Editors Picks

By Eda Wong for Eat Drink Asia. It is not yet seven, and the uncle at Heap Seng Leong has the pot going. He works the sock strainer over the tin cup with both hands, dipping and lifting, dipping and lifting, coaxing the coffee through the worn cloth. Steam rises between his fingers. The smell…

By Eda Wong for Eat Drink Asia. The lift doors open on a floor of Cuppage Plaza that has seen better decades. Peeling signage. A corridor that smells faintly of old carpet and cigarette smoke drifting from somewhere. Then a door slides shut behind me, and the noise falls away. Inside Hanashizuku Japanese Cuisine, the…

By Dio Asahi for Eat Drink Asia. The lift opens on the fourth floor of Cuppage Plaza and the smoke finds me before the door does. Charcoal, dark and earthy, threaded through with something richer — fat meeting fire. I follow it down a narrow corridor, past shuttered shops and flickering signage, until I reach…

By Eda Wong for Eat Drink Asia. The pot has been going for a while now, and the whole kitchen knows it. Steam curls up from the surface, carrying that sharp-sour smell that reaches you before anything else. It’s not a gentle aroma. It pricks at the back of your throat a little, makes your…

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 escalator carries me down to Basement 3, past the lunch noise of 313 Somerset, and the air changes somewhere along the way. Less mall, more kitchen. The smell finds me first — chilli, vinegar, something warm and sharp that cuts through the perfume of the shops above. Hi Noodle sits there, plain and bright.…

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…

The wok is already off the heat. The greens sit glossy and dark, steam still curling off them. My mother lifts a small bottle, tilts it, and lets a thin line of sesame oil fall across the top. It hisses faintly against the warm leaves, and the smell rises all at once — toasted, nutty,…

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,…

Steam lifts from a bowl of clear pork broth, and a spoonful of chopped pickled greens slides in. The broth shifts at once, its richness suddenly cut by a sharp, clean sourness that sits high and bright on the tongue. The greens have softened in the heat but keep a faint, springy crunch. Someone leans…