Marketing labels add adjectives to the names of fruits and vegetables, influencing how we think about them too. “Sweet”, “airflown”, “Japanese”, “premium” and many more have been used to create distinctions among the same types of vegetables, mostly to raise their value. While one could use science to dispute these distinctions, I recently found out that taxonomy itself isn’t free from commercial influences. Decisions to lump or split plants depended on what colonial botanists considered was valuable for trade. This gave me the idea to create a new taxonomy for commercial vegetables, to highlight the ludicrosity of labelling languages while also acknowledging the capitalistic motivations of the 18th-century classification system.

And so I published a small book. Side A features seven stories about fruit and vegetable names and the implications of their use today. Each story comes with an illustration by Sokkuan Tye that cleverly conveys the absurdity and humour that I may or may not have properly delivered through words. Side B covers my experiment with the new vegetable taxonomy and my critique of four types of labels that mystify rather than clarify the plants we eat. Almost Useful designed the book, using typography to help differentiate the vegetables discussed.

The book is available here.

Singapore’s blazing sun dehydrates anything in its path – not so pleasant for the people but wonderful for keeping food good and crisp.

Before people in Singapore moved into high rise flats, and even before they owned ovens and refrigerators, food was sun-dried outside homes to extend their shelf-lives in this country’s tropical weather. Dehydration is a food preservation process that removes moisture which bacteria and moulds require to grow and cause food spoilage. Due to its geographical location, Singapore is sunny all year round, and except for the heavier rainfall between December and April, there is no distinct wet or dry season (Local Climatology). This means that the sun is a resource constantly available to the cooks in this country.

A heritage food that could not have been made without the tropical sun was agar agar laut, which translates to “agar agar from the sea”. This jelly got its name because it was made from Gracilaria seaweed, which used to be washed up onto the seashores of Siglap and Tanah Merah (Seaweed Jelly 10). During the early 1900s, the Malays, Eurasians and Peranakans collected this seaweed, which looks like loose bunches of “tentacles” in colours like green and brown, to make agar agar laut for Hari Raya, Christmas and Chinese New Year respectively (Agar Agar Jelly 10, De Conceicao, R. Tan).

The sun was first used to dry the seaweed after it was cleaned of shells and sand. After that, the dried seaweed was either cooked immediately or stored, as it was said that the older the seaweed, the better the jelly (Seaweed Jelly 10). To make the jelly, the seaweed was boiled to extract agarose, a gelling agent. Rock sugar and sometimes essence of rose was added for flavour, before the liquid was poured into a mould to cool (How Seaweed Jelly 10, E. Tan).

The sun became useful again to ensure that the jelly could be enjoyed in the months to come. After it was turned out of its mould, the jelly was sunned for several days so that it would keep for as long as six months without refrigeration. Evaporation produced a top layer of crystalised sugar that preserved the jelly. The end result was a bright amber-coloured agar agar of very firm and crunchy texture (How Seaweed Jelly 10). While nobody today collects the seaweed to make agar agar laut from scratch, the jelly is still available at some shops in Joo Chiat during Christmas and Chinese New Year (E. Tan).

The local communities also relied on the sun to make pickles, or achar, although it was less about preserving the vegetables and more about achieving the right crisp. A common mixture of vegetables for pickling includes cucumbers, carrots, cabbages and cauliflower, which used to be dried under the sun until they were dehydrated enough to produce a crunch (Blake 261). If done right, they retain this texture even as they are brined in a mixture white vinegar and spice paste for weeks.

Achar was sun-dried all year round, but especially in late September before the pre-monsoon rains of October and November. Peranakans enjoy a spicy pickle with additional sesame seeds that they also eat during Chinese New Year. Eurasians, however, prefer a tangier achar because it goes well with the mandatory ham at their Christmas tables (Blake 261, S. Tan). These days, those who still make achar at home dry the vegetables in an oven instead. Most simply buy it off the shelves.

Besides preservation, heat from the sun also helps to create rich, intense flavours that food otherwise would not have in their natural state. Singapore’s scorching heat was instrumental in the local soy sauce industry before modern technology took over in the 1980s. The condiment used to be made by leaving large jars of cooked soy beans to ferment in the sun for months (Ng, Sauces Make Good Food 14). An optimal temperature for this process is between 30 to 35 degrees Celsius, which Singapore’s climate can satisfy throughout the year. To produce dark soy sauce, the jars soak up the sun for many more months, until the liquid darkened and its flavour became more concentrated (Tay).

However, this traditional method of production requires a lot of space, which is costly in this land scarce city. With the exception of one producer, the remaining in Singapore have adopted the modern chemical hydrolysis method, which manufactures high volumes of soy sauce in just two days (Ng).

Despite the lesser reliance on the sun for food production in Singapore, the nation continues to relish flavours produced by this method. Belacan (shrimp paste), keropok (fried crackers made of fish or shrimp) and salted fish are just some examples of everyday food imported from neighbouring countries that have continued to take advantage of the tropical sun to satisfy our tummies.  

