Dio Asahi
I didn’t expect to find Korean comfort food in an office building near Tai Seng. But there I was, on a Wednesday a little past 7pm, standing outside The Commerze @ Irving wondering if I’d read the address wrong. This isn’t the part of Singapore you go to for dinner. It’s the part you leave…
By Dio Asahi for Eat Drink Asia. The old man works close to the coals, and the smell reaches me before I see what he’s doing. Soy meeting heat. That dark, caramel-edged smell that tightens something in your chest. His brush moves in short strokes across a rack of rice crackers, back and forth, patient.…
The grill glows orange in front of me before the meat arrives. It’s a small thing, set into the counter at my single seat, and it hums faintly under the chatter of the room. No flame. No charcoal. Just a low electric warmth I can feel rising toward my face. A plate comes. Thin slices…
I used to think buffets were about greed. Pile the plate high, go back for thirds, leave feeling like you got your money’s worth. That was the whole game, or so I believed. After years of exploring this city’s hotel buffets, I learned the good ones focus on order. They transform a wall of food…
The bowl lands in front of me, broth still trembling from the walk across the stall. Steam rises and fogs the edge of my glasses. To the side sits a small dish of calamansi halves, cut and waiting, their skins slick under the fluorescent light. I pick one up. It gives slightly between my fingers,…
Let me clear up the first puzzle right away. The name “Isshin Machi” sounds unmistakably Japanese, and I’ll admit I walked in half-expecting ramen and gyoza. What I found instead was a Taiwanese kitchen, plates of lu rou fan, braised beef noodles, and golden fried chicken that trace straight back to the island’s home cooking.…
I didn’t set out to make a list. I made a habit. Over the years, cafes became the places I went to think, to wait out the rain, to sit with a coffee I didn’t have to rush. Some I returned to for the food. Others, I returned to for the feeling — the way…
The cart glows at the edge of the lane just as the heat of the day finally loosens. A woman fans the coals with a flattened piece of cardboard, and the embers brighten orange under a row of skewers. Fat slides off the pork, hits the charcoal, and hisses upward in a thin curl of…
The first time I made chana masala, I started with dried chickpeas at 7:30 on a weeknight, soaking and boiling like the recipe said. By the time the curry was actually done, it was nearly ten and I’d already eaten half a loaf of bread out of sheer hunger. That night taught me something I…
A wok sits over a low flame, and a handful of raw sticky rice slides across its dry surface. No oil, no water—nothing but heat and patience. The grains pale, then blush amber, then deepen toward the color of weak tea. Someone shakes the pan in a slow, even rhythm, listening as much as watching.…