On the small sidewalk that hugs a corner coffee shop in the Tiong Bahru neighborhood in Singapore, a long line was once again firmly in place. Though it was just late morning, people had gathered to make sure they'd get a morsel of the lunch treats sold out of the closet-size stall that is Loo's Hainanese Curry Rice.
The view through the oil-slicked window that separates the line from the food revealed a handful of narrow shelves packed with dishes filled with mounds of juicy squid drenched in spicy tamarind gravy, pork belly braised in a sweet soy sauce, chicken slathered in fermented shrimp paste and deep-fried to crispy perfection and, finally, crunchy planks of thin pork chops coated in a saltine-cracker crumble and fried.
What you would not find here is Hainanese chicken rice. Though it is arguably Singapore's most famous dish, there is much more to Hainanese cuisine in the country. It has a breadth that serves as a reminder of Singapore's colorful migrant history and is one of the country's first fusion foods.
The Hainanese style of cooking in Singapore can be traced back to immigrants from Hainan Island in China, who began arriving after the British established a trading port there in 1819. Among the wave of Chinese, people from Hainan were among the slowest to arrive, a fact that dictated the trade they would take up. 'They were pretty much the last people on the boat,' said Yin Phua, a Singapore-based food and travel TV producer who is of Hainanese descent. 'What was left when they got here was jobs in the kitchen.'
These kitchens were often in colonial households, where the Hainanese, known as 'cookboys,' learned to make standard British dishes such as roast beef but also adapted some Hainanese dishes using British or Southeast Asian touches, said Cynthia Chou, a native Singaporean who is associate professor and head of the Southeast Asian Studies section at the University of Copenhagen. Along the way, they 'also acquired innovative techniques to use whatever available condiments there were to recast the dishes,' she said. Hainanese chicken rice, for example, is spiced up with chile and tropical pandan leaves, and tastes unlike the typical chicken dishes you'd find on the actual Hainan Island.
After World War II, when the British began leaving Singapore and kitchen jobs dried up, the Hainanese cooks began setting up snack counters and hawker stalls selling British-inflected Chinese dishes, Ms. Chou said, signifying the beginning of Hainanese cuisine in the country.
Hainanese food is one of several delicious varieties of ethnic Chinese food you'll find in Singapore's hawker centers, restaurants and homes. Beloved Teochew-style porridges, Fukienese fried seafood noodles and hearty Cantonese soups have, over the decades, become tightly woven into Singapore's gastronomic fabric.
In my many years of living in the United States after growing up in Singapore, as Singapore's cuisine has become more internationally known, people have often asked me about Hainanese chicken rice - which is tasty, to be sure. But as delectable as it is, I've long known that it represents just the tip of the iceberg. So, on a trip back to Singapore last year, I was determined to more fully investigate this sliver of my country's cuisine - and refresh my Hainanese palate.
One evening, I was making good on a promise to take my family to a good Hainanese meal, and was soon leading them past smoky karaoke bars and shops offering young Vietnamese brides for a fee in Golden Mile Tower, among the sleaziest of Singapore's shopping malls. My family, though very adventurous and food-loving, had never been to the restaurant we were heading to (or spent much time in this mall) before. But a Hainanese-Singaporean friend had highly recommended it. And as the smells and chopstick sounds from a restaurant in a bright basement began to hit us, their anxiety dissipated.
The Golden Mile Thien Kee Steamboat is a cavernous place whose dozens of tables are each anchored with a large silver bowl set atop a burner in the center. Though the place bills itself as a Hainanese restaurant, its signature dish, the steamboat (or hot pot), is a generic Chinese dish in Singapore. But it was tasty anyway, especially as the broth became milkier and sweeter after we cooked liver, fish, maw, eggs and more in it.
But the standout here was the pork chops - the crust had a lovely crunch to it, and its tomato sauce was delicious. Equally remarkable was the fact that it had pork satay on the menu, a Hainanese dish that has become harder to find in recent years. As nicely grilled as it was, it only made me think of a certain satay man elsewhere.
I found him a few days later, when I headed to Tiong Bahru once again. From about 2 p.m. onward, a plump man in flip-flops can be seen pushing a large wooden cart along the sidewalks. From the moment he appears, it's only a matter of minutes before a crowd gathers around his cart. Once you've placed your order, he counts out the sticks and grills them on the spot, bundling them up with ketupat (Malay rice cakes packed in coconut leaves) and cucumber.
When eaten right away, the satay is absolutely delicious, with each bite of pork interspersed with a beautifully charred chunk of fat. Dipped into spicy peanut sauce mixed with crushed pineapple - a signature of Hainanese satay - these skewers are mesmerizing.
Even with this smorgasbord, there are still a few Hainanese standards I had yet to try, so I ventured off to Chin Chin Eating House, on Purvis Street, one of Singapore's oldest, most beloved Hainanese restaurants. The setting is basic, little more than a fluorescent-lit coffee shop with chipped tables and plastic stools. But the menu is impressive: It even has delicious Hainanese mutton soup, a thick, dark broth packed with mutton and the flavors of cinnamon, dried dates, star anise and a litany of Chinese herbs; and chap chye, a classic dish of Chinese cabbage and carrots stir-fried with slivers of fish maw.
For the finale to my Hainanese quest, I went to a leafy, rustic corner near Queenstown in Singapore. Nestled amid the trees on Whitchurch Road was ColBar Cafe, a baby-blue wooden shack that looks as if it's firmly stuck in the 1950s. The restaurant did indeed open in 1953 - as a Hainanese-inflected canteen serving the British military. (ColBar is short for Colonial Bar.) And when you step inside, the décor takes you back to those tropical colonial days, with yellowing photos of British soccer and cricket teams lining the walls. On the counter was that day's dessert: brownies perched on a plastic plate floating in a dish of water to keep away the ants.
A curt woman with a shock of white hair who was wearing an old housedress recommended that my mother and I order the Hainanese pork chops, which are not on the menu, but the locals know to order it. The chops were a little more British than the others we'd tried: There's much less breading, and they come tossed with tomatoes, fried potatoes and large peas in a sweet tomato sauce. The Hainanese curry there, too, was different: The gravy was thicker and sweeter, but the chicken itself was just sheer falling-apart goodness.
As my mother pulled out toothpicks from her purse for us, and we sat back in our chairs thinking of our meal, I couldn't help but be thankful.
The Hainanese may have been the last to arrive, but after having eaten my way through many pork chops, mutton soups and curry rices, I'm certainly glad they made it at all.
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