Singapore is a complicated place—very orderly on the surface, wild at the edges, stitched together by a serious street scene: hawker centers, street stalls, and a mash‑up of cultures – Chinese, Malay, Indian – that somehow works. The food courts under harsh fluorescent lights, the plastic stools, the smell of frying chili and garlic at midnight—that’s where the city really talks to you.
And then there’s Raffles.
Raffles is, without question, one of the best hotels on the planet to hole up in. It is pure colonial theater: all white facades, fans slowly turning overhead, staff who seem to glide rather than walk. You step through the doors and the volume drops a few notches; time gets a little soft around the edges.
Tucked into this grande dame is the Writers Bar, a small, elegant room with a literary chip on its shoulder. It nods to the authors who passed through and mined this part of the world for stories—Kipling, Conrad, Maugham, and all the other men of letters who drank here, sweated here, and then went home to romanticize it. The whole place is built around that myth: brass counter, plush chairs, books and names you half‑remember from school.
The drinks match the setup. Sophisticated, story‑driven, cocktails that come with a narrative as carefully constructed as the garnish. There’s a custom 1915 Raffles Gin, classics like the Million Dollar Cocktail, and a menu that politely insists you’re part of a tradition that stretches back to the 19th century, whether you’ve earned it or not.
The air smells faintly of old money and new perfume. It’s less about the Singapore outside—the sweaty, chili‑crab, plastic‑stool reality—and more about the ghosts of empire and literary romance. You sit on good leather, fingers wrapped around heavy glass, the room humming at a low, civilized volume. The bartenders are the real deal: tight mise en place, the right ice, confident, efficient movements. No silly smoke domes, no towering fruit salads on top of your drink. Just balance, craft, and a quiet sense that they’ve seen a lot and are impressed by very little.
Slouching in from the sauna outside, I recommend ordering a delicious ice cold Tiger Beer as a warm up, so to speak. Then, your choice of a classic gin and tonic or a crystal cold martini.
For sure, this is the “other Singapore,” the carefully cooled, moneyed parallel universe running alongside the one where someone is yelling table numbers over the din of woks. It’s seductive, comforting, a little addictive if you let it be. But believe me, the soul of the city is still out there under the fluorescent glare, where the floors are sticky, the line is long, and the food is so good you forget what your cocktail tasted like ten minutes ago.
So you treat the Writers Bar for what it is: a blessed oasis intermission. A single, perfectly made drink—or two—wrapped in history and nostalgia. Then you walk back out into the heat, shirt already starting to cling, headed for hawker‑center noodles that will stain that shirt and your fingers in the best possible way. With just enough gin and memory in your system, that first mouthful tastes even better.
Writers Bar is located inside Raffles Hotel at 1 Beach Road, Singapore.