Guys, I need to vent because my wallet is crying and my stomach is actively questioning my life choices.
This morning, I let myself get dragged to this ultra-hipster, concrete-minimalist cafe. You know the vibe—industrial aesthetic, overhead pipes exposed, looks like an incomplete BTO flat but the menu prices are sky-high. I ordered their signature “Artisanal Smashed Avocado and Slow-Poached Egg on Organic Sourdough.”
When it arrived, I wanted to laugh or cry, also don’t know. $25 before GST and service charge. For what? One miserable slice of bread so hard I needed a construction-grade jackhammer to cut through the crust, topped with half an avocado that tasted like nothing, and a single sad, cold poached egg. They literally sprinkled three microgreens on top and called it “culinary curation.” Bro, it’s literally bread and egg. For $25, the chicken that laid this egg better have a degree from NUS.
The worst part? I finished it in four bites, paid almost $30 total with my iced flat white (which tasted like direct battery acid, so sour for what?), and walked out still feeling 70% hungry.
On my way home, I passed by my neighborhood hawker center. The aroma hit me instantly. I ended up standing in front of my usual Nasi Lemak stall. $5. Just five freaking dollars.
For one blue note, the auntie gave me a mountain of fragrant, coconut-infused basmati rice, a crispy fried chicken wing straight out of the wok, a perfectly fried egg with the runny yolk, crunchy ikan bilis, and a dollop of sweet-spicy sambal that actually has soul. Every single bite was a flavor explosion. It fills you up, hits the spot, and gives you that genuine food coma satisfaction.
I sat there eating my $5 Nasi Lemak, thinking about the $25 absolute daylight robbery I just paid for earlier. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we pay a 500% premium just to sit on an uncomfortable metal stool under yellow lighting to look “aesthetic” on Instagram?
From today onwards, no more hipster cafes. If the place doesn’t have a tissue packet reserving a table, an uncle shouting “Teh peng!” in the background, or an auntie calling me “Shuai ge,” I am not eating there. Support your local hawker, guys. Don’t be a premium gong kia like me. End of rant.