There is something truly remarkable about the way Singapore has embraced Michelin stars; an island barely 50 kilometres from end to end now plays host to more than 50 Michelin-starred establishments, a figure that would shame cities ten times its size. But of the city’s most celebrated tables, few stand out as luminously as Saint Pierre – Chef Emmanuel Stroobant’s 2-Michelin-starred temple of French precision and Asian nuance. One might say the chef here treats ingredients the way curators treat art: only the masterpieces get wall space. Impeccable produce and Stroobant’s intuitive artistry guide the arc of the menu, and what finally arrives at the table is a seamless blend of French culinary classicism and Asian grace. It’s an experience meticulously composed by the chef to feel like a private gallery walk, each course unveiled as a singular work of art, quietly executed at the highest level of craft.

Since its 2000 debut, Saint Pierre has played a pivotal role in shaping Singapore’s culinary landscape and is as much about partnership as it is about cuisine: Chef-Owner Stroobant credits his wife Edina Hong as both muse and as the pragmatic force behind the enterprise. “I’m the hands, but she’s the brain,” he smiles, “she’s been with me from day one with the restaurant.” Born in Liège, Belgium, Stroobant trained in the rigours of classical French cooking and quickly rose to prominence at a remarkably young age. He chose, however, to leave the country over 30 years ago in search of travel – first to the US, then through Australia, Malaysia, and other parts of Asia, finally finding his roots in Singapore. “I loved Singapore because I had access to high-quality produce and a mature dining audience. I didn’t have an audience asking for a well-done steak with garlic and chillies,” he laughs. Stroobant was one of Singapore’s earliest pioneers of modern French cuisine, and continues to set the benchmark for fine dining in the city.

In addition to Saint-Pierre, the couple owns the restaurant right next door – Shoukouwa – an edomae sushi-ya, which also holds two Michelin stars. Today, Stroobant is a devoted vegetarian and deeply passionate about yoga, with Saint Pierre’s tasting menu reflecting this spirit: choose either the primarily seafood-focused Opulence menu, or the vegetarian Elegance menu, both inspired by the cyclic flow of the Zen Circle. Along with the menu, diners have the option of a wine or champagne accompaniment, offering pairings from an expert-curated cellar that spans world-class Champagnes, Old World classics and New World wines.

The restaurant opens directly onto a majestic panoramic sweep of the Marina Bay waterfront, a vista few other dining rooms can rival. Inside, the design tempers the drama outside with a minimalist palette – pared-back furnishings, sleek lines, and sculptural lighting – the kind of room where nothing clamours for attention, but everything feels in its right place. We entered the restaurant to find the waterfront painted with the soft golden strokes of the evening sun, a first hint that we were on the cusp of something extraordinary. Chef Emmanuel came out to meet us, and as if reading my mind, asked if we wanted a tour of the kitchen – it’s the culinary equivalent of backstage access at a concert, so of course I said yes.

Step into Saint Pierre’s kitchen and you find less the chaos of clanging pans and more a kind of studied quiet – first, a section dedicated entirely to canapés with two chefs on deck at all times (I would soon find out why), and the rest of the space divided neatly, based on ingredients, into four independent sections. There’s a calm, mindful energy about the space, and the chefs move with the clinical efficiency of surgeons – one suspects that a misplaced sprig of thyme might cause more alarm here than a missed heartbeat.

