Hum Jin Pang

This actually is as good as it gets, for as little as you could possibly ask to pay.
For $ 1, you walk away with a bag of six happy, crispy, puffy hum jin pangs… this is as close as you’ll ever get to daylight robbery without a gun. I mean it when I say I would pay $ 1 for a single piece. Don’t be mistaken though, the goodness of this stall starts with its price, but it certainly doesn’t end there.
There is a lot to appreciate in one humble hum jin pang, and visiting this stall basically gives you a life lesson of sorts. You watch as the auntie tears out a chunk of flour, rolls them, adds a little magic dust, and then throws it into the wokful of oil that separates you from her. Within seconds that non-​descript piece of flour grows, puffs up, and after a minute it is as golden brown as you’d like it to be. Get your hands a little bit dirty and get involved — pick up one of the huge pairs of chopsticks and pick out your own order, leave them to cool in the tray next to the wok, and then dash the sweet ones (identified cleverly by the sesame seeds peppered on its exterior) into the bowl of sugar, and put as much as you’ve ordered into the brown paper bag and walk away so the next person may do the same.
There is so much novelty in all this, and so much charm in its old fashioned simplicity. From the name of the stall you may have an idea as to what to expect — what you see is what you get. You’ll never see another fishball noodles stall called ‘Fishball Noodles’, just as you will never see a chicken rice stall called ‘Chicken Rice’. Yet such is the faith in the organic chemistry of good, honest flour and delightfully sinful oil that there is no need to get all fancy.
The auntie often flies solo and it must be such hard work, yet she has kept the faith all these years. She does call time off once a week on a day that varies, so we’ll always be kept guessing. For this most wonderful and artful ball of flour, I will keep guessing everyday.