I’ve eaten ice-cream atop freshly baked cones, I’ve spooned it straight from the carton, and on one particularly gluttonous occasion in Disney World, I ate it from a beach pail using miniature sand-shovel – not one of my most glamorous moments. 

Throughout my experience of very thorough ice-cream consumption, I’ve never seen ice cream served on bread – not until Singapore.  I’ve had an ice-cream sandwich – yes, of course, but usually on a thin, cookie-like wafer – not a slab of ice cream cut from a large block and placed on regular slice of white bread, which is then folded over for your holding convenience.   That is an entirely different level of simple, drip-free genius. 

All of the ice cream vendors here offer the option of a cone, or a soft piece of bread, sometimes swirled with pink and green and flavored vaguely of pandan. This simple and wondrously drip-free method is the best thing since, well,  sliced bread. 

There are many elements of the Bread Method to enjoy – Not only does one get to enjoy using the words, “slab,” and “ice-cream” in the same sentence, but when you can see the equator across the street, the extra absorbing qualities of the bread makes eating the chilled treat much more manageable.   Dripage becomes a nearly obsolete problem of yesteryear.  The bread also becomes a treat in itself, taking on another life form as it soaks in the sweet, melted cream.  It’s like sopping-up your leftover pasta sauce with a dinner roll, but without lifting a finger.   

Being an Ohio girl at heart, my favorite flavor has become sweet corn, although the coconut is mighty delicious.   I ask for my flavor, watch as my slab is cut from the mother-brick of ice cream, and savor it as I walk through town, confident that each drip will reach my mouth. 

In the mall down the street, between the cell phone kiosks and public transportation, there is a little bite of paradise.  This haven of xiao long boa, or “soup dumplings,” is called Din Tai Fung.

Each boa is filled with a savory broth, and the dough is so delicate and thin that when picked up with chop-sticks the boa sags, revealing its filling through the almost translucent skin.

I was introduced to Din Tai Fung during my travels last year, and it was the first place I craved to revisit.   Ranked as one of the top 10 restaurants in the world by the New York Times and earning a Michelin Star in 2009, Din Tai Fung is a Taiwanese based chain that’s popularity has spread from Singapore to California.  Last year, I didn’t know any of this and simply referred to it as, “that amazing Din-something place in the mall.”  Little did I know that these perfect, little packets of meaty-juicy goodness were a worldwide phenomenon.

Each restaurant has a glassed off kitchen, where you can watch cooks make each boa by hand, expertly rolling out dough and carefully weighing the final product.   At the table, you are handed a menu where you check off all the items you’d like to order, which is then collected by the waiter.  The waiters are all equipped with headsets, so there is constant communication between the staff, making service more organized and efficient.   It is never more than ten minutes before your boa arrive steaming hot in a traditional bamboo basket.

Condiments include fresh julienned ginger, vinegar, dark soy sauce and Thai bird chili peppers – custom mix the accouterments to your liking, dip your boa and experience the perfect bite.

Here I am back in Singapore.  Last March, I left dragging my heels, but I never thought I’d return so soon – less than a year later.   The trip had been my first time visiting anywhere in Asia and it sparked an insatiable wanderlust.

While visiting Asia’s most westernized country certainly does not make me worldly, it was the farthest I’d ever travelled from home and seemed incredibly foreign.   A bit like, “Asia 101,”  Singapore is easy – english is spoken practically everywhere, the public transportation is organized, and the infrastructure is highly developed.  It’s a bit like riding The Pirates of the Caribbean at Disney World and then thinking you’re a pirate.

Despite the astonishing user-friendly quality of Singapore, I do feel very far away, it does have dimension, and I do love it here –which is a good thing considering I’ve committed myself to staying for the next four month.   Like the first class of culinary school, despite its basic level, it opened up a Pandora’s box of curiosity – for that, it will always be a place that I adore.

Within days, I’ve become re-accustomed to familiar-foreign streets and re-discovered the joys of a daily steamed-bun.   I’ve also automatically re-adopted the local etiquette of handing cashiers money, and receiving change, using both hands – a custom that makes any exchange far more gracious and careful than that of western standards.

I’m beginning to remember all of the different areas I left un-explored.   After visiting every museum Singapore has to offer, and covering the basic tourist areas, I had just begun to delve a little deeper beyond the novelties of durian and abnormally clean streets.

This year I’m going to travel to far western points of the island where farms still exist, I’m going to celebrate Chinese New Year surrounded by local traditions, and I’m going to eat everything that I didn’t get the chance to last year.