After the walk around we were seated back at our table to a glass of champagne – for me, an ambrosial glass of Les Belles Voyes – the prestige cuvée from Franck Bonville – a Blanc de Blancs crafted entirely from Chardonnay grapes grown in a single Grand Cru vineyard in Oger, with rich notes of toasted nuts and a luminous golden hue the colour of the setting sun, and for my brother Rohan, a glass of Larmandier-Bernier’s Longitude – a Premier Cru Blanc de Blancs. This evening, I’d be sampling the Opulence menu while Rohan opted for the Elegance. Along with the bubbles came a thrilling quartet of canapés to start us off, and I understood immediately why they needed the undivided attention of two chefs. These tiny tartlets were masterpieces in miniature, adorned ceremoniously with a constellation of microscopic edible flowers, and handcrafted with a ritualistic precision reminiscent of Tibetan monks layering sand-grain by grain to create the sacred sand mandalas that adorn Buddhist monasteries. In the same way these mandalas are crafted and consecrated only to be ritually destroyed (a Buddhist lesson in impermanence), these exquisite canapés were predestined to be devoured in a single, gluttonous bite by me.

Marrying Japanese brine and acidity with the refinement of French-style pastry technique, the first canapé is a precious umeboshi tartlet with silken cauliflower velouté and perilla gel, topped with hanaho flowers, shiso leaves, and pink and purple cornflowers; the next, tiny pickled purple cauliflower delicately perched around creamy cauliflower bonito cream, adorned with salmon roe, yuzu jelly and zest, and crowned with chervil and verbena blooms; the third, a fragile feuille de brick roll filled with succulent Brittany blue lobster, its natural sweetness sharpened by curry rouille and cauliflower-turmeric jam, and lifted with the saline brine of pickled dulse and pungency of mustard blossoms; and the final, a crisp tartlet imbibed with the forest-like warmth of shimeji mushroom and dill, their umami deepened by a glossy miso-sudachi soy glaze and finished with the gentle freshness of chive and chrysanthemum blossoms. Each canapé is so delicate it shatters at first bite, proving that the best pleasures in life are designed to vanish before you can quite believe you had them.

Before I had time to mourn the loss, the first course arrived to fill the void – a balletic blend of smoke, heat and brine: wasabi-laced herb mousse atop silky, supple Spanish river eel, crowned with saline bursts of Oscietra caviar. My first briny bite is met with a delicate snap of the wafer-thin feuille de brick tuile surrounding the eel, combined with upliftingly aromatic notes of the leek-dill emulsion and lush vichyssoise dotted with Shadi caviar. To go with this course, a glass of Michel Lafarge’s Bourgogne Aligoté, the ‘Raisins Dorés’ – a crystalline white as crisp as a morning breeze in Burgundy, with citrus zest, white flowers, and a finish that lingers like river stone. This particular wine comes from old vines of the rarer Aligoté Doré, resulting in much more depth and character than most Aligotés. The Aligoté grape, Burgundy’s “other” white variety, can sometimes be overlooked next to Chardonnay but, in the right hands, yields fresh, mineral, and complex wines.

The Manjimup marron arrives next – plump and glistening from its poach with marron oil – surrounded by a halo of Jerusalem artichoke purée. The marron flesh, tender and succulently sweet, is graced with a trace of Maldon salt, and yields with a supple, springy juiciness beneath the imperious stab of my fork. A drizzle of buttermilk-wasabi dressing with dill oil sharpens the finish of the dish, oba jelly lends a gentle herbaceous perfume, and a fairy ring of the tiniest purple vervain flowers surrounds the voluptuous marron almost ceremoniously. It looks like art, tastes like poetry. With it, a glass of Joseph Drouhin’s Chablis Premier Cru, from their Vaudon estate in Chablis – a delightful lemony zesty white that slices through the marron’s buttery flesh with sculpted clarity.

