Prepare yourself for the Second Coming of André Chiang at the grande dame Raffles Hotel
It is part of the mythos of Raffles Hotel that Rudyard Kipling once said, “Let the traveller take note: feed at Raffles when visiting Singapore.”
Of course, the original quote said rather more (and less). “Providence conducted me along a beach… to a place called Raffles Hotel, where the food is as excellent as the rooms are bad. Let the traveller take note. Feed at Raffles and sleep at the Hotel de l’Europe.”
Based on my visit to 1887 by André, the opposite may in fact be true. Maybe it was my fault for visiting within a month of its opening. It is a trap for young players always wanting to be first in for clicks and giggles, something I have so far skilfully avoided but, this time, fell into with both feet.
See also: Head chef of two-star Shoukouwa, Kazumine Nishida
It is no exaggeration to say 1887 by André has been the hottest, most keenly anticipated opening in Singapore for some years. The return of André Chiang, the Lion City’s über-talented prodigal son, who went back to his native Taiwan not long after the Michelin Guide arrived at Kipling’s beach (now Beach Road, after the city-state’s numerous land reclamation exercises). The same handsome, statuesque, intelligent, articulate Chiang, whose own fingers shaped the cups and bowls we supped out of at his deeply missed Restaurant André.
Maybe it was my own thoughts that were mother to the deed, for I soon found myself feeding at Raffles. To be sure, it is a beautiful space. Scratch that, it is breathtaking. Nobody builds restaurants like this anymore. The two metal sculptures of the Traveller’s Palm, emerging from the bar like two multi-headed nagas, reach out as if to embrace the weary tourist. The azure sky hand-painted by Bill Bensley (who also designed the premises) provides a dreamy backdrop to the dramatic chandelier completing the scene. Somehow, the almost theatrical staging blends in naturally with the more demure features of the old Raffles Grill space, a tribute to Bensley’s genius.
See also: City buzz - retro Japan inspired watering hole
That is unfortunately where the sense of wonderment ends, for the food shows nothing of the same thought that was devoted to the space. Ironically, it is Chiang’s signature dish named “Memory”, a delicate foie gras flan with a black truffle coulis, that really tarnishes my remembrances of his cooking. The flan itself — so smooth, so flawlessly silky in my recollections — is lumpy, grainy and so overcooked it has formed a skin on top.
The mistakes continue unabated. My hors d’oeuvre of “Fish and Chips”, a very meagre bolus of fishy potato and a weirdly pupa-esque potato chip, is in fact missing a fish and a chip (sardine sashimi and potato crisps, based on internet reports), which I discover only when I doomscroll later that night.
To identify this place as an InstaTrap, look no further than the onion soup, an oxtail broth with oxtail morsels bound in cellophane to simulate the classic technique of cooking en vessie (in an animal bladder). But first we must throw a whole onion into the cellaphanous vessie to bring out the sweetness, without a thought as to how the diner is meant to eat a whole unchopped onion out of a small, deep bowl.
And the broth is sweet, to the point of being unbalanced. Who knows, maybe some savouriness, perhaps even some crunch (why not both?) may have been welcome. Gruyère toasts of the world, look away now. And to make the reel really slap, we just have to cook it in a salt crust, so it is presented to you like a solemn white ball, which your host will need to crack very gingerly with a little hammer because it would mess up your table otherwise.
I look in vain to dessert for salvation. The chocolate mousse “Sarah Bernhardt” feels like a not-especially-elegant (où es-tu, Sarah?) entremet from an undistinguished four-star hotel. The deconstructed tarte Tatin tastes as anaemic as it looks — dry, boring, completely lacking depth.
For more lifestyle, arts and fashion trends, click here for Options Section
I walk into the night, wondering if I have maybe been the subject of a practical joke.
I wonder if I am to blame, at least a little, for visiting at a time when restaurants may still be teething like babies and have not reached that auto-pilot sleep mode. But I remember I paid full price, and any victim-shaming thoughts vanish instantly. When the diner is paying full price, they are entitled to full quality and I didn’t get much of that tonight.
Perhaps none of this would hurt as much if expectations had not been built up so spectacularly. The no-expense-spared interior, the media fawning over the Second Coming of Chiang, the hushed tones of reverence and expectation at the union of these two icons. Chiang himself fuelled the fire, saying his return to the island after a decade away was deeply personal, and that 1887 by André is “my love letter to Singapore”.
Based on this performance, all I can say is don’t stand around waiting for a gushing reply.
