Some years ago, I was in Singapore with three colleagues teaching MS classes. One night our local contact booked us a table for dinner at one of the city’s most popular restaurants. It was a seafood joint called “No Signboard,” because the place literally had no signage. However, the lack of any visible business identity didn’t stop hordes of people filling the place inside and out front on the patio.
After being greeted by the guy at the check in stand, we were given a whirlwind tour of the kitchen by the owner. He and our contact were friends. Mind you, we weren’t there to inspect the sanitation of the operation, but to tour the immense bank of aquariums filled with denizens of the deep soon to be dinners. All manner of sea creatures, large and small, filled tanks of various sizes, some as big as wading pools. The selection was so vast the place could easily have been an aquatic natural history exhibit, or the world’s largest aquarium store. But this was Singapore, where choosing one’s dinner while it was still alive was the norm.
As we walked through the tanks, all vibrantly bubbling away, our contact and the owner quickly negotiated a sequence of sea vittles we’d soon be enjoying. Dinner strategy wrapped up, someone led us to a primo table out on the front patio, proving once again that it’s not who you know—it’s who knows you.
Once seated, a champagne bucket filled with ice and water was quickly placed on a stand next to the table. Then a waiter opened and served two liters of ice-cold frothy Tiger beer, the local brew that’s perfectly suited to the tropical climate and the cuisine.
In minutes, courses of food began to appear. My colleagues chose oysters on the half shell to start. A side note to say that I have a love/hate relationship with oysters. Early on, I was a huge fan and enjoyed them at every opportunity when dining out with colleagues. But one time on a trip I downed an oyster that tasted slightly off and ended up paying dearly for it over the next 12 hours in the confines of my hotel room. From then on, I made a pact with the food gods that I would only eat oysters when home and never on the road. If I was going to be deathly ill, I may as well have family around to watch me turn various shades of green.
However, my comrades didn’t share my hesitation. Within minutes of being seated and beer glasses filled, the oysters arrived, shucked and on a bed of crushed ice. The typical condiments of lemon and small cups of Tabasco and mignonette dotted the platters. But there was something unique about the oysters: their size.
Oysters from the coasts of North America range from tiny Kumamotos of the Pacific Northwest to larger specimens like Malpeques from the Northeast that reach more than two inches long. But the oysters that came out of the kitchen that night were a completely different thing. They were monstrous—bigger than a toaster. Actually, they were easily the size of a three-by-five card and about an inch thick. At first glance, they reminded me of small slimy cow’s tongues.
Immediately, I thought something had to be wrong with huge oysters grown in warm tropical waters. If left to their own devices, how big would they get? Would they eventually spawn tiny legs and crawl out of the water on some beach to wreak havoc on unsuspecting bathers at a seaside resort? I winced at the thought.
In general, eating big things may not be such a good idea. Like a massive butterscotch sundae or the two-pound cheeseburger you get for free if you can eat the whole thing in 15 minutes. Or poor Bruce Bogtrotter, the kid in the Roald Dahl book Matilda, who was forced to eat a massive chocolate cake by the evil Trunchbull in front of the entire student assembly.
Eating smaller things just seems to make more sense, at the very least for the sake of appearance. I’m not saying that we should all eat Barbie food, the kind of cuisine prepared in stupidly expensive restaurants where there are more people in the kitchen then in the dining room. But maybe the size of the food on your plate shouldn’t alarm the general populous.
My compadres that night would have disagreed. As soon as the platter hit the table they seized on the mongo bivalves greedily. Each selected a single oyster and then scooped the contents out of the shell on to their plate. Then various condiments were selected and applied with zeal. Finally, as I watched in astonished alarm, my friends actually used knives and forks to cut up the gargantuans before tucking in.
Fortunately, the oysters were history in short order, and more food began to arrive, including several kinds of steamed chilled prawns. After a few starter courses, large platters of chili crab—the pièce de résistance and restaurant’s specialty—appeared with great flourish. Whole steamed crabs were lathered in a rich red chili sauce that was just this side of too spicy. Bibs were handed out and donned because of the impending mess. The crab and chili sauce were delicious beyond compare and perfect with the ice-cold Tiger beer.
Dinner at No Signboard was arguably the best meal of the entire year. I still think about the chili crab from time to time. It was perfection. But then there were the oysters. I’m glad I took a pass on them. After all, I know better than to eat anything bigger than my head—or oysters the size of my phone.
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