Quan Le Yan Seafood

by | Jan 25, 2026 | Uncategorized | 0 comments

Restaurant Review

Quan Le Yan Seafood represents a dying breed of Singapore’s culinary landscape—the kind of establishment where menus are unnecessary luxuries and the aunty taking orders knows her regulars by face, family, and favorite dishes. Tucked along Havelock Road in Tiong Bahru, this 56-year-old institution (originally established in 1968, closed in the 2010s, and resurrected in 2020) operates on a philosophy that seems almost defiant in our modern age of instant gratification: if you don’t know what to order, you probably shouldn’t be here.

But therein lies its charm. This is Teochew cuisine at its most unapologetic—no fusion experiments, no Instagram-friendly plating, just generations of technique preserved in every dish that leaves the kitchen.

Rating: 4.5/5

What elevates it: Uncompromising authenticity, masterful execution of traditional techniques, ingredients that speak to careful sourcing.

What holds it back: The no-menu approach can be intimidating for first-timers, and the lack of transparent pricing (expect $50-70 per person) might catch some off guard.

Ambience & Atmosphere

725 Havelock Road, Singapore 169647, Singapore, Singapore, 169644

Walking into Quan Le Yan is like stepping through a culinary time portal. The interior eschews the polished minimalism of modern restaurants for something far more honest—simple wooden tables, fluorescent lighting that doesn’t apologize for itself, and walls that have absorbed decades of cooking aromas. There’s no background music competing for your attention, just the percussion of woks clanging, the sizzle of oil meeting batter, and the animated Teochew conversations bouncing between kitchen and dining room.

The space feels lived-in rather than designed. Chairs don’t match perfectly. The air conditioning works hard against the heat radiating from the kitchen. And somehow, this creates an intimacy that carpeted fine dining rooms can never replicate. You’re not here to be impressed—you’re here to eat, surrounded by families who’ve been coming here for generations, their children now bringing their own children.

The atmosphere peaks during dinner service when the small space fills with regulars. There’s a community feel, almost conspiratorial, as if everyone’s in on a secret the rest of Singapore has forgotten. The staff moves with practiced efficiency, remembering who ordered what, who needs extra chye poh in their hor fun, whose grandmother used to dine here in the 1970s.

For solo diners or those seeking romance, this isn’t your venue. But for anyone who wants to experience Singaporean food culture as it existed before the food blog era, this is pilgrimage-worthy.

Signature Dishes: In-Depth Analysis

Cold Crabs (Teochew-Style)

The Experience:

This dish arrives at your table with an almost sacred reverence, and rightfully so. Teochew cold crab is not merely chilled seafood—it’s a study in restraint, a meditation on how simplicity can reveal rather than obscure.

The crabs, when in season, arrive double-shelled and swollen with roe. The shells crack with a satisfying snap, revealing flesh that’s been perfectly cooked—just past translucent, still sweet, never chalky. The meat has that oceanic sweetness that only the freshest crustaceans possess, clean and mineral-rich.

But the revelation is in the preparation. Unlike the heavy-handed sauces of other cuisines, Teochew cold crab relies on a delicate brine—typically a mixture of superior stock, Shaoxing wine, and aromatics. The crab is poached gently, then shocked in ice to halt the cooking precisely at the moment of perfection. As it chills, the meat firms while absorbing subtle flavors from the brine.

Texture Profile:

The meat offers multiple textures in a single dish. The claw meat is dense and substantial, requiring a slight pull from the teeth. Body meat is flakier, more delicate, dissolving on the tongue. The roe, when present, provides creamy richness that coats the palate. The contrast between the cold, firm exterior and the yielding interior creates a textural conversation that keeps each bite interesting.

Cooking Technique:

The genius lies in temperature control. Boil the crab and you get rubber. Undercook it and you risk both texture and safety. The sweet spot exists in a narrow window—typically poaching at around 85-90°C for precisely timed intervals based on the crab’s size. The immediate ice bath stops carryover cooking and firms the texture.

