The drinks stall at the foot of Chin Swee opens before the temple bells finish their first round, and by seven the kettles have already sung twice. I come for teh tarik when the morning air is still cool enough for steam to show you where the wind will go later. The uncle knows my order without asking — less sweet, extra pull — and the cup returns in a scratched steel steamer that burns your palms if you grab too eagerly.
Steam is the stall's weather vane. On humid mornings it hangs low over the counter, mixing with the smell of toast from the shop next door until everything feels like one warm room open to the street. On drier days it shoots upward and vanishes, and the uncle switches on a small fan that clicks like an old clock. I watch regulars without staring: the auntie who reads the Lianhe Zaobao folded in quarters; the delivery rider who drinks standing up; the uncle who always asks for kopi-C kosong and never changes his mind.
Teh tarik here tastes of condensed milk and patience — the long pull that aerates the tea until a thin foam caps the surface. I hold the cup when the steam still fogs my glasses and let the heat settle into my fingers. Outside, Chin Swee Road wakes in layers: buses exhaling at the stop, shop shutters lifting, someone sweeping incense ash from a temple side entrance two streets over.
I write at the stall when my flat feels too sealed — when the air-con has recycled the same breath too many times and I need the open corridor of smells that a drinks stall offers. Here the noise is communal: chairs scraping, spoons clinking, the rhythmic pour-and-pull that sounds like breathing. The steam rises before the wind arrives, and I have learned to read the morning from how high it climbs.
By nine the sun clears the awning and the best seat loses its shade. I pay, say thank you the way you do when you mean it, and step back into the lane where wind has finally found its direction. The stall keeps pouring whether I stay or go. That is the whole point of these notes — the neighbourhood continues, faithful and indifferent, and sometimes the worth recording is the steam that rose before anyone checked the sky.