The Rise

I was lucky enough to have the chance to check out The Rise restaurant at the top of the Marina Bay Sands last night.  I was there for the chocolate and cheese buffet and since those are two of my favourite foods in the world, I was pretty damn chuffed.  

To get to the restaurant, you take the lift up to the Skypark on the 57th floor and walk across two of the towers, by the swimming pool.

On the roof, it's noticeably colder and the wind wrinkles the turquoise water of the infinity pool, makes the palm trees flutter.  You can see the super trees and the domes at Gardens By The Bay glowing through their ribs and on the other side, the Esplanade decked out in Christmas colours, sending rippling jets of light into the river.

It's pretty surreal.  And at this time of the year, with its spicy mulled wine and chlorine scented air, it's one of the most festive places I've visited yet.

I didn't know that the restaurant was in the Skypark so I foolishly left my wide angle lens at home.  Next time, I'll come prepared.

Because judging by the taste of the chocolate drenched Pear William and warm chocolate cream cheese tart, there'll definitely be a next time.

Happy Holidays!

Coffee with Rebecca, or, the most kick ass broccoli ever

When Rebecca and I first decided to start shooting together a couple of months ago, we bonded over our love for taking pictures of coffee.  It sounds insane but I love nothing more than photographing a lovingly-brewed cup of java and all the relaxation and "brunchiness" that it connotes.  I love the muted browns and beiges of a good latte and the way I can almost feel and smell the fragrance of the steam when I look at a picture.

It was fitting, then, that we chose to visit two coffee places for our maiden photo voyage.  Oddly enough though, the thing I remember best about the whole outing is the broccoli.  I know.  Never did I ever think that I would go to a restaurant or cafe and come out thinking, dayum, I need more broccoli in my life.  I love broccoli, but it's not something I ever think of as a starring dish.  

Anyroad, we started our day at Just Want Coffee and shared a latte and waffles with whipped cream and icecream.  When Rebecca suggested moving to a different table for better light and started kneeling on the chair to get her shot, I knew that she wouldn't mind all my nonsense and we spent a very happy half hour shooting and stuffing our faces.

The coffee was delicious, light and velvety with the crumbled biscotti.

We walked the waffles off on the way to Duxton to try the brew at the Department of Caffeine.  And after such a massive helping of sugar, we decided to share a savoury dish.  The lunch at Department of Caffeine is basically a plate that you can assemble yourself.  You choose either chicken or fish (or whatever the mains are that day, I imagine) and then side salads, which are dressed with various condiments.

We went for cold poached salmon with mustard sauce, chargrilled broccoli with a squeeze of lemon, macaroni salad and Mediterranean carrots with a dollop of Greek yoghurt.  And then we died and went to heaven.  The broccoli, with its slightly smoky florets and zingy, still-crunchy and firm stems, was lovely.

The coffee, though beautifully poured, felt a little too strong for us and instead, we licked our plate clean and then contemplated buying seconds.  When we finally dragged ourselves out of the cafe, we felt a little dazed.

"Was it me or was that broccoli really amazing?"  I asked Rebecca, as we stumbled through the afternoon sunshine.

"It was," she murmured, glazed and confused.  "It really, really was."

"People don't usually go to a cafe to eat broccoli."

"I know, Shus.  But I totally want some more."

It's been a couple of months now but we still fantasise about that broccoli regularly, to the point that I'm not sure if I've just dreamed it all and it wasn't actually that tasty.  Or if it even existed, like some overgrown green unicorn. 

Surely it's not normal to think about what is essentially a flowering cabbage this often.  But we definitely have plans to go back eventually.

My partner-in-crime demands it. 

Too much monkey business

I spent my Saturday on a five kilometre hike at MacRitchie Reservoir and I didn't shoot as many pictures as I would've liked, but I thought I'd share my favourite one anyway.  

The monkeys there are so freakin' cute and they make adorable mewling noises as they gather round, but the moment one bared its fangs at me, I turned tail and fled shrieking "Rabies!  Rabies!" in my head.  

Thank goodness for long lenses!

Japan: Harajuku lovers

While on holiday in Japan, I kept a detailed series of notes in honour of Nanowrimo.  All posts about Japan comprise excerpts from my journals.