Teochew Steamed Pomfret

The Experience:

If cold crab is about restraint, steamed pomfret is about harmony. The fish arrives whole, swimming in a broth that looks deceptively simple—pale, almost wan—until you taste it and understand that clarity doesn’t mean simplicity.

The pomfret flesh, when sourced well, has a fine, silky texture. It flakes in large, clean pieces rather than disintegrating into mush. There’s a sweetness to fresh pomfret that’s subtle, almost buttery, and the Teochew preparation allows this to shine rather than drowning it.

The Broth—A Deeper Look:

This is where generations of technique converge. The base is typically superior stock (chicken or pork bones simmered for hours), which provides umami depth without overwhelming fishiness. Sour plums contribute tartness and a mysterious fruity undertone. Tomatoes add brightness and help cut through any potential heaviness. Salted vegetables might make an appearance, contributing funk and complexity.

Ginger, of course, appears—sliced thin to perfuse the broth without dominating. Sometimes preserved radish adds a subtle crunch and additional umami. The magic happens during steaming, when the fish’s natural juices mingle with the broth, creating a sauce that’s simultaneously light and intensely flavored.

Texture Analysis:

At its best, steamed pomfret offers flesh that’s almost custardy near the bone, while the thicker back portions remain firm enough to lift cleanly with chopsticks. The skin, if left on and steamed properly, provides a slight textural resistance before giving way. The broth itself has body from the dissolved collagen and fish proteins, coating the tongue without feeling heavy.

Steaming Technique:

The critical factor is steam intensity and timing. Too hot, and the exterior overcooks before the center is done. Too gentle, and the fish becomes waterlogged. Traditional Teochew cooks aim for vigorous, rolling steam—the kind that makes the whole steamer basket dance—for 8-12 minutes depending on the fish size. The fish is done when the flesh at the thickest point just turns opaque and a chopstick meets slight resistance when inserted along the backbone.

Ngoh Hiang (Teochew Five-Spice Prawn Roll)

The Experience:

These aren’t the commercially-made, factory-extruded five-spice rolls you find at generic hawker stalls. Quan Le Yan’s version speaks to handmade quality—each roll with slightly irregular edges, proof of human hands rather than machines.

Bite through the wrapper and you encounter a forcemeat that’s both cohesive and textured. Prawn pieces provide pockets of sweet crunch. Minced pork contributes fat and savoriness. Water chestnuts add unexpected bursts of juicy crispness. The five-spice blend is present but measured—you taste warm cinnamon, floral star anise, peppery complexity, without any single note dominating.

Texture Complexity:

The wrapper—traditionally beancurd skin—shatters when properly fried, creating shards that contrast with the yielding interior. It should never be soggy or leathery, but crisp enough to audibly crackle. The filling has bite without being dense, bound together by egg and starch but still allowing individual ingredients to maintain identity.

Traditional Preparation:

The filling begins with hand-chopping prawn and pork to achieve the right texture—a mortar and pestle or hand-cleaver method creates a paste that still has texture, unlike machine-ground meat which becomes homogeneous and bouncy in the wrong way. The mixture is seasoned with five-spice powder, white pepper, fish sauce, and sometimes a touch of sugar for balance.

Rolling requires skill—too loose and the filling escapes during frying; too tight and it bursts from steam pressure. The rolls are wrapped in rehydrated beancurd skin, sealed with an egg wash, then rested briefly so the wrapper adheres.

Frying happens in two stages: first at a moderate temperature (around 160°C) to cook the filling through, then a brief second fry at higher heat (180°C) to crisp the exterior to shattering. This prevents the greasy, heavy texture that comes from frying at a constant high temperature.

Oyster Omelette (Orh Luah)

The Experience:

Some reviewers call this the best orh luah they’ve encountered, and it’s not hyperbole. The dish achieves something that seems almost contradictory—it’s simultaneously fluffy and gooey, crispy and yielding.

The oysters are the stars, plump and oceanic, each one a briny burst against the eggs. They’re not overcooked into rubbery pebbles but retain a custardy interior. The eggs provide richness and help bind everything together, while the sweet potato starch creates those signature translucent, slightly gummy sections that define the dish.

