Singburi, Unit 7, Montacute Yards, 185‑186 Shoreditch High St, London E1 6HU

An evolution of legacy

When Singburi announced its closure in November last year for its annual sabbatical, you could already feel something shifting under the surface. This time, it had a creeping sense of foreshadowing, in the same way the news of your favourite ailing family member announcing that ‘this will probably be their last trip abroad’ might.

With flailing limbs and social media ablaze, it seemed some people now felt abandoned, having trodden water for so long, nervous in the wake of Singburi’s radio silence. They were on holiday, after all.

When the announcement of its closure finally came, people understandably despaired. Following 25 years of service, going from a humble chippy to unintentionally building a Leytonstone cult, if anyone deserved to kick their feet up, it was Thelma and her husband, Tony. Although gutted to never again be told off by Thelma for ordering dessert before finishing the board of specials, I was surging with happiness on their behalf. We’d had it too good for too long.

Gaaeng tai pla haeng: fermented innards, grilled mackerel dry curry | Naem sii krong moo & name prik kha: fried sour pork & galangal chilli relish at Catalyst

In February 2024, their son, Sirichai Kularbwong, who’d always cooked at Singburi, re-emerged to shake the pans with Nick Molyviatis (whose credentials include Kiln, Plaza Khao Gaeng & Speedboat Bar) for a pop-up at Catalyst Coffee, owned by Alexander Gkikas in Holborn. Sirichai and Nick then appeared at Rambutan to splice Thai, Greek and Sri Lankan food together with aplomb. We didn’t necessarily know it at the time, but they were testing the waters.

Grilled mussels with pla ra & horapa | Lamb kiofte massaman, tzatziki & roti at at Rambutan

Tucked away off the main drag behind Rudy’s Pizza, Singburi’s new location is jarring compared to the ‘front room of someone’s house’ charm of the original spot. All glass with a terrazzo floor and earthy colours offset by pastel green, orange and grey, it’s been given the modern zhuzh that you might expect of Shoreditch, complete with a view of the brutal concrete of the Overground just outside.

The setup is similar to Kiln; a linear, open kitchen across from bar stools and tables. Relics from the OG spot are dotted around — from the original signage hanging on the back wall and outside, to the chalkboard menu next to the front door. Inside is bustling.

Let’s be clear: this is Singburi by lineage alone. If you’re somehow expecting to rock up with tinnies and bottles to smash the specials menu twice with four friends for £35, that’s not happening — and not just because of the postcode. This is Kularbwong, Molyviatis and Gkikas executing their vision under the Singburi banner, probably because it negates much of the faff required to rebrand. The trio have made no bones about wanting to make something ‘the same but different’. And that, they have.

The pleasingly stout menu earns further affection when you hear that no substitutions are made. Thelma might not be running the business, but her signature sternness remains.

Landing first is a wild ginger chicken thigh, spritzed with fresh lime. A crisp, grill-mottled skin hovers above deftly cooked meat; with most heat applied from above, the residual heat has the muscle groups uncoupling with barely a look.

A dill-flecked, caul fat-wrapped bruiser of a sausage plays on a sai oua, with a medium-coarse grind that delivers the satisfaction of a Cumberland. You’re encouraged to wrap each slice with leaves of Thai parsley — something that makes its European equivalent look severely frigid. It’s all chlorophyllic roundhouses of citrus funk, along with a few slices of piercing Laos chilli.

Drifted in a haze of prawn floss are fat chunks of watermelon, halved strawberries and sprigs of mint, all chilled to give you a head start on the chilli heat imbued throughout. It gives that sense of relief from the heat and humidity, second only to the gasping rush of relief found in putting your feet in the icebox at the pool party.

I’d hoped to see som tam on the menu; that 3D electricity I crave when thinking of Thai food. Instead, Singburi offers a crisp tangle of radish and kohlrabi, dressed with chilli jam, finished with a lacing of sesame oil and roasted peanuts. The beauty here is that, despite being a refreshing, toothsome squelch of a dish, it’s cut with deep, toasty notes.

Its name derived from the teeth it uses to eat shellfish, I’d only ever heard of a Dentex on another bleary re-run of Rick Stein’s Mediterranean Escapes, where he’d used it to flex about his wealth. “Only ever eaten by wealthy tourists,” he said, as it was dutifully filleted in front of him by a man in a suit.

Well, if Singburi encapsulates anything, it’s how times have changed. Similar to bream or sea bass, Dentex is sweetly firm-fleshed, able to take on sauces that speak with their chest, to which Singburi oblige. Skin gnarled from the grill, the Dentex sits in a defibrillating nam jim talay; packed with green chillies, garlic, coriander roots, sugar, lime and mint, seasoned with fish sauce.

Tomato on the brink of disintegration and slips of wilted sweet basil cling to a clatter of mussels, having been stir-fried — the sauce a bloodied terracotta from the chilli paste, kicking with fish sauce and lime. Spooning the sauce over clumps of cooled jasmine rice, it’s this dish that harks back to the original Singburi most.

However, the smoked pork nam tok, or ‘waterfall salad’, is the highlight. Typically made with steak, supple wibbles of judiciously-smoked pork belly take its place, from which fat and flesh — nearly indistinguishable — are jumbled among an algae of fresh dill, torn mint and coriander. Mondo Sando piling this into a sub roll is not a distant thought.

While there are currently no desserts (though I’m sure Thelma would endorse a Magnum sponsorship), the finisher is a twist on a personal OG Singburi favourite. White cabbage leaves lacquered with a light caramel of fish sauce and sugar, instead of pork fat, are fried hard, deliberately catching on the pan, wreathing the whole dish in a moreish smokiness.

There must’ve been a fair amount of trepidation among Kularbwong, Molyviatis and Gkikas when setting out to do all this. It’s that ‘difficult second album’, where on the one hand, you want to fulfil your ambitions and slake your creative drive to develop, yet without alienating those who got you there, on the other. But for the most part, the affection Singburi has cultivated means any potential fears are unfounded — people are just glad they’re back and receptive to whatever comes next.

It’s exactly this fearless pursuit of doing your own thing that germinated the Singburi we have today, giving us a strain of the Small Plates model that didn’t feel like an absolute con. This never would’ve happened if Tony and Thelma hadn’t said ‘sod the chips, we’re making what we want to eat’. Pandering was never in Singburi’s DNA, and long may that live.