The other adventure on this particular trip is the opportunity to help Chef Dieter Schorner teach his Baking and Pastry class at the Culinary Institute of America location here.  Not only is Chef Schorner a legend, working as the pastry chef at Le Cirque and credited for introducing the crème brulée to the United States, but as a teaching assistant I will have the opportunity to get to know the students and paint a better portrait of life here in Singapore.

After a long day of massive production, working with hyenas and too much panna cottta, all you want to do is sit in a beer and cheese coma on the couch.  After weeks of troll-like tendencies, I finally feel compelled to re-enter the world of humanity and momentarily escape from the gritty underside of fine dining.    Although, civilized citizens might sip wine and eagerly anticipate the arrival of their French-y entrées, we back-of-the-house guzzle black coffee and anticipate the death of the next waiter to deliver an order to the wrong table.

It’s been an experience.  These past months have been full, to say the least.  There have been wedding cakes, 300 people for Thanksgiving Day dinner service, and Spanish screaming banquet managers.  There have been moments of despair, occasional outlets for creativity, and one hell of an extern to whom I owe my sanity.

Back in early fall when The Boutique Hotel changed ownership and everyone in the pastry department jumped ship (…except for myself and my Westchester County extern), I had my doubts that we would make it.  Either we would die of sudden heart attack, be admitted to the nearest mental institution or we would kill each other.   Those seemed like the options. Yet, today we both stand with no scars, except for minor cases of oven burn.

It was a long climb back up the rabbit hole, but I think we made it and we did a damn good job, if I do say so myself.  The new company has brought in the new management, new chefs and new dishware.  In the meantime, I’ve learned a lot and made a couple desserts along the way…..time for the next adventure.

Since my arrival at the new job, there has not been a single Petticoat Junction minute – The hotel was taken over by new ownership, all employees (including myself) re-interviewed and reapplied for their jobs, the Executive Chef quit, the Pasty Chef quit, I was re-offered the job I had just begun, I was pulled into a manager’s meeting, I now regularly attend manager’s meeting, and somehow, someone put in charge of the pastry department.   Between breaths, I’m repainting the apartment.

It was only last week that a line cook came into the bake-shop and simply said, “Oh yeah, the pasty chef is quitting.  Also, the other pastry cook called in sick.”  I said, “Good morning to you too,” slowly got over the shock, and started to work.   I was the understudy and the kitchen still had a show to preform.   I guess I was going to play a supporting character for a while.

Time has become this unbridled and wild thing.  Each nanosecond is packed with a new recipe, a new name to remember, a list of ingredients to order, a meeting to attend, a hotel guest to serve, a banquet to plate, and a wedding cake to design.  Meanwhile, the entire kitchen – chef-less -  is swimming in a stock-pot of chaos and uncertainty.  From the sous chef to the dishwasher, everyone has a twinge of crazy in their eyes as we pass each other through the kitchen.  We also know that we’re all in this together – even if the ship goes down.

Despite the fact that I’m considerinh bringing a cot to work and the sous chef has begun joking that I’m taking a half-day when I leave the premise after a solid 10 hours, the prospects are exciting.  A new dessert menu is on the horizon and it appears that I may be designing it.   Plus, every weekend is full with two or three wedding cakes that I get to add to my repertoire.  For the first time, I really feel in charge of my own spoon.

Unlike a restaurant or bakery, a hotel can’t simply close the kitchen.  A minibar can only sustain a person for so long and the staff can’t leave guests stranded, fending for themselves with mini bottles of vodka and Coffee-Mate.  They still need to eat.  The cooking must go on. 

So, five of us packed our overnight bags to keep the kitchen running as normally as possible.   We were assigned roommates, handed hotel room keys, and after dinner service, we were instructed to report back to work at 6:00am the next morning. 

We formulated two game plans – The “Power Outage” Plan and The “If We Still Have Power” Plan.   The power outage plan involved prepping platters of cold cuts, breads and cheeses to be served buffet style and several individual gas burners that we could use via lantern-light.   The with-power plan was for the five of us to continue breakfast, lunch and dinner service as normal. 

Despite the ominous skies, the torrential rain, the gusting winds and the leaking ceilings, it was fun.  A mixture of adventure, adrenaline and pride pulsed through the kitchen and there was a powerful sense of camaraderie and trust.  While others stayed in their houses, cancelled work and cowered from the storm, we carried on. 

In fact, while others stopped working, we worked even harder – this knowledge differentiated us from the rest of the world and confirmed what we already knew -  we are cooks.  We work holidays, we work when the rest of the world sleeps, we work come rain or shine or hurricane.   And despite the occasional grumbling, we like that we aren’t in sync with the normal folk.   We live differently then the rest because as a general rule, we are different.  We’re all a bunch of nut ball, food junkies with a taste for a good adrenaline rush. 

