Horse With No Name on Eat: Everything Old Is New Again

The extreme make-over. Is there anything more quintessentially American?

It doesn't just apply to blinging out your crib (translation: redecorating your home). You can pimp your ride (overhaul your car), upgrade your spouse's look, get your fine self into a kick-ass new wardrobe (no translation necessary there) and even give yourself a whole new face and body, if that's what you desire.

Even what's on your plate is spared no exception.

In my short jaunts across the US over the last year, I've become increasingly aware of the way restaurants here love taking the so-called “working man's meal” and transforming it into a gourmet sensation.

Take the humble burger, for instance. Perhaps the most iconic of American fast food. Just a buck and change will get you one of these at your nearest drive-through service.

It's a piece of meat between two slices of bread. But then you throw in a little of that American 'extreme make-over' magic. A little herb buttered bread, some wagyu beef, caramelized onions and crisp local vegetables, and suddenly Cinderella's a real dish, all decked out and ready to party.

Television channels like the Food Network, with their many competition-based programs, raise the culinary bar, and exemplify the way simple, everyday food is turned into almost haute cuisine.

There are examples galore of these old-school-meets-new-school transformations. Like pizza. While not officially American in origin, this dish has unequivocably been assimilated into the food culture. In fact, if American movies are to be believed, pizza is probably the official food sponsor of college fraternity houses nationwide.

Pizza isn't confined to the realm of simple doughy slabs with tomato and cheese toppings anymore. One bistro I visited in Scottsdale, Arizona – an upmarket part of the state – created a version with a crunchy, light-as-air base, topped with chi-chi sounding ingredients such as crimini mushrooms, truffled arugula and gorgonzola.

Pizza masquerading as fancy-pants food. Tasted like fancy-pants food. Amazingly, it did not cost me my first-born.

But by far the most interesting and exotic amalgamation of old-meets-new that I've encountered so far is the po'boy, a submarine sandwich made from Louisiana French bread. Wikipedia explains that it supposedly differs from your regular baguette in terms of its crispier exterior texture.

Hailing from New Orleans, Louisiana, the original po'boys - created in simple mom 'n' pop type stores for busy working-class folks of yore - held simple fillings of seafood and meats like sausages or roast beef. They're still considered one of the go-to meals in New Orleans for people on the go.

However, the version I had in California (in a mid-scale Disneyland eatery, of all places) had a slightly more swish spin on it. The po'boy here didn't look at all po', stuffed with filet mignon and “apple-smoked wood bacon”. I'd show you what it looked like, except Mr HWNN devoured the whole thing before I got the chance to take a picture.

The best part of these mind-bending, jaw-dropping creations? They probably cost about the price of having a simple doughy pizza with tomato and cheese toppings delivered to your door. Under $20.

Glorified mac and cheese from a San Diego restaurant. This is a kid's meal, by the way. Since I don't have a po'boy picture you'll just have to ogle this instead. Thankfully, this cost under $20. Just barely.

It made me wonder how would Singapore comfort food, our hawker centre favourites, would fare under similar transformations? Would they survive an extreme make-over? Or as a Singaporean might ask: “Upgrade already nice or not?”

Creature comforts

I reckon there are few sacred cows in our ever-changing Singapore society. But food, especially of the hawker centre-comfort food variety, is definitely one of them.

Singaporeans are mostly creatures of habit. If something tastes good, people faithfully return day after day, week after week to eat it. Queues at popular hawker stalls grow ever longer thanks to the mentality that “If got people queue, sure must be good one”.

Likewise, if the food changes even a little at said stalls, fans tend to be rather unforgiving, voting with their wallets to the rousing chorus of “Aiya, that place standard drop already lor.”

So I can't even begin to imagine what would happen if a suburban Singapore eatery pulled an extreme make-over on local food, because let's face it, while Singaporeans love food of any kind, most are obsessed with authentically Singaporean food.

Mr HWNN and I spent an hour tracking down this Asian eatery on a recent trip to Canada, just so we could have authentically Singaporean laksa and beef rendang. Just how obsessed are we? We missed our flight back to Arizona partly because of the massive detour we took.

Totally worth it.

But what does “authentically Singaporean” even mean? After all, if you consider Singapore's mish-mash of races and cultures, which have produced a constantly evolving mix of gastronomic delights, how far back in time would one go to verify said “authenticity”?

In order to understand this, I conducted a highly unmethodical, extremely unscientific, specifically selected survey of foodie friends. They defined “authenticity” of a dish as “something that takes you back to a certain time and place.” (Quote marks added to make it look like I've actually done some research.)

I take this to mean: Something is authentic if it tastes like what we used to eat growing up. So that's a pretty fluid definition to begin with, given that each generation may have its own idea of any particular Singaporean dish, and recipes do change as they are handed down over time.

Whatever the case may be, I'm beginning to think that perhaps we Singaporeans – in particular, the Singaporean diaspora - regard our food and our recipes as a way to stay rooted in a somewhat revolving-door culture.

Just a random glance at the Facebook pages of some Singaporean friends living in Arizona, and you'd understand just how passionately my fellow countrymen and women feel about our food. We religiously replicate Singaporean dishes and success is measured by how much these meals look and taste like those found back home.

That's saying something. Because anyone who has prepared an authentically Singaporean meal from scratch will understand just how time-sucking it can be – from preparing the myriad ingredients to the actual cooking of the food.

To actually go the extra mile and think up an extreme-make over for a popular hawker dish like mee siam (vermicelli noodles smothered in a spicy tamarind sauce), which takes me about three hours to make, is Iron Chef worthy, in my book.

Which is why I'm totally in awe of friends who are able to produce fusion cuisine on the fly. In fact, I wish I had that sort of culinary creativity. My cooking skills are still largely of the paint-by-numbers variety.

An original creation by a Singaporean friend living here in Arizona. Pan-fried spaghetti with chicken, fresh vegetables and a dash of curry powder.

Still, I think many of us in our 20s and 30s - adventurous as we are with trying out new-fangled versions of other people's cuisine – do still jealously guard our parents' and grandparents' recipes.

One foodie friend, Soh Wenlin of the Going With Your Gut blog, gave a good reason why: “I am indeed currently chasing down old-school recipes, mostly because the guardians of those recipes don't have much time left with us!”

Mr HWNN and I make batches of these delicious dumplings - called guo tie - each year, based on his mum's super yummy recipe. The practice of putting these dumplings together with the family started when he was a kid, and now we've passed down the tradition to our own kids.

Point taken. But in that case, would made-over Sg food ever successfully catch on? Will the humble Roti John (a type of omelette sandwich) commonly found in Singaporean hawker centres ever go the upmarket route of the po'boy? Would we want it to, anyway?

One friend offered an answer: “If it ain't broke...” And in addition: “You gonna pay $15 for a plate of fancy chicken rice? Crazy ah?”

Singapore-style chicken rice from the Vancouver eatery. Cost: $8. (expensive by Singapore standards) Good vibes after eating it: Priceless.

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