Appetite For Destruction

Sunsets and culinary slingshots. That’s just for starters, babe

- Amanda Suriya Ariffin

I didn’t Google Jeff Ramsey before I met him, on purpose. All I knew of him was that he had a Michelin star to his name, and he was finally available for a chat. I’ve always been a firm believer that where possible, go for an experience without the overhang of expectation or the filaments of other people’s opinions lolling about the periphery of your consciousness.

Any adventurous or fortunate soul who’s had the privilege of trying the disarming culinary explosion and unexpected sensory caress of Babe at Clearwater knows what I mean.

As the entourage of my dining companions and I converge at the lobby, the bubbly Ivy leads us to a lift.

Oh, I ask, surprised. I can’t just walk in like I can to Ploy? (Ploy and Way Modern, on the ground floor, are gastro-siblings to Babe.)

No. There is a dedicated lift, unmarked, that requires a uniformed person to open for you, that whisks you to the 11th floor (I was quietly glad I had Ivy to show us the way, because I certainly wouldn’t have had the first clue how to “arrive”, as it were.)

Once the lift doors open, there is Azhar, the man who has been front of house for three years, tall and trim and all punctilious politeness.

And while I am momentarily distracted by the plethora of champagne bottles perched precariously on shelves behind the marble reception, I turn my head right and spot the first of many delights: a lap pool, just to the right of the entrance, hugging the side of the restaurant.

Yes, a lap pool. In meticulous condition, in its turquoise calmness, silently spanning the length of Babe from entrance to infinity edge. And then, the openness of sky.