Flames danced behind the stall like a signal flare for those who knew. At Blackgoat, tucked into a humble corner of Jalan Batu Market, the fragrance of slow-charred meat blended with the sizzle of ambition. The queue told the story. constantly long, constantly waiting, always worth it.
From its start in early 2023, Blackgoat didn’t behave like most hawker stalls. It didn’t display menus on signboards or offer laminated photos. Instead, it treated its Instagram like a blackboard, scratching out the week’s creations, then letting the flames do the talking. And the flames, definitely, had a voice.
Fikri Rohaimi, just 23 when Blackgoat launched, brought with him a professional seriousness rarely seen in hawker venues. Trained at Zen and Burnt Ends—both synonymous with accuracy and pedigree—he chose to channel his training into an open-air setup, one grill, and no backup plan. That choice felt particularly inventive in a city concerned with elevation and scale.
The ingredients used by Blackgoat weren’t particular. No truffle oils or gimmicks. Just meat, fire, salt, and the occasional flash of black garlic or house-blended za’atar. But the execution—every sear, every brine—was handled with incredible care. Steaks were thermometer-checked. Patties were custom-ground, 20% fat, no filler. Chicken thighs were marinated in white pepper, then double-fried, their skin properly bubbled before being smothered with chipotle.
| Detail | Information |
|---|---|
| Name | Blackgoat |
| Founded By | Fikri Rohaimi, former chef at Burnt Ends and Zen |
| Location | Jalan Batu Market & Food Centre, Singapore |
| Cuisine Focus | Charcoal-grilled burgers, steaks, and halal-friendly Western food |
| Operating Period | February 2023 – January 18, 2026 |
| Closure Status | Permanently closed, shared recipes online, promised future return |
| Signature Dishes | White Pepper Fried Chicken Burger, Grassfed Flank & Chuck Burger, NZ Sirloin with Black Garlic |
| Reference Link | www.instagram.com/blackgoatburgers |
During one visit, I remember watching someone unwrap their burger methodically, like opening a gift. That level of anticipation doesn’t happen often. It’s normally saved for birthdays or first bites at fine-dining spots—not food arcades with metal chairs and echoing ceilings. But here, it made sense.
Blackgoat’s strategy felt particularly novel in the context of contemporary eating fatigue. The meals were simple but remarkably well-prepared. Slaw was prepared in extra-virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Fries came normal, but turned shockingly crave-worthy when pulled through their umami-loaded garlic dip.
Yet nothing completely nailed Blackgoat’s spirit like the White Pepper Fried Chicken Burger. That dish—complexly textured, deeply flavored, and unashamedly messy—embodied all the stand stood for. Aesthetics weren’t the aim. Depth was. And the depth flowed deliciously deep.
Fikri didn’t aim to scale. He sought to serve. He typically staffed the stall alone, helped by close pals like Ethel, who produced the delicacies. On days she managed front-of-house, she’d also plate a brownie—dark, dense, softened by fire and laced with house-made coffee caramel. The detail was palpable. Not only in flavor, but in intent.
Then, suddenly, it ended.
Blackgoat closed on January 18, 2026. No fanfare. Just a polite farewell letter on Instagram the next day. In that letter, Fikri thanked everyone—his family, his team, his passionately loyal regulars. He said he couldn’t manage a last day rush. The parting seemed modest, almost contrite. But unmistakably heartfelt.
He also contributed something rare: ten whole recipes. Not watered-down versions. The actual stuff. From the Malay Caesar Salad to their signature cheeseburger, he handed away the methods like a chef who felt food was intended to be remembered, not hoarded. That generosity felt unusually audacious in an industry notorious for hoarding secrets.
By sharing such dishes, Blackgoat became something more than a locale. It became a template for what tiny food enterprises could be: very efficient, remarkably effective, emotionally resonant.
I kept thinking about that brownie.
Heated carefully on the same charcoal grill used for meats, it carried smoke without harshness, sweetness without excess. The hazelnut-studded caramel was thicker than it needed to be, which made it better. Like everything else there, the dessert had a precise yet strangely intimate feel.
Through meticulous sourcing, purposeful minimalism, and an obsession with flavor over flash, Blackgoat reimagined what a burger might mean in a hawker centre. Not simply sustenance. But ritual. A dish worth walking 850 meters from Mountbatten MRT for. A moment worth queueing for, even on a sweltering night.
By using his fine-dining knowledge in a setting geared for speed, Fikri bridged two ends of the food spectrum. He didn’t romanticize hawker culture, nor did he use it as a stepping stone. All he did was raise it—quietly, steadily, and without regret.
For early-stage cooks with limited capital and infinite desire, Blackgoat became a symbol. It said: build it slow, serve it hot, and care enough to do it right.
Since its shutdown, admirers have tried duplicating the dishes, uploading their attempts online. Some said the potato salad tasted “almost” like the original. Others admit they’ll keep trying. And in those attempts, Blackgoat stays alive—not just as a memory, but as a process continually unfolding.
“We’ll be back someday,” they posted. And judging by the loyalty they inspired, many will be waiting.
Not everything needs to last forever to be outstanding. Sometimes, a grill, a plan, and a little of confidence are enough to leave a permanent flavor.
