Her nasi lemak was the definition of fragrant–with bits of ginger, lemongrass, and pandan embedded in the coconut-rich rice. It was also uniquely tinted green because she would blend the pandan and mix it into the coconut milk before cooking the rice in it. She would also go the extra mile to make her own sambal too! It is thick, spicy, and sweet–similar to the ones that you find in Malaysia. She always served it with cucumbers, anchovies, peanuts, and boiled eggs–as it should be. To accompany the nasi lemak, she would serve her rendang or ayam goreng on the side. Honestly, it was always a side character to me because I could just eat the nasi lemak with boiled eggs and be content. There’s just something so special about my mom’s nasi lemak. I love how the creamy egg and the not-so-spicy sweet sambal mixes with the fragrant rice, the crunch of the salty peanuts and anchovies, the aromats from the rendang, all come together in perfect harmony. It’s a taste of nostalgia that brings me back to my childhood in Paris, as weird as that sounds. To me, it’s the true taste of a mother’s love and dedication to keeping flavors from home familiar in a foreign land.

I’m sure it wasn’t just for us too. Looking back, I don’t think my mom was just cooking dinner. She was building a small piece of Brunei in a Paris kitchen. Now that I’m the one living far from home, I find myself doing the same in my own way: hunting down nasi lemak across Singapore, on my own.

Sue’s Kitchen

Sue’s Kitchen is a place that I discovered during a shoot, where we featured a few different places at Bedok 538 hawker centre. They are usually open from 7am to 1.30pm and see a crowd from 8am to 11am. One plate of nasi lemak ranges from $3 (plain) to $5.

There was something about the nasi lemak at this stall that reminded me of my mom’s version. I’m not sure what it was, but the lemak-ness in the rice was definitely more fragrant than other SG institutions. Though the crispy chicken wing was simple, it was freshly fried and well-seasoned. The sambal was sweet and not too spicy. For me, the fact that this place sells it at $3 in this economy is crazy.

I like coming here for breakfast and sending a picture to my mom so she doesn’t have to worry about whether I’m eating well or not. But she usually replies with something like ‘I can make it better at home’ or ‘Wow, in Brunei nasi lemak is only $1’. (she’s totally missing the point…)

This hawker centre also has a special place in my heart. Sue’s family knows me as ‘the girl who can’t speak Malay’, the kopi aunty always remembers my order and delivers my kopi to me, and the kopi bean seller is now a friend (he is a profile turned friend). Most importantly, I enjoy coming here, alone, early in the mornings to watch how the place slowly comes alive.

La Pona Nasi Lemak

La Pona’s nasi lemak is another plate that I’ll always remember, because it was my first proper Chinese-style nasi lemak: one with kicap drizzled over the top and assorted fried bits. Situated at Orchard Plaza, this hole-in-the-wall izakaya-style stall opens from 10:30pm to 4am, presumably to cater to the surrounding late-night club crowd. If you can get a seat, I highly recommend dining there; it is an experience that you won’t want to miss out on (a little dramatic, if I may add).

Chinese-style nasi lemak is characterised by its wide array of ingredients; it’s almost like cai png (economy mixed rice) but with nasi lemak. There’s a lot more fried ingredients like fish fillet, ngoh hiang, and sometimes pork. The sambal differs from place to place, but I usually find Chinese nasi lemak sambals relying more on hei bee (dried shrimp) than belacan for depth. Another defining characteristic is the ‘controversial’ kicap manis (sweet sauce) on top. I’m not sure where this comes from, but it adds a nice little hint of sweetness. A few other stalls in this style are Fong Seng Nasi Lemak (a popular supper spot for university students) and Punggol Nasi Lemak.

At La Pona, I went with the nasi lemak platter, which has a little bit of everything: chicken wing, Spam, hot dog, otah, fish fillet. It all adds up to a fairly steep price of $11.80. It’s not the cheapest nasi lemak, but if you’re looking for a late night craving Orchard area, it will definitely hit the spot.

I’ll never forget their LEMAK rice. I’m not kidding when I say it tasted so rich. It felt like they planted a whole coconut tree in the rice. It was perfectly executed, full of flavor and irresistible. It was also my first time trying kicap manis with my nasi lemak and as controversial as it is, it’s really not that bad as it sounds. The sauce complements quite well with the perfectly fried and creamy egg. As for their sambal, it was on the milder side, which was PERFECT for me.

Overall, La Pona is the perfect late-night filler, the kind of nasi lemak you don’t eat for breakfast but rather crave after a long night. It’s not meant to be Michelin-grade, and it’s definitely not trying to be one; it’s there to give the people what they want and fill their bellies with a meal that won’t break their bank.

Kedai Makan Muhajirin

An honorable mention goes to the nasi lemak that showed me a $1 nasi lemak can still exist in Singapore. In a city that constantly thrives through outputs, numbers and returns, it was a breath of fresh air to see people willing to dedicate their heart and soul into a business that doesn’t focus on numbers, but rather on those who need it most.

This place was memorable because I also had the opportunity to join their morning shift and learn how their famous $1 nasi lemak was made. And let me tell you, it was no easy feat. What I saw was the family’s dedication, passion, and selflessness. They didn’t cut corners; they didn’t compromise, and that is exactly what I tasted in their nasi lemak.

I opted for the wing set, which comes with a well-marinated fried chicken wing, cooked to perfection. It was rather fragrant due to its coriander seed marinade, and beautifully golden brown due to its turmeric seasoning. Accompanying the wing is a healthy portion of warm coconutty rice, a spoonful of dark aromatic sambal, a thin slice of omelette, peanuts, ikan bilis and even some cucumber. I must say, I’ve been to quite a few establishments in Singapore that don’t even serve a plate this complete. Some offer only peanuts or only ikan bilis, and still charge double. This set comes in at just $2.50.

The love I felt from a plate of Nasi Lemak

Kedai and Sue’s Kitchen reminds me of a mom waking you up and making sure you have enough to eat before a long day ahead. La Pona is the mom who overfeeds you and makes sure you don’t go to bed hungry. Two different ways of showing love and care, through the same dish.

Though I miss my mother’s nasi lemak, I can safely say that these establishments remind me a bit of home: the love they put into every plate of nasi lemak, and the dedication with which they serve the community selflessly.

With love,

AK

But somewhere between the disappearance of our kampongs and the rise of modern supermarket culture, many of these greens became less familiar to the people who grew up eating them. Today, we might recognise kale from a wellness café menu, but struggle to identify the edible shoots growing in our own tropical landscape. So, what exactly is ulam? And how did something so central to the Malay food tradition become something we now have to rediscover?

More than just a Malay ‘salad’

In The Food of Singapore Malays: Gastronomic Travels Through the Archipelago, food researcher Khir Johari describes ulam as a broad category of shoots, fruits, herbs and foliage plucked from plants and eaten raw. Ulam isn’t one particular dish, nor is it simply the Malay equivalent of a Western salad. It is an entire way of eating and understanding plants. That includes cultivated herbs, edible leaves, young shoots and seasonal produce gathered from the surrounding environment. Depending on the ingredient, ulam can be eaten raw, blanched or prepared in other ways.

Traditionally, these greens would be eaten alongside rice and other dishes, often with sambal belacan to bring out their flavours. Some are peppery, some citrusy, some bitter or astringent, while others have a fragrance unlike anything in a standard salad mix. Together, they provide freshness and contrast to richer, heavier dishes.

As Khir explores in his writing on foraging in Malay cuisine, gathering food from forests, coastlines and other natural habitats was once an ordinary part of life. The Malay word meramu refers to gathering or collecting materials, while ramuan describes the ingredients gathered for use. These words hint at a relationship with food that extends beyond the act of shopping: knowing what grows around you, when to harvest it, and how to use it.

And honestly, isn’t that what everyone is trying to get back to now? Eating seasonally, sourcing locally and making better use of what grows around us. But these are hardly new ideas for the Malay world. They are practices our ancestors already understood, long before we started putting the word “sustainable” on restaurant menus.

Getting to know your ulam

There are hundreds of edible plants associated with ulam traditions across the Malay Archipelago. In Malay households, some ‘ulam’ are also consumed for their medicinal properties, blurring the line between food and medicine. Here are some examples:

Ulam raja (king’s salad) is probably one of the more recognisable varieties, with delicate, feathery leaves and a distinctive herbal, citrusy flavour that some people compare to green mango. It is a rich source of antioxidants.

Terung pipit (pea eggplant) has a distinct bitter and slightly peppery taste and adds a crunchy texture to dishes. It is also often cooked in Thai green curry.

Kemangi (lemon basil) with a peppery, clove-like aroma that cuts through rich and savoury foods. It contains aromatic plant compounds and contributes small amounts of vitamins and minerals to the diet.