Textural Symphony:

A proper orh luah offers at least four distinct textures: crispy edges where the egg and starch have caramelized against the hot wok; fluffy sections where egg has scrambled into clouds; gooey, translucent patches of cooked starch with a slippery, almost jellyfish-like quality; and the tender-firm oysters themselves.

The Technique:

Making orh luah is a high-wire act. The wok must be scorching hot and well-seasoned. Sweet potato starch is mixed with water to create a slurry—too thick and it becomes gluey, too thin and it doesn’t set. The eggs are beaten until just combined, not aerated.

Oil heats in the wok until it shimmers. The starch slurry goes in first, spreading across the surface. As it begins to set and turn translucent, oysters are scattered across it. Beaten eggs follow, poured around the edges and allowed to puff and crisp before being partially scrambled. The key is high heat and quick cooking—the whole process takes perhaps two minutes. Any longer and the oysters toughen, the eggs dry out, and the starch becomes gummy in the wrong way.

The dish is flipped once, or folded over itself, to create layers of texture. It’s served immediately with a tangy-spicy dipping sauce—typically chili with a vinegar base and garlic—that cuts through the richness.

Fried Kway Teow with Preserved Turnip (Chye Poh Hor Fun)

The Experience:

Quan Le Yan distinguishes itself by using wide, fat kway teow—the kind that’s increasingly rare as noodle makers shift to thinner varieties for efficiency. These broad ribbons have more surface area to absorb the wok’s heat and develop char, and their thickness provides a more substantial chew.

The preserved turnip (chye poh) adds umami depth and a slight crunch, though reviewers note the restaurant can be conservative with this ingredient—don’t hesitate to request more.

Texture Considerations:

Properly fried hor fun achieves “wok hei”—the breath of the wok—where noodles develop smoky, slightly charred edges while remaining silky and slippery in the center. The fat noodles Quan Le Yan uses require more skill to execute properly because they absorb less oil than thin ones and can easily stick or become gummy.

Each noodle should have three textural zones: lightly charred edges that provide a hint of crisp and concentrated flavor, a slippery outer coating from the sauce and oil, and a tender but still springy interior that offers pleasant resistance when chewed.

Wok Technique:

The wok must be volcanic—hot enough that a droplet of water evaporates instantly. Oil goes in, then aromatics (garlic, preserved turnip), followed by the noodles. The key is movement: constant tossing or folding to ensure even exposure to the hottest parts of the wok without burning. Sauce—typically soy sauce, perhaps a touch of thick dark soy for color, and sometimes fish sauce—is added in stages, allowed to caramelize slightly before more noodles absorb it.

The entire cooking process takes perhaps three minutes. Any longer and you’re steaming, not frying.

Orh Nee (Yam Paste Dessert)

The Experience:

The finale to any Teochew meal, orh nee is deceptively simple—mashed yam, sugar, lard, coconut milk—yet achieving the perfect consistency requires patience and technique.

Quan Le Yan’s version is described as smooth and not overly sweet, topped with ginkgo nuts for a slight bitter contrast and steamed pumpkin for additional sweetness and color.

Texture Ideal:

Great orh nee has a texture that’s difficult to describe to those who’ve never experienced it. It’s smoother than mashed potatoes, almost flowing, yet it holds its shape on the plate. When you scoop it, it should ribbon off the spoon, glossy and molten-looking. The consistency is somewhere between a thick soup and a pudding—not quite pourable, but definitely not solid.

Traditional Preparation:

The yam (taro) is steamed until completely tender, then mashed while still hot. Here’s where technique diverges from Western mashed preparations: the yam is pushed through a fine sieve or pounded in a mortar until absolutely smooth, with no lumps remaining.

It’s then cooked down in a wok with sugar and lard (traditionally rendered pork fat, which adds a savory undertone that keeps the dessert from being cloying). The mixture is stirred constantly over medium heat, and this is where patience is tested—it can take 30-40 minutes of constant stirring to achieve the proper consistency.

