relaxed mind does a better job. The extra time that you put in at the office or library could have been used for something relaxing, putting you in a better state of mind for doing higher-quality work later. I’ve never been one to be overly-stressed out (perhaps to a fault), case in point would be writing this entry when I should be working on my term papers. Maybe, if I’d been more hard-working and studious I would have made more of myself, but I’m not too sure I’d be the same person I am now.

There’s always something to be learnt from those around you, and these 3 ladies making curry puffs reminded me of how life should be lived.

We walked off with 2 curry puffs each, fresh out of the frying pan. As I bit into the curry puff, the crispy crust crumbled gently in my mouth and the filling of piping hot curried potatoes flowed out. The light spiciness added some oomph to the savoury spuds with just a hint of sweetness and onions. After the first bite, wisps of steam emanated from the exposed filling, a tantalizing come-hither invitation for a second bite.




Ahhh….that’s what I call, good.

Psychological discomfort is something I haven’t experienced to a large extent. Most of us have different means of triggering off such discomfort, and I recently had the unfortunate opportunity to recall what mine was.

The event was Kent Ridge Hall Bash, a clubbing event organized by my university hall of residence. In all my stay in this hall so far I had never been to one of these, knowing full well my intense dislike for such venues. However, this year, the hall band was requested to play some songs for this event and yours truly, being a guitarist for the hall band, was roped in.

It started innocently enough. We moved our equipment to the club in the afternoon, set it up, went through a thorough sound check and all. Standard procedure for most gigs we play outside of hall. After that came the wait for the event to begin.

People streamed in slowly at first, some early birds arriving to check out the scene. The lights were dimmed, candles were lit and non-descript background music was played to set the atmosphere of the club. The program was put through its paces with a quick run-through to make sure most people knew what was going on. Some of the organizing committee ran around, checking that everything was in place and basically sorting out the nitty-gritty to ensure the smooth flow of the event. A few cigarettes were lit, sending streams of smoke spiraling up against the beams from the stage lights and priming the air for more to come.

After a while, the crowd started to come in droves. The background noise level increased slowly but steadily, egged on by the growing number of excited conversations and general crowd noise. The place was just starting to get livelier, no doubt fueled by the air of excitement and hype built up prior to this event. Digital cameras were whipped out and passed around as groups of hall residents eagerly took photographs of each other in their clubbing attire.

My downward spiral started when they tried to get the sound system running. Awful rap blared out from the house speakers at volumes that could be felt more than they could be heard. The crowd, as expected, raised their own volume to be heard above the din. Even more shrieks of excitement rang through the room, and the camera flashes had become almost stroboscopic.

This had a mind-numbing effect on me. The sound of a million conversations, the flash of a million xenon bulbs and exactly one distressingly loud rapper all conspired to overload my senses and hammer away at my mental consciousness. I tried freshening up at the toilet, but every time I sat back down I was subjected to the same assault and reduced to a conscious daze. I tried starting my own conversation to keep myself alert, but the circumstances were absolutely unconducive. The only alternative was dazed inactivity, a valiant struggle within my mind against sensory overload.

By now, the voices and noises had merged into a loud drone which threatened to drown out my thoughts. The array of disco lights and camera flashes turned the whole visual landscape into a maelstrom of chaos and disorientation. What initially started as mild irritation had now boiled over into intense, full-blown disgust.

I was right on the edge, fidgeting and shaking my legs vigorously in a vain attempt to work off the frustration. I was about to shout out at the top of my lungs for some silence (which, on hindsight, probably wouldn’t have been heard) but thankfully, I had the presence of mind to make a last ditch attempt to salvage whatever remained of my sanity.



I turned to my band mate and said (or shouted), “I’ll step outside for a while, otherwise I’m gonna go crazy in here.” I left without waiting for a reply.



Standing at the claustrophobic lift lobby just outside the entrance, the incessant beat of techno was still audible and threatened to burst out every time the door was opened, but it was still a much welcomed respite. Some of my fellow hall residents were curious as to why I was sitting out when the party was about to begin, to which I replied,


“It’s too damned loud.”


I got some curious looks. I didn’t want to go into the details of how my state of mind was being compromised, not that they would have understood any of it anyway. As I tried to recover my senses, I remembered why I never went into these places voluntarily before. I’ve been in worst circumstances which involved live gunfire, thunderflashes, tracer bullets (which exit the gun muzzle with an illuminated trajectory), late night fatigue, crazy shouting and verbal abuse (both giving and taking), but I still came out with my mental faculties intact. 5.56mm caliber rounds would have sounded better than the disco beats.

The rest of the night went very well, thanks in no small part to the energy of the band and the crowd when we did play at the start and end of the program. In between the 2 sets, the 2 singers who shared my distaste for the place and I made a quick exit and headed to the coffeeshop for a quick beer.

Perhaps I’m way ahead of or behind the times relative to my peers with regards to my reaction towards such clubbing venues, but there’s no question about it. My ears are better utilized on the bandstand than on the dance floor.

After all, it’s my life.

I don’t claim to have much credentials on this, but from the short period I’ve been playing blues, one of the most important lessons I’ve ever learnt is to play the right note at the right time. Listening to what’s happening and phrasing your musical ideas carefully will give much better results than throwing out all you have plus the kitchen sink at the first chance. Feeling the music and playing with the passion of the moment are important, but putting it across with finesse requires some amount of self-control.

This lesson applies to my personal life as well, in regards to my speech. I used to shoot wildly from my hips, my mouth often firing off without any thought for the circumstance or consequence. It was pretty much like leaving a loaded machine gun in a cage with monkeys. One incident, however, left a deep impression and serves as a constant reminder to always put my words through my brain before letting them out of my mouth.



It was back in junior college (probably the equivalent of 11th and 12th grade of high school), and all of us were required to perform a certain minimum number of hours of community service (The validity of that policy is not the subject of this discussion, and will remain as such). Back then I was a budding guitarist, playing too much and not studying enough. Along came the opportunity to clock enough hours to fulfil what I needed for the rest of the year, and that was to strum along to a couple of songs at a performance for mentally and physically handicapped children at a home for the disabled.

The perfect confluence of my needs and wants was not lost on me, so I eagerly jumped at that chance. There was this really cute girl too, though I don’t quite remember right now what her name was or even what she looked like.

Anyway, there we were sitting on some rows of chairs in the hall while waiting for the audience to trickle in slowly. Some of them were wheeled in, while among those who could walk, some limped laboriously on crutches. Others needed guidance and chaperoning. As would be expected of a whole bunch of bored students, we started chattering about trivialities. The subject was lame radio advertisements, and one of us eagerly pointed out this advertisement for a charity campaign called Adopt-A-Duck, which featured a really cheesy, high-pitched voice going “Adopt a duck!” at regular intervals while someone else was talking about the campaign. It was amusing at first, but through intensive repetition it soon became annoying, then irritating, and now it was the subject of our ridicule.

Upon mention of said advertisement, everyone started groaning and going on about how silly it was. Being prone to casting pearls of dubious wisdom at high volumes, I was quick to exclaim loudly, “Yeah, that one was so SPASTIC!”


A deathly silence ensued.


It took me a few seconds to register what I had just said in the presence of mentally handicapped children. When I finally realized it, a sickening, terrible sinking feeling in my chest took my breath away, like a hand was reaching out from inside my stomach and pulling my heart down. The horrified look on the others’ faces did nothing to ease that, and at that point of time I was beyond humiliation or shame. The feeling of a million eyes staring at me was worse than actually seeing the stares. I buried my face in my hands, not daring to look around.

The details of subsequent events are hazy, and I was to learn that there wasn’t much impact outside of the little circle we were huddled in. Still, it made for an extremely humbling experience, and I vowed from that day onwards that I would never use such terms in that context. It’s a vow I have kept till today.

That lesson taught me the value of choosing my words carefully, just as I choose my notes when I’m playing guitar. I’m still far from being perfectly tactful, and will probably never represent my country in UN as a negotiator, but at least I now know the impact of my words. Gentle reminders in the past from well-meaning people didn’t go down well with me, but this time I learnt it the hard way, through a bad mistake of my own doing.

This is a lesson I hope to share, both in terms of personal speech and music.

Early morning lessons always require a cup of coffee for sustenance. Not so much for the caffeine, which I’ve become immune to, but for the act of sipping it, which somehow keeps me awake. Also, a warm drink helps ward off hypothermia from the ridiculously cold lecture theatres.

I was at LT3, so during the mid-lecture break I made my way down to Yusof Ishak House to get myself the cuppa. YIH had been recently renovated with spanking new chairs and tables, tiles, layout, stalls and given a facelift for a brighter, cheerful look, not unlike the clichéd looking food courts in town. I won’t even go into the quality of the food from those food courts.

But what really caught my eye was people enjoying a traditional breakfast of 2 half-boiled eggs, broken and mixed with soya sauce in a plastic saucer. The result is a curious-looking lumpy brown mixture with splotches of yellow and white. Doesn’t sound very appetizing, but it’s a heavy dose of protein most of us have grown to love. The accompanying kaya toast is another legend in itself. The thin slice of sinful butter, slathered in sweet kaya and plastered between 2 slices of nicely browned toast, are sure to brighten up your morning even if you woke up underneath your bed. All of this is washed down with a hot beverage of your choice. Tea, coffee, Milo, Horlicks and Ovaltine are the usual suspects.

This hearty breakfast was made famous by a little coffeeshop in a cluster of old shophouses, oddly nestled right on the outskirts of the downtown shopping area we all love and hate, also known as Orchard Road. This small road is known as Killiney Road, and thus the coffeeshop was aptly called Killiney Kopitiam. My very first memory of that place was in primary school, about 12-15 years ago. It was sparsely decorated, the once-white-plastered walls long since given way to a multitude of stains and the non-descript concrete floor worn smooth by many soles. The tables were solid, no-nonsense affairs, with white and black-streaked marble (or what seemed like marble) tops sitting on massive, carved wooden frames with an elephant skin layer of varnish. The tops invariably had cracks, into which many years of drink spillage would seep in and discolour permanently. The wooden chairs are memorable too, especially in this age of plastic-everything. They’re rather hard to describe without the aid of a drawing (perhaps the engineering education is getting the better of me), but those who were around then should know what I’m talking about.

The elderly folks running the coffeeshop weren’t particularly friendly, but their efficiency and incredible memory for orders was amazing, putting most of the service staff in Singapore today to shame. No one ever needed a menu to order. If you went there you probably knew what you wanted even before you set off, and when you did get there you’d be greeted by a familiar aroma, alternating between that of bread being toasted over charcoal and coffee being brewed. The din of orders being shouted and Chinese oldies blasting from a transistor radio did little to faze the customers, most of whom would be spreading out the daily newspapers on the huge marble tables to read, alongside their favourite breakfast.

Fast forward to today. The Killiney Kopitiam name has since been franchised and turned into a chain of profitable outlets spread all over town. Most of them are decorated in a pseudo-authentic coffeeshop manner which runs the gamut from tacky to tasteless, plastered with black and white pictures in an attempt to gain some historical credibility. Even the original venue has been completely sanitized in food-court fashion, and the haughty middle-aged lady who sits at the counter to take orders speaks only English, even if you address her in Mandarin or some dialect. Countless other places have also started selling this traditional breakfast (such as the abovementioned stall in YIH), so it is no longer just the domain of Kiliney Kopitiam.

Taste doesn’t vary that much, though perhaps the most abysmal will stand out. The sad thing though, is that while the Killiney name is being milked of its association with the traditional breakfast, few of those from my generation would know or remember the actual Killiney Kopitiam, before the forces of commercialization swept it up and tradition was hijacked in the name of marketing. The main venue (I wouldn’t say source, I don’t know for sure) for this breakfast that has fed many a Singaporean has become a part of history, and hopefully our memories.


Perhaps, this is the answer to the question raised in the previous post.