Kacang Botol (four-angled beans) are crunchy, slightly grassy and often sliced raw into ulam platters. They provide fibre, plant protein and various micronutrients, making them a useful addition to a balanced meal.

Pegaga (Asiatic Pennywort) has rounded leaves and a fresh, green taste with a slightly bitter edge. It supports brain, skin, and gut health.

From the kampong backyard to the market

For generations, ulam came from wherever people could find it: the garden behind the house, the edges of a kampong, forest clearings and nearby waterways. Knowledge of which leaves to pick, which shoots were tender enough to eat and which plants needed particular preparation was passed down through everyday life, rather than taught in a classroom.

Khir’s account of foraging in Malay cuisine reminds us that this wasn’t merely a quaint rural pastime. It was part of how people fed themselves, responding to what the local environment provided and respecting its seasons. Foraging also required discernment: you needed to know what was edible, when it was ready and how much could be harvested without exhausting the source.

Singapore’s transformation from a landscape of kampongs, gardens and coastal settlements into a highly urbanised city changed that relationship. As habitats disappeared and families moved into flats, the places where people once gathered their greens became harder to access. Commercial food systems made ingredients easier to purchase, but they also distanced people from the knowledge behind their food.

Today, you can still find varieties of ulam at markets specialising in Nusantara ingredients, including Geylang Serai Market. However, the range is nowhere near what the wider region’s plant diversity might suggest. Many ingredients are fragile, seasonal and difficult to cultivate or transport at scale. If fewer people recognise them, fewer people ask for them. If fewer people ask, suppliers have little reason to stock them and demand becomes harder to build.

Have we forgotten how to eat our own greens?

There is something quite ironic about how we talk about healthy eating today. We might happily spend money on imported salad greens, smoothie bowls and wellness products, yet overlook the edible plants that have long been part of our own culinary landscape. Ulam can be dismissed as old-fashioned, too kampung or simply unfamiliar, while processed convenience foods and meat-centred meals become increasingly normalised.

There is a worthwhile conversation to be had about how we define healthy eating, especially when traditional Malay foods are so often reduced to stereotypes about being oily, rich or unhealthy. Malay cuisine is not just rendang, nasi lemak and fried snacks. It also contains a wealth of herbs, vegetables, fermented foods and other ingredients that deserve to be part of the conversation. Reconnecting with ulam won’t solve every health problem, but it could help us reclaim a more varied, plant-rich way of eating while challenging the idea that nutritious food has to come from somewhere else.

Bringing ulam back to the table

Thankfully, the story isn’t all sad. The tradition of eating ulam has seen a revival over the past decade. For example, Nasi Ulam (rice mixed with finely sliced herbs and other flavourful ingredients) has been getting attention. At Amoy Street Food Centre, The Little Red Hen has served Malaysian-style nasi ulam sets, while contemporary restaurant Fiz has also brought ulam and regional ingredients into its modern interpretation of Nusantara cuisine.

Beyond restaurants, passionate individuals are finding ways to bring the knowledge back into the community. Initiatives such as Dapur Cahaya (@cahayaa.kitchen) and Sendok Rakyat (@sendokrakyat) have conducted nasi ulam workshops to introduce participants to different herbs, their flavours and the traditions behind them.

Keeping the practice of eating ulam alive is about more than adding a few leaves to our plate. It is about preserving the knowledge of what grows around us, how to identify and prepare these plants, and how our ancestors made use of the land to feed themselves. As Singapore becomes more urbanised and our diets increasingly shaped by convenience, that knowledge can easily disappear between generations.

Ulam also reminds us that eating well doesn’t always mean reaching for imported superfoods or expensive wellness ingredients. Sometimes, it means returning to the familiar greens that have nourished our communities for generations. By continuing to grow, prepare, share and eat ulam, we keep a living part of our food heritage alive.

If we’re already looking towards local, sustainable and healthier ways of eating, why not start with the greens that have been growing here all along? What would it take for ulam to become as familiar to the next generation as kale is to a wellness cafe? What can we do, in our own kitchens and communities, to make sure we don’t forget how to eat our own greens?

Wanna try a dish using ulam? Try making our nasi ulam recipe!:

My mom took me to my uncle’s farm, about an hour’s drive away from home in Tanjong Maya, an area in Tutong district. He’s been tending that land for years, not to sell the fruit but rather as a way of life, having taken it over from his father. It was my first time visiting, and my mom was super excited to bring me along since this year’s harvest was BLOSSOMING! She wished that one day I’ll have a farm like his, on her plot of land.

On the winding drive up, I was greeted by 4 puppies, excited and curious about the new visitors. My uncle arrived just after us in his giant 4x4 truck. He’s an ex commando, and honestly, his presence is intimidating but you can tell he has a soft heart. I asked him the puppies names, and he said “Barun, Maya, Lamunin…” they are named after the nearby villages!

The area was very hilly and packed with cempedak trees. The deeper we went, the more the terrain tested my driving skills because I ALMOST rolled over… I don’t know how my uncle gets his car through… “You haven’t even seen me drive offroad, this is nothing” he said. This was not the end of the adventure. We had to cross a stream over a bridge of simple wooden planks, made by whatever he could find. I could really tell the city was still in me, and so could my mom and uncle could: it took me what felt like 5 years to cross, while it took them two seconds. I guess Singapore’s comfort and accessibility have really pampered me over the years.

As we walked through his farm, my uncle pointed out and introduced all the varieties of durians in harvest. Unlike the usual fare in Singapore (Musang Kings, Black Thorns, D24–we refer to them as “white durians”), we Borneans have something else… If you ask me, I think it’s worth more than gold. Our durian comes in different colors, textures, scents and flavors.

In parts of Kalimantan, these fruits aren’t even classified as ‘durians’, they are called buah lai. This might be confusing to some, because in Singapore, buah lai is also referred to a specific type of pear.

If you’ve never had an orange or red durian before, you’re missing out. I can confidently tell you that once you try one, the typical white durian will start to feel inferior. You can expect a flesh that is thinner and waxier than your usual custardy, stringy white variety. If I had to compare something, I’d say it’s like biting into a chocolate truffle. There’s no stringiness, no clumping like custard–just smooth and buttery. Oh, and the smell is also inherently different. Yes, it’s pungent, but it’s less “mature cheese” and more fruity, closer to your cempedak or tibadak. The taste? It’s something I can’t explain and it varies from variation too.

Durian Polo is the most interesting one I’ve tried. It’s my first time in fact, since we were harvesting whatever durians had fallen on my uncle’s farm, so every fruit is a surprise when I open it. Its flesh was firm, reminiscent of Thai-style durians, and almost compacted together like coins. I took a bite and was hit instantly by its pepperiness. It wasn’t like a warming black pepper but rather a fruity pepper like a red peppercorn. The spice sat right at the tip of my tongue, almost numbing, like a Sichuan peppercorn.

My auntie says these varieties of durian also come with health benefits–they’re a lot less heaty than white durian. She says she can eat and eat without feeling the same effects she gets from the white kind. If you don’t believe me, I ate a mountain of this stuff and still felt fine the next day! (actually I’ve never experienced heatiness, so I can’t vouch for this)

Another fruit we found was cempedak, and they were growing EVERYWHERE. My mom said for some reason, cempedak grows on hills and rarely on flat ground. (I think it has to do with the soil drainage or something.) I also picked up some Pulasan, one of my favorite fruits. I used to call it “black rambutan”. It’s always such a treat to have these back in Brunei, since in Singapore, you can find pulasan and durian all-year round (which is crazy btw).

That’s part of why it holds a place in my heart. I rarely get to go home. Growing up in France, the 16-hour trip back to Brunei was always tricky. I’d often miss the season by just a few weeks in either direction, which is why I never take it for granted when I do catch the durian and pulasan season here.

Another seasonal fruit which I never realised was uncommon: Tarap. It’s similar to cempedak, but with smaller seeds and a bumpier outer skin. It’s a fruit that needs to be eaten as soon as it opens, my mom says, otherwise its pearly white flesh quickly oxidizes and turns brown. Holding one feels a bit like touching a Velcro; the skin is covered in these little hooks, almost like the bristles of a thistle. Tarap used to be the kind of fruit that you simply had in your backyard or received from a neighbour who grew it. It was never really a fruit that you bought until very recently, and it’s been getting more recognition, especially amongst the younger generation.

We also noticed a lot of cempedak that had fallen and overripened. They had been lying there for weeks, fermenting, some even decomposing already, but I could see my mom’s unwillingness to let anything go to waste. It’s a reflection of how she grew up in a time where food wasn’t about what you could afford but about whatever it was you could forage around you. She insisted on taking the seeds because they were her favorite. I grew up eating cempedak or durian seeds in curries, and they became my favorite too.

