1.4

Ernie and I were set up on a blind date for Belgian beers on Pulau Ubin. I offered him a share of secret menu fried wild boar I had ordered, really hoping he would decline. (Reader — he accepted my proposal.) We swigged two of the last few bottles of Pannepot 2008 available in Singapore on the bumboat back to mainland. His wife, Mari Ani, approved of it all.

Because I have lived in Katong for almost 30 years and I’m a lifelong Eastie, everyone asks which the best Katong laksa is. It’s the one simmered to spirited life in my mom Ade’s kitchen. You know — the one that only the backyard can fit, with industrial-sized woks and cauldrons, and charcoal stoops and gas tanks for zhi char-intense wok hei.

Laksa is one of her signature dishes, which friends and family have clamored for as long as I’ve been to smash 10 spring rolls after swim class age 7). We regularly receive texts from England to Denmark to across America to Australia lamenting the loss of this laksa from lives. I haven’t had laksa outside of my house since I began to understand it was my birthright (age 17). I’m physically incapable of eating laksa anywhere else.

Last night, Mom’s laksa came swaggering out dressed like it was attending the Met Gal — sequined with plump crawfish pieces, accessorized with jumbo prawns, a lobster tiara. It was Ernie’s birthday, his second lockdown birthday in a row, and friendship knows no bounds, not even Phase 2.Heightened Alert restrictions. An over-the-top laksa for a friend who tops our A (for Amigo)-list.