The Sugar Bar

Some long overdue photos.

The weather here has been somewhat crazy. Terribly hot and muggy and then suddenly, we are plagued (it’s a good thing really I just think that for others, many do not welcome the rain) with days of unceasing relentless rain. Doing the laundry gets a little tricky for most. I’ve seen lots of women queueing at the laundromat for the dryers with bright blue baskets of washing. My sisters have been complaining that the air is getting more chilly and the nights are nippy. By my standard, I really do not feel it. It just feels a little less oppressive and I hope the air stays that way. I don’t mind the rain (other than it annoys my hair a little) as long as our neighbourhood doesn’t flood. Because now that, is a whole different predicament altogether.

When I was in Kyoto in June, it was raining quite a bit as well. Hence, it just sprung into mind that I should upload some of the shots taken there. A little warm it was, a little rainy some of the days in Kyoto. Honestly, the weather then is exactly the same as what we’re experiencing now. Funnily enough, the weather makes me crave for soba ~ cold soba, hot soba whatever. It’s a need. So I dug up these pictures of handmade soba I had in Arashiyama. It was really lush, and fresh, soft but firm and well-made. The dipping sauce for mine and the broth for my pal’s was really delish. Oh how I wish I were there now again, slurping soba on the top floor of a tiny crooked shop with a (somewhat blocked but chilled out) view of the river.

The shop has a lovely, quaint, shadowy upper floor with just a few tables. The ones that are by the window facing the river are quite sought after since you can see the Togetsu Bridge on the left stretching over the river. We were lucky to get 2 spaces next to some salarymen who were quite so busy slurping their soba they didn’t even notice us arriving and noisily shoving ourselves into our seats. It took my friend Mr. Patience (yes that’s his real name) quite some time and effort to fold his lanky long BFG body into the little cranny of a space, obviously designed and built to comfortably seat the Japanese male/female physique.

A lovely rest stop. Fantastic handmade soba, good view, wonderful service, not to mention lovely ceramic cups/bowls/etc. that are also for sale just under the stairs next to the till.

It might seem a little hard to find but look out for its brown exteriors on the right footpath if you’re walking towards the river. You’ll notice a little zen stone garden once past the doors. You’re there.

Yoshimura
2 Togetsukyo Kitazumenishi
Arashiyama, Ukyo-ku

http://www.arashiyama-yoshimura.com

11am-5pm Daily

*ps. Around this area, you might spot geisha…or rather, women who pay to dress up like geisha. I was tempted. Truly. Which girl doesn’t like to get all decked up in shiny silk stuff and have their faces painted!

When we ventured into Gion, one thing that motivated us was seeing the streets of this pleasure district, grabbing a few bits of traditional Japanese crafts and also seeing a geisha show if possible. One other motivation, made more intense by the summer heat, was to eat wagashi and Japanese ice. Out of three places I’d noted down to visit in Gion (for these culinary delights), one was shut, the other a little too out of the way and so 祇園小石 Gion Koishi it was! And what a precious little shop this was.

This time of the year, you start seeing shops hanging out ‘氷’ signs which basically say ‘ice’ and more often than not they will have a variety of shaved ices (kakigori) or ice creams and parfaits. Gion Koishi I hear is famous for their black sugar syrup (kokutomitsu 黒糖蜜) made from kurosato sugar which is very similar to dark molasses but we weren’t so much intrigued by black sugar at all. Instead, we wanted anything and everything green and matcha-related!

Here’s what we tried and it seemed everybody else around us (school-kids and adults alike) were all ordering and eating the same thing, most of them in complete silence. It was like stepping into the dark recesses of a sacred cave and joining fellow pilgrims in the humble and elaborate process of licking their wooden spoons off of matcha ice cream, shiratama and kanten jellys. What an atmosphere! When eating something rather sinful, I sometimes do it alone in the dark in the privacy of my bedroom and scoff it down like a real animal. Here, in Gion Koishi, feel free to do the same and wash it down with cups of hot hojicha. You don’t have to feel embarrassed. Because everyone is sorta doing the same, with the occasional hum of satisfaction.

Matcha Chiffon Parfait 抹茶シフォンパフェ – ¥1050

This was the best matcha parfait I’ve ever eaten in my life! I’ve never been this happy with ice cream before. Generous scoops of vanilla and matcha ice cream, shiratama mochi in both plain and green tea flavours, kanten jelly, a Mont Blanc-like mountain of kuri (chestnut) paste, adzuki bean paste and slabs of fluffy matcha chiffon cake. Oh, and whipped cream. Yea, a real list of ingredients and a real tall glass of it all. Mine. Consumed. The experience? Totally beyond words, indescribable.

Wagamama-gori Uji (green tea syrup) わがまま氷の宇治 – ¥970

Next up, what Gion Koishi is notorious for! Their Wagamama (literally meaning selfish) kakigori is just a bowl of surprises this one. It may look more like a luscious green mountain with an egg yolk on the top than a luxurious dessert but this was one real refresher. The shaved ice is heavily doused with a bittersweet matcha syrup, topped with a candied chestnut (love these things!), sweetened adzuki beans and underneath this promising heap of ice lies a bed of kanten jelly, light and sweet. Who needs mints to wake you up when you can have a whole bowl of kakigori to yourself.

Now I merely wish teleportation was possible. I’d throw myself into the fireplace and teleport every evening for the best dessert Kyoto can offer.

Gion Koishi is on the north side of Shijo St (四条通り) about 1 min walk from the gate of Yasaka Shrine (八坂神社). If you are walking towards Yasaka Shrine, it’ll be on the left side of the street.

