Taste-type: Japanese

Price: Chili Takoyaki $5.50, Garlic Miso Tofu $7.50, Chicken Kaarage $7.50, Curry Cheese Ramen $12.80, Chashu Ramen $12.80

How to get there: Train to Central or bus to Capitol on George St, then a quick walk behind Chinatown. Look for the big sign and small hole-in-the-wall entrance.

Contact: 02-92116677

I am in a hurry and there are enemies in my way. Ever since the first proto-ninja stuck a flint between his far larger Cro-Magnon antagonist’s shoulderblades on his way to assassinate a Triceratops, this has been a cause for consternation on all sides. In this case, I am rushing to meet my second-in-command at a restaurant and a hulking cannibal is harassing civilians in my path. I kick the civilians aside, split the cannibal’s head like a fractured lollipop, and race up the stairs, almost running into my general. There is no need for words. We bow, embrace chastely, and sit.

With its grimy hole-in-the-wall staircase and garish red signage, Ramen Kan could well be mistaken for a house of licentious leisure were it not so famous amongst the gastronomically-inclined. Shy beams of light crisscross and dance upon the wood-panelled floors and bamboo-weave coverings; indeed, Ramen Kan could well be thought of as a geisha-house with noodles instead of women. Clients sneak furtive glances to and fro before scurrying up the stairs; we, on the other hand, step in with a confidence we do not feel. This is our virgin visit to this boudoir of carbohydrates, and we are flummoxed as to where to begin.

Chili Takoyaki sounds like a soft landing-point, Brian advises, keeping in mind my track record with things hot and Japanese. We have a lively discussion on our kill-tallies for the week as we nibble these crispy-creamy balls, unperturbed by the sweet and gently spicy sauce that drips into our mouths. It is a novel and charmingly chaste start to the meal, and we feel ourselves imbued with confidence to move on.

The sun begins to drop in the sky, and the shadows flicker alluringly over the char-burnt tops of our Garlic Miso Tofu, a variation on the crowd-favourite Agedashi Tofu with seared garlic replacing the agedashi sauce. It is soft and pillowy and has the faintest spice to it which makes both my general and I fall into reveries of sexy women. My Shooter has often waxed lyrical about this dish, saying it is very good, and I am pleased to concur with his eloquent praise.

Once described as the KFC of Japan, Chicken Kaarage holds a special place in the collective heart of my team. While these specimens are a touch too salty and gum up my teeth a little with their chewiness, I still sigh a little in nostalgia for missions past. I treat each piece like a nugget of gold, handling it carefully and consuming it with the utmost care so as to maximise its earnings potential.

By this time our conversation has livened up to profound subjects like world politics and philosophy and drunk people singing karaoke, and the ramen arrive just in time to moisten our palates and fill our stomachs to match our minds. Brian’s Curry Cheese Ramen lives up fully to its reputation, brokering an unholy alliance between cheese and chicken kaarage to produce an arresting and rather tasty concotion. We slurp down mouthfuls of broth which prickle pleasingly at our tongues. It is, as the Shooter would say, rather good.

Having had enough head-splitting excitement for the day, I opt for the more pedestrian Chashu Ramen, which surprises me with its ample array of pork slices (more than any other ramen establishment encountered so far). Having once studied at the school of Too Much Meat Is Never Enough, I am invariably pleased, especially when I mix juicily-slim pork with the tingling soy broth in my mouth. Ample spring onions and well-cooked noodles make this a treat to eat, and I finish with gusto.

Ramen Kan continues to burble softly as we slip away, a quiet oasis wrapped in a geisha-house wrapped in a very suspect staircase. Perhaps it is that air of peace, so unlike that of most restaurants in the city’s center, which brings food-lovers to its discreet doors again and again. Perhaps it is the extensive menu, or the low cost, or even the tiny Buddha which sits upon the counter. Or perhaps, we think as we step outside and find an army of cannibals feasting on their recently-departed colleague, it is just about the food. We have katanas in our hands and noodles in our bellies. And we are, as always, in a hurry.

Taste-type: Singaporean/Peranakan

Price: Laksa S/M/L: $3.50/$4.50/$5.50. Lime Juice and Otak-Otak around $1.50 each.

How to get there: Taxi. The fare should be around $6-7: one taxi driver tried to hoodwink us and was dealt with.

Contact: (65) 97328963

In a city of great renown not so very long ago, there lived a humble man whose ancestors had invented noodles. This man too had the gift of his bloodline, and soon became the most popular noodle-seller in all the world. But fame came with a price, and many individuals of nefarious purpose pursued the humble man without relent, desperate to drain the secrets of his blood and assume his ancestral mantle upon their selves. The humble man spent his last days in fear, running from the world which loved his noodles until he slipped in a pool of radiator fluid and fell 73 floors to his untimely and well-videotaped death. His is a story of humility, and sacrifice, and critical levels of viscosity in radiator fluid. It is not today’s story.

