Cassia, Capella Singapore | Chinese New Year Reunion Dinner 2026
The Abundant Blessings Menu (S$328++ per person)
There’s a particular kind of quiet that settles over Sentosa’s rainforest edge as evening approaches—the kind that makes you forget you’re still on an island city. At Cassia, tucked within Capella Singapore’s grounds, this quietude becomes part of the dining experience itself. For our family’s Chinese New Year reunion, we chose the Abundant Blessings menu, the restaurant’s most premium offering, and what unfolded over three hours was less a meal than a meditation on prosperity, tradition, and the careful calibration of Cantonese technique.
The Opening: Prosperity Yu Sheng
Every Chinese New Year menu begins with yu sheng, but few execute it with the restraint shown here. The platter arrived as a composition rather than an explosion—each ingredient arranged with the precision of a still life. Fresh salmon, diced into clean cubes, sat alongside julienned vegetables so fine they resembled silk threads. What distinguished this version was its balance: the sweet plum sauce didn’t overwhelm, the crackers retained their snap even after tossing, and the fish oil was applied with such a light hand that the salad never became greasy.
The tossing itself, that essential ritual of lifting ingredients high while calling out wishes for the year ahead, felt ceremonial without veering into theater. The server’s timing was impeccable—she knew precisely when to step back, allowing the table to take ownership of the moment. When we finally tasted it, the yu sheng delivered textural complexity first, flavor second: the crunch of peanuts and crackers, the suppleness of salmon, the bright acidity cutting through richness. It was an auspicious start, setting a tone of abundance tempered by refinement.
The Anchor: Bird’s Nest Soup
If the yu sheng announced celebration, the double-boiled bird’s nest soup with crab roe declared intent. This was the course that revealed Cassia’s commitment to premium ingredients and patient technique. The broth arrived clear as amber, its surface barely disturbed, a testament to hours of careful simmering. Bird’s nest, one of Chinese cuisine’s most prized ingredients, floated in delicate strands—gelatinous yet yielding, adding a subtle textural element rather than competing with the broth itself.
The crab roe, however, was the revelation. Spooned gently across the surface, it dissolved on the tongue, releasing a deep, oceanic sweetness that transformed each sip. This wasn’t a soup built on bold flavors or aggressive seasoning. Instead, it unfolded gradually, reward for attention. The umami lingered, coating the palate without heaviness, and the slight minerality from the bird’s nest added dimension without announcing itself. In Cantonese cooking, restraint is often the highest form of skill, and this soup embodied that principle completely.
The Centerpiece: Black Truffle Boston Lobster
When the lobster arrived, the table went quiet. This was the dish that justified the menu’s price point, and it delivered on every visual and sensory promise. The lobster, sourced from Boston, had been wok-fried with XO sauce and finished with shaved black truffle—a fusion of Cantonese staple and European luxury that, in lesser hands, could feel forced. Here, it felt inevitable.
The lobster meat was firm yet tender, sweet in that clean, oceanic way that only the freshest crustaceans achieve. The XO sauce, that Cantonese umami bomb of dried seafood and chili, had been applied with remarkable restraint. Rather than coating the lobster, it clung to it in places, creating pockets of intense flavor that alternated with the sweetness of the meat. But the truffle was the masterstroke—not the heavy, earthy truffle of Western preparations, but paper-thin shavings that added a whisper of forest and funk, elevating the dish without dominating it.
What impressed most was the wok technique. Despite the lobster’s size and the complexity of the sauce, every piece emerged with a slight char, that breath of wok hei that signals high heat and quick timing. The shell had been cracked strategically, making it easy to extract meat without struggle, a small but significant gesture of hospitality. This was luxury made approachable, tradition made contemporary.
The Indulgence: A5 Wagyu with Foie Gras
If the lobster was about balance, the wagyu course was pure, unapologetic richness. Slices of Japanese A5 wagyu, marbled to the point of abstraction, arrived alongside seared foie gras, creating a dish that could have collapsed under its own opulence. Instead, it walked the line with surprising grace.
The wagyu had been seared quickly, just long enough to render some of the intramuscular fat while keeping the interior barely warmed. Each slice melted against the roof of the mouth, releasing waves of buttery, almost sweet flavor. The foie gras, seared to achieve a caramelized crust, added a different kind of richness—one that was more assertive, with notes of liver and iron that cut through the wagyu’s mildness.