During the storm, one of the line cooks took a smoke break on the loading dock as usual and watched the trees bend backwards with unimpressed eyes.  A lot more than wind would have to keep us from cooking.  Whether or not hotel guests appreciated, or even realized our extra effort is unimportant.  We got the job done, we cooked good food, and that is a good day’s work.  

I used to equate New York City to tap dancing sailors and hopes of becoming a Rockette.   When I finally realized that the 1940’s were over and my legs would never be long enough, NYC instantly lost its appeal.  I don’t like the grit nor the glamor – So, I resolved to remain a Midwestern soul, shy away from city life, and reduce cutting-edge food trends as snobbish extravagancies.

But life never goes according to plan.   And I like spherified salad dressing.  And I like fois gras.   And things happen.   Sometimes, even good things.

Next week, I move to New York – an unforeseeable and curious development.   It isn’t unusual that I am startled by my own happenings – I’ve found that if one contemplates life too long there are consequential feelings of slight disorientation and vague amusement.  The other alternative is complete terror – and I’d rather not go that route.

As much as I love my pierogies and beer, Bob Evans, and a world where people don’t judge when you for drinking Folgers – and as much as I can do without the jaded waitresses and blood-lusting pit bulls- I am excited about New York.   There is something undeniably romantic about being a little fish in a pond – and I will certainly be a little fish.

It is the world of Eleven Madison Park, Daniel Boulud, slummy diners and more cupcakes than imaginable.    I don’t necessarily desire to work for the top dogs, nor sell my soul.  Dr. Faustus – I am not.   I am happy to saunter along as a member of the underground fraternity of culinary misfits (the UFCM).   I am simply in search of great foods and great flavor, without the magic hats and penguin suits.   It is a misconception that that they are mutually exclusive.   One doesn’t need Alinea to know how good fried chicken can taste.

Living an hour north of the city I plan to dip in for the occasional Hawaiian heart of palm or duck terrine, but I will quickly return to winter stews, biscuits, and rustic pumpkin pies.   Food can be an art, but it is also the craft of simple nourishment.  Don’t let New York confuse you otherwise.

While New York has always seemed like big, angry pit bull of a state, I am still going in with my favorite philosophy – It is from the play, “Harvey,” and I’ll recommend it every time.

“Years ago my mother used to say to me, she’d say, ‘In this world, Elwood, you must be’ – she always called me Elwood – ‘In this world, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant.’  Well, for years I was smart.  I recommend pleasant. And you may quote me.”

-       Elwood P. Dowd,  “Harvey”

I have always been prone to uncontrollable laughing fits.  In school, it was not unusual for a teacher to make a perfectly sedate and sane statement, and suddenly, I’d be convulsing, snorting and tearing, while receiving puzzled looks from confused classmates.  If the teacher asked what was funny, I could never articulate how some unassuming word like “pencil,” or “algebra,” or “hobbyhorse,” had metamorphosed after traveling through the pachinko machine in my brain.  Ding ding ding ding.  All of a sudden the absurdity I’d mentally drawn on a seemingly normal scenario had me laughing, rather hysterically.

This pattern continued throughout college and I can not tell you have many times I’ve been excused from a lecture to “cool off in the hallway and go get a sip of water.”  To this day, even at work, I am prone to these spells.  Just the other day while bermixing a large stockpot of raspberry syrup, an episode was triggered, by who knows what, except that I felt like I was stirring a cauldron, what if witch’s used immersion blenders, I’d watched the movie “Stripes” the previous night, then someone sneezed and ding ding ding ding – completely unfunny thoughts and actions joined together into one weird mental whatnot.

I have a theory this why I like giving cakes faces so much.  Drawing eyes on chocolate truffles, giving a marshmallow a nose, or a cake some claws is the best way I know how to show you how the inner-pachinko machine functions.

This past weekend, I was offered a job to make cake for a co-worker.  It was for his back-yard pig roast and I was given complete creative liberty.   My first natural question was, “do you mind if I give the cake teeth?”   My co-worker, whom I believe might have an inner Lite-Brite, really liked the idea of creature-like cake, so I eagerly went to work.

Marzipan eyes, gum-paste teeth, and brightly colored frosting-fur – I am also of the firm belief that a Creature Cake should have a “creature companion.”  Buddy had a little bird and this cake, whom I shall call, “Pork Chop,” would have a little bear.   So, I crafted a little marzipan bear to sit on his shoulder.

Here is the result….