Coconut milk or coconut cream is added gradually, and the stirring continues until the mixture becomes glossy and flows like lava. Ginkgo nuts, which have been boiled to remove bitterness, are added for textural contrast—their slight firmness and subtle bitter edge cutting through the richness. Pumpkin, steamed separately, provides pops of sweetness and a visual contrast with its bright orange color.

Recipe: Teochew Steamed Pomfret (Home Version)

Ingredients

For the Fish:

  • 1 whole pomfret (400-600g), cleaned and scaled
  • 3-4 slices ginger, julienned
  • 2 sour plums (available at Asian grocers)
  • 1 medium tomato, cut into wedges
  • 2-3 pieces salted mustard greens (optional), soaked and sliced
  • 2 tablespoons Shaoxing wine
  • Salt and white pepper to taste

For the Broth:

  • 300ml superior chicken stock (homemade preferred)
  • 1 tablespoon light soy sauce
  • 1/2 teaspoon sesame oil
  • 1/2 teaspoon sugar
  • Pinch of white pepper

Garnish:

  • Fresh cilantro
  • Julienned ginger
  • Spring onions, sliced

Cooking Instructions

Preparation (15 minutes):

  1. Score the pomfret on both sides with diagonal cuts about 1 inch apart, cutting down to the bone. This allows even cooking and helps the fish absorb flavors.
  2. Rub the fish inside and out with salt and white pepper. Drizzle with Shaoxing wine and let rest for 10 minutes.
  3. Prepare a deep plate or shallow bowl that fits inside your steamer—it needs high sides to contain the broth.
  4. In a small pot, gently heat the chicken stock with soy sauce, sesame oil, sugar, and white pepper. Don’t boil—just warm it to combine flavors. Taste and adjust seasoning. The broth should taste slightly under-seasoned as it will concentrate during steaming.

Steaming (10-12 minutes):

  1. Bring water in your steamer to a vigorous boil—you want aggressive, rolling steam.
  2. Place the pomfret on the prepared plate. Arrange sour plums, tomato wedges, salted mustard greens (if using), and ginger slices around and on top of the fish.
  3. Pour the warm broth over and around the fish—it should come about halfway up the fish.
  4. Place the plate in the steamer, cover tightly, and steam over high heat for 10-12 minutes. Timing depends on the fish’s thickness: at the thickest point, the flesh should just turn opaque and flake easily when tested with chopsticks.
  5. Do not over-steam. The fish continues cooking from residual heat even after removal.

Finishing:

  1. Carefully remove the plate from the steamer (it will be extremely hot and full of liquid).
  2. Garnish with fresh cilantro, additional julienned ginger, and spring onions.
  3. Serve immediately with steamed rice. The broth is meant to be spooned over the rice.

Critical Tips:

  • Fish freshness is paramount. The flesh should be firm, eyes clear, gills bright red. If your fish isn’t pristine, this dish will disappoint.
  • Don’t substitute chicken stock with water. The stock provides the umami foundation.
  • The sour plums are essential—they contribute a unique tartness that can’t be replicated with vinegar or lemon.
  • If you don’t have a proper steamer, you can jury-rig one by placing a heatproof bowl upside down in a wok with water, then balancing your plate on top. Cover with a domed lid.
  • Resist the urge to add more ingredients. Teochew cooking is about precision and restraint.

Recipe: Ngoh Hiang (Five-Spice Prawn Rolls)

Ingredients (Makes 12-15 rolls)

For the Filling:

  • 300g fresh prawns, peeled and deveined
  • 200g minced pork (20% fat content)
  • 100g water chestnuts, finely chopped
  • 2 cloves garlic, minced
  • 1 tablespoon five-spice powder
  • 1 tablespoon fish sauce
  • 1 tablespoon Shaoxing wine
  • 1 teaspoon sugar
  • 1 teaspoon white pepper
  • 1 egg
  • 2 tablespoons cornstarch
  • 2 spring onions, finely chopped

For Assembly:

