I’m in a tiny Sichuan restaurant in Singapore’s Chinatown, pointing at a picture menu and using gestures, the universal language when it’s nearly sunrise and you’ve had a long night. The Sichuan restaurant we’ve stumbled into, curiously named, Oriental Chinese Restaurant at Pickering, doesn’t have an English menu, and the staff don’t speak English either. The woks are hissing, the air smells like chilli oil and vinegar, and a staff member places a plate of pork fried rice in front of me like a small miracle. It’s spicy, salty, and just the kind of meal that brings you back to life at the end of a night that’s gone on too long.
Only a few hours earlier, I was at the Amber Lounge, the hottest Formula 1 afterparty in town, watching Jay Sean perform Down, the 2008 anthem that every millennial knows by muscle memory. There was confetti, lasers, dancers spinning while suspended from aerial hoops, champagne showers, and the whole thing felt like a fever dream. Thirteen-year-old me would’ve gone feral; 28-year-old me was excited enough, but more than anything, hungry.
I arrived in Singapore during Formula 1 Grand Prix weekend, one of the few night races on the Formula 1 calendar, when the entire city shifts into after-hours mode. Practice sessions, qualifying laps, and the final race all run after sunset, the circuit glows against the bay, and travellers from around the world converge in the Lion City for late nights, high BPM afterparties, and evenings that blur into early mornings.
