Category Archives: Sydney

Singapore Noodles Does Not Exist In Singapore

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I had an enjoyable yum cha lunch with a group of Malaysians and Singaporeans today.

When you put a bunch of Malaysians and Singaporeans together, the conversation topics often revolves around politics and food.

But mostly food.

And predictably, today’s lunch’s conversation revolved around food.

It was during this conversation that I came across the familiar name of this dish called Singapore Noodles.

Singapore Noodles.

I’ve seen and heard this name many times when I was out of Singapore. And each time I come across this dish, I feel a small twinge of bitter irritation.

Apparently, this so-called famous Singaporean dish is an integral part of the Singaporean food culture. Even in Malaysia, our closest ‘relative’ in food culture, have this dish, as confirmed by two of the Malaysian dudes at the lunch.

So why do I feel indignant at a Singaporean dish that promotes the wonders of Singaporean food culture worldwide?

Well, it all started with a couple of conversations with People Who Are Duped Into Thinking That Singapore Noodles Originated From Singapore (PWADITTSNOFS). Or Pwadittys. Simpler.

Usually, when they find out that I’m Singaporean (after the initial mistake of calling me Jap boy or Korean boy), the topic ALWAYS go on to our food (and of course, the superb cleanliness of our country. Tip: We hire an army of cleaners to clean up our dirty deeds).

As usual, the famous Singapore Hainanese Chicken Rice would pop up.

If you don’t know what that means, here’s a picture:



(Taken from Wikimedia Commons) The eggs are complimentary.


Oh yeah, baby.

Then, sometimes, about 90% of the time, they would mention Singapore Noodles.

This usually elicits a response from me:

Me: “Huh? Singapore Noodles?”

Pwadittys: “Yeah, the famous Singapore Noodles. You know, from Singapore?”

Why else would it have the name of my country in front of it?

The problem is that, there is many different kind of noodle dishes in Singapore, so usually I’ll try to get more details in order to get the exact name of the dish, rather than the vague name “Singapore Noodles”.

Me: “What do you mean by Singapore Noodles? Could you describe it to me?”

The problem with Singapore Noodles is that because it is available worldwide, the dishes varies widely according to different tastes. So a Pwaditty might go:

“Oh, well, it has thick, yellow noodles, fried with lots of vegetables and sometimes with beef or seafood.”

Me: (After some thinking) “Ah, you mean Fried Hokkien Mee.”

This is a picture of Fried Hokkien Mee:



(Taken from Camemberu)


Fried Hokkien Mee is Fried Hokkien Noodles. It usually consist of thick yellow noodles (mee) fried with prawns, squid and some vegetables in a thick sauce.

Awesome stuff.

Anyway, when I mention Awesome Fried Hokkien Mee, I usually get a puzzled look and the Pwaditty would usually go:

“No, no, no, I mean SINGAPORE NOODLES.”

Okay, I get it.

At this point, another Pwaditty might intervene, and usually with a different description:

“Actually, the noodles is rather thin. Something like rice vermicelli, you know?”

Rice vermicelli, rice vermicelli, hmmm… there’s just one dish that might fit the bill.

Me: “Ah… you mean Fried Bee Hoon.”

Here’s a picture of Fried Bee Hoon:


(Taken from beautifulkk)


Here I am, thinking that I finally nail down the dish that was described to me when my suggestion get shot down again.

Both Pwadittys would usually give me an extreme look of confusion and say:

“NO, I mean SINGAPORE NOODLES.”

What the… I don’t even…

By then, a third Pwaditty would intervene,

“Actually, the Singapore Noodles I tried had dark sauce all over it.”

Dark sauce. Hmm…..

Me: “Oh, you mean Fried Kway Teow!”

Here’s a picture of Fried Kway Teow (aka Char Kway Teow):


(Taken from Ono Kinde Grindz)


Oh yeah, baby. Say my name. Say my name.

By this time, the three Pwadittys would look at me in great consternation, angry that a Singaporean boy would be so out of touch with his own culture, especially a culture that places a great importance on good food (with disastrous cholesterol results).

So in order to prove that I’m not an ignorant idiot, I start throwing out all the names of the famous Singaporean noodle dishes:

“Do you mean Wanton Mee?”