  • 1 package dried beancurd skin sheets (also called tofu skin or yuba)
  • 2 eggs, beaten (for sealing)

For Frying:

  • Vegetable oil for deep frying

Cooking Instructions

Preparing the Filling (20 minutes):

  1. Roughly chop half the prawns into pea-sized pieces. Finely mince the other half with the flat of a cleaver or in short pulses in a food processor—you want a paste but with some texture remaining.
  2. In a large bowl, combine chopped prawns, minced prawns, minced pork, water chestnuts, garlic, five-spice powder, fish sauce, Shaoxing wine, sugar, white pepper, egg, cornstarch, and spring onions.
  3. Mix vigorously in one direction for 3-4 minutes. This develops the protein structure and creates a cohesive texture. The mixture should become sticky and hold together when you form a ball.
  4. Refrigerate for 30 minutes to firm up—this makes rolling easier.

Preparing Beancurd Skin:

  1. If using dried beancurd sheets, gently wipe them with a damp cloth to make them pliable. Don’t soak them or they’ll become too fragile. They should be flexible but not wet.
  2. Cut into rectangles about 8×6 inches.

Rolling (30 minutes):

  1. Lay one beancurd skin rectangle with the longer side facing you.
  2. Place about 2-3 tablespoons of filling in a log shape along the edge closest to you, leaving 1 inch on each side.
  3. Fold the sides inward over the filling ends.
  4. Roll away from you, keeping the roll tight but not so tight that it will burst during frying. The filling should be enclosed in 2-3 layers of beancurd skin.
  5. Brush the final edge with beaten egg to seal. Place seam-side down on a tray.
  6. Repeat with remaining filling and wrappers.
  7. Let rest for 15 minutes so the seal sets.

Double-Frying Technique (20 minutes):

  1. Heat oil in a wok or deep pot to 160°C (320°F). Use a thermometer for accuracy.
  2. First fry: Gently lower 3-4 rolls into the oil. Fry for 5-6 minutes, turning occasionally, until the filling is cooked through and the wrapper is light golden. The bubbling should be gentle and steady.
  3. Remove and drain on a wire rack. Repeat with remaining rolls.
  4. Let the rolls cool for 10 minutes. This step is crucial—it allows the interior to set.
  5. Second fry: Increase oil temperature to 180°C (350°F). Return all the rolls to the oil and fry for 2-3 minutes until deeply golden and crispy. The oil should bubble vigorously.
  6. Drain on a wire rack, not paper towels (which can make the bottom soggy).
  7. Cut each roll diagonally into 3 pieces and serve immediately with sweet chili sauce or a chili-vinegar dip.

Critical Tips:

  • Don’t skip the double-frying. It’s what creates the shattering crispy exterior while keeping the inside moist.
  • If beancurd skin is unavailable, you can substitute with spring roll wrappers, though the texture will be different.
  • The five-spice powder should be fresh—old five-spice loses its aromatic complexity and becomes dusty-tasting.
  • Prawns must be fresh, not previously frozen if possible. Frozen prawns release excess water which can make the filling loose.

Final Thoughts

Quan Le Yan Seafood isn’t trying to reinvent Teochew cuisine or make it palatable for modern tastes. It’s a preservation effort, a living archive of techniques and flavors that are slowly disappearing from Singapore’s culinary landscape. Every dish is a master class in restraint—in knowing that the best way to honor premium ingredients is often to do as little as possible to them.

The no-menu approach, while intimidating, forces you to engage with the food differently. You’re not shopping from a catalog of options; you’re entering into a conversation about what’s good today, what’s in season, what the kitchen does best. It’s a reminder that great food cultures were built on this kind of trust between cook and diner.

Is it perfect? No. The lack of pricing transparency can feel uncomfortable. First-timers might feel lost. The space won’t win design awards. But if you can surrender to the experience—if you can let the aunty guide you, if you can appreciate the skill behind seemingly simple dishes—you’ll leave with something more valuable than a full stomach. You’ll leave understanding why some traditions are worth preserving exactly as they are.