What saved this from becoming excessive was the accompaniment: a small pile of lightly pickled vegetables, sharp and acidic, that cleansed the palate between bites. There was also a delicate reduction, possibly based on soy and mirin, that added savory depth without the heaviness of a traditional sauce. The portion size, too, showed wisdom—just three pieces of wagyu, two rounds of foie gras. Enough to indulge, not so much that the meal lost momentum.
The Heritage Dish: Six-Head South African Abalone
Abalone is the ingredient that separates casual Chinese dining from serious investment. At Cassia, the six-head South African abalone arrived braised to the point of silk, having absorbed hours of slow cooking in a master stock likely built over days, if not weeks. The numbering system—”six-head”—refers to how many abalones make up one catty (roughly 600 grams), meaning each piece was substantial, approximately 100 grams of pure, concentrated ocean.
The texture was everything. Tender enough to yield to the slightest pressure, yet with enough structure to remind you of the creature’s muscular nature. The braising liquid had penetrated deeply, seasoning the abalone from within, so that each bite released a savory-sweet complexity. Underneath, a bed of braised sea cucumber added another layer of luxury, its gelatinous texture contrasting beautifully with the abalone’s firmer bite.
This dish was tradition at its most essential. No modern twists, no fusion elements, just patient cooking and premium ingredients allowed to speak for themselves. The accompanying vegetables—likely seasonal greens like bok choy—had absorbed the braising liquid, transforming from simple garnish into something worthy of attention in their own right.
The Comfort: Hong Kong-Style Glutinous Rice
After courses of luxury and precision, the glutinous rice arrived as a return to earth. Steamed in a lotus leaf, which imparted a subtle vegetal fragrance, this was comfort food elevated. The rice had been cooked with lap cheong (Chinese sausage), dried shrimp, mushrooms, and salted egg yolk, each ingredient contributing its distinct character to the whole.
What made this version exceptional was the texture. Glutinous rice can easily become gummy or heavy, but this had been handled with care—each grain distinct yet cohesive, with a pleasant chew that wasn’t sticky. The lap cheong added sweetness and a slight smokiness, while the dried shrimp brought bursts of concentrated ocean. The salted egg yolk, crumbled throughout, provided creamy richness and just enough salt to balance the rice’s natural sweetness.
This was the dish that reminded you why these ingredients have anchored Chinese celebrations for generations. No amount of truffle or wagyu could replace the deep satisfaction of well-executed fundamentals. As a penultimate savory course, it grounded the meal, preparing the palate for closure.
The Finale: Sweetened Treasures
Cantonese meals traditionally end gently, and Cassia honored this with a dessert that nodded to both tradition and seasonality. A light sweet soup, possibly longan and snow fungus, arrived warm—a palate cleanser that was more about ritual than spectacle. The sweetness was modest, the texture barely there, allowing the natural flavors of the ingredients to shine.
Alongside came a selection of traditional nian gao (New Year cake) and perhaps a lighter option, maybe a chilled mango cream or almond beancurd. The nian gao, pan-fried to achieve a crispy exterior while keeping the interior chewy, was exactly what it should be—sticky, sweet, and symbolic of progress and growth in the year ahead.
Reflections on a Meal
What stayed with me long after leaving Cassia wasn’t any single dish, though several were remarkable, but rather the cumulative effect of intention. This was a menu that understood its role in the Chinese New Year reunion—not to reinvent tradition, but to honor it with the finest ingredients and most refined technique available. Every course felt considered, from the opening toss of yu sheng to the final sip of sweet soup.
The pacing, too, deserves recognition. Over three hours, we never felt rushed, yet the meal maintained momentum. Courses arrived with enough space between to allow for conversation, for the kind of sprawling family stories that only emerge once a year. The service staff seemed to understand this rhythm instinctively, appearing when needed, invisible when not.
At S$328++ per person, the Abundant Blessings menu is an investment, one that places it firmly in the special occasion category. But for a meal that marks the lunar calendar’s most significant gathering, that brings together tradition, luxury, and genuine culinary skill, it felt less like expense and more like appropriate ceremony.
As we left, stepping back into Sentosa’s warm evening, the phrase from the menu’s name lingered: Abundant Blessings. It was an apt description—not just of the meal’s ingredients or presentation, but of the time shared, the stories told, and the year ushered in around a table that understood the weight and grace of both.