I first visited the local creperie Madam Flod on a Friday evening in July, seated with a date three tables from the entrance. We were far from the griddle, but close enough to be drawn into the theatre of it all.
The man behind the counter had the kind of quiet confidence that comes from knowing his batter is just right. With a ladle of buckwheat in hand, he poured it onto a gas-fired cast steel griddle, spreading it in a quick, practiced swirl. The smell of butter lifted off the hotplate, thick enough to muffle the noise of the Boat Quay shophouse.
I can only imagine how the edges sizzled and hissed as the batter brown and solidified before the lady beside the man brushed (more?) butter and adorned the soon-to-be galette with garnishes and ham. This clearly wasn’t their first rodeo.
The galettes that eventually landed in front of us, smoke trailing in gentle plumes, their edges browned like the rim of a madeleine, had us at a chokehold. For a moment, our small talk stopped. And we ogled in great amusement at the rustic pancake. How do we eat this delicate piece of carb? That’s a lot of money for this delicate piece of carb? Oh how dare we savour this fragrant piece of carb?
Then a plate shattered in the kitchen. The crack rang out sharp and clean, snapping us back. His wife swept it up briskly, unbothered by the stares. We then tucked in (more on that later).
I returned the following Monday, this time alone. The same waitress, who couldn’t recognise me, sat me a few chairs from where we had been, still near the front, but closer to the door, a spot I dislike. You can’t see the griddle from there, can’t watch the batter spin thin and fast, can’t smell the butter early enough. And yet, when the galette and crepe arrived, they made their point: same crisp lacework, same gentle chew. Different night, different company, worse seat, but same result. That’s when I started paying attention.
There are two kinds of people who eat crepes: those who want a soft vehicle for Nutella (like the ones in Harajuku), and those who care about the batter. Madam Flod is built for the latter. Their galettes don’t hide behind cream or strawberries flown in from somewhere expensive. They begin with buckwheat (yes, that earthy, mineral flour from Brittany). The couple behind the counter, Frenchman Nathan Nuzzo and Hungarian Eniko Pongracz, sometimes wear matching red-and-white striped shirts. Or maybe white-and-red. I won’t pretend to know. But I digress.
Galettes, depending on where you’re from, mean different things. The word’s roots trace back to the Norman gale which is a kind of flat cake. In Brittany, they’re crepes made from buckwheat, crisp at the edges and folded neatly around the quintessential ingredients: ham, cheese, or egg. Sometimes eaten before church. Sometimes after work. Often, rarely dress up. It is the sort of food that’s comforting without ceremony. Which is why I paid close attention to the first few bites. Despite the ease of the place, behind handwritten signs, wipe-down tables, and a flickering votive candle at each table, what lands on the plate is anything but careless.
Now on to the delights.
All the galettes arrived folded like a love letter, crisp at the edges, sealed at the corners, and with a mini glory hole that hints at what’s to come. I know what glory holes are, of course; they hold surprises. But not all surprises are good.
The Galette Ratatouille came cradling a sunny-side up (or just a yolk). What’s hidden beneath were gently stewed cubes of tomatoes, tender eggplant (see the glory hole reference makes sense), and briny olives. There was a flicker of heat in the chorizo but it didn’t catch fire. Then again, the buckwheat did what buckwheat should: tasted vaguely of minerals and ash, and crisped up like the corner of a cracker. It held the other galettes together well. In fact, it was reported that the galette and crepes here are made at a higher temperature (Kraz style), which gives them a crispier crunch and darker tone.
Madam Flod, I later learnt from research (courtesy of 8Days Eats), was once the name of Nuzzo’s and Eniko’s boat. The year was 2017, and the duo had bought a second-hand canal boat to sail to different islands around the Stockholm Archipelago to sell crepes.
This very outlet at Boat Quay is the couple’s first inland creperie. The island-city has a couple of already established crepe and galette-selling establishments, including Entre-Nous Creperie on Seah Street and French Fold restaurants on Telok Ayer and Orchard Road.
Then came another galette; same shape, same structure, and the same suggestive window. Except in this case, the smell hit me first.
The Galette Roquefort listed three cheeses, walnuts, and honey. On paper, it was a riot. In reality, the Roquefort showed up in a few polite smudges. Everything else played nice: the chèvre added tang, the walnuts were warm and sweet, the honey did what honey does. The centre, that now-standard opening, suggested something wild. Instead, it played it safe. Maybe that’s the compromise: dial down the funk for a city that isn’t sold on blue cheese. But if you’re going to open a window like that, you owe us more than restraint. I still liked it.
Now, the creperie offers two interesting starters, which I have yet savoured in my life. And so it was amusing to chew on chilled but tender poached leeks (what sweetness they held) with crunchy almonds. Madam Flod’s terrine de canard, served with toasted sourdough bread, was an undersized meal of its own. Even so, the gelatinous starter was very layered, flavoured and had hints of game (the duck).
I digress again.
Galettes done, I turned to the crepes, the thinner, softer, and less inclined to provoke. I was delighted to see the salted French butter bled through the folds of the Sugar, Butter and Lemon Crepe, staining the wheat just enough to show it had soaked sufficiently. The sugar crackle in the mouth was immediate, loud, gritty, and very satisfying. Then came the lemon: sharp, fast, and more bracing than I’d expected. Delish.
Its other cousin, the Cinnamon and Butter crepe, arrived warm, gently spiced, and equally tasty.
Anyhow, galettes are not meant to impress. That’s the point. In a time when pastry can look like architecture, there’s something disarming about watching a French man (or woman) pour batter onto a griddle, wait, fold, and serve. The couple has likely done this hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times. And when you do it enough, the edges start to frill just right.
Madam Flod is located at 47 South Bridge Road, Singapore 058680.
Meals tried: 2
Price: $$ (out of $$$$$)
Rating: 2/5
What the rating means?
1/5: Poor
2/5: Average
3/5: Good
4/5: Very Good
5/5: Sublime.
This was not a sponsored tasting. The meals at Madam Flod were paid by yours truly. All thoughts are my own.