(Taken from movingtosg)


Nope, not this either.

“Is it Bak Chor Mee (Minced Meat Noodles)?”


(Taken from Camemberu)


“NO IT IS NOT THAT!”

Okay, okay.

Fishball Mee?


(Taken from The Travelling Hungryboy)


“No, NOT THAT!” chorused the Pwadittys.

After 15 minutes of going through a litany noodle dishes that I can think of, I stare at the Pwadittys in exhaustion. The Pwadittys would look at me with great pity and would gently say:

“It’s okay, never mind.”

Well, fuck you.

So today, during the conversation at lunch, the Singaporeans would explain to the Malaysians that there is NO SUCH THING AS SINGAPORE NOODLES, while the Malaysians explained to us that the dish existed in Malaysia. I didn’t take part in the debate, as I was exhausted by the numerous debates previously. But I was curious about how the Malaysians came to know about this dish too. So with a little detective work on Google, I found a Wikipedia article that stated:

The dish appears on the menu of almost all Chinese-style (Cantonese-style) eateries in Hong Kong, and is also very popular in English,Australian and American Chinese cuisine. It is important to note that Singapore style noodles is not a cultural product of Singapore. Its naming may have been based on the stereotype that Singapore cuisine is generally spicy, and might have originated from an enterprising restaurateur eager to add a dash of exoticism to his menu.

Screw that enterprising restauranteur. Asshole.

You can see the full article here.

Here are the pictures of two variants of Singapore Noodles:


(Taken from Gourmet Gourmet)


(Taken from MeditterAsian)


In the MeditterAsian website, it stated that “This spicy speciality of Singapore…” Although we do have many spicy specialities, this is not one of them.

The next time someone mention Singapore Noodles, I will look at them in the eye and very calmly say:

“Only Pwadittys believe in that.”

I mean you don’t go up to a German and ask:

“Hey, you know that German Beer? It is dark brown, with a very hoppy taste?”

Well, let’s see if the German blitzkrieg your ass.

To the Old Man in the toilet at Carslaw Building at University of Sydney this afternoon

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I rushed into the toilet outside the Science Faculty’s office at Carslaw Building after printing out my class timetable for this semester.

As I entered the toilet, I saw you standing in front of the long, metal trough where we fine gentlemen relieve ourselves.

You stared at me as I entered.

And I stared you as I entered.

But I averted my eyes to give you some modicum of privacy as you did your business. I hastily entered a cubicle at the other side of the huge toilet to relieve myself.

As I was in the cubicle, I heard some footsteps walking up and down the length of the toilet.

After spending 10 minutes in the cubicle, I exited, only to find myself face to face with you.

Okay, not exactly face to face. But you were standing near the metal trough and was facing the direction of my cubicle. Your entire body language was in one big hesitant question mark, as if you wanted to see if I was still in the cubicle.

Or else you wanted me out of the toilet but was unsure of revealing your deep desires.

At that instant, I realized who the footsteps belonged to.

You glared at me as I walked towards the sinks to wash my hands. Through the mirror, I saw that you returned to the same position at the metal trough and unzipped your jeans. At first, I thought you suffered from an extremely shy bladder or had some urinal problems.

Or perhaps you had an enlarged prostrate. Or trucker’s bladder. Or whatever the f*** it is.

Until you started furiously stroking your penis.

If you were shaking it up and down, I would have understood. Maybe you were trying to get rid of some urine stuck in your urethra.

But no, you were stroking the entire shaft of your penis.

And I became momentarily blinded by that sight.

Blinded with disgust.

At the same time, you stared at my reflection.

I hastily looked down and washed my hands with the concentration of a surgeon. As I turned off the taps, I glanced up and saw through the mirror that you were still staring at me, but this time you gave me a look.

A look that seems to say I know what you did in the cubicle.

I grabbed a few paper towels, sandpapered my hands dry in my haste and exited the toilet.

To the Old Man in the toilet at Carslaw Building at University of Sydney this afternoon, I was in the cubicle taking a huge dump because I ate a tonne of barbecued sausages during the Unimates’ Welcome BBQ.

