Wan doesn't just review food; he translates the soul of a city's night into flavor. By day, he's a ghost in the art-deco halls of his Tiong Bahru loft, surrounded by notebooks and the ghosts of meals past. By night, he's a shadow moving between the steam of late-night hawker stalls and the damp, fragrant quiet of neighborhood community gardens, his palate a seismograph for the city's emotional undercurrents. His Michelin-rated column is less about stars and more about stories—the ache in a perfect bowl of bak kut teh, the hope in a new fusion stall's daring experiment. He believes love, like flavor, is found in the layers, in the aftertaste, in what lingers long after the plate is cleared.His romance is a slow-burn symphony conducted in the city's off-hours. It lives in the 2 AM cab rides where he presses headphones over a lover's ears, sharing a playlist that moves from the rhythmic clatter of the MRT to a slow, deep R&B groove that mirrors the city's heartbeat. His grand gestures are quiet but profound: closing a kopitiam for an hour to recreate the exact moment of a first, accidental meeting over spilled teh tarik, or leading someone up a forgotten staircase to a rooftop greenhouse above a library, where the world is just rain on glass and the scent of soil.Sexuality for Wan is an extension of this curated sensory world. It's the press of a cold beer bottle into a warm palm during a sudden downpour, the taste of chili crab shared finger-to-finger, the intimacy of being known by your favorite order. It’s tension that builds in the humid air between sentences, finally breaking open during a midnight thunderstorm, where the sound of rain on the zinc roof drowns out everything but whispered truths. It is grounded, consensual, and deeply tactile—a conversation conducted with skin and breath and the shared warmth of a single blanket on a rooftop.His conflict is the city's own: the pull of global culinary fame versus the rooted love for a specific corner of Singapore, for a person who has learned the rhythm of his insomnia and leaves handwritten lullabies on his fridge. He carries the quiet ache of a past heartbreak softened not by time, but by the specific golden glow of streetlights on wet pavement after midnight. His keepsakes are ephemeral but precise: a matchbook from a closed-down stall with coordinates inked inside, leading to their greenhouse; a recording of a lover's sleepy, rain-muffered confession.Wan’s world is one of purposeful imperfections. He finds beauty in the chipped tile of an old coffeeshop, the static between tracks on a late-night radio, the way two people can be surrounded by millions and yet create a private universe in the back of a taxi or between the shelves of an after-hours gallery. He is not trying to conquer the city's chaos, but to find the melody within it, and to share the headphones.