Today’s story is about a small laksa stall in the East of Singapore, which for many years battled several rivals to establish its claim as the Best Laksa in Singapore. After calling in a team of ninjas to recalibrate the establishment’s  feng shui and execute some well-timed slayings, the owners of 328 Katong Laksa saw themselves triumph over their main rival 49 Katong Laksa, in sales if not originality of name. The homely hawker-eatery has now gained worldwide fame amongst ninjas, mercenaries and civilians alike, and I have finally received the opportunity to make my pilgrimage. It is an opportunity I do not wish to squander.

I meditate at the table, lime-juice at my side and ready to cool my senses. I breathe in the noise and taste the air, sharp with the far-off rumble of a monsoonal afternoon. The lime-juice ripples in the wake of the gentlest of breezes, and I take a quick sip of tart sweetness to still for a moment my densely-beating heart.

Otak-otak tantalises my palate with its svelte home-made thinness, making up for its lack of photogenic elegance with the chewy-gooey fish taste that ninjas would sacrifice contracts for. Without love, sweat and banana leaves, otak-otak cannot reach such heights, much like nasi lemak and banana trees. I nibble at my portion, then nibble a bit more, until the wafer-block of mashed fish is entirely gone.

And then it arrives. There is no fanfare of trumpets and virginally-clad sexy women, no elaborate flourish of a maître d’, no chopsticks. This is Seafood Laksa as it was in the days of humble men and blood-tradition, laksa which pulls no punches with quantities of coconut milk copious enough to slay an army of weight-watchers. This is laksa where the seafood is searingly fresh and you only need a spoon because the silky white-noodles have been diced in a labour of love. This is laksa as it was meant to be. I ladle mouthful after mouthful of taut prawns, slim noodles, spicy-creamy-velvety laksa broth down my throat until I can take no more. Then I order a second round.

As I quench my hunger with the speed of my spoon, a well-dressed woman walks into 328 Katong Laksa holding a bowl. She offers it to the staff, they fill it, and she totters serenely away, makeshift takeaway-container slopping precariously between her hands. This is not something you expect to see in the Singapore of today. But 328 Katong is a relic of another time, when recipes were in the blood and people fought each other face to face, with swords and not with papers. The first raindrop falls. It’s time to move.

Concluding Remarks: Book your flight now. If you don’t, you may well miss the best laksa in Singapore – and possibly the world.

Taste-type: Contemporary Japanese

Price: Hokkaido Ramen $17, Salmon Pink Dragon Roll $14.80

How to get there: MRT to City Hall. CHIJMES is opposite the emblematic Raffles Hotel, just next to Raffles City Shopping Center. The restaurant is on one side of the grassy lawn near the church: look for a sign outside a small doorway.

Contact: (65) 63363166

This was once a house of God. Now, it is a house of inebriated clamour, consumptive decadence, and God. For all its renovation and secularisation, the CHIJMES Hall still retains the church that was once the raison d’être of the place itself, a broodingly melancholic spire walled in by various restaurants, bars and other institutions of exorbitant leisure. CHIJMES stands for Church of the Holy Infant Jesus…Music and Entertainment Space, according to at least one exasperated taxi driver, and it is hard not to sympathise with the house of worship’s awkward plight. However, sympathy can get you killed or embroiled in a case of Stockholm Syndrome, and I am hungry.

Sun Japanese Dining fits the bill of a typical CHIJMES establishment: polished, unctuous, highly expensive. The discreet interior oozes modern-minimalist charm and has more smooth surfaces and shiny curves than a sexy robot, a thought infinitely more gauche than anything inside the restaurant. There is movement in the shadows of the entrance but I put this aside and slide into my seat, cautiously optimistic about the fare.

I just love noodles, and the Hokkaido ramen is a satisfying – if relatively pricey – specimen of one of my traditional favourites. The thick broth’s tart edge and lack of oiliness spruce up an otherwise typical dish, while each pork slice has been seared appetisingly before being layered atop the noodles. My only gripe is against the slightly starchy noodles which clump together like gawking teenagers at a Sexy Robot competition. I hear many sighs around me, of love or slit throats I cannot be bothered to discern. Sun’s atmosphere is a balm to my senses, dulling them enough for me to relax.

Unfortunately, the Salmon Pink Dragon Roll is little better than average, with little flavour to the salmon and crabmeat that comprise the majority of each petite roll. The only redeeming factor is, in my opinion, the vagueness of intention that accompanies the lemon slices atop each roll. To daintily remove, or chew up with the rice? I do both and conclude that the acidic crispness of the rind adds zest to this otherwise bland concoction.

I pay, bow, leave, and behind me the block containing Sun Japanese Dining bursts into sudden and radioactive flames. I am flung to the ground by the blast, suit seared like the pork eaten barely minutes ago. This is not my doing, nor that of any ninja. Slowly I clamber to my feet and look around, baffled as to who might take so much offence at this establishment to customarily irradiate it. There is nothing except the lick of flames and the church, staring blindly down upon me in stony silence as if to say this is your carelessness, Ninja. Atop one scorched cobblestone lies a tattered skullcap, with a small blue star on one side.

Concluding Remarks: Not too bad, but overpriced and over-rated. Even without the radiation, I would not recommend this spot except for those in love or with money to burn. Respect the church.