Continuing on from “SINGAPORE ❷ ”
I walk the streets of an unfamiliar country at night. I feel a strange sense of elation. There is mystery in the darkness, and the street lights illuminate things” I’ve never seen before. The words being spoken around me reverberate like an alien language. Strange aromas I have never smelled before. Things I have never seen before pass before my eyes, and I consciously view them as though they were a slide show. Why hadn’t I made more trips to Asia in my 20’s and 30’s?
Standard guidebooks say that Singapore is safer than Japan. That may be true, but walking the streets of an Asian country always instigates a raw thrill.
Realizing that there are hardly any shops or restaurants around the hotel, I flag down a taxi and say where I want to go. For a while the driver and I exchange words in English that sound strange to both of us, then we start driving. Relieved that I was not forced to get off despite not being able to negotiate fare, or even communicate properly, I finally sit back in the seat and relax.
During the course of my international travels, I’ve of course had my share of taxis that take me to the completely wrong destination, take the long-way, and that make up a myriad of excuses not to give me my change. In that respect, it is nice not having to have my guard up in Singapore.
I watch a Chrysler 300C taxi pass us in the oncoming traffic and regret not having been picked up by that taxi instead. But just a few kilometers and 5 minutes later I am being let off in front of a hawker center.

Hawker is a word that probably doesn’t elicit any thoughts from someone who has never visited Singapore. The atmosphere might be described as a “fair” where various stands sell various things. From a Western perspective, the closest thing I can think of is a food court that sells foods rooted deep in the local culture. Looking up, the framework of the roof reminds me of a quaint old church from the days of Vasco da Gama. I have come to Maxwells hawker center after hearing that it hosts some of Singapore’s older stalls and is open all night. However, when I arrive just after 11pm, most of the stalls have already closed for the night.
As a matter of fact, a few days later I go to another hawker center, quite early evening mind you, and find that some stalls have already closed. I can only assume that each stall regulates its own business hours. I suggest you go with to these centers in the state of mind that “The stalls that are open are the stalls that are open.”
On the night I arrive in Singapore I have already decided that I’m going to eat is crab. “Chili crab” is a Singapore specialty. I have spent the past few days on the net looking at pics of Singapore foods and it is by far the tastiest looking. It is probably about the time that the floors have just been cleaned for the night. The ground is wet here and there around the hawker center, but walking around I am able to find 3 or 4 stalls that are open. There are Chinese restaurants, bars, and beyond those, a stall displaying a picture of a crab. And just what I’d been looking for – Chili crab.
A jolly-looking old man with brown lensed glasses calls to me from a way’s off, in the same Singaporean English as the taxi driver, “We have a great menu. What about some crab? Come in. Have a seat over here.” I am drawn to his stall that I wouldn’t have even noticed had I been just strolling the streets.
It was a long flight and I’m starving. I plop myself down in the chair and, no sooner have I release a sigh of relief, when the man hands me a menu. The crab is pretty pricey compared to the rest of the items on the menu, but when I calculate it into yen it’s actually quite reasonable. I order it right away. “Which one? Choose one.” He calls me over to a box nearby. I peek inside and see around a dozen brown crabs each wrapped in twine, all with white froth bubbling from their mouths.
I can’t help but think that they all look the same, but I pretend to carefully select. “This big one. No, this one. ” However, what I really want right now is for him to offer me a golden colored drink that will quench my parched throat. Then, as if reading my mind, the minute I pick out a crab he says, “I bet you want a beer. There’s a beer bar over there. You can buy one there. Oh, no, wait a second…. You, over there! Beer girl! Wait!” He shouts at a young girl, but she’s immersed in her phone and doesn’t even notice. He ends up walking all the way over to the girl just to bring her over.
I think he’s telling me that the tabs for the beer and crab need to be paid at each stall, but I can’t be sure. I get the feeling that it doesn’t really matter either way, so I decide to just take things as they come. A woman probably hired by this hawker stall is clearing away the left overs and dishes from the next table. This kind of loose system seems to suit Asia better.
About 10 minutes later the unfortunate crab is brought out. The way it is roughly cut up reminds me of the stir-fried crab curry I had in Thailand. I take the first bite thinking it’s going to taste the same, too, but I’m surprised to find it tastes completely different. The sauce is unexpectedly sweet. However, it’s not called “Chili Crab” for nothing because the initial sweet taste is followed by a pretty good kick of spiciness. Not very salty either. The first mouthful is delicious, but, I guess it’s because I’m not used to eating crab this sweet, I only get about half way through when I begin to grow tired of the taste.
I look at the menu and find another stir-fried crab dish. It is the same kind of crab covered in some unknown black sauce.
I call over the stall owner who is chatting with the kitchen staff to ask him what it tastes like, but other than the words “beans”, “sauce” and “delicious”, I have no idea what he’s said. The money I exchanged into Singapore dollars is clearly going to be generously spent on my first night’s stay, but I go ahead and order this other crab dish, as well.
This time I am not asked to select a crab. Instead, a steaming black crab is brought to my table. First I scoop up some sauce and timidly taste it. This, too, tastes nothing like what would be served in Japan. It’s not sweet, but instead has a smoky flavor that tastes as though it was burnt with oil. I have a hunch that the “beans” the owner was talking about are fermented black beans, but I can’t be sure. Personally, I prefer the black crab. There are probably so many other flavors like these around the world that I’ve never tasted.
I end up ordering stir-fried vegetables, too, and have had so many beers that by the time I’ve finish my meal, I am so full I can barely stand up. I thank the owner for the meal and, as I pay for the meal, I ask him again about the black sauce, but again, I have no idea what he’s said.
I hang out in front of the hawker center for a while hoping to catch a 300C taxi, but end up giving up quickly and jumping in a Hyundai that is right in front of me.
As I give the driver the name of my hotel, a thought flashes through my head, “What if I have another Peninsula Hotel incident?”, but the driver immediately turns the car in the right direction and I am relieved to find that there are no “Peninsula Hotel” peninsula hotels in Singapore.
The entire ride back, I look through the taxi window out into the darkness and think about that black sauce.
To be con’t.