In this day and age of nasal-congestion sprays, snazzy dentistry, anal probes and colonial douching, the most sophisticated implement we have to clear out our ears with is the feeble cotton bud (although JL insists their proper function is to induce orgasms; roll them around the aural G-spot, bilaterally caressing both canals at the same time with the candyfloss). When things get really sticky, the doctor draws forth his enormous syringe which, let's face it, is a pretty naughty size and shape, shoves it up your narrow orifice and proceeds to shoot the shit out of your head, with screaming pulses and flatulent gurgles of warm water.
Similarly, few routine health procedures involve as much notional head-on carnage as the scaling and polishing of teeth at obligatory six-month intervals: the dentist grimly brandishing his squealing instruments, attacking and grinding down your rock-faces, refining your pearly quarries, spurting a fine grimy mist of tartar, blood, saliva.
* * *
One of the twins pounces on JL as we step into Salut for the first time in a very long while. They look slightly sheepish, subtly contrite for having dared to raise prices in spite of the depressed economy (but of course everyone knows the fine dining industry is impervious to the fluctuating ebb and flow of economic cycles. The wealthy set, insulated from and undiminished by the downturn, still need their foie gras, their Chilean seabass, their oeufs a la truffe blanche at S$40 each). The Japanese-fetish contagion first contracted by M. Stroobant has spread here. Edamame? Mameko mushrooms? Uh-oh.
JL and Y both have the prawn "tempura" with apple compote, JT and I have the staple seared scallops, this time without the viscous sesame glue. Faultless as usual. Then "panfried smoked duck breast in hay" (formerly "panfried hay-smoked duck breast"). (Expected to manger a manger) Slightly more truculent than usual, but customarily robust in flavour, and a beautiful meld with the asparagus risotto. The desserts are astonishing. Warm pear tart, the mille-feuille butterflake sort, with mascarpone ice cream. Dark choc-Bailey's bavarois with caramelised hazelnut (MIA), a quivering caldera which requires a steady hand to eat properly.
* * *
"We can do more to get greater enjoyment from our waterbodies."
"Rustic fun at Coney Island". Is it just me, or does this have an inescapable sexual innuendo of the strapping-farmhand-and-buxom-milkmaid-rollicking-in-the-hay sort.
A brief photo shoot in the orange-walled lounge, me as photographer, Y as creative director.
We are especially incensed at the slapdash delineation of The Nangka in the models; one looks like Strepsils and the other looks like that pink kueh which is like soon kueh except its stuffing is glutinous rice and not turnip. Such careless replication of textural detail!
* * *
I don't really tell jokes per se, nor do I care to hear many (especially not from people who think themselves very engaging raconteurs, the "life/live wire of the party", masters of occasioned and orchestrated banana-peel humour). I prefer the spontaneous combustion of a writhing wit, the flighty revelry of a free intelligence. Hijacks, offshoots, swerves, ricochets, hairpin bends, oblique and astounding L-shaped knight moves.
Similarly, few routine health procedures involve as much notional head-on carnage as the scaling and polishing of teeth at obligatory six-month intervals: the dentist grimly brandishing his squealing instruments, attacking and grinding down your rock-faces, refining your pearly quarries, spurting a fine grimy mist of tartar, blood, saliva.
* * *
One of the twins pounces on JL as we step into Salut for the first time in a very long while. They look slightly sheepish, subtly contrite for having dared to raise prices in spite of the depressed economy (but of course everyone knows the fine dining industry is impervious to the fluctuating ebb and flow of economic cycles. The wealthy set, insulated from and undiminished by the downturn, still need their foie gras, their Chilean seabass, their oeufs a la truffe blanche at S$40 each). The Japanese-fetish contagion first contracted by M. Stroobant has spread here. Edamame? Mameko mushrooms? Uh-oh.
JL and Y both have the prawn "tempura" with apple compote, JT and I have the staple seared scallops, this time without the viscous sesame glue. Faultless as usual. Then "panfried smoked duck breast in hay" (formerly "panfried hay-smoked duck breast"). (Expected to manger a manger) Slightly more truculent than usual, but customarily robust in flavour, and a beautiful meld with the asparagus risotto. The desserts are astonishing. Warm pear tart, the mille-feuille butterflake sort, with mascarpone ice cream. Dark choc-Bailey's bavarois with caramelised hazelnut (MIA), a quivering caldera which requires a steady hand to eat properly.
* * *
"We can do more to get greater enjoyment from our waterbodies."
"Rustic fun at Coney Island". Is it just me, or does this have an inescapable sexual innuendo of the strapping-farmhand-and-buxom-milkmaid-rollicking-in-the-hay sort.
A brief photo shoot in the orange-walled lounge, me as photographer, Y as creative director.
We are especially incensed at the slapdash delineation of The Nangka in the models; one looks like Strepsils and the other looks like that pink kueh which is like soon kueh except its stuffing is glutinous rice and not turnip. Such careless replication of textural detail!
* * *
I don't really tell jokes per se, nor do I care to hear many (especially not from people who think themselves very engaging raconteurs, the "life/live wire of the party", masters of occasioned and orchestrated banana-peel humour). I prefer the spontaneous combustion of a writhing wit, the flighty revelry of a free intelligence. Hijacks, offshoots, swerves, ricochets, hairpin bends, oblique and astounding L-shaped knight moves.
posted by D at 11:14
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