Dallas

What is it about Boat Quay that just makes me want to hold my breath and scuttle hurriedly through to Raffles Place? Perhaps it’s the fact that, despite everyone’s good intentions, there’s a rather desperate air about the stretch, which possesses neither the charm of Sydney’s The Rocks nor the earnest cheesiness of San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf. A big part of it has to do with the unbearable touts who harass any passer-by who looks remotely like a gwai-loh or an expense account. But a bigger part of it has to do with the fact that, by and large, the food offerings here just aren’t very good. 

The four-month-old Dallas, for instance, offers a ‘new contemporary American-style dining destination’. For starters, what does ‘American-style’ even mean – is it New Mexico, New England, Midwest, Tex-Mex, Deep South, Californian? As it turns out, there’s a little bit of everything on the restaurant’s glossy, pearl-papered menu: it’s the Western version of a chop suey. And not a very good one at that. 

There are two main dining areas – the ground-floor bar, where the lights are a little too bright, though the high stools on the five-foot way are a good spot to perch and people-watch; and a more luxurious second-floor dining room with comfy banquettes and window views of the Singapore River. The trouble is, the food never lives up to the promising setting; and like Andy Roddick on a bad day, the errors start early in the game. Take the grilled prawn kebabs. Bacon strips wrapped around lime wedges and prawns might sound like a good idea on paper, but who wants to bite into thick bitter peel, and crustaceans so severely undercooked (and over-salted) that the dish, along with a listless mango salsa, had to be sent back to the kitchen for more grilling time? 

The New England clam chowder was watery and lacked any hint of the sea, even though fresh clams were used; meanwhile the stack of cheese-and spinach quesadilla might have been excellent, were it not for the hard, dry edges around the pancakes and watery filling that turned everything soggy before you’ve even applied the knife and fork. And Southern fried chicken should be golden with a fluffy, crunchy batter crust that’s salty and peppery, with the rich undertow of buttermilk. Dallas’s version suffered from a miserly dredge in flour, looking like har-jeong gai (Chinese prawn-paste-coated fried chicken), but with so little flavour that the watery Caesar salad-like dip looked good. 

By now, I was looking forward to the end of the meal, but curiosity as to how much worse things could get kept me glued to my seat. 

Sure enough, things did get worse. Kitchens need to know that the sides should be prepared with as much attention as the mains, otherwise it’s best not to bother. Case in point: Dallas’s tasteless and lumpy potato mash that had an odd smoky colour, or the slab of grilled Aussie rib-eye that, while nice enough, was completely overshadowed by the over-fried, hard-as-cardboard chips. 

The roast pork marinated in maple syrup was promising, the meat tender, juicy and glossy from the honeyed marinade. The accompanying potato wedges – perfectly seasoned with crisp exterior and moist interior – were, I suspect, packet-bought. However, the promise fizzled with a side of coleslaw that was far too wet, with no punch of cabbage in the taste, and a grilled corn on the cob that was so dry it was one second away from spontaneously combusting into popcorn. 

A plea to the kitchens of Singapore: please stop reheating cooked pasta. Either be bothered to make a fresh batch or strike the item from your menu. Mamma’s Spaghetti with Meatballs was a clump of barely re-warmed pasta, with meatballs that had the texture of cotton wool, all dumped into a dry, overly sweet tomato sauce. My lunch companion pulled a face and muttered that she was having an economy-seat cabin moment. 

And just when I was left wondering what else could go wrong, the waiter emerged from the kitchen with an apple pie and attempted to slot it on to our table, which was still crowded with unfinished main course dishes. We had to help him clear the table to make room. The pie would have been great, were it not for the rather damp crust topping. The brownie, at $12 a slice, was unforgivably dry (thank goodness for the accompanying scoop of vanilla Häagen-Dazs), and the similarly priced cheesecake was, like just about every dish I tried over two lunches, remarkably indifferent. I’m going to keep holding my breath.