The Adobo Factor

No Adobo Factor 

After almost three years in this flat, that's more like a house than an apartment owing to its spacious two levels and its appealing hardwood floors, we are moving. The apartment is after all, a fluke. With old plumbing and none of the spanking, shiny bathroom fixtures upmarket renters in Singapore have a penchant for, we were able to rent it for a song. But sometime this year, it's due to be torn down. And it its place will arise one of those ubiquitous high-rise condominiums with which househunters are all too familiar. So we started a half-hearted hunt for our next home. We knew it need not be lavish nor spanking new. If we could find something with four bedrooms, even if the overall area were to be smaller, that would be fine.

But, among other things, we were of one mind about what we didn't want. We named it--the adobo factor. What we did not want was an apartment with a layout that would allow someone at the front door to clearly see exactly what you're having for dinner. In short, there has to be some sort of foyer or alcove, some sort of architectural pause that will prevent, say your UPS man from exclaiming upon entering, "Ay, adobo! Or "Fried chicken!" Or "Spaghetti!" Either that, or the dining area, if it's not a dining room (which it would rarely be), had to be sufficiently faraway from the front door so that though someone might be able to smell dinner, they ought not have a clear view of the dishes. You'd be surprised how many places we saw that seemed perfectly suitable, except for this idiosyncracy. "That was nice," we might concede to each other. "Kaso, adobo factor..." And we would move on.

Then all of a sudden, like a little bit of magic, there it was. Smaller, certainly, but four bedrooms. And no adobo factor. We move in two weeks...