Shang Palace

It’s always worrying when a restaurant embarks on a facelift. All too often, the result – like a bad episode of Stars of the ’70s: Where Are They Now? – is so unflattering you can’t help but wonder what was so wrong with the original look. Sometimes it’s better to look your age (read: dated) than stretched and plasticky. 

Thank goodness the 36-year-old Shang Palace’s $4 million makeover has been making news for all the right reasons. From the hand-painted flowers on the golden walls to the lacquer-red ceiling panelling and glittering curtain chandeliers, the feel is warmly soigné and relaxed. With its new look and an overhauled menu – chef Peter Tsang has updated 80 per cent of the dishes – it’s no surprise that the restaurant, since reopening this past November, has attracted tourists, families and A-list power lunchers alike (including, on one visit, the MediaCorp editorial director; a former SPH bigwig; a table of members from an old-money family; and a couple from Texas). 

The standards are still there on the menu, including several politically incorrect pages of sharks’-fin and birds’-nest soups, but for the rest, Tsang has parlayed his stints with Crystal Jade and Tokyo’s Imperial Hotel into creating a slick, perfectly executed range of Canto-classics with a smattering of Shanghainese and Sichuan notes. 

Every dish is quietly, but confidently, prepared and presented. And because it’s all so restrained, it’s sometimes easy to underappreciate the technical adeptness that Tsang brings to bear on, say, the fleetingly perfumed strawberry mousse, or the marvellous Peking duck. The latter – the skin a deep mahogany, almost blackened, hue – was cut tableside with just the right layer of fat before it was enveloped in a tender, pale yellow pancake, a slash of hoisin sauce and hit with the sharp and sudden heat of a spring onion sprig. 

Incomparable, too, was the winter melon soup, a velvety, unctuous, pale green ambrosia streaked with translucent strips of bitter gourd. Even the ubiquitous crabmeat soup distinguished itself with golden pops of sweet, fresh corn; while the humble fried rice was smoky and aromatic with pine nuts and peanuts. Most seductive, too, were gao gay greens bathed in a crystalline stock and topped with a creamy combination of century, salted and plain eggs. 

Seafood, the hallmark of any good Cantonese kitchen, is done particularly well: the yellow croaker, seasoned simply with pepper and salt and then flash fried, charmed with its tender flesh and light flavours. Those looking for a less indulgent (and cheaper) meal should investigate the dim sum menu, which shows off the kitchen’s considerable chops with a pillow-light char siew bao, and turnip cake with the creamy texture of good pan-fried foie gras. 

Not surprisingly, the service was, with only one rare misstep, flawless. The unflappable front desk couldn’t find our reservation but nevertheless promptly had us seated without blinking; the brisk, pitch-perfect waitress remembered us from an earlier visit, right down to what we’d ordered (no, they didn’t know Time Out Singapore was in the house), the dishes arrived quietly and then cleared unobtrusively without disturbing the flow of conversation. 

The sole trip-up occurred on the second dinner (apart from the fact that our tea cups got cold far too often), when a flute of Veuve Clicquot arrived at the table, flatlined and bubble-less. It was obviously the dregs of a bottle opened a long time ago – unacceptable at $30 a pop after taxes. Our request for it to be replaced was met with an uncomprehending blank stare, which was followed by urgent whispered discussions in the corner. To everyone’s credit, a brand new bottle was quickly presented to the table with a flourish, the cork popped with a muffled sigh, and moments later, all was rosy once again with the world. 

Ground floor, Shangri-La, 22 Orange Grove Rd (6213 4473). Take a taxi. Mon-Fri 11.30am-2.30pm, 6.30- 10.30pm; Sat-Sun 10.30am-2.30pm, 6.30-10.30pm. Main courses $12-$38.