I was not in the cubicle doing what you thought I was doing.

I now regret eating those sausages.

I now regret, even more, going into that toilet at that time.

So Old Man, if I ever see you in a toilet (and I remember you very clearly, how can I not?), I will make a quick exit, regardless of how urgent I have to answer nature’s call or how crowded the toilet is.

Because I don’t ever want to watching you f***ing masturbate in the public again.

What a f***ed up blog entry this is.

What an even more f***ed up situation.

How I Nearly Suffered From Pneumonia Last Night While Talking to Three Drunk Guys in a Dark, Quiet Street.

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I’ll try and write this incident as accurately as I can. But take note that I was extremely cold, drunk, and my memory was not functioning correctly at that moment. Furthermore, there are some parts where I have no recollections. This incident is as accurate as I can remember but there are some embellishments at parts where I have memory blackout and to make certain parts flow naturally.

Now, let us commence.

________________________________________________________________________________

Title of the post explains it all.

I was at a party last night where I sort-of-gatecrash-it-but-really-didn’t-because-I-brought-a-six-pack-of-Heineken-and-a-friend-invited-me-to-it-through-Facebook-even-though-he-didn’t-know-anyone-too.

Long story.

So I had fun, talked, drank, smoked and happily passed my Heineken beers to my friend who invited me (since he’s from the Netherlands and Heineken is from there too) and to a German guy from Southern Germany. I can’t remember the name but it sounds like Frankfurt, even though it is not Frankfurt.

All was going well until the temperature started plummeting.

When I headed to the party around 11pm, the temperature was 14 Degrees Celsius.

But as the night went on, it got colder and colder and colder and COLDER. By then it was in single digits

And I was wearing this:


You can predict what happened next.

The party was held in an open air backyard and in the kitchen. At first, I seek warmth in kitchen. But the kitchen was too cramped and there were too many people seeking warmth too.

So I went outside to the backyard, standing with a group of people, trying to mooch off their body heat. Didn’t work. So back to the kitchen again.

So it became some sort of weird routine. It went like this: Kitchen. Backyard. Kitchen. Backyard. Kitchen. Backyard. Kitchen. Backyard. Toilet. Backyard. Kitchen. Backyard. Living room, but not for long. Backyard. Toilet. Backyard. Living room. Backyard. Backyard. Backyard. Backyard. Brrrrraaacccckkkkyyyarrrrddd….

By then I couldn’t stop shivering. It was too fucking cold.

I wanted to stay longer but fuck, I didn’t want to die from hypothermia.

So around 3:30am, I went around and bid goodbye, thanked the host for the very nice party that I sort-of gatecrashed and walked home.

Home was a ten minutes walk. I needed to get there fast. Luckily for me, there was no wind. If that night was windy, I don’t think I could have tolerated the chill factor any longer.

I walked briskly, trying to increase my core temperature and at the same time cursing myself for not dressing warmer in case of cold weather. The place where the house party was located was in a very quiet area. Although it was near the main road, Broadway Road; and in a relatively ‘safe’ place, I didn’t want to take my chances, not especially at 3:30am in the morning in a desolated place.

So I kept my sights on Broadway Road and walked at a fast pace. All was well, until I came across the Three Drunk Guys:


Loner Drunk Guy stayed out of the situation most of the time. So we’ll focus on these two above.

They were heading in the opposite direction. Probably to the bar further down the road where I bought the beers. Or they were probably heading home. Who knew?

As they were walking, they saw me, stopped and started shouting at me. For some fucked reason (maybe it was because I was inebriated too), I stopped and stared at them.

It was kinda like a Mexican standoff. The three of them standing opposite me, separated by a road and the four of us illuminated by the street lamps.



Then they started walking over to me.

I still stood my ground. I could have ran, Broadway Road was only about 200 metres away. But I didn’t run and I still don’t know why.

Loner Drunk Guy walked away, I guessed he just wanted to be alone. But Throughly Inebriated Guy and Drunk Guy 1 continued heading towards my direction. As I stood there calmly watching them, I raised my right index and middle finger to my lips, smoking on an imaginary cigarette. They didn’t get my hint.