My favourite discovery would probably be this peculiar plant we found drooping from a tree. It resembled a little like a naked dandelion but twice as big and green... I asked my uncle what it was, and he told me it was the flower of the petai tree. So eventually, one pod will bloom into a cluster of petai flowers and pods.

After our bountiful visit, my mom and I stopped at a local roadside stall in Lamunin (the same Lamunin one of the puppies is named after). Usually when we’re in the area, we would stop by because this is where locals sell the fruits of their labour at reasonable prices. You can find all kinds of durian at different price points. Even as someone from here, seeing a stall like this is truly amazing. It shows how special durian season is to us.

Back at home, at family gatherings, it’s all anyone really talks about. One relative claimed that he found durians as cheap as a dollar per ikat (tied bundle). Another insists the best durians come from xyz locations or stalls. And of course there’ll always be an uncle who goes ‘I bought durian from a stall [wherever] and when I opened it, IT WAS A WHITE DURIAN! THEY CHEATED ME!’

This short trip made me reflect. Seeing my mom in her 60’s, still able to navigate the rainforest like it was her playground, excited whenever my uncle showed us a fruit that was ready to harvest, gave me a glimpse of how life was like back in her day. Before Brunei was known for its oil, and everyone lived the only way they knew how: off the land.

That day I walked about with a car full of fruits. To this day, my car still smells like cempedak and durian.

signing off,
AK

If you’ve spent enough time on the food side of TikTok, YouTube or Bilibili, you’ve probably seen a GEODUCK before. These giant clams have become something of a mukbang celebrity, appearing in videos from Mainland Chinese and Korean creators where people slice, dip and slurp their way through the enormous siphon. And honestly, it’s not difficult to understand why they get views. A geoduck looks less like a normal clam and more like someone took a perfectly innocent bivalve and gave it a very questionable appendage.

Yes, it is extremely… ummm.. phallic. Nature really did not need to go this hard.

But behind the internet jokes is a pretty interesting food history. Geoduck is native to the Pacific Northwest America, where indigenous peoples had been harvesting and eating them long before they became a luxury seafood item in Asia. The name comes from the Lushootseed word gʷidəq, generally understood to mean “dig deep”, referring to the way these clams burrow into the seabed. Somewhere along the way, that Indigenous word became “geoduck” in English — although, confusingly, it isn’t pronounced “Jee-yoh-duck”. It’s pronounced “gooey duck.”

The animal eventually found its way into commercial seafood markets and became particularly popular in East Asia, especially China, Hong Kong and Japan. Its unusual appearance, crunchy texture and natural sweetness made it ideal for the culture of live seafood dining, where the animal is often brought to the table before being prepared. Geoduck is also expensive because it is a slow-growing, long-lived animal that has to be harvested, handled and transported alive, while demand for it as a premium seafood remains high.

In Chinese dining culture, expensive live seafood can also carry a certain status — and Singapore is no stranger to this. At restaurants such as Jumbo Seafood, Long Beach and Imperial Treasure, geoduck appears as sashimi, in superior stock, steamed with garlic and vermicelli, or stir-fried with XO sauce. By the time it reaches your restaurant table, you’re not exactly ordering a casual plate of shellfish.

Which brings me to the stupidest part of this story: I had never actually prepared one myself before.

I’ve eaten geoduck in restaurants before, but buying a live one and figuring out how to clean it is a completely different experience. So I did what any chef with too much curiosity and access to the internet would do — I bought one and started figuring it out.

The first thing I learnt was that the giant “tube” everyone is obsessed with is the siphon, which the geoduck uses to draw in and expel water. Inside the shell is the rest of the animal: mantle, gills, organs and the softer body meat. Cleaning it is fairly straightforward once you understand what you’re looking at, although the first time around it definitely feels like you’re performing surgery on something that costs far too much money to mess up.

For the siphon, the trick is to blanch it very briefly in boiling water. The heat loosens the tough outer skin so it can be peeled away, but you don’t want to cook the meat underneath. I immediately transferred it into an ice bath to stop the cooking, then cleaned and trimmed away the darker internal bits and gills before slicing the usable meat thinly. The texture is the whole point: firm, crunchy and slightly sweet, which is why geoduck is so often served raw or cooked VERY quickly.

For my first attempt, I didn’t want to simply recreate the usual soy-and-wasabi sashimi presentation. I wanted to take the geoduck somewhere that felt more familiar to me, so I made a Thai-style Geoduck Crudo with a green chilli nam jim seafood sauce. It’s fresh, sour, spicy and salty, and already works beautifully with things like prawns, cockles and other raw or lightly cooked seafood.

I added fresh orange segments for sweetness and another layer of citrus, then some latok (Malay for sea grapes), for that little burst of briny flavour and texture and then a final grating of orange zest to bring everything together. The result was bright and punchy, but still allowed the geoduck to do what it does best — provide that amazingly crunchy, sweet bite.

And then I finally understood the appeal. To me, geoduck tasted almost like a really briny oyster, but with the texture of raw abalone — only sweeter. It has that unmistakable taste of the sea that you get from a good oyster, but instead of the soft, creamy texture, you’re getting this firm, almost snappy chew. The sweetness is what really surprised me, beneath all that brine and crunch.

And I think that’s what surprised me most about preparing it myself. Online, geoduck is usually reduced to its appearance: the weird clam, the expensive clam, the “why does it look like that?” clam. But once you actually get past the internet spectacle, you’re dealing with a fascinating shellfish with a much longer history — from Indigenous Pacific Northwest foodways to modern Chinese seafood restaurants and now, somehow, TikTok mukbangs.

Would I prepare one again? Absolutely. Although next time, I would love to try it prepared by a chef who specialises in geoduck dishes. Would probably need to sell a kidney for it though. ;(

@nomies.cowhy name GEODUCK when it has nothing at all to do with actual DUCK?? ❌🦆 #sgfoodie #recipe #geoduck

Tiktok failed to load.

Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser

There are some foods you smell before you see. Durian is one. Belachan is another. And then there is 臭豆腐 — chòu dòufu, or stinky tofu — which belongs in a very special category of food that makes you wonder whether someone nearby has committed a serious rubbish disposal offence.

My first proper encounter with stinky tofu was about 12 years ago, in Taipei, Taiwan. I was wandering around a night market, doing what you are supposed to do in Taiwan: eating everything that looked remotely interesting and pretending I still had space in my stomach. Then I smelled it. Not “hmm, something is fermenting” kind of smell. I mean WHAT THE HELL IS THAT. At that point, I had already seen stinky tofu being sold at pasar malams back home in Singapore, but I usually avoided it. The smell alone was enough to make me change direction. But being in Taiwan, surrounded by night-market smoke, fried food and the general chaos of the evening, I figured I should probably try it where the dish had become such an iconic part of the street-food culture.

And I am very glad I did, because the funny thing about stinky tofu is that the smell and the taste are having two completely different conversations. Your nose is screaming, bro, jangan, while your mouth is going, actually… can I have another one? The tofu is usually fried until the exterior becomes crisp and almost crackly, while the inside stays soft and creamy, with this salty, savoury, fermented umami that is somehow delicious despite the fact that your nose is telling you to call NEA. Taiwan is particularly famous for its night-market versions, although stinky tofu itself isn’t originally Taiwanese. The dish has older Chinese roots, while Taiwan developed its own versions and turned fried stinky tofu into one of its most recognisable street foods.

For the next ten years, I was perfectly happy eating the stuff whenever I found myself in Taiwan and pretending the versions at Singapore pasar malams didn’t exist. Then recently, I came across Sharmin’s content — @mintydollz_ — where she tried stinky tofu at a night-market stall in Yiwu, China. What caught my attention was that she had apparently gone about ten years without eating it because she struggled to find a halal or Muslim-owned stinky tofu stall in Singapore. Watching her finally get to eat it again reminded me of my own obsession with the dish, and naturally I had the extremely sensible thought of: “Eh, why don’t I just make it?”

My first attempt was very much the lazy man’s version. I found an “express” method that basically involved soaking firm tofu in a brine made from mashed fermented tofu, or fǔrǔ, along with some of its liquid and other seasonings. On paper, it made sense. Fermented tofu is already funky, so surely if I mash it up, dunk some tofu inside and leave it for a while, I should get something resembling stinky tofu. Unfortunately, the result tasted like… tofu. It was savoury and slightly fermented, but the aroma was nowhere near the aggressively funky, garbage-adjacent tofu I remembered from Taiwanese night markets. It wasn’t bad; it just wasn’t stinky tofu. I was unsatisfied, unsettled, and honestly a little offended that I had gone through all that effort only to make tofu that smelled like fermented bean curd.

