The steam was the first thing I lost. It was well past midnight at Bedok 85, and I had been standing at Chai Chee Pork Porridge for a while, camera down, watching the auntie work the pot. She lifted the ladle, let the porridge fall back in a slow white ribbon, then lifted it again.…

The first thing I noticed was the light. It was not the kind of light a photographer usually looks for. The fluorescent tubes above the stalls at 85 Fengshan Centre cast a pale, uneven glow across the tables, flattening some colours while exaggerating others. But at 1am, standing in front of the fried oyster stall…

The wings went on before I found my angle. It was close to midnight at Bedok North, and I had been standing at Sin Bedok North BBQ for a while, camera down, watching the wings land on the grate in a neat row. The uncle laid them out without looking, the way you do a…

The grill was the brightest thing in the room, and that was the problem. It was past eleven at Fengshan Market & Food Centre, and I had been standing near Chan BBQ for a while, camera down, watching the uncle work the coals. He moved without hurry. A pair of tongs in one hand, a…

The smoke found me before the food did. It was close to midnight at Bedok 85, and I had been standing at Chomp Chomp BBQ for a while, camera down, letting my eyes settle. The uncle worked the grill with his back half turned to the crowd, a pair of tongs in one hand, the…

The pot never stopped moving. It was near midnight at Bedok 85, and I had been standing at Seng Hiang for a while, doing more watching than shooting. The auntie worked the noodles in a wire basket, dipping them into the boiling water, lifting, shaking off the drops in three quick beats. She did not…

The steam came up in one thin ribbon, and I almost missed it. It was near eleven at Bedok 85, and I had been standing at Xing Ji Rou Cuo Mian for a while, watching more than shooting. The uncle worked the noodles in a wire basket, dunking them into the boiling water, lifting, shaking…

It was past ten when I got to Bedok 85, and the steam was doing all the talking. Fong Seng was long shut by then, but the hawker centre still hummed. A few tables of men in singlets nursing beers. The clack of a wok somewhere behind me. And that particular fluorescent glare that flattens…

The wok never stopped roaring. It was almost midnight at a zi char stall in Geylang, and the flames kept leaping up in short, angry bursts. Trays clattered. Someone shouted an order across the aisle. A cleaner dragged a bin past my chair. I sat there with my camera in my lap, waiting for a…

The smoke reached me before the food did. It was close to one in the morning, and I was standing at a satay stall near Lau Pa Sat, watching a man fan his coals in slow, practiced strokes. Each pass sent up a curl of grey that caught the streetlight and vanished. I had my…