When they were within hearing range, I calmly and very politely asked them:

Me: “Would you like some cigarettes?”

The fact that a Chinese guy, alone in a dark, quiet street in the dead of the night so calmly and politely asked them whether they would like to have some of his fine cigarettes confused them. Combined with the fact that they were both drunk, both of them floundered, unsure of what to do.

I repeated myself:

Me: “Mates, do you want some cigarettes?”

Throughly Inebriated Guy: “Ssghd ljs  ssswhat?”

Drunk Guy 1: “Cigarettes? Sure mate!”

I fished out the cigarette pack from my jeans and took two cigarettes out. I gave one first to Throughly Inebriated Guy because he looked and moved around in a more aggressive manner. Drunk Guy 1 was much more friendly after the thought of scoring free cigarettes.

While I was handing out the cigarettes, I spoke to them in a very matter-of-fact manner. I told them that my cigarettes were different. It is clove cigarettes from Indonesia. It tastes sweet, mild and different from other cigarettes and that they should give it a try because if they don’t, they will be missing out on something.

Throughly Inebriated Guy looked confused, and sniffed at the cigarette. He played with it for a while before handing me back the cigarette,

Throughly Inebriated Guy: “Nah…. I don’t want this…..”

Me: “You sure? It tastes good. You should try it.”

Througly Inebriated Guy: “Nah… man…..”

Me: “All right, then.”

Meanwhile, Drunk Guy 1 had already lit up the cigarette and was savouring the flavour like some cigarette connoisseur.

Drunk Guy 1: “Man… it tastes really good. It’s really mild. Man, it’s really good.”

I smiled at him and lit a cigarette for myself. By then Throughly Inebriated Guy was itching to try it. I could see the look of hesitation on his face.

Drunk Guy 1 motioned to his friend:

Drunk Guy 1: “Man, you should really try it.”

Me: “Yeah, give it a try, dude.”

Throughly Inebriated Guy: “Ok, can I have one?”

I gave one cigarette and lit it for Throughly Inebriated Guy. He took a puff and a look of realization hit him.

Throughly Inebriated Guy: “Man, this is some good shit.”

At this point, I felt like a drug dealer. Like, I had these two in my control and I felt, well, like a drug dealer. Powerful, you know. The three of us stood under the street light and smoked in silence for some moments. Actually, they smoked while I was trying to light my cigarette again and again and again. It just so happened that I picked a defective cigarette. Throughly Inebriated Guy decided to break the silence.

Throughly Inebriated Guy: “So where are you from?”

Me: “Singapore.”

Throughly Inebriated Guy: “Japan?”

Me: “No, Sing-A-pore.”

Throughly Inebriated Guy: “What? Where? Japan?”

Me: “No, SING-A-PORE.”

At this point, Drunk Guy 1 interrupted the conversation.

Drunk Guy 1: “Oh, Singapore. Man, he’s from Singapore. Its a great place.”

I wasn’t sure if Drunk Guy 1 actually been to Singapore but who was I to argue? So I just grinned at him and agreed with his statement.

Throughly Inebriated Guy was excited to hear that I was from Singapore so he came up to me and gave me his fist to pound on it:



A round of fist pounding took place.

I turned my attention to Throughly Inebriated Drunk Guy:

Me: “So, where are you from?”

Throughly Inebriated Drunk Guy: “(Some incoherent sentence)”

Me: “What, America?”

Throughly Inebriated Drunk Guy: “No, (another string of incoherent sentence)”

Me: “America?”

Drunk Guy 1 had to interrupt again:

Drunk Guy 1: “No, MARRICKVILLE.”

At that time, I could not remember where the fuck was Marrickville. It was probably some suburb outside Sydney. So I just went “ahhh….” and nodded.

Loner Drunk Guy decided to join us. He came out from the shadows where he had been waiting and stepped under the glare of the street lights. Throughly Inebriated Guy saw him and began excitedly telling him about the wonders of my clove cigarettes. Loner Drunk Guy stared at me stoically, there was no expression on his face. He continued staring at me while I grew more and more uncomfortable.

Just as I was about to slowly back off, Loner Drunk Guy raised his right arm towards me and nodded.

Oh.



