He grinned, looking somewhere over the top of our hotpot, fork still twirled around the last few strands of mala-soaked noodles. "You should check out the new gastropub on Amoy Street," he said, after a pause, as though remembering itself gave him great effort. "It's run by a former Chinese fire god. They serve red-hot sliced comets, if you're really looking for a kick."

"Comets?" I mumbled. "Aren't those pretty cold?"

"Not if you catch them while they're falling, then shuck off the inner layer." He spoke in clipped, fast tones, evidently jumping at the chance to impress me. "Some people are real good at doing that. There's not a lot of comet left when they're done, so they have to pack them into foil blankets and serve them within twelve-to-twenty-four hours. I hear they have nets across the sea in South Batam -- the proprietor pays by the kilo for a fresh batch every night."