The cafe fronts Lok Yew Street off Hill corner, but uses the address of Armenian Street, with the church of St. Gregory landmark. Soho, but “Italian,” one of those mimicry-gimmicky try-ons. Good Friday full of preppy young early-20s that abound in the biz-shopping precincts. You could almost, almost believe in OZ egalitarianism in Sin’pore. (Interesting historical quirk the divergence in a similar convict / coolie past.)


Italy, Soho, and just across the way over Hill Street fronting New Bridge, the chief Burmese hub in the City of Lions. Unlike a normal work-day, Peninsular Plaza was thronged with maids and especially their compatriot males. 


But Soho. Ten dozen passes; finally a stop Good Friday. 


Dear me! How easily a tall white in a Panama even without watch and jewelry can brave any maître d’ who might be lurking within to check credentials. 


This time, check the damn prices before ordering, for crying out loud! Couple weeks ago a latte with some fancy bickies on a plate that certainly was not ordered, cost a cool thirteen PLUS dollar, service charge and GST dollop. Didn’t check. 


Negligence you pay for. You shut the FFFF up and pay. A better man would have called the manager and dressed him down. 


I did not order those biscuits and have no intention whatever of paying. You get me?! 


Surprise, surprise—here under five.  


Under five and all the faux teak, paper mat & napkin, polished spoons; &etc. Spitting distance from Saint Greg on Armenian. 


Adding ambience ’50s /early-’60s framed B&W pics closely bunched on the wall. Pleated skirts, automobiles, lawns and dogs. One classic sweetie was stretching the fabric of her dress over her knees in that former pose of abandon, leaning against a gleaming motor.  


Against the photo wall by the back counter, a large, old, stainless grinder from the same celebratory good ol’ days, once upon a time.  


Cakes under glass covers. Lounge music mercifully low. Opposite a couch offered, if such be your preference and no-one else had parked their arse. Table-lamps for mag flicking.  


The couch was not bought from Minotti across the street, at least not recently. Minotti catered for the condo crowd sold on aluminum. Here scalloped, wood-laminate frame and removable fabric cushions.  


Mounted wall-phone. At the time the photographs were pretend-taken, the Soho patron needed to call the driver to bring up the car. 


Perhaps the greatest, most strenuous effort had been expended by the unfortunate drone made to polish the spoons. Sitting on the tables awaiting a day-dreaming stirrer casting about in the sumptuous surrounds. Forget about seeing your own mug in the gleaming surface, at Soho each and every single utensil reflected the entire room with all its furnishings. 


Faultless. A tad frustrated-erotic. 


Pity about the GREASE TRAP opposite the rear back table out the window. A band of frosting over the lower pane, perhaps. 


Before departure, one of the kids actually sang out clear as day a bright, Chin-Francaise, Voila! 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                         Singapore 2011-23

 

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