So, the next time I think about something and I laugh, and then the other people filling their cars up with gas wonder what’s so funny about that gas pump, you might think of Pork Chop and maybe you’ll laugh too.

Her honesty was charming and the woman I’d simply known as “teacher,” transformed into, “champion of femininity, feminism and food.”  Her message resounded.   I needn’t be warned twice about the swollen legs and unsightly veins triggered by years of working on my feet.  I like shorts and I intend to keep wearing them for years to come.

Her underlying message – preserve yourself, both physically and spiritually.  Use support hose to maintain your body and choose your jobs carefully to maintain your soul.

So, I wear my support hose every day.  Strapped in nylon, next to 350-degree ovens, carrying sheet pans, whist hurdling my own boobs, I sometimes feel as though I’ve lost my mind.   My boss might tell me this means I’m headed in the right direction…after all, we’re all mad here.   Still, its amazing how my legs feel considerably less tired at the end of the day and I feel good that I’m doing something positive for my body.

The job aspect is trickier, but so far I’ve had amazing luck surrounding myself with positive people.   Maintaining some semblance of a personal life while remaining dedicated to the food industry isn’t always easy.   Long and odd hours make us well matched to those in the medical field, while our pay scale draws us to thespian types.  All of these careers ask a lot of their people, so a strong crew of compassionate co-workers is incredibly important.

I’ve done some staging (shadow/trail shifts) in New York City and the tone of the  kitchens was grim.  The people were hard working and the food was beyond exquisite, but there was an undeniable feeling that your neighbor would happily throw you under the next passing bus.  I’ve often said that cooks are more parts pirate than professional, but I’d meant that in the yo-ho and rum sort of way.  These people took my statement to new level of cutthroat.  I’ll admit I’m competitive when it comes to gym-class dodge ball, but war and espionage have never appealed to me.

I love the simple honesty of making a good cookie.  So, when I starting looking for a new job in the great Empire State, I was interviewing the people I’d be working with as much as they were interviewing me.   I was not going to leave my wonderful friends at Big City Neighborhood Bakery in Boston for just anyone.   They’d set a high bar that was going to be hard to match.

Eventually, I found Le Chateau Chic in New York – a boutique hotel, outside the city, with an intimate kitchen and a parking lot without meter maids.   The kitchen had an air of kindness about it and it would just be the pastry chef and myself working side by side.   While moves are always nerve-wracking, this kitchen presented itself in a way that eased my anxieties.  In fact, the collaborative tone and honesty of Le Chateau Chic stirred the feelings of possibility that can sometimes fade with routine. I felt encouraged, a little bit braver, and armed with and ample supply of support hose to start my next big adventure.

Not easily deterred from the calling of a good dumpling, I was never particularly put-off by the filth.  I am a diner and dives kind of girl with a stomach of steel and a collection of wet-wipes in my purse.  I might even be twisted enough to say that in the proper setting, a good accumulation of grime can make a restaurant more attractive.   It can wear its filth like a biker in leather – While leather pants are generally, and I think unanimously, unattractive, Russell Brand can make them look pretty good.

While in Singapore, I had the pleasure of getting to know a fist-bumping kitchen cowboy called, Chef Chuckles.   He would adamantly disagree with my leather pants analogy.  In fact, he even disliked that I rested my elbows on the hawker center tables – not in the name of poor dining etiquette, but in fear that my forearms might break out into an incurable rash.

I bring all of this up because the Big City Neighborhood Bakery is in power-cleaning mode, so cleanliness is on my mind.   The Big City Bakery, quite opposite to many hawker centers, is an incredibly clean kitchen all year round.  Still, from time to time, every space needs a detail job.  So, we shut down for the week and scrub from the floor to ceiling, not missing a single shelf of a speed rack or leg to a table.   This is an amazing practice and a testament to the greatness of the Big City Neighborhood Bakery’s management.

It was the table legs that were particularly important to Chef Chuckles.  They were his litmus test.  While my initial evaluation of a space has always involved tabletops, a quick glance at the staff, and menu items, Chef Chuckles always looked down.   He was looking at legs.   If they were un-touchably, filth-coated and black, beers could barely persuade him to sit down.  Clean table legs equaled clean food.  That was that.

Below the line of sight, they’re often overlooked, but indicate a restaurant’s attention to detail.   This marker of sanitation has changed my approach to every restaurant where I dine, or table that I clean.   I remember fondly and think, “Would Chef Chuckles eat here?”

So, with all of this said, tomorrow, I would like to dedicate my potion of scrubbing at Bid City Neighborhood Bakery to safely handled noodles, and Chef.  May the food be wholesome and the table legs shine.

Fist bump.