51 SINGAPORE FAST FOOD: TRY PIG INTESTINES OR MAYBE A BIG MAC
"McDonald's is very busy," he
65 says, speaking Cantonese through an
interpreter. "They came here for the
traffic. But the people who go there
are the English-educated ones, those
who grab a bun and walk around town
70 with it in their hands. They like neat
packages. Over here, it is all very
messy."
Mr. Kong closes his eyes and
shakes his head when asked if he has
75 ever had a Big Mac. "The smell is very
pungent,"
he
says.
"I see
food
arrive
over there in large crates and I get
shivers down my back. Chinese people
like things fresh."
so
The manager across the alley is
Eddie Lim, who is 30 years old and has
studied at Hamburger U. in the United
States. He wears a starched shirt and
a tie with the McDonald's symbol on it.
85
Radish Cakes and Cockles
"We don't see ourselves as a
stall," he says, sipping a Pepsi. "We
are a family restaurant. We have bet-
ter decor, better seating. We give
90
value
for
money—the
best
quality
you
can find. The greatest difference is
courtesy. We don't have anybody
standing outside stopping people and
yelling,
'Big
Mac! Big
Mac!'
"
95 The
cl$sii
of these culinary needs
is sharp as can be in Singapore, the
mecca
of
fast
food,
Asian
style.
Thousands of stalls line the streets
and are collected in the hawker cen-
100 ters of this equatorial island state.
They
offer
a
palate-boggling cross-cul-
tural potpourri of Indian, Malay, and
Chinese smells and flavors, a melange
of cardamom and cumin, coconut
105 milk and shrimp paste, soy sauce and
rice
wine—all
laced
with
hot red
chilies.
This is how to make
Laksa:
Grate
coconuts, squeeze out milk; boil
110 shrimp for stock: pound chilies, lemon
grass, shallots, turmeric,
candlenuts,
shrimp paste, and coriander and fry
the mixture; add coconut milk, stock;
pour into bowls over noodles and
bean sprouts; top with fried bean 115
curd, shredded chicken, pounded dry
shrimp, egg, cucumber, and cockles:
garnish with chili sauce and diced
mint. In the stalls, Laksa is made fresh
daily. A bowl is served 30 seconds 120
after it's ordered and costs 50 cents.
The day has its rhythm at People's
Park. The cadence of cleavers against
chopping blocks builds slowly to
the frying, the crashing, and the 125
screaming.
McDonald's has rhythm of its
own:
At 9
A.M.
spatulas
are
sharpened.
At 2 P.M. tartar sauce cartridges are
sanitized. At 10 P.M. reconstituted
130
onion is mixed.
The McDonald's grill beeps when
it's time for the uniformed cook to flip
a hamburger. The bun toaster beeps
when the buns are done. The
"fish-fil-
135
let cooking computer" beeps when the
fish is finished.
Across the alley at the
Min
Ho,
nothing beeps. Two cooks stand in the
fiery heat before six woks, furiously 140
working six orders at
once—plunging
crabs into boiling oil, ladling chicken
stock over steaming greens, pausing
only to wipe the sweat off their arms.
The menu has everything but the mon-
145
key, and that includes flying foxes,
which
are
large,
furry
bats.
"You want
it, we cook it," says Kong Hong Kee.
The Min Ho doesn't have a cash
register; money is stashed between
150
two stacked bowls. A party of six, Mr.
Kong figures, will spend a total of
$10
for a meal, not including beer. He isn't
effusive about finances, though the
Min Ho could well be a gold mine. Rent
155
is
low. There are just 10 employees,
and half are family. Help is hard to
find, but Mr. Kong doesn't mind.
Continued on Page 52, Column 1