Half a glass in, I decide that this evening’s tasting is definitely a result of my good karma from a past life. Maybe I was a benevolent nun, or someone who never posted gym selfies. Whatever it was, I’d clearly done something right. Before I could decide, the next course arrived – Shizuoka crab cooked to perfection à l’étouffée, seductively tender and sumptuously sweet. With it, cassoulet-style creamy slow-cooked cannellini beans, brightened by fragrant green curry and the crisp, perfumed notes of Chinese celery pistou. It’s accompanied by a lovely yuzu kosho-angelica emulsion, and topped off with spicy mustard flowers and pretty pink alyssum blooms. A miniature bouquet of white alyssum flowers garnishes the side of the dish, an ethereal touch of fairy magic to contrast the exacting, disciplined precision required to perfect such a masterfully crafted plate. It is precisely this dialogue that situates Saint Pierre firmly in the zeitgeist; French technique, with all its precision and rigour, finds harmony in the delicate, mindful preparations and luminous simplicity of Japanese produce. Each course manages to feel fresh, new and acutely of the moment, while still being deeply rooted in craft and tradition. It’s a culinary partnership that sidesteps the usual clichés of fusion cuisine to create something that feels wholly original.

Next to arrive is the scallop, a shellfish after my own heart, but cleverly disguised in a form I hadn’t seen coming. As a child of Nova Scotia, having been raised within arm’s reach of some of the world’s freshest scallops, one tends to develop opinions on the little molluscs the same way Italians develop opinions on pasta, which is why when I saw Hokkaido Scallop on the tasting menu, I was especially intrigued. It arrived looking unlike any scallop I’ve ever encountered – silken Hokkaido scallop gently encased within a cylinder of winter leek that’s been charred with Binchotan – a kind of Japanese white charcoal famed for burning extremely hot and clean, giving food a precise, refined char with subtle smokiness and concentrated sweetness. It arrives on a plate cosplaying a canvas, painted with gleaming strokes of green parsley oil, brandy-hued sauce à l’Armoricaine and a pristine ivory ring of celeriac purée. Chef Emmanuel’s French inspiration is also vividly evident in the menu’s sauces, which he pairs with the subtle pristine beauty of Japanese ingredients and a reverential approach to preparation and plating, more akin to temple ritual than to restaurant protocol.

The next course surprised with the sheer beauty of its simplicity – a single baked Amela tomato, renowned in Shizuoka for its luscious candy-like sweetness, was a reminder of how the simplest ingredient can feel transcendent, when impeccably fresh and artfully, intentionally prepared. In an age of foams and fermentations, here it’s a solitary baked tomato that takes one’s breath away – paired in this case with white miso emulsion and brightened by a galangal consommé.

For the main course, my choice was between the poached Brittany blue lobster and the Ōmi beef – I decided on the latter. Ōmi beef is Japan’s oldest wagyu lineage, once served to emperors and shoguns of ancient Edo. The cattle are raised near Lake Biwa in Shiga Prefecture (the modern name for Ōmi), and the meat itself is prized for its fine marbling, velvety texture, and sweet, clean flavour. “This may sound strange coming from a chef, but I don’t have a lot of meat on the menu” Chef Emmanuel would tell me later, a longtime vegetarian himself – “I’m very mindful when it comes to this topic. The man I’m buying the meat from in Ōmi is an elderly man; he must be in his 80s at this point, and his production is tiny – maybe 7 or 8 heads a month, which is incredibly small. But when you see the way he raises his cattle, there is something about his process that is just so deeply respectful and reverential. I don’t see this in the US, I don’t see it anywhere else – so that’s why I choose to work with this man”.

My opulent cut of wagyu arrives, a delicate, silken sliver with marbling so intricate it resembles fine lacework, glistening with fatty sheen and dissolving like a snowflake on the tongue – leaving a decadent sweetness that lingers long after the bite. I savour each morsel like an offering from the shrine of wagyu – it’s been grilled to release its deep succulence, and paired with the gentle spice of confit sand carrot, the sweetness of caramelised banana shallot, and an aromatic sea of port-shallot purée, accented by a beef jus perfumed with Szechuan peppercorn oil. At this point, I decide to switch to red: I settle on a glass of the 2019 Château La Lagune, from Bordeaux’s Left Bank. Fragrant with plump, juicy blackberries and fresh summer violets, the wine is able to complement the wagyu’s delicate sweetness while also cleansing the palate between each decadent, buttery bite.

