I did not order the food because i wanted it.
I ordered because someone across the table lit up when the server announced the dish was available. There was that small change in their face, the kind people get when a dish has already arrived in memory before it reaches the table. That kind of expression, sparked by a dish like that, is hard to come by.
So I silently said to myself, “Okay, let’s get that.”
I have done this more often than I admit. At hawker centres, with friends who insist on one particular stall. At family meals, when someone says the sambal is better if you mix it properly. And recently, at No.5 Emerald Hill in Somerset, where the evening had already shifted from dinner to drinks. And that same pattern showed up again in this late evening food spot I had at Somerset with my friends.
The place had that warm, lived-in feeling, with red lantern light, wooden counters, and a Peranakan-style charm that made the whole room feel ready for sharing. I probably would have stayed safely with a familiar drink. But someone mentioned the Chilli Vodka with the same quiet certainty people use when they know a place well. Then came the fried fish cake, thin-crust pizza, and small plates that made more sense when passed around than kept to yourself.
At first, eating through another person’s wants can feel like borrowing their appetite. You taste carefully, almost politely, hoping to find what they found. Sometimes you do. Sometimes you do not.
But even when the dish does not become yours, something else happens. You learn how someone else notices food. You see what they value: heat, softness, char, gravy, crunch, generosity.
In Singapore, that matters. So much of our food culture is built on recommendations, family favourites, and someone saying, “Trust me, try this.”
Maybe that is why I keep saying yes. A dish loved by someone else is not just food. It is an invitation.
