Last weekend we hit Singapore for uber-urban metropolitan relief. Zipping around on the punctual MRT, tucking into tasty French fare, watching the world stroll by as we lingered over a hookah. Little did we realize that it would turn into an 8-round throwdown pitting our stomachs against an epicurean behemoth.
Our foe, weighing in at 4-gazillion pounds of battle-hardened granite, was the Fullerton Hotel's Sunday Champagne Brunch. Friends had practically drooled over their previous experiences there. We had to practically take out a second mortgage to get ourselves a table.
Surrounded by ladies in flowing linens, men in starched shirts and young girls in flowery frocks, we scored a table near the windows overlooking the Singapore River. Brunch started with a toast of sparkling perfection -- Moet & Chandon poured from a fresh bottle. How quickly did our first glass whet our appetites and trick our brains into thinking our stomachs could be brought into submission. Tables upon tables were literally sagging under the weight of fresh salads, meats, cheeses, veggies, seafood, eggs, breads, sushi, cookies, and cakes...And they were calling to us. Urgently.
First up, plates of Mediterranean goodies. The dolmas were the best we've had since leaving Portland (where the humble stuffed grape leaves at Fred Meyer's deli top our list); and I could have just taken the entire bowl of marinated artichoke hearts back to our table. We were only disappointed by the hummus -- my homemade version is better.
Things only got better -- imagine my delight to round a corner of the dining room to find a bar table pile with seafood taller than my head. Now, I am one who laments the senseless destruction of marine ecosystems in the name of fishing, but there were no shark fins in sight. I spent a happy half-hour cracking and ripping apart shells.
Keeping the seafood theme and moving into Asian cuisine, I hit the sushi table. Somehow I thought that the 'light' morsels of fresh tuna, pickled ginger and steamed wontons would refresh my palette and smooth the way for more plates. Sigh. An interlude of champagne and table-watching would also help.
It was a losing battle for me the minute Pelle asked "Did you see the cheese tables?" Time proverbially screeched to a halt. Uhhh? Cheese tables??!! My plate could satisfy just a fraction of my need. By now, to say that I was getting full would be an understatement. But the cheeses were so lovely and tasty and stinky and tangy. I could have one more bite, really!
Nearly 2 hours through the Fullerton's culinary masterpiece, we finally turned toward the dessert tables. Looking past the free-flow chocolate fondue (strictly for children & amateurs), I sought out small bits of fruity and moussey decadence. Mastering a few tastes of each, accompanied by a small glass of port, I threw in the napkin.
Having reached a fine and toasted point, cappuccino was ordered. And the bill (cough).Veni, vidi, vici (ferme).
Our foe, weighing in at 4-gazillion pounds of battle-hardened granite, was the Fullerton Hotel's Sunday Champagne Brunch. Friends had practically drooled over their previous experiences there. We had to practically take out a second mortgage to get ourselves a table.
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