So I started researching how the real stuff is made, and this is where things got much more interesting. I had assumed that stinky tofu was essentially tofu marinated in some particularly disgusting liquid, but the more I read, the more I realised that the brine is really the star of the show. Traditional recipes vary quite a lot depending on the region and producer, but vegetable-based brines can contain ingredients such as bamboo shoots, amaranth, cabbage, herbs and other ingredients. In one study of Taiwanese stinky-tofu brines, researchers found that some traditional brines were made entirely from fermented vegetables, with amaranth, bamboo shoots and wax gourd among the main ingredients. They also found a surprisingly complex community of lactic-acid bacteria in the brines, with dozens of bacterial species identified across the samples.

This completely changed how I thought about the dish. I wasn’t supposed to be making tofu that was simply soaked in something smelly. I was supposed to make a fermented ecosystem, then put tofu into it. Basically, I had spent ten years blaming the tofu when the real villain was the water.

For my brine, I used Chinese amaranth, mustard greens & fresh bamboo shoots, chopped into smaller pieces. You can also use fermented bamboo shoots, depending on the style you’re trying to recreate. The amaranth was particularly important. Amaranth, especially its stems and leafy material, appears in documented stinky-brine formulations and provides plant material that microorganisms can break down during fermentation. Research on stinky-tofu brines has found that prolonged fermentation of ingredients such as amaranth and bamboo shoots contributes to the development of the complex microbial and chemical environment that eventually gives the tofu its characteristic aroma.

I washed the vegetables, chopped them up, and put them into a clean jar with filtered water. I also added some mashed up fu ru to kickstart the fermentation (with the microbes that are already present in them), I then worked with a salt concentration of roughly 2.5–3%, based on the weight of the water. Salt is important as it changes the environment and helps select for microorganisms that can tolerate it, while discouraging many unwanted microbes. As fermentation progresses, the microbial community transforms the ingredients and produces acids, gases and a whole range of flavour and aroma compounds.

THIS is where stinky tofu gets really fascinating. Scientists studying traditional brines have found that they contain a very diverse microbial population, including lactic-acid bacteria such as Lactobacillus, Lactococcus, Leuconostoc, Pediococcus and Weissella. Other research has found that stinky tofu and its brine can contain both bacteria and fungi, with the exact microbial community varying between different regions. In other words, there isn’t one magical “stinky tofu bacteria” responsible for everything. It is more like a microbial orchestra, and the ingredients, environment and fermentation time all affect what eventually comes out of it.

The smell itself also isn’t simply “rotting food”. Fermentation changes the chemical composition of the vegetables and tofu, producing a range of volatile compounds. Some are fruity, some sulphurous, some cheesy and some, well just happen to smell like the rubbish chute under your HDB. Some traditional brines are fermented for months, and there are documented brines that are maintained for much longer.

So I sealed up my jar, keeping it covered in a way that allowed fermentation gases to escape, and left it somewhere cool and dark. And then came the hardest part of the recipe: doing absolutely nothing. For an entire month, I had this jar sitting around slowly becoming more and more questionable. Every few days I’d check on it, and the smell would become progressively more assertive. At first it was just fermented vegetables. Eventually, it became something that made my mom start to nag to me about.

After a month, I had a cloudy, deeply pungent liquid that smelled considerably more like the stinky tofu I remembered. I strained the vegetables out and finally had my master brine.

However, I wasn’t happy with the tofu itself either. My first batch of firm tofu (tau kwa) was too soft and dense. It didn’t have that slightly chewy, porous and akey interior I remembered from Taiwan, and more importantly, it wasn’t absorbing enough of the fermented flavour. So I decided to use a little tofu hack that has nothing specifically to do with stinky tofu but makes a huge difference when you want tofu to absorb flavour.

I put tofu in the freezer overnight and then let it thaw completely before squeezing out as much water as I possibly could. The tofu suddenly develops this strange, almost sponge-like texture. That’s because the water inside the tofu freezes into ice crystals, which disrupt the protein structure and leave behind little pockets once the tofu thaws and the water is squeezed out.

Those little holes give the fermented brine more places to travel into, rather than leaving all the flavour sitting on the surface. Think of it like turning your tofu into a little sponge.

After submerging, the spongy tofu in the brine for 3 days to soak up the smelly flavour, I took it out, gave it a gentle rinse and dried it thoroughly before dropping it into hot oil. As the tofu fried, the outside became beautifully crisp and golden while the inside stayed soft and porous. More importantly, the smell was finally there. Not “shortcut fermented tofu” there. Not “slightly funky tofu” there. I mean STINKY TOFU there.

My entire kitchen smelled like pure garbage for about a week, but honestly, I was quite happy about it. After all that time, I had finally managed to make something that reminded me of the tofu I had eaten in Taiwan all those years ago.

Sharmin was the reason I had started this experiment in the first place, so I invited her over and put the finished tofu in front of her. After watching me spend an entire month cultivating what was essentially a jar of decaying vegetables, I needed an independent assessment from someone who actually knows and loves stinky tofu. She took a bite, and thankfully, SHE APPROVED! That was probably the most satisfying part of the whole experiment. I had started this because her video reminded me of a food I hadn’t eaten properly in years, and somehow that had led me down a month-long fermentation rabbit hole.

I still don’t think this is the final version. If anything, I think the master brine has more potential. I’ve kept it going, and I’m planning to let it ferment and develop for another 3-6 months before using it again. Perhaps the next batch will be even more pungent & the flavour might become deeper and more complex.

@nomies.coat this point I need to send out gifts to my neighbours to apologise them for the stench… #sorrynotsorry 🙏🏽 @Sharmin

Tiktok failed to load.

Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser

Read more

There was a time when you would hear the word mochi and probably think of a small, round Japanese sweet filled with red bean paste.

These days, in Singapore, that definition seems increasingly inadequate.

Walk into a bakery and you might find mochi buns, mochi croissants, mochi muffins or pastries with a chewy mochi centre. At Gokoku Japanese Bakery, there are even “Mochi Mochi” buns filled with cranberry, cheese or chocolate couverture. while Butter Bread has an Orh Nee Mochi Croissant combining yam paste and mochi with laminated pastry. Wu Pao Chun has also introduced Singapore-exclusive mochi buns, including a Kinako Red Bean Mochi and Chocolate Lava Mochi.

What we are really chasing, perhaps, is not mochi itself but mochi-NESS: that soft, elastic, slightly resistant chew that has become a texture people want to put into everything.

Traditional mochi is made from mochigome, a particularly glutinous short-grain rice. The rice is steamed and pounded until it becomes a smooth, sticky mass, then shaped into cakes or other forms. In Japan, mochi has long been associated not just with sweets but with ritual, seasonal celebrations and regional food traditions.

And perhaps this is why mochi has proved so easy to reinvent. It has never really been limited to one flavour or one format. Across Japan, there are sweet and savoury versions, mochi served with sauces, mochi incorporated into meals, and regional preparations that look very different from the little confectionery we usually encounter outside Japan.

Which brings us to the potato.

Potato mochi, or imo mochi, is a particularly good example of what happens when a food gets separated from its original ingredient but retains its essential character. In Hokkaido, where growing rice was historically difficult in the cold climate, potatoes became an important crop. Potatoes were mashed, mixed with starch and shaped into cakes that could be cooked much like mochi.

The version that has been circulating all over TikTok takes this idea and makes it incredibly accessible: mashed potato, starch, a hot pan and a simple sweet-umami soy glaze. Once the little cakes are crisp on the outside and chewy in the middle, they get brushed with that glossy sauce and finished with pieces of seaweed.

It is easy to understand the appeal. Potatoes are familiar. The ingredients are inexpensive. The technique is simple. But the finished thing has a texture that feels slightly unexpected — somewhere between a hash brown, a rice cake and a chewy snack.

And that, I think, is what makes potato mochi such a satisfying recipe to try at home. It is not really about reproducing some sacred or fixed idea of what mochi should be. It is about understanding what makes the original so appealing, then seeing what happens when that idea is given a different ingredient.

Food has always worked this way. A technique travels, an ingredient changes, someone experiments, and eventually something that once seemed unusual becomes completely ordinary.

So if you have a few potatoes sitting around, some starch in the cupboard and a bottle of soy sauce in the fridge, give this one a go. You might start out trying to make potato mochi because TikTok told you to. But you may end up understanding why chewiness itself has become a food trend.

@nomies.coppl be mochi-fying EVERYTHING these days so I also want lah 🍘🍡 #sgfoodie #mochi

Tiktok failed to load.

Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser

Check out our other Japanese recipes below!:

In 2024, at 61, Kuan was retrenched from her job at a law firm after spending decades in the workforce. As she puts it, she was initially a little lost about where her life would go next. She had been cooking and hosting for friends and family for years, and when her friends suggested that she turn that passion into something of her own, she decided to give it a shot.

What started as a way to support herself after retrenchment eventually became Kuan’s Table Private Dining. She now opens her home to guests, cooking the kinds of food she genuinely loves to eat — particularly dishes that you might not easily find on a restaurant menu. She has travelled to India and China to learn more dishes, while also drawing heavily from the food traditions within her own family.

