Traditional Korean Sikhye: Sweet Rice Punch Through the Seasons

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…

It was the kind of evening where you don’t want to think too hard about dinner. I’d been walking up East Coast Road, the air still thick from an afternoon shower, when I ducked into a coffeeshop just to sit down. The Bullion Hawker Bar. And tucked among the usual suspects — wanton mee, Hokkien…

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,…

I came in from the rain on a Tuesday, somewhere past 8pm, hungry and a little defeated by the day. The fan was clacking. A queue of three or four people stood near the doorway, dripping. Someone shouted an order toward the kitchen in Vietnamese, and a bowl of pho slid onto a nearby table…

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…

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…

The first time I made aloo curry on my own, I burned the cumin. I remember standing in my tiny HDB kitchen, watching those little seeds go from golden to black in what felt like one breath, and thinking: this is harder than it looks. But here’s what that bitter, smoky disaster taught me, the…

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…