"4th November, 2013

Every subway/ metro/ mass rapid transit system in the world has its own quirks.  In Singapore, it's constant bomb warnings and reenactments; announcements in four languages.  In Paris, it's stubborn gantries that have to be shouldered open.  In the UK, the escalators took weeks to repair and in  Washington D.C., people were made to put little paper caps over their straws so they wouldn't drink on the trains.  

In Japan, or Tokyo, anyway, each station has a funny little jingle of its own.  I tried to learn a couple by heart today, but we crossed so many stations that I started to forget.

______________________________________

This morning, we decide to tackle Harajuku.  I've heard about it all my life but never actually imagined that I would make it there.  Never actually imagined I would like it.  It looked too overwhelming.  But like it, I do.

We eat buns from a bakery for breakfast.  Mine is a beautifully caramelised, twisting confection spread with jam and custard, and bizarrely, topped off with a slice of grilled cheese.  Of course, it's delicious.  I engulf it in three bites and we wash it down with a marron cream latte.  Already, this day is looking auspicious.  

We find our way to Harajuku by train and I marvel at the way the gantries swallow up our domino-sized train tickets.  Two flat claws shoot out and snap at the cardboard as I yank my hand away.  I could stand there and watch those claws snicking all day.  Harajuku is already thronging with people before lunchtime.  My mum shows me a famous street and we plunge right in.

The one word I would use to describe the place is: rainbow.  The entire street is a blending, churning, exploding sea of colour, at once clashing and harmonious.  The teenage girls are beautifully dressed in stockings with prints on them like tattoos, their hair long and flowing smoothly over blazered shoulder.  They wait on street corners for their friends, chatting and playing with their phones.  Mascots dressed in crazy costumes and wigs shout slogans and attempt to call people into shops but the thoroughfare is heaving, packed shoulder to shoulder with buzzing people, and very few acquiesce.

Even the children here are stylishly unselfconscious.  A little girl with a tiny top hat pinned jauntily on her head grins at me as she trips past.

The shops are overflowing with psychadelic wares.  Everywhere I look, I see printed sweaters and backpacks and stacks of socks.  Some shops sell über girly fur-lined jumpers and lace collars, others boast chunky, high-heeled gothic boots.  Blonde lolitas mix comfortably with gyaru-styled nymphs.  Even the candy is rainbow-coloured.

We shuffle along, moved by the waves of humanity that nudge gently at our backs and by the time we emerge on the other end of the avenue, I am hungry to buy everything: scented gel pens and furry robes and prim pastel satchels and pouches shaped like bears and a hundred and one other things I don't need.  That is the magic of Harajuku - it sells you a bright, poppy, arcade-styled life where even the morose is delivered with a great deal of humour.

Only one house sits untouched by the clamour, a zen-looking old school Japanese house with pomegranates growing over its walls and black-framed windows.  A woman, probably the long-suffering owner, comes out to stretch a chain across the steps leading up to her front door so that none of the garish revellers will stumble their way in.  She stands on the step, watching them with consternation for a few moments, then goes back in.

On the other end of the street, we chance upon a cute little two-storey corner cafe.  A handwritten sign on the door apologises that it is non-smoking, but promises "sweets" within.  I'm quickly realising that "sweets" are a huge part of the Japanese diet - every signboard advertising food casually tacks on some mention of "sweets" at the end, as if leaving it out would be a dealbreaker.  The desserts, consequently, are so flavourful and evenly-balanced that I find myself wanting "sweets" at every meal.  This is my kind of city.

The manager is a very clean cut, man in wire-rimmed spectables who tries hard to explain to us that the drinks set includes hot coffee or tea.  We order a traditional Japanese dessert and it comes, two scoops of matcha ice-cream brushed with beans and studded with perfectly chewy mochi.  A swirl of white cream with rills of brown marron syrup melts softly on top.  It tastes as good as it looks, neither too sweet nor too bitter.

We tell the proprietor we love his airy, clean, neat-as-a-pin cafe (we do) and he is a little embarrassed.  He points the way to the famous Meiji shrine nearby and we begin the trek..."

Yesterday/Today

Yesterday, I was a bridesmaid at my dear (and very beautiful!) friend Ann-Marie's wedding.  She looked so radiant and happy and I was delighted and very grateful to watch her walk down the aisle to a wondeful and very caring man.

Today after work, I hunkered down with a new scarf in graded yarn, tea, good herb cheese and Buffy.  Delighted and grateful once again, even if in a very different way.