Saveur is an affordable French restaurant nestled between swish corporate offices and a busy shopping district. It has travelled a long way from its humble beginnings as a modest stall in the far-most corner of a large food court, the passion project of two young Singaporean chefs who sacked off their office nine-to-fives to bring affordable French food to Singapore. Three hundred restaurants open and close every year in central Singapore, yet the fame of Saveur’s dishes has weathered it through eight years of market instability. You only need to glance at the menu to be drawn in: their signature duck confit and sweet rolled angel hair, a crispy pork belly and cassoulet—and, most famous of all, their legendary pistachio panna cotta. The restaurant’s location and decor is far from fancy—all polished plastic tables and white tiled walls—but their food attracts a faithful audience of Singaporean yuppies, who eat and drink to the sound of Ed Sheeran’s ‘Shape of You’.

The first thing I notice when I arrive in the kitchen—working a summer job—is that all the chefs around me are young Malaysian and Mandarin-speaking men. They sneak surreptitious glances at me as I cube the carrots and shelve the dishes. I am the new girl, the small Singaporean hiding her deficiency in Chinese by communicating exclusively in smiles and nods. Han, the front chef, stands next to me stirring the soup. He attempts to speak to me in broken English but I struggle to hear: the kitchen is loud and lively, everyone’s laughing and cracking jokes. During dinner service frenzied people continue to ask me questions in Chinese that I have to ask them to repeat once, twice; more than three times.

I am the exception in the kitchen, that much is obvious. Singaporeans like me tend to shy away from this kind of low-pay, labour-intensive, long-hour employment—leaving Malaysians to pick up the slack. They dislike the job as much as Singaporeans, but when you have committed three years of intense study to culinary school, there is no option but to take what you’re given. Everyone in the kitchen dreams of success. While pouring out the soup, Han tells me of his dream to set up his own nasi lemak (spicy coconut rice) restaurant. Progress is slow—hindered by sky-high rents, amongst other things—but his dream persists: “I’ve nailed the chilli sauce”, he tells me, “so now I just need to nail the rice.” All the chefs dream of owning their own restaurant in Singapore, though few will likely succeed.

A typical day’s work goes like this. I arrive at the kitchen at 10.30am, wearing cargo pants and clunky waterproof shoes, before I swap my shirt for a chef jacket and head into the kitchen, murmuring a shy Mandarin “good morning” to Eric and Thomas, who are already boiling potatoes and roasting the pork in preparation for lunch. Eric looks about my age, carries his shoulders in a boyish hunch and wears a flashy pair of sneakers, while Thomas is plump, bespectacled and slightly nerdy. I join them, heaving out two big pots in order to make a start on the mushroom soup and begin to wash and dry the salad in a large spinner, hugging it close to my chest to prevent it from flying off the counter. I slice the cherry tomatoes, mince the chives, and haul the buckets of ice into the front kitchen. Work is in full-flow when Peter, the head-chef, arrives. He is tall and tanned, with his hair spiked like a Chinese pop star. He berates Eric, half-joking, half-serious, for wearing his brand new sneakers in the kitchen. Then, at 11.45am, the lights turn on and the opening plinks of ‘Shape of You’ begin bouncing between the restaurant’s walls. It’s the first song of the day. It’s al- ways the first song of the day.

Aprons are donned. Peter goes through each station and starts yelling orders. Service starts out slow—a mushroom soup here, a salad there. The crowds ebb and flow. I begin to roll the pasta into spirals, then heat the soups. The crowds slowly build. Orders begin to roll out fast and small paper slips are passed between the chefs. Mid-service something will always run out—often it’s the pork sauce for the pasta—and I duck into the freezer and ferry a new packet of sauce to the worktops. Bursts of orange flame illuminate our faces. “Two salad out,” I shout over to Han, placing two bowls piled high with leaves on the service counter. “Oui,” he replies. The bowls are whisked away by the service staff as I return to the mounting line of orders. Glasses of green pistachio panna cotta are dished out. The freezer door is opened and closed. Often an unattended lava cake will erupt in the microwave. Eventually, the receipt machine falls silent. The chefs take a breather, or smoke in the parking lot. They giggle and play at impromptu arm-wrestling to fill the time.

I often went next door to the pastry kitchen to gossip with Fee. Unlike the other chefs, Fee is Singaporean and speaks both Chinese and English. I first met her when I was sent to retrieve the ice cream. Chatting to Fee soon became a part of my daily routine. Once, while she was stock-taking, she let me lick the pistachio panna cotta mixture off one of her spoons. To this day, it remains one of the best things I’ve ever tasted. “You never eat the panna cotta ah?!” she asks.

“No!” I reply, in Singlish, “You never let me try!”