And that family is a pretty good reflection of Singapore itself. Kuan is Chinese, while her husband, Sanjay, is Malayali, with grandparents from Kerala in South India. When they were living away in Australia for several years, Sanjay started missing the food he grew up with, so Kuan began learning to cook the dishes of his heritage. Over time, what began as cooking for her husband and family became something she could share with a much wider audience.

I find this particularly interesting because Kuan’s cooking doesn’t seem to be about staying neatly within one culinary box. Her Malayali dishes include favourites such as Wintermelon Pachadi and Salted Fish Achar, but she also cooks Chinese food from her own heritage when guests request it. She has made elaborate Pen Cai and black garlic black chicken soup for Chinese New Year, and she also cooks Peranakan dishes such as Itek Tim.

Her private dining setup is equally personal. Rather than operating out of a restaurant or commercial kitchen, Kuan hosts guests from her home, with dinners spilling out onto the front lawn. The menu is essentially a reflection of what she likes to cook and eat — a mixture of family food, dishes she has picked up along the way and recipes that she has travelled to learn.

It feels less like going to a restaurant and more like being invited to someone’s house who happens to be a very serious cook.

Which brings us back to this chicken.

The Kuttan family’s recipe of Green Chilli Chicken is a good example of why I enjoy learning recipes directly from people. On paper, the dish doesn’t look particularly complicated. There isn’t an enormous list of ingredients or some elaborate restaurant technique involved. Instead, the character comes from getting a few things right: building the masala, allowing the chicken to take on all those flavours, and adding the green chillies at the right point.

One ingredient that caught my attention was panch phoron, the whole-spice blend more commonly associated with Bengali and eastern Indian cooking. The name literally means “five spices”, and the usual combination is fenugreek, nigella, cumin, mustard and fennel seeds. They are used whole and tempered in hot oil, allowing each seed to release its own aroma and flavour.

And then there are the green chillies, which are added towards the end rather than cooked into oblivion from the beginning. Cooking them for too long dulls that bright green colour and takes away some of the fresh, herbaceous character that makes green chilli taste so different from dried chilli or chilli powder. Added later, they retain more of that freshness while still giving the chicken plenty of heat and aroma.

What I liked most about cooking this with Kuan, though, was that the recipe felt like a small window into her family. This wasn’t a dish she had simply found in a cookbook and decided to put on a menu. It came into her life because someone she loves missed the food of home, and she decided to learn how to make it.

That, to me, is one of the more interesting things about food in Singapore. We talk about our different cuisines as if they exist in separate categories — Chinese, Malay, Indian, Peranakan — but the reality inside our homes has always been much messier and much more interesting. Recipes cross kitchens through marriage, friendship, migration and sheer curiosity. Someone teaches you how their mother makes a dish, you cook it enough times to make it your own, and eventually it becomes part of your own culinary repertoire.

Kuan’s story is a reminder that food is one of the easiest ways we get to know the parts of Singaporean life that don’t necessarily belong to our own background. You don’t need to share someone’s ethnicity to inherit a recipe. Sometimes all it takes is a hungry husband, a generous sister-in-law, a few hours in the kitchen — and the willingness to learn.

And in a place as mixed as Singapore, perhaps that is how culture actually works: not by keeping traditions in separate boxes, but by letting them travel between people, homes and generations.

@nomies.cowhy the retirement planner tell me i don't have the money i need to last me till 70 ❤️‍🩹🥲💸 see your complete retirement picture in one place with MoneyOwl’s OwlRetirement Planner comment “retire” for more information! #recipes #retirement

Tiktok failed to load.

Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser

Try out these other South Asian recipes we’ve made in the past!:

Popo’s Pig Trotter

my grandma is turning 80 soon and, for the first time, I watcher her look small in a hospital bed.

that’s the moment it hit me: I am running out of time to learn everything she knows. one way that we usually bond is through my love for her cooking, so whenever I get the chance, I ask her for tips and tricks on the dishes she’s made for me over the years.

this time, I asked her for a dish that I’d actually never tried before. I’d always heard about her famous pig trotter vinegar dish, but I had no memory of ever eating it. when I asked her why, she said simply “everyone snatch away a portion and you are just too slow! so I guess you didn’t get to try it.” word has it that the dish is so good, my family members still talk about it to this day.

often served as a confinement dish, pig trotter is known for its health benefits, one being that it’s good for your complexion, thanks to its high collagen content. I’ve never fancied high-collagen dishes like this because I assumed they’d be too fatty, but my grandma swears that no matter how many portions of pig trotter you eat, you won’t gain weight (haha). so one afternoon, she finally taught me how to make it—and my oh my, it was absolutely delicious. I can’t wait to share it with you.

one tip that she swears by: use Chan Kong Thye Black Sweet Rice Vinegar, the one with the pink label one it (it has a dog on it, that’s how she describes it). this vinegar yields the best results. it has the best balance of sweet and sour, and adds a depth of flavour to the pig trotter stew that I can’t quite describe. it is also great at cutting through the fattiness of the meat beautifully, making the dish moreish.

give this recipe a try and let me know what you think!

More tips from popo:

• ask for the front legs rather than the back legs. they are meatier and more collagen-filled

• use black sugar rather than brown or white sugar for a deeper and more caramelised flavour

• add in more ginger for a spicier kick, the kind that feels like it can clear your sinuses instantly. cut back if that’s not your thing. remember to smash them before putting into the pot to release its flavours

• allow it to sit for at least an hour, but best served the next day as flavours are more intense

@nomies.cowho needs a confinement nanny when you have the wisest grandmother at home 🥰🤪 #sgfoodie #recipe

Tiktok failed to load.

Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser

looking for more inspirations? check out the following recipes:

There was a period when I made a massive batch of kimchi and basically ate it with everything. Rice? Kimchi. Noodles? Kimchi. Leftover chicken? Kimchi. At one point, my blood was probably made of kimchi juice.

But honestly, having a big jar of kimchi in the fridge made me feel like I was eating really well. It was crunchy, spicy, sour, full of vegetables and somehow made even the most boring meal feel a little more exciting. And because kimchi is fermented, I also had the added satisfaction of telling myself that I was being healthy while eating something delicious.

The batch lasted me around six months, and by the end it had become seriously potent. The cabbage had softened, the sourness had intensified and the whole thing had developed that deep, funky fermented flavour that you just don’t get from freshly made kimchi.

That transformation is basically the work of lactic acid bacteria. These naturally occurring bacteria feed on the sugars in the vegetables and produce lactic acid, which gradually makes the kimchi more sour and creates an environment where many undesirable bacteria struggle to survive. As fermentation continues, the flavour becomes more acidic and complex.

And this is also where kimchi gets its reputation as a “probiotic” food. Kimchi can contain significant amounts of live lactic acid bacteria, alongside plenty of fibre and nutrients from the vegetables themselves. These bacteria may support the gut microbiome and digestive health, although exactly how much benefit you get depends on the kimchi, how it was fermented and how much you eat.

Which brings us to the increasingly popular idea that gut health affects the rest of your body. Your gut is involved in digestion, nutrient absorption and immune function, so it makes sense that what you eat can have effects beyond just what happens in the toilet. There’s even research looking at possible links between fermented foods, inflammation and skin health — although I wouldn’t start rubbing kimchi juice on your face just yet. Your skincare routine does not need a side of cabbage.

For this recipe, I wanted to make kimchi as uncomplicated as possible. There’s no flour paste, no complicated cooking and no need to spend your entire Sunday making a jar of cabbage. It’s essentially cabbage, seasoning and fermentation, with the process doing most of the work for you.

I also like making it myself because I get to control exactly what goes into the jar. Store-bought kimchi can be perfectly good, but depending on the brand, it may be pasteurised or otherwise processed for longer shelf life, which can affect the amount of live bacteria present. Making a fresh batch at home means you can choose your ingredients, control the seasoning and let it ferment to exactly the level of funk and sourness you like.

And perhaps the best part is simply having it ready in the fridge. A spoonful can turn leftover rice into something worth eating, add acidity to a rich meal, or give instant life to noodles, eggs, sandwiches and pretty much anything else that needs a little help.

So if you’ve never made kimchi before, this is a good place to start. Make a big jar, let the little bacteria do their thing, and suddenly you have a condiment that makes eating more vegetables feel less like homework.

@nomies.cooppa darren went from making kimchi for work to making it for fun🥹 #buscaptaincareers link in bio for this kimchi recipe! #fyp #sgfoodie #kimchi

Tiktok failed to load.

Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser

Basically: make kimchi once, and let future-you thank you every time you open the fridge.

click in the links to see where we bought our ingredients!: gochugaru, coarse sea salt, chinchalok

to learn how we turned this kimchi to kimchi jjigae, check out the recipe in the video below!:

There are some dishes that make you realise how silly food borders can be. Gado-Gado is one of them.

If you grew up in Singapore, you’ve probably seen it around: blanched vegetables, tofu, sometimes tempeh, potatoes and egg, all covered in a generous amount of peanut sauce. You’ll find it at some Malay stalls, Indonesian restaurants and hawker centres, but compared to nasi padang, mee rebus or ayam penyet, gado-gado still feels like the quieter kid in the class.

Gado-gado is generally associated with Betawi food culture in Jakarta, and which name, in Betawi Malay dialect meaning “mix-mix”. The Betawi term ‘digado’ also means to eat a meal without rice (in its regular steamed form, that is). There isn’t really one fixed recipe for this dish and depending on where you are, you might find cabbage, bean sprouts, long beans, potatoes, cucumber, tofu, tempeh and egg, all brought together with a rich peanut sauce.

Gado-gado has some pretty close cousins, with the most obvious is pecel, a Javanese dish particularly associated with Central and East Java. Like gado-gado, it brings blanched vegetables together with peanut sauce. The differences are that the sauce in pecel is usually punchier and involves sand ginger (kencur) whereas gado-gado sauce doesn’t. Gado-gado is also always served with lontong and also boiled eggs, whereas pecel is often eaten alongside steamed rice.

Then there’s also karedok, another West Javanese relative where the vegetables are served raw, giving it a much crunchier, fresher character.

Whether gado-gado directly evolved from pecel is harder to say. What is clearer is that these dishes belong to a much bigger Nusantara tradition of pairing vegetables with intensely flavoured peanut sauces. Pecel itself has a much older documented history in Java, with references going back centuries.

And these foodways didn’t exactly stay in Java.

We actually have evidence of gado-gado being known in Singapore decades ago. A Malay cookbook, Memilih Selera by Siti Radhiah published in the 1953 included gado-gado alongside a whole collection of recipes from the wider Nusantara, suggesting that it had already entered the culinary vocabulary here, even if it never became quite as mainstream as some of its other Indonesian cousins.

And maybe that’s why I find gado-gado so interesting. It sits somewhere in that wonderfully blurry space where Nusantara food becomes Malay food becomes Singapore food, with it being a symbol of the culinary connectedness within the region - and how the different recipes of gado-gado in Singapore shows how culinary traditions are still evolving.

For my version, I wanted to lean into that flexibility even more. So I used vegetables that aren’t necessarily the usual suspects, including soybean sprouts instead of the more common mung bean sprouts, as well as snow peas. The point wasn’t to reinvent gado-gado for the sake of it, but to show how adaptable the dish can be. If you have vegetables sitting in your fridge that need some attention, gado-gado is basically an excuse to throw them all together.

And this is what I love about it: it's mostly vegetables, but it never feels like you’re being ‘punished’ for trying to eat more of them. The peanut sauce is doing a lot of heavy lifting here — salty, sweet, nutty, spicy and savoury — but it’s not just about the sauce either. The tofu, egg, vegetables, crunchy bits and rice all bring different textures and flavours to the plate. It is the sum of all these slightly random things that makes gado-gado so good.

I also like thinking of gado-gado as one of my favourite ways of decolonising “healthy food.” So much of what gets presented to us today as healthy eating comes wrapped in a very Western ideas of healthy eating: quinoa, arugula, avocado toast, grain bowls etc.

Meanwhile, Southeast Asia has been putting vegetables, legumes, tofu and herbs together with deeply satisfying sauces for generations. We just never bothered giving it a $22 price tag and calling it a “nourish bowl.”

Gado-gado is a great reminder that eating more vegetables doesn’t have to mean eating sad food. Sometimes you just need a really good peanut sauce. So here’s my version — a little different from the traditional combinations, but very much in the spirit of ‘mix-mix’. Hopefully it gives you an excuse to eat a few more vegetables too!

@nomies.co64 years old and cycling 16km to work? gurl i cant even walk 300m to the mrt station for work link in bio for our gado gado recipe! kickstart your sporting journey with ActiveSG, book here: activesg.gov.sg! #sgfoodie #sports #fyp #gadogado

Tiktok failed to load.

Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser

Read more

I visited Taiwan years ago, and one of the street snacks I kept going back to whenever I found myself at the night markets of Shilin and Raohe in Taipei was stinky tofu. If you’ve never had it before, the smell is probably the first thing you’ll notice. It has the distinct ability to make an entire street smell like someone has left something very questionable in a rubbish chute. But somehow, once you actually eat it, all of that disappears. The tofu is crispy on the outside, soft in the middle, deeply savoury, funky and full of umami. Your nose says “absolutely not!”, while your mouth is like “please give me another one!”.

So when I recently came across a video by Muslim food creator Sharmin (@mintydollz on TikTok) making a halal version, I immediately wanted to try making my own. The recipe I found was a much easier home-cooked version that uses firm tofu, fermented white bean curd, garlic, vinegar, salt and water. The white fermented bean curd is particularly important because, apart from being fermented, it already has this slightly sulphuric, funky smell with hints of miso-like umami. I mashed it up with garlic, some of its own brine, vinegar and water, submerged the tofu in the mixture and left the whole thing in an airtight jar in the fridge for a week, flipping it every couple of days so the brine could reach all sides.

One week later, it was time to find out if I had successfully made stinky tofu or just made tofu that had spent a week having a garlic bath.

The smell, surprisingly, wasn’t that bad. It was much more garlicky than stinky, which should probably have been my first clue. I drained the tofu, tossed it with a little baking powder to help make the texture lighter and airier, then fried it until the outside was crispy. And honestly, it looked pretty damn good.

But before eating it, I started wondering what actually makes proper stinky tofu so damn stinky in the first place.

Turns out, the real thing is considerably more involved. Traditional stinky tofu isn’t simply tofu soaked in some funky liquid for a few days. The magic happens in the stinky brine, which is itself fermented. Depending on the producer and region, the brine can be made from things like fermented vegetables, cabbage, bamboo shoots, amaranth and other ingredients, with some traditional versions also incorporating shrimp or other protein-rich ingredients. The mixture is left to ferment for weeks or even months, allowing a complicated community of microorganisms to break down proteins and produce all those wonderfully offensive aromas.

In fact, studies of traditional Taiwanese stinky tofu brines have found a surprisingly diverse mix of bacteria and fungi living in them, while researchers have also tried isolating specific microorganisms to make the fermentation more controlled and consistent. So behind that seemingly simple night-market snack is actually a pretty sophisticated fermentation process.

Which also explains why my little one-week experiment wasn’t quite the same thing.

After frying, my tofu was crispy, airy and had a nice fermented savouriness. It was genuinely good, and for a shortcut version made in the fridge in a week, I can’t complain. But then I took a bite and realised...

This isn’t the stinky tofu I remember ;(

I wanted that aggressive funk. That smell that hits you before you even see the stall. That slightly rotten, almost ammonia-like aroma that makes you question whether you should be eating it, followed by that ridiculously satisfying umami flavour once you actually do. Mine was more like stinky tofu’s well-behaved younger sibling. It had the idea of stinky tofu, but none of the social menace.

Still, I think that’s also what makes this version fun. If you’ve always wanted to try making stinky tofu at home but aren’t quite ready to spend months cultivating a vat of fermented vegetables and microbes in the name of dinner, this is a much more approachable introduction. Just don’t expect it to taste exactly like the stuff you get in Taiwan.

As for me, I think I’ll have to try making the proper version one day.

Although I should probably let the neighbours know first.

@nomies.coDay 67 of letting my neighbours think I forgot to dispose my garbage🤮 recipe is on our substack! #sg #sgfoodie #fyp #chinesefood

Tiktok failed to load.

Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser

if you wanna try to make other fun kitchen projects which involve fermenting and/or pickling, try these recipes!:

MARMITE HAS DISAPPEARED FROM SINGAPORE!

Not “I went to three supermarkets and couldn’t find it” disappeared. It’s ACTUALLY discontinued.

Unilever announced in July that Marmite would no longer be distributed in Singapore, citing ongoing supply challenges. Supermarkets are trying to bring in alternative overseas stocks, while restaurants are scrambling to find replacements. Some are even testing Vegemite.

Which got me thinking: why do we care so much about a British yeast spread?It’s because somewhere along the way, Marmite stopped being just a British thing and became weirdly Singaporean.

Marmite was invented in England in 1902, made from concentrated yeast extract, and originally marketed as a nutritious food because of its B vitamins. But it was already being sold in Singapore during the colonial period. I found a 1937 Straits Times advertisement telling people to add a teaspoon of Marmite to soup, meat pies and “any other meat dish”. By the 1950s, it was being advertised here as a family food and something to add to everyday meals.

