NOV 12 — Thanks to our unfamiliarity with fan ti zi, the complex Chinese script used in Hong Kong, my friends and I accidentally ordered pig's blood and fish maw recently in the territory.
But when the bowl of dark brown cubes and spongy yellow squares arrived, doused in soya sauce and sesame oil and sprinkled with shreds of ginger and spring onions, I was delighted. Biting into the firm gelatinous mass of the pig's blood took me back to my childhood when, on weekends, my dad would order it from the kway chap stall for breakfast.
Pig's blood is almost impossible to find nowadays in the markets and I had not realised I missed it till my recent trip to Hong Kong.
Traditional foods such as pig's blood and assorted bits of the animal's innards are still common in Hong Kong, served everywhere from corner street stalls to air-conditioned restaurants.
On a stroll through Queen's Road, filled with shops selling dried provisions and waxed meats, it was lovely to be able to purchase sausages stuffed with — gasp — fatty meat.
In Singapore, traditional delicacies such as these are frowned upon as unhealthy. Health concerns are entirely valid. But the wholesale condemning of traditional treats, leading to the extinction of certain dishes, depletes the richness of Singapore's culinary heritage.
But it is not simply a fear of fat that has driven the abandonment of traditional foods. There is also the misleading idea that fine cuisine equals French cooking.
The visit to Hong Kong where Chinese cooking reigns supreme also made me realise that it is possible for food cultures to suffer from a colonial hangover. Even the food-rich territory is not immune.
I was there on a visit sponsored by the Hong Kong Tourism Board to promote the Hong Kong Wine And Dine Festival. The itinerary included visits to restaurants that fit the common assumption that “wine and dine” means French cooking or some Western haute cuisine.
So I dutifully sat through a chef's degustation dinner at the two-Michelin-starred Bo Innovation, munching my way through a series of complicated dishes produced in the molecular gastronomy style that is so hot in the culinary scene right now.
The meal was, frankly, a bore. The cooking was showy and sometimes gimmicky to the point of idiocy. Almond ice cream served in a bottle with sandalwood smoke, for example. The almond ice cream gained nothing from the sandalwood smoke. Indeed, the two strong smells clashed rather horribly.
Then there was a visit to a French restaurant run by a young Hong Kong chef on Gough Street. The two Malaysians and the other Singaporean on the same trip as I all looked longingly instead at the famous Kau Kee beef brisket noodle shop across the street and at the dai pai dong (street food stall) next door.
The four of us, foodies one and all, much preferred the well-cooked Chinese fare available so cheaply in Hong Kong to the indifferently prepared faux French lunch that day.
The question that kept popping up in my mind was, why make us try second-rate Western fare when there was first-rate Chinese food to be had?
The only answer I could think of was that Asians tend to associate fine dining — complete with linen, stemmed glasses and dainty chinaware — with Western cuisine. The arrival in Asia of the Michelin guide, that gastronomic bible that bestows coveted stars on eateries, seems to have brought this assumption to the fore.
Its recently published guides to Tokyo and Hong Kong have been greeted with criticism that its anonymous inspectors, often European, are not familiar enough with the intricacies of Japanese and Chinese cuisines.
But the fact that this gourmand's guide is turning its attention to Asia and that there was a public outcry against its perceived biases, are encouraging.
First, it is a sign that even the West is conceding what Asians have long known, that Asian cuisines offer some of the best in the world.
Second, and more important to me, is the lively response, which signals that Asians are standing up for their culinary heritage.
Do not get me wrong. I have nothing against molecular gastronomy or French cooking. I have eaten well-cooked examples of both at stellar restaurants such as Blu at the Shangri-La and Jaan Par Andre at Swissotel The Stamford.
But while the fine dining gourmet scene has been vigorous in Singapore, I fear the loss of simpler street foods such as pig's blood and even home-cooked dishes.
Take, for example, the modest recipe for omelette soup by Mrs Jo Seow published in this newspaper last Sunday. I remember my mum making a variation of this soup with mee sua (rice vermicelli). It was comfort food for my sister and me, and I had no idea it was a traditional Teochew recipe.
At a recent dinner with friends, I mentioned cooking vegetables in chicken fat, something my mum taught me. This got one friend reminiscing about how he and his friends would go to a particular restaurant just for its dish of Tientsin cabbage cooked in chicken fat.
And it is not just chicken fat that has disappeared from Singapore kitchens. Lard too is a much reviled ingredient. But my mum and grandmother used to cook everything with it and their health never seemed the worse for eating lard. I am happy to see lard creeping back onto supermarket shelves.
But I wonder whether such ingredients and street foods will withstand the onslaught of fast foods. Look at the patrons of your average kway chap stall at the neighbourhood hawker centre. I doubt if anyone under the age of 25 patronises these stalls which serve offal.
If this state of things continues, pig's blood will not be the only thing to disappear from Singapore's food scene. Much beloved dishes such as offal will probably go the way of the dodo. And our tastebuds will be the poorer for it. — The Straits Times
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