Satiated and several glasses of wine in, I’m happy as a Hamaguri clam. As if reading my mind once again, a pot of herbal tea appears at the table as a graceful pause after the indulgence of the last course – an enchanted, crystal-clear teapot swirling with Burdock root, angelica, myoga (Japanese ginger flower), rosemary, lemon thyme, and oba leaf, all steeped for 7 minutes. As if by magic, chef Emmanuel arrives like a culinary djinn, conjuring a cheese trolley laden with treasures worthy of an epicure’s most vivid fantasies – there’s classic Brillat-Savarin, a triple-cream cow’s milk cheese, silky textured with a subtle tang; a small wheel of Banon cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves, a Provençal tradition that retains moisture and infuses the cheese with earthy, herbal flavours, revealing a luscious, soft goat’s milk center; Comté cheese from the Jura Mountains in eastern France, a classic French alpine cheese that’s nutty and milky; a hearty chunk of strong, wonderfully smelly Roquefort papillon blue cheese, and a generous slice of Tête de Moine, a nutty semi-hard cheese from the Jura mountains of Switzerland, embodying the alpine pastures and artisanal heritage of its homeland and traditionally served shaved into delicate rosettes – as it was on my plate.

A savoury interlude of cheese led seamlessly to the pre-dessert, which arrived tasting like autumn – delicate Aichi persimmon from the Aichi Prefecture, a sublime Japanese autumn fruit the colour of the rising sun, melts into a warm cinnamon-butternut pumpkin blancmange, with an icy olive oil sorbet slipping in like the season’s first frost. As I’m sure we can all agree, one sweet treat is never enough – after the initial palate cleanser, the real dessert comes out to play: a light, airy brioche-like cake steeped in lemongrass-ginger syrup, offset by the tart snap of Tulameen raspberries and a fresh floral cloud of lychee Chantilly cream.

The grand finale is a beautiful wooden box that’s been handcrafted by woodwork artist Alvan Koh as a home for the restaurant’s after-dinner treats; the box is lined with kumiko latticework, a traditional Japanese woodworking technique where slender pieces of wood are painstakingly assembled, piece by piece, without nails. It opens like a mythical treasure chest to reveal a rainbow of petits-fours – bons bons like Earl Grey & Bergamot with a subtle floral perfume, tropical Passionfruit & Hazelnut, Pistachio & sweet Rose, Passionfruit & Hazelnut, alongside yuzu-brown butter financiers – tiny delectable French almond cakes – dusted with a green-citrusy sudachi zest. Melt.

Not to be dramatic, but by the finale of the meal, I was fairly certain nirvana could be reached vis-à-vis Shizuoka crab and bonbons. The beauty of Saint Pierre’s tasting menu is its ability to balance precision with provocation, ensuring each course surprises without slipping into novelty for novelty’s sake. Under Chef Emmanuel’s hand, even the simplest ingredient tastes like revelation, due to a compelling combination of culinary mastery, imaginative artistry and precision of technique. In addition to this, his meticulous attention to detail and genuine care when it comes to sourcing immaculately fresh produce are integral; each ingredient is given the space to shine, elevating pristine produce without gratuitous ornamentation. There is a broader philosophy at play, one that approaches each course with the same solemn grace and reverence as a temple ritual, a vision that treats food not as a commodity but as a ceremony. One leaves not simply having dined, but with the sort of satiation that nourishes the spirit as much as it does the palate, a soulful kind of fulfilment usually reserved for art, music, or poetry.

Saint Pierre
T: +65 6438 0887
W: Saint Pierre
E: Reservations
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Saint Pierre’s operational hours
6 pm to 11 pm (Dinner) on Tuesdays
11.30 am to 3 pm (Lunch), and 6 pm to 11 pm (Dinner) from Wednesdays to Saturdays

Written by Nirupama Belliappa for Luxuria Lifestyle International