Care for some prata and poulet, anyone?
There we were at this fancy French joint and my Dad gets wind of local fare next door. I bid adieu to decorum and composure
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THERE'S a running joke in my family that's only funny because it's true: it doesn't matter where in the world my dad is; he'll still want good ol' Singapore food.
On a family holiday in New York, with its smorgasbord of international cuisine? Doesn't matter; he'll insist on making a beeline for Chinatown for some yang chow fried rice.
On a work trip to Melbourne, with its array of world-renown cafes? You'll find him at some dubiously named pseudo-Singapore/Malaysia restaurant, getting his char kway teow fix.
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