A Rhapsody: Dawn at a Wet Market

Organic pork, or so they say. They just hang them there, and I wonder, at home, why do I have them refrigerated?


Probably only the French or the Japanese could rival the variety of cuts these butchers create. But no one would even come close to how romantic and poetic these cigarette smoking apron wearing foulmouthed men can be.

“The Loin that Seals the Gates” “The Belly of 5 Flowers” “The Hanging Dragon’s Buddy”



He serenades the chatter of ladies with his bamboo broom, the tarmac and turnip bits.

But why bother to clean it though, when it’s going to get hideously dirty anyway? It’s the wet market, it’s going to be nasty!



You witness the versatility of their knives, from popping fish eyeballs to shaving ice for a wonderful fishy Slush. Yum. Hind shanks chunk and his rump, all coordinated like a skilled ballerina.



For you and I to savour Indian pomegranates and Southern Brazilian passion fruits, piles and piles of earthly (carbon footprint) guilt.

It’s mind-boggling, seriously. This is just one stall, chee sin!!



Hidden among all these, a little oasis of roses, sky of stars and Lilies. I didn’t understand how a florist would fit into this chaos, then I finally get it …

Going home before 8 am with chicken gizzards + dragon fruits + a bouquet of sunflower, defines the manhood of a middle-aged man.

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