So somewhere between British colonial food culture, Chinese households and Singapore’s general talent for taking foreign ingredients and doing our own thing, Marmite found a second life here.

And this is where things get interesting. We didn’t just put it on toast.

People in this part of the world started stirring it into plain congee or rice for an easy hit of savoury flavour, while Chinese restaurants and zi char stalls turned it into sticky, sweet-savoury sauces for chicken, pork ribs and other fried things. Marmite chicken eventually became such a familiar local dish that there are now restaurant recipes specifically built around that combination of salty yeast extract and sugary glaze.

But then I tried to find out who actually invented Marmite chicken, and... NOTHING.

No famous chef. No eureka moment. No “Marmite Chicken was created in 1987 by Uncle Lim of Somewhere Seafood Restaurant”.

It seems to have emerged organically from Malaysian and Singaporean Chinese cooking, which honestly feels quite appropriate. Take a British pantry ingredient, throw it into a Chinese-style fried chicken dish, add sugar until it becomes addictive and suddenly you’ve got something that feels like it has always belonged here.

Now that Marmite is disappearing, restaurants are having to confront the slightly ridiculous reality that an imported British yeast extract has become important enough to threaten an entire category of local dishes. KENG ENG KEE, for example, has had Marmite chicken on its menu for more than 20 years and is now testing Vegemite as a replacement. Other restaurants are looking for alternative suppliers or considering taking their Marmite dishes off the menu altogether.

So I started wondering, are we actually okay with Marmite disappearing?

Well, I wasn’t.

And rather than paying some insane online resale price for a tiny jar, I thought; “how hard can it be to make Marmite?”

I found a recipe by chef Alex Bond that makes a Marmite-like spread using stale sourdough, brewer’s yeast and sugar. The bread is toasted until very brown, soaked in yeast and water, fermented, squeezed out and then reduced. And when I say reduced, I mean 4 litres of liquid becomes about 200ml. The final reduction alone takes a couple of hours.

Which was when I realised something slightly embarrassing. I had never once thought about how Marmite was actually made. It had always just been there — sitting in a little jar, ready to be aggressively spread onto toast or dumped into a Marmite chicken.

After spending hours watching a giant pot of fermented bread water slowly disappear into a dark, sticky, deeply savoury paste, I started appreciating that little jar a lot more, especially when I used my painstakingly-homemade Marmite to make Marmite chicken.

Maybe the supply shortage is annoying. Maybe Vegemite will eventually save us. Or maybe Singapore’s collective Marmite addiction will force us all to learn how to make our own.

Either way, I now have a jar in my fridge, and I am guarding it with my life.

@nomies.cosorry it took me 4 DAYS but here’s your marmite chicken 🥹🥹” #recipe #chicken #fyp #marmite

Tiktok failed to load.

Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser

if you are looking for more inspirations, check out the following recipes below:

The algorithm gods have brought me to some pretty interesting corners of the internet, including how to make dishes I’ve never even heard of before. One of them was Nem Chua, a Vietnamese fermented meat snack that immediately caught my attention.

Traditional Nem Chua is usually made with minced pork, seasonings and a curing/fermentation mixture, often with shredded pork skin mixed through for that slightly chewy texture. It’s then left to ferment, which gives it its signature sour, tangy flavour and that surprisingly vibrant pink colour. It’s commonly eaten with garlic, chilli and sometimes herbs — basically a Vietnamese cold cut, except it’s fermented rather than cooked.

And as someone who loves cold cuts, raw-ish things and food that looks slightly questionable, I obviously had to make it.

The only problem was the pork.

So for my halal version, I swapped it out for good-quality minced beef, making sure there is no tough sinew in the mince (trust me you don’t want random bits of connective tissue stuck in between your teeth)

The pork skin was a little trickier. I wanted that extra bit of texture, but obviously pork skin was out. So I tried tang hoon, or glass noodles, instead.

After mixing everything together, I packed the meat into a ziplock bag and let it ferment according to the curing mix instructions. Now this is where things get a little crazy: the beef starts off looking oxidised and brown, but after fermentation, it turns this incredibly vibrant pink.

Once fermented for 24 hours, I portioned them up and wrapped each piece with garlic, cili padi and laksa leaves — the way Nem Chua is commonly enjoyed.

The result? Sour, savoury, garlicky, spicy and moreish. Now obviously I’ve never tried OG Nem Chua but visually, it looks pretty damn close (I’m thinking if I should get my Vietnamese friends try this…)

One important note: this is a raw fermented meat product, so the curing mix, measurements, fermentation time and temperature matter. Don’t freestyle this one — use a curing mix specifically intended for this type of preparation and follow its instructions carefully.

If TikTok hadn’t sent me down this rabbit hole, I probably would never have discovered Nem Chua. Now I’m wondering what other fermented meat snacks the algorithm has been hiding from me!

@nomies.cook fr.. if I were to sell this, would y’all buy?🤔 recipe is on our substack! #sg #sgfoodie #fyp #food #vietnam

Tiktok failed to load.

Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser

get the ingredients for the recipe in the links below!:

Nem Chua Powder, Tang Hoon, Fish Sauce, Minced Beef

try our other Vietnamese recipes here!:

Sotong Masak Hitam occupies a familiar place in many Malay kitchens across Singapore and the wider Malay world. The defining ingredient is, of course, the squid’s own ink, which lends the dish both its distinctive black colour and a subtle marine richness that cannot be replicated by any other ingredient. Like many domestic dishes, there is no singular or canonical recipe. Each household prepares it differently, reflecting inherited preferences, regional influences and the ingredients available to them.

In my own Singaporean Malay family, Sotong Masak Hitam has been part of our regular cooking for as long as I can remember. On mornings when there was time to visit the wet market, my mother would return with fresh sotong and prepare her version of the dish. It was never considered elaborate cooking, but rather an everyday meal, served simply with steamed white rice and sambal belacan. Such dishes often leave the deepest impressions, not because they are reserved for special occasions, but because they quietly become part of one’s culinary vocabulary

Recently, I had the privilege of learning another interpretation from Mdm Nooraini, whose family traces its culinary traditions to Singapore’s Southern Islands. Her version differs noticeably from the one I grew up eating, most evidently in the consistency of the gravy. Rather than remaining loose, it is reduced until it reaches a nappé texture, coating each piece of squid in a glossy black sauce.

Equally instructive was her choice of squid. While Sotong Torak (Swordtip Squid) is the variety most commonly found in Singapore’s markets, she prefers Sotong Nos Karang (Bigfin Reef Squid). The distinction is not merely academic. Sotong Nos Karang yields a darker and more abundant ink, giving the finished dish a deeper black hue, while its flesh remains firmer and more substantial after cooking. It is, however, considerably less common in Singapore today and is available only through a handful of specialised seafood suppliers.

This recipe, to me, is an attempt to reconcile these two traditions: the one I inherited from my family and the one generously shared by Mdm Nooraini. Its flavours are familiar yet layered—the gentle smokiness of dried chillies, the rounded acidity of asam jawa (tamarind), and the citrusy fragrance of makrut lime leaves, which lifts the richness of the squid ink without overwhelming it.

The squid should first be cleaned thoroughly and rubbed with salt to remove any residual slime, before rinsing it with water. More importantly, care must be taken not to rupture the ink sac during cleaning. Preserving it intact allows the ink to be introduced deliberately into the pot, where it disperses evenly through the gravy and gives the dish the appearance and flavour for which it is known. Such small acts of care are characteristic of Malay domestic cookery, where technical knowledge is often transmitted through observation rather than written instruction.

Recipes such as this are seldom fixed. They evolve from one generation to the next, shaped by memory, circumstance and the cook’s own judgement. This version reflects that continuing conversation, bringing together the flavours of my childhood with the knowledge so generously shared by another family whose culinary heritage forms part of Singapore’s rich Malay food traditions.

@nomies.cowatching this makes me want to have a work bestie too 😍 link in bio for the recipe! kickstart your sporting journey with ActiveSG, book here: activesg.gov.sg! #fyp #sg #food #sgfoodie

Tiktok failed to load.

Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser

Read more

this dish has been living rent-free in my mind ever since I first tasted it three years ago at a Korean restaurant in Tanjong Pagar. raw and lightly cured seafood has always been among my greatest culinary pleasures—whether it’s sushi, sashimi, ceviche, kinilaw, Thai raw shrimp in fish sauce, fish carpaccio or poke.

when I finally found the time to develop my own Ganjang Gejang recipe, I was genuinely thrilled to revisit that unforgettable experience: the rich, creamy sweetness of raw crab flesh and luscious crab roe, enveloped in a deeply savoury soy marinade. after several rounds of testing and refinement, I arrived at a recipe that truly satisfied what I had been craving.

one aspect I refused to compromise on was the quality and freshness of the crabs. Since this dish is never exposed to high temperatures, using live crabs is, in my opinion, essential. with crabs that have already died, there’s simply no way of knowing how long they’ve been sitting before reaching the market. as they won’t be cooked, the risk of bacterial growth and foodborne illness is considerably higher if the crabs are no longer at their freshest.

live flower crabs can be surprisingly difficult to source in Singapore, with live mud crabs being far more common. we managed to find ours at Auntie Crabs at West Coast Market. if that’s a little out of the way, The Ocean Mart in Geylang also stocks live flower crabs every Tuesday and Saturday.

as for the soy marinade, I spent a fair amount of time fine-tuning the balance until it was exactly how I wanted it—a harmonious combination of savoury depth, gentle sweetness and a subtle kick of chilli. just as important as the marinade itself is the curing time. I found that allowing the crabs to marinate for 48 to 60 hours produced the ideal result: enough time for the flavours to fully permeate the crab meat while preserving its delicate sweetness and avoiding excessive salinity.

get the ingredients of this recipe here!
light soy sauce, korean rice syrup, dried kelp (dashima), mushroom seasoning, seaweed sheets, shortgrain rice

if you’re looking to try making other crab recipes, check them out here!:

our recent feature on a neighbourhood Malay hawker stall in eastern Singapore offered a rewarding opportunity to uncover the stories, traditions, and culinary heritage behind one of the community’s most beloved food establishments.

instantly recognisable for her warm smile and welcoming personality, Mdm Aishah is the owner of Dapur Aishah in Bedok, where she serves a wide selection of Singaporean-Malay favourites, including Nasi Lemak, Rendang, Mee Rebus, Mee Soto, and her signature Nasi Rawon.

having migrated from Madiun, East Java, to Singapore in the 1990s, Mdm Aishah shared her inspiring journey from working as a hawker assistant to eventually establishing her own business, driven by her unwavering passion for cooking and sharing her own heritage through food.

in a generous gesture, she also offered to teach us her recipe for Rawon, a celebrated beef soup originating from her hometown. the dish is distinguished by its use of buah keluak, a fermented black nut that lends Rawon its characteristic dark colour and rich, earthy flavour. Mdm Aishah explained, however, that her version reflects the Singaporean-Malay adaptation of the dish and differs from the traditional preparation found in East Java.

one notable distinction is the addition of curry powder, which introduces greater depth and complexity to the spice profile. tn contrast, the original Javanese recipe typically relies on a simpler blend of coriander and cumin.

the accompaniments also reflect local adaptations. In East Java, Rawon is traditionally served with sambal, salted egg, and mung bean sprouts. By comparison, the Singaporean-style Nasi Rawon is accompanied by a more generous spread that includes cuttlefish sambal, bergedil, serunding (coconut floss), fried tempeh, and crispy fried cow lung (paru), creating a heartier and distinctly local interpretation of this cherished classic.

@nomies.cothrough her undying passion for cooking & dedication to serve the community, I guess Mdm Aishah alr 'ra-WON' in life 🥰🍛 link in bio for this delicious rawon recipe!🔥 #nasirawon #rawon #sgfoodie #fyp #recipe

Tiktok failed to load.

Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser

check out these other recipes from our contributors! :

our kitchen studio was recently graced by a friend who is also an iconic name in the Singapore DRAG performance scene. 26-year old Nish (drag name: Nishilia Aishwarya Bernard of House of Mutiara) started his freelance career as a drag queen only 3 years ago but has already cast a wide following through his performances in several drag spaces & events, with his recent gigs at TUCKSHOP, a notable nightlife spot of local drag artistes.

this Pride Month (and PinkDot), we wanted to celebrate Nish’s achievements, as well as other drag queens who have contributed to the vibrant queer nightlife scene in Singapore while pushing boundaries & building spaces for the marginalised.

below are Nish’s words, describing his memories of his grandma’s chicken curry, following the recipe.

“my late Patti’s (grandmother in Tamil) chicken curry, to me, is special and no one does it like her. my mom is Malaysian, so my family would often visit my mom’s side of the family, more so when we were younger, so I spent a good portion of my childhood in Malaysia. a distinct and unforgettable memory of my childhood was entering Patti’s Malaysian home & getting a whiff go her chicken curry. every time we visited, the dining table became the first stop for us.”

“it’s a shame I never got fluent in Tamil because there was always a language barrier between me and my late Patti. despite it, she never failed to express her love for us in her own ways.”

“my mother still keeps a written recipe of Patti’s chicken curry but she often adjusts the dish to suit my father’s taste preferences. since Patti’s passing, nobody has made chicken curry quite like my Patti. I hope the taste and smell of this curry bring good memories and love into your life, just like it has to mine.”

“thank you Patti, for everything.”

@nomies.cook fr tho what drag name would you give Azfar?? 🤔💃🏻 #drag #lgbt #curry

Tiktok failed to load.

Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser

looking for other South Asian dishes at home? try our other recipes as well!:

TikTok has been raging with this VIRAL potato spuds dish, by night market stall Ministry of Spud, featuring a topping of rich & gooey Mac and Cheese, drizzled with ‘Bang Bang’ sauce. as foodies ourselves, we wanted to see what all the hype was about, and whether we could create this famous dish at home!

this decadent & indulgent street dish, while simple in its elements, turned out to be the PERFECT combination of guilty CARB ON CARB overload with a mixture of creaminess, sweetness, minimal chilli spice, cheesiness, saltiness & glorious umami! while the OG ‘MAC & CHEESE WITH BANG BANG SAUCE’ is a lot simpler, we threw in our own tweaks to elevate the dish by adding some touches.

firstly, we decided that the OG Bang Bang Sauce (which is simply a chilli-mayo mixture) lacked depth & complexity. this is when we added in ketchup for slight tartness & jamminess & honey for a sweeter & rounded flavour.

while the Ministry of Spud’s Mac & Cheese is characterised by its simplicity, without any mix-ins (unless you add additional topping of choice eg. chicken satay), we wanted ours to be more substantial and therefore the addition of HALAL chicken luncheon meat for added protein & shredded seaweed for a kick of umami!

if you haven’t tried this banger of a pasar malam dish, we suggest you visit Ministry of Spud & if you can spare some time, to make it your own, try making this recipe & tell us in the comments how it turns out for you!

@nomies.cobefore you tell me i tell you... 🤫🧀🥔 you can find the recipe on our substack! #fyp #bangbangsauce #macandcheese #sgtiktok #food thanks @Ministry Of Spud 🥔👑 for inspiring this

Tiktok failed to load.

Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser

try making these OTHER pasta dishes too!:

this one’s a kitchen project I’ve been waiting to try out in a VERY long time… especially since watching KwokSpots’ recipe video on Youtube, to which this recipe is accredited to. another push for me to make Peking Duck at home was the fact that HALAL-certified Peking Duck is hard to come by in restaurants in Singapore & I really wanted my family to be able to try it.

my process of acquiring the ingredients for this was easier than I expected. if you’re in Singapore & looking for duck which has gone through halal slaughter, supermarkets like Sheng Siong carry PERAK DUCK imported from Malaysia, sold as a whole bird.

the only challenge was to source for the right apparatus to accomplish the feat, particularly meat hooks (to hang the bird during the drying process), a bicycle pump (for separating the skin form meat & fat for optimal crispiness) & cake tester which I used to sew the cavity to contain marinade while the duck roasts.

with a bit of time (2 days to be exact), patience and a large enough oven, you too can achieve Peking-style duck at home. While it might not be up to par with the top restaurant ones, it would DEFINITELY be the talking point at dinner parties if done right.

@nomies.copls don't come for me if your fridge smells like duck for a whole week 😛 #duck #chinesefood

Tiktok failed to load.

Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser

our recent experience of volunteering at The Buddhist Union @ Jalan Senyum, Singapore was a fruitful one. we got to learn so much, from formulating vegetarian versions of local Malay dishes to planning meals for a larger crowd.

on that day, Aunty Geraldine, a Peranakan mother who volunteers as a head chef at the temple invited us over to the temple kitchen to assist with the tasks of preparing food for 70 people, including congregants, monks, nuns & volunteers. as part of kitchen team, we got to learn Geraldine’s recipes for the vegetarian dishes she often serves at the temple.

we were amazed to learn how Geraldine was able to tweak recipes for the Malay dishes that she made, to not include any forms of meat and seafood and also onion & garlic. take for example, her delicious Sambal Goreng which we ended up serving with Nasi Lemak.

this recipe shows Aunty’s resourcefulness & creative thinking, using the base of serunding for the Sambal Goreng for a toasty flavour and substantial body. we were also collectively inspired by her team’s spirit of volunteerism and community service by selflessly coming together to make food the temple.

check out our other vegetarian recipes to try out this Vesak Day weekend!: