Much-travelled, liberal in my outlook, I nevertheless stand accused of a form of chauvinism that is quite shocking in a world where the greatest tourist delight is surely sampling the exotic food of other cultures. I am a gastronomical chauvinist, that is, I think Singapore food is the best in the world, and whenever the talk is of food, I invariably speak from a position of extreme bias.

The object of the prideful sentiment is the special food available at the many hawker centres scattered throughout the island. The local cuisine covers not only all the different ethnic types of this multiracial society, but also the different dialectal or regional varieties of each type, for instance, Hokkien, Cantonese and Teochew noodles, North Indian or South Indian curry, laksa of the imported Penang variety (sour) and of the local Singapore variety (lemak, for which word there is no equivalent in the English language).

Whenever I’m abroad, such as in Europe, I tolerate foreign food for a maximum of, say, four days, after which I yearn for local fare to the extent that a continuing unavailability affects my mood, and makes me a restive, difficult guest.

Once, late one morning, during a week’s stay in Sweden on a lecture tour, I was suddenly seized by a craving for a meal of rice or noodles, even if only remotely resembling my favourite Singapore fried rice and prawn noodles soup. I got into the first taxi I saw and requested the driver to take me to any Asian restaurant. It was too early for the restaurants to open, so my kind taxi driver drove me around for a while, and finally found a Japanese restaurant that was just about to open. A waiter walked over to tell us that business would only begin in an hour’s time. The taxi driver patiently explained my predicament to him, actually begging him to cook me the all-important rice or noodles dish. In half an hour, the Japanese cook presented me with a bowl of chicken-and- vegetable noodles soup that was surprisingly like the kind back home. I emerged from the restaurant an hour later, my good spirits restored, my belief in Swedish kindness confirmed, my trust in Japanese innovation established, my chauvinism intact.

It is chauvinism of the first order, for no matter how good the offerings of the Asian restaurants abroad, even the well-known ones in London or New York, that my very generous host sometimes takes me to, they invariably rate poorly on my mental evaluation scale, coming well below those of Singapore’s hawker centres . One of these days, I expect my long-suffering Western host to come up with this suggestion: ‘For goodness’ sake, use my kitchen to cook the laksa or bak kut teh or nasi lemak or whatever else you’re always talking about!’

That’s the trouble. I don’t cook, because in a gastronomical paradise like Singapore, home-cooking skills may actually be redundant . Besides, how could I ever come up with anything, even after years of learning and practice, that will be anywhere close to the char kuay teow of that Ah Soh who has been frying the stuff and perfecting her skill for twenty years, or the mee siam of that Ah Chek, appropriately called ‘Mr Mee Siam’ who claims that he has regular customers (including a Minister, a member of parliament and several CEOs) converging upon his stall from all over the island?

I suspect that there are many other food chauvinists around in Singapore. Like that businessman whose first act on arrival in a foreign city is to check if it happens to have a restaurant run by a Singaporean. Or that businesswoman whose hectic schedule abroad does not allow her to look around for Singaporean restaurants, so she does the next best thing—bring along in her suitcase a small, inconspicuous -looking jar of the spiciest sambal belachan, absolute de rigueur at a Singaporean meal, to eat with her sandwiches or pasta!

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About Vignettes...

A continuing flow of little, readable pieces that will constitute what I feel is an important 'legacy of values' to leave behind. Read more about Vignettes...