Day 5: nasi goreng, soursop drink, durian pastry
This can't all be about torture, can it? Well, I suppose theoretically it can (there is, after all, more than enough choice available) but that would make for a truly miserable (though self-inflicted) month for me. I am starving, so I plump for a plate of nasi goreng, Malaysian style fried rice, which I reluctantly admit I would be happy to order anywhere, so does feel a bit like cheating. I ask for it medium spicy, and the cook looks disappointed. Either she ignores my request or I am a chilli lightweight (both are completely possible) because when it arrives, the rice is volcanic. Notwithstanding being pretty vanilla, it does still contain both one ingredient that is outside the scope of the average western diet (dried anchovies) and one which I would as a rule cross the road to avoid (crab sticks - just ugh, really), so I suppose I am not in complete dereliction of my duty.
Today's drink is soursop juice, made from a spiky fruit with big black seeds that looks like it belongs in the jurassic era. I've never eaten soursop before (on account of its scary appearance) but the drink is a revelation - refreshing, subtly flavoured, sweet but not overpoweringly so, and iced to within an inch of its life. Too bad about the floating matter but I guess I will have to get used to since it's pretty much ubiquitous on the Chinatown drinks scene.
I do feel slightly guilty that I haven't eaten anything adventurous today, so I spend a dollar on a durian pastry from an anomalously beautiful selection of breads and cakes. It doesn't look too bad. It doesn't really smell of anything, let alone a marriage of strawberry icecream and public lavatory. I put it in my handbag for an afternoon snack.
Back in the office, the pastry sits on my desk like a bomb about to go off. I am informed by my neighbour that the dollar I spent on it most likely only gets me durian flavouring, not durian itself. I contemplate whether that absolves me from eating it but figure I may as well try it, on the basis that even if not actually durian, it is at least durian-ish. I break it open and try the pastry, which is dry and crumbly, with a definite whiff of gym sock. Emboldened, I take a bite of the filling. It tastes of nothing. It's almost disappointing. I admonish myself to try harder next time.
Day six: tofu soup, fresh young coconut
I don't think I've mentioned yet that I loathe tofu. It is tasteless, it is spongy and/or slimy, and it is emblematic of vegetarianism (which I also despise). Unfortunately in Asia it is also ubiquitous, which is why it didn't end up in my Top Ten - you have to get used to eating it because it is bloody everywhere.
That said, I would never knowingly go to a restaurant with the word 'tofu' in its name, or one which has any obvious potential to be vegetarian, so today breaks new ground in that sense at least. I order tofu soup, a bowl of all but colourless broth in which are suspended an array of evil-looking floaters. Close inspection reveals that no fewer than four different types of tofu await me, which I affectionately name (clockwise from top right) slimy tofu, old shoe tofu, soggy bread tofu, and the worst-looking of the bunch, testicle tofu. I don't want to eat any of them, so I start with the broth, which looks inoffensive. Not for the first time in the course of this experiment, I find that appearances can be deceptive: it's a pungent fish stock, which just goes to show that vegetarianism and Chinatown are mutually incompatible. On further exploration it also appears that old shoe and (disturbingly) testicle tofu may contain unidentifiable meat or fish products. In order to comply with my challenge obligations, I take a bite of each one of the four different types. They vary in texture and, to a lesser extent, taste, but are uniformly repulsive. It is all absolutely inedible. I am resolutely confirmed in my non-tofu-eating ways, and grateful that the coconut (mostly) takes away the fish taste.
As I leave, I walk past a stall displaying a hanging rack of very non-vegetarian and extremely delectable-looking shiny golden roasted ducks and chickens, crispy pork belly, and... what is that?... it looks like... oh lord, it's intestines. My heart sinks. I can't in all conscience not add that to the list, now I've seen it. It's a disappointing moment and I wish I'd kept my eyes closed.
At 8pm I am still feeling sick to the point of throwing up. I am never eating tofu again.
Day 6: char siu, roasted duck, fried teochew dumplings, lime juice
Today I am joined for lunch by Mr H, who graciously makes the journey from the salads and bento boxes of corporateville to the hustle and bustle of Chinatown to keep me company, so I find it in my frozen, calorie-deprived heart to be kind to him and take the opportunity to sample some of the less extreme options on offer.
We pick a stall selling roasted meats, and our selection of char siu pork, roasted duck, and crispy pork belly is to die for (rather than to die from, as has been the bulk of my experience so far). This is a weird moment... I am sitting in Chinatown Complex... I am eating... and I don't want to vomit! Amazing. The meat is flavoursome and succulent, the pork belly decadently calorific, the dumplings little deep-fried golden nuggets of deliciousness. It's so good we get seconds.
It is only afterwards, looking at the photograph on the right, that I realise I didn't clock a variety of less attractive options - orange boiled eggs (actually everything on offer is an alarming shade of bright orange), shiny clawed feet, and, worst of all, the decapitated necks and heads of the roasted duck I so enjoyed, glazed and baked and hanging in serried rows. I briefly contemplate why and how one would approach eating a roasted duck head, before giving it up as one of life's unanswerable questions.
I knew that I was going to go easy on the mains today so had intended to get a dessert (or what passes for dessert in these parts), but "unfortunately" the dessert stall is closed. I am, of course, devastated - I had really been looking forward to digging into a plate of kidney beans in coloured ice. Serendipity aside, I feel, not for the first time this week, that I am cheating the challenge. But don't worry - tomorrow will more than make up for it. Gulp.
Day 7: porridge with pork and century egg
It is with some trepidation that I head to lunch today. I've been putting this off all week but finally the evil hour has arrived: it is time to sample century egg.
Earlier in the day I had been invited out to lunch, to a fancy restaurant owned by the former head chef of Claridges. In order to decline the invitation I had to explain what I was doing instead, which took some doing and involved a lot of being asked "why?", with increasing degrees of incredulity, to the point where even I began to question my own motivation, not to mention my sanity. My would-be lunch companion then changed tack, informing me that century egg is soaked in horse piss (I'm sure Wikipedia made no mention of this and assume it is an underhand tactic to try and get me to change my plans), but I stay resolute, and set off with a firm tread and a weak stomach to order a bowl of porridge with sliced pork and century egg. Fearing the worst, I get a cup of fresh pineapple juice on the side just in case I need to drown any flavours on short notice (having learned a valuable lesson from grass jelly-gate).
Unexpectedly, the porridge comes with a kind of donut - like a churro, but not sweet - which is snipped up and thrown into the bowl. A bit of googling tells me that this is a youtiao, a traditional accompaniment to congee. The egg is not immediately visible but I stir the viscous mess and see chunks of something dark, transparent, gelatinous, and frankly terrifying lurking beneath the surface. The whole thing is not inspiring to look at and I am nervous about trying any of it, let alone the egg.
I start with the donut, which looks the best of a bad selection. It's OK - kind of chewy, but starchy and filling and definitely not horrible. It's been in the bowl so it's got some congee on it and actually the congee doesn't taste too repulsive either. I locate a piece of meat with my chopsticks and tentatively chew it. It's... I don't know how to say this, but it actually tastes... good! And the porridge isn't bad at all. I eat all the meat, most of the donut, spoon up some of the porridge, and summon up the courage to try the egg.
I'll make no bones about this, the egg looks absolutely revolting - it looks rotten, decayed, just... wrong. Common sense tells me that if I eat this it will poison me. But I eat it anyway - those are the rules, right? Involuntarily my face has screwed up, my eyes are tightly shut, and I am expecting to feel the familiar wave of nausea, but it never comes. The egg may look like a nuclear taste bomb but actually it's not strongly flavoured at all, and what flavour there is what the congee tastes of, which I have already made up my mind that I like. Sliced pork and century egg congee, I am beyond shocked to find, is 100% a success.
The dessert stall is still closed. "Damn it". (Ahem).
Reflecting later in the day, I feel like the congee experience has taught me a valuable lesson. I expected to hate everything about it, but in fact none of it was, on a pure taste test (with the best will in the world, the less said about the visuals the better), unappealing - not even the egg. I ate it thinking that if I had been brought up and culturally conditioned to accept the ingredients, then I would almost certainly love it. I ate it really liking the taste, before realising that that taste came from something that until this challenge I would never in a million years have willingly eaten - and that, in all probability, I will not voluntarily eat again, just because of how it's made and the way it looks. And I ate it while receiving a bizarrely conflicting set of messages from my brain, ranging from the expectation-based "oh my god this is going to kill me" to the experience-based "more, please!". It was hands-down the most surprising and interesting culinary experience of the last two weeks, and while I'm not saying that I am going radically to change my diet post-congee epiphany, this has definitely made me think differently about what I do and don't eat, be more critical about my inbuilt gag-ometer, and be more willing to try new things. Just not tofu, OK?
Friday is a public holiday so I am let off the hawker centre hook. Next week I am going to have to make an assessment of whether the Chinatown Complex can meet all the requirements of the Top Ten of Doom. If not, I will have to schedule some adventurous evening meals incorporating frogs, geoduck, and black chicken. I might even cook the black chicken myself. I am sure Mr Hooker will be thrilled...
At 8pm I am still feeling sick to the point of throwing up. I am never eating tofu again.
Day 6: char siu, roasted duck, fried teochew dumplings, lime juice
Today I am joined for lunch by Mr H, who graciously makes the journey from the salads and bento boxes of corporateville to the hustle and bustle of Chinatown to keep me company, so I find it in my frozen, calorie-deprived heart to be kind to him and take the opportunity to sample some of the less extreme options on offer.
It is only afterwards, looking at the photograph on the right, that I realise I didn't clock a variety of less attractive options - orange boiled eggs (actually everything on offer is an alarming shade of bright orange), shiny clawed feet, and, worst of all, the decapitated necks and heads of the roasted duck I so enjoyed, glazed and baked and hanging in serried rows. I briefly contemplate why and how one would approach eating a roasted duck head, before giving it up as one of life's unanswerable questions.
I knew that I was going to go easy on the mains today so had intended to get a dessert (or what passes for dessert in these parts), but "unfortunately" the dessert stall is closed. I am, of course, devastated - I had really been looking forward to digging into a plate of kidney beans in coloured ice. Serendipity aside, I feel, not for the first time this week, that I am cheating the challenge. But don't worry - tomorrow will more than make up for it. Gulp.
Day 7: porridge with pork and century egg
It is with some trepidation that I head to lunch today. I've been putting this off all week but finally the evil hour has arrived: it is time to sample century egg.
Earlier in the day I had been invited out to lunch, to a fancy restaurant owned by the former head chef of Claridges. In order to decline the invitation I had to explain what I was doing instead, which took some doing and involved a lot of being asked "why?", with increasing degrees of incredulity, to the point where even I began to question my own motivation, not to mention my sanity. My would-be lunch companion then changed tack, informing me that century egg is soaked in horse piss (I'm sure Wikipedia made no mention of this and assume it is an underhand tactic to try and get me to change my plans), but I stay resolute, and set off with a firm tread and a weak stomach to order a bowl of porridge with sliced pork and century egg. Fearing the worst, I get a cup of fresh pineapple juice on the side just in case I need to drown any flavours on short notice (having learned a valuable lesson from grass jelly-gate).
Unexpectedly, the porridge comes with a kind of donut - like a churro, but not sweet - which is snipped up and thrown into the bowl. A bit of googling tells me that this is a youtiao, a traditional accompaniment to congee. The egg is not immediately visible but I stir the viscous mess and see chunks of something dark, transparent, gelatinous, and frankly terrifying lurking beneath the surface. The whole thing is not inspiring to look at and I am nervous about trying any of it, let alone the egg.
I start with the donut, which looks the best of a bad selection. It's OK - kind of chewy, but starchy and filling and definitely not horrible. It's been in the bowl so it's got some congee on it and actually the congee doesn't taste too repulsive either. I locate a piece of meat with my chopsticks and tentatively chew it. It's... I don't know how to say this, but it actually tastes... good! And the porridge isn't bad at all. I eat all the meat, most of the donut, spoon up some of the porridge, and summon up the courage to try the egg.
I'll make no bones about this, the egg looks absolutely revolting - it looks rotten, decayed, just... wrong. Common sense tells me that if I eat this it will poison me. But I eat it anyway - those are the rules, right? Involuntarily my face has screwed up, my eyes are tightly shut, and I am expecting to feel the familiar wave of nausea, but it never comes. The egg may look like a nuclear taste bomb but actually it's not strongly flavoured at all, and what flavour there is what the congee tastes of, which I have already made up my mind that I like. Sliced pork and century egg congee, I am beyond shocked to find, is 100% a success.
The dessert stall is still closed. "Damn it". (Ahem).
Reflecting later in the day, I feel like the congee experience has taught me a valuable lesson. I expected to hate everything about it, but in fact none of it was, on a pure taste test (with the best will in the world, the less said about the visuals the better), unappealing - not even the egg. I ate it thinking that if I had been brought up and culturally conditioned to accept the ingredients, then I would almost certainly love it. I ate it really liking the taste, before realising that that taste came from something that until this challenge I would never in a million years have willingly eaten - and that, in all probability, I will not voluntarily eat again, just because of how it's made and the way it looks. And I ate it while receiving a bizarrely conflicting set of messages from my brain, ranging from the expectation-based "oh my god this is going to kill me" to the experience-based "more, please!". It was hands-down the most surprising and interesting culinary experience of the last two weeks, and while I'm not saying that I am going radically to change my diet post-congee epiphany, this has definitely made me think differently about what I do and don't eat, be more critical about my inbuilt gag-ometer, and be more willing to try new things. Just not tofu, OK?
Friday is a public holiday so I am let off the hawker centre hook. Next week I am going to have to make an assessment of whether the Chinatown Complex can meet all the requirements of the Top Ten of Doom. If not, I will have to schedule some adventurous evening meals incorporating frogs, geoduck, and black chicken. I might even cook the black chicken myself. I am sure Mr Hooker will be thrilled...
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