the perfect Mee Pok Man

Finding the perfect Mee Pok Man

My brief was to be a fussy customer and check out what kind of sterling service you can get from foodstall holders who are on their feet more than 10 hours a day, seven days a week. I chose four mee pok stalls featured in local food guide Makansutra and the newspapers, and at each, I adopted a different persona. At one, I confronted the stall holder about his dirty trays. At another, I pretended not to understand Mandarin while ordering from two hawkers who could speak nothing but Mandarin. My aim was to be a pain, the customer from hell. This is what happened.

Stall #1: Ang Mo Kio
Who I was: I put on my best manners and ask for noodles in perfect English.

Service standards: Weekday. Noon. A bad time to be a fusspot. The stall assistant is not the friendliest.

I order. 'Mee pok, a little chilli, packet.'

The cook starts to cook my noodles and pours in vinegar for flavouring.

'No vinegar please,' I cry out in mock alarm.

The assistant replies gruffly in Hokkien: 'Xiao liao lah' and mumbles something to the cook. I later discover it means 'already gone crazy'.

Cook dumps the vinegar and assistant hands me my noodles. No 'thank you'.

Five minutes later, I return to the stall. 'I want to eat my noodles here. Can you help me, please?'

Assistant cries out: 'You ah' and mutters to the cook that I have changed my mind.

His sentence ends with 'mati liao' or 'die already'. He hands me a bowl and walks off.

Stall #2: Upper Cross Street
Who I was: Office worker spouting Hokkien-accented Mandarin.

Service standards: A young woman fronts the stall and is one of the few hawkers who does not wear a grumpy frown.

I order. She nods. And prepares the noodles.

I ask for more bean sprouts. She doesn't use them, she replies.

I say: 'No vinegar then.'

'Orgh' is her reply, signalling she has heard me.

The customer behind orders mee gia or thin noodles.

I immediately say: 'You got mee gia, can you give me mee gia instead?'

She complies right away. As the cook prepares my noodles and adds what looks like soya sauce, I tell him not to add any vinegar.

He grunts: 'This is not vinegar.'

My noodles are served on a dirty tray and I complain.

The cook retorts: 'This is lunchtime, we don't have enough manpower to clean the trays.'

I shoot back: 'But don't you know that hygiene and cleanliness is very important in the food business.'

The cook keeps mum. His assistant looks nervous.

She hands me my noodles with a thank you. I appreciate the gesture. Few hawkers here bother to thank you for keeping them in business.

Stall #3: Toa Payoh Central
Who I was: A youth who can't understand a word of Mandarin.

Service standards: The cook says hello as I approach.

I ask for a bowl of mee pok with more chilli please.

As the cook pours vinegar, I say I don't want any. She nods and reaches for a fresh bowl.

As she's preparing the ingredients, I say: 'No pork, please.'

She gestures to the fishcake and mushrooms and I nod.

Ten minutes after I get my mee pok, I return to complain loudly in English: 'It's too hot!'

Cook and assistant look at each other blankly, obviously not understanding.
A customer translates.

The assistant exclaims angrily in Mandarin: 'She said she wanted more chilli at first, now she complains it's too hot.'

Even Ms Friendly Cook shakes her head in disappointment. She dumps my noodles and prepares a fresh bowl, and plonks the sambal chilli on the side instead.

Her assistant hands me my noodles with a glare. Wow, that's one chilli padi.

As I wolf down my noodles, she walks past and glares again. And a third time. Scary!

Stall #4: Another outlet in Upper Cross Street
Who I was: Cocky customer nattering in Mandarin and Hokkien

Service standards: This stall was singled out by Makansutra as one of the country's 'legendary' stalls . So if the food's legendary, how about the service?

A stern-looking helper in her 50s takes the orders.

I order. She says: 'We don't put bean sprouts in our noodles.'

I say: 'Okay, but go easy on the vinegar.'

Thirty seconds later, I say: 'Oh, and I don't want any pork oil or fats in my noodles.'

She maintains her poker face. She breaks into a faint smile when I comment that business is good.

But no 'thank you' when I pay.

- Straits Times, 29 Nov 2005.