Another round of fist pounding took place again.

Loner Drunk Guy asserted that I was okay and disappeared back into the shadows after taking a few puffs of clove cigarette. Remember how I said I was heading home because I was fucking cold? Well, I was visibly shivering by now and Throughly Inebriated Guy and Drunk Guy 1 were oblivious to my condition.

So I decided to state the obvious:

Me: “Hey mates, it’s cold and late. I need to head home now. Enjoy your night.”

Throughly Inebriated Guy and Drunk Guy 1 nodded and agreed with me. We did another round of fist pounding. What the fuck.

Then, Throughly Inebriated Guy turned to me and asked me for directions to Central Station. He pointed down the road to the direction where he, Drunk Guy 1 and Loner Drunk Guy was heading.

Me: “No man, that’s the wrong direction, its the other way,” I pointed to my left and Drunk Guy 1 agreed with me.

At this point, I think I had a memory blackout because I can’t remember what the fuck happened. I remembered talking to Drunk Guy 1 but I can’t remember what the conversation was about. But I remembered Throughly Inebriated Guy doing this:



He kneeled down and adjusted the seams of my jeans so that they didn’t go below my shoes and dragged on the floor. Problem was, the seams of my jeans were already above my shoes. Throughly Inebriated Guy just wanted to make it neater. After he adjusted the seams to his satisfaction, he stood up and we all did this:



Yet another round of fist pounding.

By then, I was shaking violently from the cold. Throughly Inebriated Guy mistook my trembling for fear so he came up to me, put his arm around my neck and said:

Throughly Inebriated Guy: “Hey, you see tha guy over there?” There was a man walking towards our direction.

Me: “Yeah.”

Thoroughly Inebriated Guy: “Well, if he comes up and attack you, you just need to kick the shit out of him.”

Throughly Inebriated Guy stepped away from me and did some shadowboxing in front of me.

Throughly Inebriated Guy: “Like that, got it?”

I nodded.

Throughly Inebriated Guy: “All right, mate. See you, man.

Me: “Yeah, see you too, dude.”

Then we did this:



I waved goodbye to Drunk Guy 1 and Loner Drunk Guy and walked briskly towards Broadway Road. I tried lighting the defective cigarette that was in my hand the whole time but it was useless so I threw it against a wall. As I neared Broadway Road, the man that Throughly Inebriated Guy pointed out to me passed by. He looked completely sober and did not seemed threatening. In fact, we both seemed slightly embarrassed for some reason and kept our heads down.

Luckily he didn’t ask me to pound fist. If he did, I would probably pound his face.

I managed to reach home without any futher interruptions, although I nearly froze from the chill and crawled into bed with pure ecstasy

Nine hours later, I woke up with NO FEVER! NO FLU! NO PNEUMONIA. I wasn’t going to die. Damn, I am very, very lucky this time. Next time, I’ll bundle myself with my thick trench coat. But for now, pound it, Bro:



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The Pixies was an influential band during the 90s. Although they didn’t achieved mainstream success, they were very influential on bands like Nirvana.

I first heard this song when watching the film Zack and Miri Makes a Porno. I love the vocals and the lyrics of the song. It has some very compelling story-telling in it. It’s very hard to describe, just listen to it, very hypnotizing.



Pound it, Bro and Sis.

Bye Little Red Dot (and Penang and HCMC)

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I will be boarding a Qantas flight 4 hours from now.

I’m heading back to Sydney to resume my tertiary education, which will start in a week from now.

Bye Little Red Dot.

Bye Penang. I’ll miss your beaches and food.

Vietnam VO DICH!

The past two months were certainly fun.

(Taken from Jeffrey Leow’s blog)

See you in 5 months time.

I’ll be back for another cousin’s wedding.


Hello Sydney.

Paintball Group Shot.

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This is the group shot of us before we started our paintball games.

If you haven’t read about the paintball post, you can read it here, although I advise you that it is NSFW. Graphic contents.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Try to spot me in the picture. Hint: I’m at the back row against the tank.

Sean the Organizer is in the middle row, on your far right. Poor bastard, he didn’t know what he was going to get during the paintball games. That’s the price to pay for being The Organizer.