School’s out. Well, sorta. Other than a few projects that have gotta be done and leftover bits of housekeeping matters, it’s all been folded up and chucked into boxes to be forgotten over the short summer break we’ve got. I am thrilled that we’ve finally got a bit of time to put our feet up, let down our hair and for me, be absolutely lazy lousy hungry like I don’t give a shit.

And that also means lots of brunches and lunches. One thing about being in Singapore is that it’s too hot to walk. I mean it. I love walking to places. It saves bus/train money, its good exercise and it’s always healthy to have some ‘me-time’, get some fresh air whilst you catch up on some of your favourite iPod playlists. But in this humidity and oppressive heat, it’s a one-way ticket to skin cancer, heat exhaustion (for me at least) and fainting spells. So it’s kinda great when people offer rides to those hard-to-get cafés and all that. When they invite you along, ride included, you do the right thing and say yes, and then, BRING THE BANTER (and the appropriate appetite).

So finally I got whisked to the Singapore Turf area where the fortunate few ponce around on beautiful horses on the race course and all that. I had a right mind to turn up in riding trousers and a Ralph Lauren polo. Tucked deep into Fairways Drive situated in Bukit Timah Saddle Club is this lovely, charming colonial house Riders Cafe. The name is simple, direct, speaks for itself and hence, exudes that individuality no other can replicate simply because. It had a nice ring to it as well.

I’d heard quite a bit about their poached eggs here (I rave about eggs benedict so I suppose it’s only natural people recommend the spots where real awesome goods can be found). That was ordered, of course. Two comely ballooned, slightly wobbly, bulbous and comely cloyingly thick molten yolks tenderly shrouded in delicate clouds of milky egg whites, precariously (I mean it) balanced atop two halves of herbed grilled tomatoes, streaks of fried bacon lazying on a bed of sourdough. [pause] And then the whole thing is just ridiculously and generously doused with hollandaise and bits of chopped parsley. Kill me now. I want to relive that again.

But before this was all sat down very elegantly before me — my eyes all this while are eagerly following every gradual fated movement of that plate’s advancement towards the space directly in front of me — one of me poached eggs decided to make a run for it before it got devoured without a care for finesse. Not so much a run, more like a suicidal backflip. But a poor attempt at that.

It went … flop, SPLAT –…–squelch…a puncture somewhere; yolk bleeding. A pool of runny yellowy orange yolk gets bigger and bigger with each millisecond that passes. ABSOLUTE SILENCE. Shock on one end, amusement on the other. The pool of warm yolk is getting to the size of my palm now and threatens to make its way close to my glass of ice water. I’m willing someone to move or say something. I think I see a bit of billowy egg white shudder. THERE’S A CRIME SCENE ON MY TABLE. Somebody do sumfing! Finally, the waitress moves. She apologises. Someone else comes to clean it up. Too late. By then, my whole table’s quaking with giggles all around and I’m doubled over, howling with laughter and grabbing my sides to stop the stitches. I’ve laughed so hard tears have actually sprung into my eyes. Hilarious! Laughter’s so infectious at this point, even the willowy dude cleaning up that murdered mess of egg can’t stop a grin from forming. Accident #1.

A fresh plate of eggs benedict arrive soon after. We wonder if both eggs got replaced or merely one. That thought doesn’t even last a second as I move in onto my plate and gently pierce the fattest part of poached egg with the tip of my knife. Like a surgeon I carefully make a small incision, then move the knife around to spread the waterfall of yoke that floods all of the bacon beneath it. The sourdough slowly soaks up the thick orange yoke. I can’t help thinking, at this point, that the act of eating a poached egg is quite so sensual; I am glad it requires an undivided attention that my focus doesn’t deviate away to check if anyone is observing me. I would not have been able to stop a blush otherwise.

Across the table, the same thing’s happening with a plate of eggs royale: the make-up of which is pretty much the same except for a substitution of bacon and tomatoes for smoked salmon, avocado and sour cream, all with a side of rocket and asparagus salad. The smoked salmon is soft, creamy and lightly smoked. A mouthful of the eggs royale (although this wasn’t my plate) I could imagine would’ve been flavourful, richly enveloped in runny yoke and reinforced with a comfortingly fluffy bite of brown sourdough. Gorgeous.

Next to me, a boy with a hearty appetite and naturally of good cheer is tucking into a plate of golden hued brioche french toast with smoked bacon, grilled bananas, strawberries and maple syrup. It smells amazing from where I’m sat, buttery, sweet and savoury with that scent of strawberries lightly hanging in the air. I want a bite of that. And I do get offered one. The brioche is so tall and nicely browned, buttered and yes, soaked with maple syrup. The bananas look gloriously caramelised although that still doesn’t convince me to like bananas. The whole dish is a plate of fireworks, its beauty is intense – the colours implore you to take a bite and he seems utterly in his own world when he tucks into it. Oh yea, he washed down this handsome breakfast with a tall glass of peanut butter & jelly smoothie…yea, you heard me right – PBJ smoothie. Intense.

Really intense.

The plates are getting cleared as I slurp up the last bits of my iced cappuccino and it appears the disaster magnet I have somewhere in my aura is still going strong. The same willowly dude picks up my plate which is pretty much wiped clean save some strands of rocket. And like a strong force of attraction between myself and anti-rust metals, the knife comes sliding off it. I could see it just aiming for my lap and my hands were too busy rubbing my food baby so I was just about to surrender my black trousers to grease and hollandaise, when this fine young man with a deft flick of a wrist caught that knife and saved me from Accident #2. What a load of drama, and all for poached eggs.

It’s like it was the damn Rape of the Lock going on or sumfing like that today. Anyhow.

We gotta go back for seconds, and dessert. There’s yet more to be explored.