124

Or, “-23”, because that’s how many days before Yong Huat — 71 years in the heart of Katong where Joo Chiat streams onto East Coast Road — retires. Slinging the same five noodle dishes from first within Hock Ann and after the kopitiam gentrified into Ali BaBar Hawker Bar is part of why Eastie living is so easy. Consider this palatable proposition:

You ride up to Yishun, almost the northern edge of Singapore, and loop back down, the last 15 minutes pedaling on empty, and you’ll pass many, many viable brunch oases but your Gastro Positioning System routes you right back into the barrio. Because after 50KM, when your legs are buckling, your fingers cramping, and your entire being slicked with sweat, you just want to walk into a familiar foodway where the auntie knows to bring two kopi-o-kosong pengs, the second only after you’re done with the first. (You can count on its gao.) You know what you’re getting because, same five noodle dishes for 71 years. (But you’ve only existed for 60.6 percent of that span, so you damn well remain humbled.) Uncle knows I want less noodles, more greens. If my dad is around, Uncle knows to toss on extra crispy lard bits. You just have to plop down on a stool, open up the weekend International New York Times, and await revival by repast. Repeat almost every weekend.

But today wasn’t just another Yong Huat brunch ritual because this morning I chirped, “Retiring, huh, Uncle?” Uncle and Auntie twittered back in unison, “Yes!” They sounded almost as happy about hanging up the pans as they are working the woks. As they ought to be, putting kids through college on the veracity of five noodle dishes, as the kind of business that sends me home with my takeout when I’ve come up a few bucks short (still the only stall at Ali BaBar that doesn’t do electronic payment) and tells me to come back whenever, or wouldn’t charge me the extra 20 cents for takeout. They’re so Katong they’ve got their own eclectic touches — all bok choy in their noodles, not the standard chye sim, not just tow gay; garnish char kway teow with kalamansi because, ya know, Peranakan enclave. No one will ever say Yong Huat’s got the best fried Hokkien mee or fried mee sua or bak chor mee or char kway teow or prawn mee, but their selection soars solidly above standard and the neighborhood trembles at the imminent departure of another trestle in its heritage food pyramid.

The thing is, so much of Katong is traditional this way, and we’ve got lots more to eat here, so our appetites and souls will forge on atop the broad, broad shoulders of our wonderful liturgical loafing life. But what fried Hokkien mee, fried mee sua, bak chor mee, char kway teow or prawn mee will I eat after August 31, when I’m at the crossroads of Joo Chiat and East Coast Roads?