Singapore’s culinary scene keeps calling me back

“You went to Singapore for 10 days?!”

“Yes, and it wasn’t enough.”

“What?!”

“Really. Each time I go, I discover more and come back with an even longer list.”

That’s the typical exchange I have with friends every time I return from Singapore.

I’ve been visiting Singapore for over 20 years. Each time, I leave home with a long, ever-growing list of food places, hoping to cross off as much as I can, but I always return with an even longer one. For many, Singapore is a long-weekend destination with the usual suspects: Marina Bay Sands, a hawker centre, some shopping, a cool bar or two at Clarke Quay. What surprises my friends is how much time I spend there.

But thinking of Singapore that way flattens it.

On my early visits, I was dazzled by the predictable things: spotless sidewalks, vast breakfast menus in hotels, efficiency, enormous malls, and the feeling that everything runs smoothly. As a mom, the list then also included all the child-friendly options the destination has to offer, which saved me the trouble of taking a long-haul flight to Europe. For Indian visitors like me, it feels easy and reassuring. But there are layers to Singapore that aren’t always tidy.

Even now, I find new alleyways and doorways in neighbourhoods I thought I knew well. Some foods with serious splatter—bak kut teh and bak chor mee—that I first tried over a decade ago are non-negotiable. At the same time, I’m always chasing something new: a vinyl listening room, a durian I haven’t tasted, a coffee shop inside an old hardware store.

Every time I’m there, I see it—and taste it—differently.

My Google Maps list for the Lion City runs into the hundreds. I track Singapore by its food. I mentally tag versions of the city to people in my life: friends’ kids, girlfriends, parents’ friends, friends on bachelor parties, babymoons, or friends seeking hawker food or a good cocktail bar (or five). The thing is, everyone has to eat every day. Below, some notes that illustrate what I mean.

The comfort of what endures

Singapore has many places that aren’t polished for tourists. They’re homegrown, historic, very much alive.

Take Adam Road Food Centre, which has been around since the mid-1970s. I only found it last year. If you’ve been to the massive Maxwell food centre or the fancy Lau Pa Sat, you will know Adam Road feels distinct. It’s small—about 30 stalls—low-rise, partly open-air, and breezy. Set in an Indian-Malay-Chinese neighbourhood, and serving teh tarik, Indian rojak and the famous nasi lemak, it feels relaxed and social. It’s the kind of place where everyone seems to know each other.

I find this rootedness even at the Hong Lim Hawker Centre and its most famous stall. Tanglin Crispy Curry Puff Original began in 1952. The curry puff was a practical snack for workers—portable, filling, affordable—and remains so. I love the potato-chicken-egg filling. But here’s the flip. I recently found that it pairs surprisingly well with a less-sweet, fruit-forward tea or even a hojicha latte from White Bar, one of Hong Lim’s newer tenants, mere months old. Iterations of this mix of traditional and modern are everywhere now, like vegan salad bars in historic food centres that were once devoted entirely to meat and carbs.

Another spot where old meets new is Public Cupping inside Chye Seng Huat Hardware. The restored Art Deco shophouse used to be a hardware store; traces of it remain in the original signage and exposed industrial bones. Now it houses a significant coffee operation. Sit at the communal bar and order from a menu that says “Filter Coffee, no People”.

Finding faith, fish, and fire

The Chinatown Complex Market & Food Centre has been a steady pilgrimage on every visit. On the way, I always stop at the Sri Mariamman Temple. Not because I’m devout but because its colourful storybook gopuram is beautiful. Stepping into the cool complex on a hot afternoon feels restorative. The 200-year-old temple predates the neighbourhood’s planning and serves as a focal point for its south Indian community. Because it’s Singapore, even after walking barefoot for an hour, my feet are pink-soled.

Appetite rekindled, I then head for sambal stingray at Chinatown Complex. The food centre grew out of the 1970s push to move street hawkers indoors, but for me it’s still about the covered Smith Street. My first sambal skate here, a decade ago, between colourful shophouses, unravelled like fiery ribbons under my chopsticks. It still does, even if its neighbours change. 

Later, as the sky changes colour, I typically head to Nutmeg & Clove, an 11-year-old bar with Roohafza-milk pink walls. Cocktails celebrate local culture and ingredients, and pink staff uniforms are made by nearby tailors. N&C’s latest ‘Singlish’ menu includes Heng Ong Huat— Ford’s Gin, amontillado, pineapple, kumquat, oolong, clarified milk—named after a wish for good fortune, fitting for the Year of the Fire Horse being celebrated around the city. It’s new, but still a nod to the old.

Ancient cuisine newly framed

Last summer, thanks to my local friend Renjoe Wong, I discovered a brand-new old-local cuisine: Teochew. It originated in the Chaoshan region and was shaped by hardship. It relies on braising, poaching, steaming, light flavours, and plenty of seafood.

To demonstrate, Wong took me to dinner at Sin Chao Gardens inside the Teochew Association compound. Don’t let the 1970s decor fool you—this place opened in 2020. Here, whole steamed fish loaded with aromatics and a braised meat platter are served on ceramic plates that look borrowed from someone’s grandmother’s cupboard, and it gave me Teochew’s original expression.

For balance, and because he is a friend, Wong also took me to a Teochew lunch. New Bahru is a cultural centre that opened just over a year ago in a former school. The hallways still feel like corridors, but the classrooms are filled with shops and restaurants. Here, at San Shu Gong Chao Ye, oyster omelette and cold crab, served with a range of condiments, showed me how a traditional cuisine can be translated for today without losing its essence.

This feeling of new places being old and vice versa, I’ve realised, is all over the city, and it keeps coming up.

Fancy, fuss-free and everything in between

But what I love most is how Singapore proves it can be both polished and relaxed. The only gifts I bring back from travel are edible. In Singapore, I go to old Korean supermarkets or fancy food halls. A few months ago, I discovered Culina in Dempsey Hill. I now go there first. Culina has been supplying hotels and restaurants for over three decades. Now it has gone B2C, a supermarket in a former army barracks. Beyond global produce, there’s a bakery, a butchery, a seafood counter, and a delicatessen. In a city where only 22 per cent of people cook at home every day, this indicates an interesting shift.

One of Culina’s patrons is chef Sebastien Lepinoy of three-Michelin-starred Les Amis. Les Amis is one of only three three-starred restaurants in Singapore’s Michelin Guide and of these it is the only one serving classic French cuisine, but without the hauteur. Its name translates to “the friends” and it’s utterly fitting. The meal begins with a generous sourdough course; servers can make knowledgeable banter about proofing and hydration. There isn’t a cheese course; it is a carriage. And everyone talks about Les Amis’ cheeky ice cream course.

Then there is chef Ivan Brehm’s Appetite, a shophouse-like space that houses a restaurant, bar, art gallery, and vinyl room. It feels like you’re sneaking around the home of someone irrepressibly cool who also happens to cook very, very well. Brehm serves a crossroads cuisine here, informed by migration, trade, war, and exchange. Head upstairs to The Listening Room, sink into the curved couch, and have wine and dessert—a great way to end a trip to the city.

After years of return visits, Singapore’s appeal lies in its evolution and balance—between what endures and what emerges. There is history and constant movement. I revisit old favourites and discover new ones simply by walking around, following my nose and appetite. And still, no two visits feel the same.