Yes. Keidi’s here.
Seeing Keidi, and my colleague deal with clinical depression’s bittersweet. I don’t mean it in a cruel and demented way – I don’t hide on the sidelines and laugh at their misfortunes. Having said that, there’s a little self validation that two people who know me now know exactly what I went through back then. The road to recovery, as I discovered, is a long, winding and solitary road. My own journey was especially perilous, and I threaded dangerously into dark waters particularly since nobody I knew knew how or where to flag the red zones. I can’t force my friends into sanity – they’ve momentarily forgotten where’s up and where’s down – but now that I know where the red zones are, I can nudge them into a safer path if they do tread too close to mortal and psychological peril.
What began as a hunt for cheap food in Orchard Road quickly turned into a feast at Wild Honey. Well, I suggested it, not because I was craving for it, but because I thought we could share a set. At a previous tasting with Chia Erhn, I remembered us struggling to finish it… Yeah, so that’s why. But situations change, and we ended up ordering our own. Keidi had the Tunisian, which is a Wild Honey fave that’s hard to go wrong with, while I had a newly introduced dish, the Parisienne, which is kind of the poor man’s Norwegian except without the smoked salmon, and fried eggs done egg benedict-esque and doused with the bloody hollandaise sauce, accompanied with rockets with a drop of balsamic vinegar and large cherry tomatoes. It wasn’t what I’d have gone with if I go to Wild Honey – I’d go for at least seven others before I’d choose the Parisienne, but it is the end of the month, and naturally, I become a little stingy.