Chinatown Market, Singapore

The Philippines has the world’s oldest Chinatown district, which I have yet to set foot in. “Funny, lah?” our cabbie had said. “Now heah in Sing’pore you wan’ see Chan’town!” He himself was from Thailand and had admitted to the same quirk.

We got off at Smith St. from New Bridge Road. After the restaurants came the souvenir shops. And I thought Bugis was cheap. Here was cheaper. But I was done with knickknacks and t-shirts; this time I wanted to get a feel of how the locals shopped, and where better to do that than at a wet market?

“Lord,” my mother said as we made our way to the basement of No. 335, “is that fish I smell?” It was, and more. The humid heat of noonday hung heavy over the place, and with it the scent of things in various stages of rigor and putrefaction. I loved it — the smell, I mean, not the heat. It reminded me of home.

At that hour, there weren’t too many patrons around. At one stall, bunches of herbs whose names I can only guess at. From top left: hilbas (mugwort), more medicinal than culinary; karabo (oregano); purple mayana (painted nettle); yerba buena (mint). Second row, I dare say those are curry leaves at right, but don’t quote me on that.

Cilantro and Chinese chives! People love their cilantro here. I have never successfully grown wansoy, and not for lack of trying. BTW, “cilantro” is the plant’s leaf (an herb), and “coriander” its seed (a spice), and kinchay is something else altogether (although they look a lot alike). This bunch was spectacularly fresh, and would have been perfect in a steaming bowl of noodle soup (never mind if some folks think it smells like crushed bedbug).

My sister was more fascinated by the frogs, but the vendor shooed her off when it became obvious she only intended to take a photo. We proceeded to the buwaran section, where all sorts of things salted, dried, or otherwise preserved in every imaginable way (and some I did not even know existed) were displayed en masse and in copious amounts.

And, off to one corner, Anthony the Spice Maker. While the owner chatted up some local patrons, I perused the display for aromatics McCormick and our local chain supermarkets deem unworthy of my attention: fenugreek, whole cloves, garam masala, Sichuan peppercorns, Kampot pepper. After a few days in the Lion City, I had a newly found appreciation for things spicy; one companion even noticed she had not needed anything for her chronic constipation since we arrived. “Must be all that chili,” we concluded.

“So you want these?” Anthony finally said of the Kampot peppers — dried, not fresh on the vine as I was hoping to see. Their name reflects the region in Cambodia where they are cultivated (indeed, Kampot pepper enjoys a Geographical Indications status from the World Trade Organization — like Champagne for the wine or Roquefort for the blue cheese — in recognition of its special/specific qualities). They cost almost twice as much as regular pepper, white ($12.90) more than the black ($11.90). “Go easy with them, okay?” Anthony said. Damn right; I was already thinking black pepper crab.

Emerging from No. 335, my mother complained that she was famished, so my sister went to get her something to eat from one of the stalls across the Buddhist temple. “I want spaghetti,” she said. And I was, like, “Really, Ma — you came here for that?”

“Well, this part of the trip wasn’t my idea.”

Of course it wasn’t. “Tell you what,” I replied, “the day Louis Vuitton carries condiments and spices, then we’ll go together. Now eat your food before it gets cold.”