Works Cited
“Local Climatology.” National Environment Agency, www.nea.gov.sg/weather-climate/climate. Accessed 22 Feb 2018.
“Seaweed Jelly.” The Straits Times, 23 Mar 1936, p.10.
“Agar Agar Jelly.” The Straits Times, 26 Mar 1936, p.10.
“How Seaweed Jelly is Made in Malaya.” The Straits Times, 27 Mar 1936, p.10.
De Conceicao, Aloysius Leo. Interview by Zaleha Bte Osman. 18 Nov 1998, www.nas.gov.sg/archivesonline/viewer?uuid=ec29abf4-115f-11e3-83d5-0050568939ad-OHC002057_011. Accessed 22 Feb 2018.
Tan, Richard Swee Guan. Interview by Zaleha Bte Osman.14 Apr 1999, www.nas.gov.sg/archivesonline/viewer?uuid=f60303c6-115f-11e3-83d5-0050568939ad-OHC002108_003. Accessed 22 Feb 2018.
Tan, Elsie. Personal Interview. 15 Nov 2017.
Tan, Sylvia. “Delicious Memories.” Asia One, www.asiaone.com/singapore/delicious-memories?page=0%2C1. Accessed 22 Feb 2018.
Blake, Myrna L., et al. Singapore Eurasians: Memories, Hopes and Dreams. World Scientific Publishing, 2017.
Ng, Sor Luan. “Soya Sauce Steep in Tradition.” The Straits Times, 12 Jun 2017, www.straitstimes.com/singapore/soya-sauce-steeped-in-tradition.
“Sauces Make Good Food Better.” The Singapore Free Press, 20 Sept 1955, p.14.
Tay, Leslie. “Kwong Who Hing: The World’s Best Soy Sauce Might Be Right in Our Own Backyard.” I Eat I Shoot I Post, 17 Jun 2011, ieatishootipost.sg/kwong-woh-hing-the-worlds-best-soy-sauce-might-be-right-in-our-own-backyard/.

Many cooks talk about a mortar and pestle producing better spice pastes than a blender, although few can say why. Kenji Lopez of Serious Eats has by far the best explanation. Pounding crushes the cells of the vegetables, he says, whereas a blender cuts them. Since crushing ruptures the cells to release more aromatic compounds, a mortar and pestle produces more flavourful results.

I wanted to know how well this theory applies to sambal belacan, a chilli paste consisting only of chillies and belacan, a sun-dried, fermented shrimp paste. Unlike other aromatics like garlic and shallots, there are two parts to a chilli, the fruit and the seeds. The latter are spicier than the former, that’s why people sometimes remove the seeds to tone down the heat of what they are cooking.

Chillies are spicy because they contain capsaicin. According to Harold McGhee, chillies produce capsaicin from its placenta, the pale, spongey tissue in the middle of the fruit that holds the seed. From the placenta, capsaicin spreads to the seeds and then the fruit, where it becomes less concentrated.

I already know that chilli seeds escape the blades intact (unless you have a Vitamix), whereas a pestle could beat them beyond recognition. What I wanted to find out is:

1. If this difference has any impact, besides spiciness, on the resulting sambal.
2. If the recipe calls for seeded chillies, would pounding and blending produce a significantly different flavour profile?

To answer these questions, I made four sambal belacan using the two methods, and with each method I made a sambal with chilli seeds and one without. The ingredients are standardised by weight:

32 g big red chillies, pre-cut into chunks
9 g red chilli padi, pre-cut into chunks
10g toasted belacan

Here are my findings:

Pounded, without seeds
This sambal tasted bright and refreshing like a capsicum. While it was spicy, it didn’t cause my tongue too much pain. The chillies released its juice as I pounded them and more accumulated at the bottom of the resulting paste as it sat longer. Belacan is meant to make the sambal pungent and salty but I found these two qualities a little too prominent in this sample.

Blended, without seeds
I used a handheld blender because the sample size was too small for a regular blender to do its job. That’s a downside of the machine: you’ll need to be making enough for the blades to reach the ingredients and blend them well. My handheld blender wasn’t capable of melding the belacan with the chillies either, leaving tiny bits of shrimp paste in the sambal. But other than that, I didn’t think this sample tastes any different from the pounded version. So if I were to make a sambal with seeded chillies, I would use a blender for convenience. Toasted belacan could be broken down into powder first to mix well with the chillies.

Pounded, with seeds
I removed the chilli seeds to pound them first, so that the juice of the fruit wouldn’t get in the way. They turned into a fibrous mass similar to a dried-out ginger. I took a bite, and it was awfully spicy as expected. In terms of flavour, it was somewhat dull. There might be a hint of nuttiness but by then my tongue was too swollen to tell for sure. It turned out that the fibres are great for keeping moisture within the paste. There was no liquid at the bottom of the sample even after hours. It appeared that the pounded seeds functioned as a binder like what candlenuts does for spice pastes. They may have also helped subdued the strong belacan flavour a little, creating the most well-balanced sambal of all the samples.

Blended, with seeds
As expected, the seeds remained intact. This sample had bits of belacan in one bite, and too much seeds in another — a far cry from the pounded version. Maybe it wouldn’t be so inconsistent if I had made a bigger portion with a regular blender, but I believe the outcome would still be less than ideal.

Conclusion
If spiciness isn’t a problem, I would include chilli seeds in my sambal anytime and pound instead of blending it.

If seeded chillies will be used, then a blender will do just fine. It is faster and produces similar results to a mortar and pestle’s.

Unless I’m making a small amount. Then, I would do it manually. A mortar and pestle can do the work in less than five minutes and they are easier to clean than the machines.

Leaves in the tropics are big. Bigger than the ones up in Greenland and down in New Zealand. This is because larger leaves tend to frost during cold nights and overheat in desert-like climates, but they cope very well in hot and wet tropical areas such as Southeast Asia (Klein).

Leaves of banana, bamboo, coconut, water lotus and betel nut palm in particular are put to good use in the Singaporean kitchen. These leaves are flexible and can be folded to wrap around food of different shapes. They also have strong water-proofing quality to withstand hot water and steam, as well as the gravies so common in Singapore’s food cultures. Some of them even impart a fragrance to the wonderful treat they carry (Ng).

Coconut leaves are best known for their use as a pouch to make ketupat, a diamond-shaped rice cake popularly served during the Hari Raya Puasa celebration at the end of the Muslim fasting month. The leaves are woven into a box-shaped packet, which is then partially filled with rice. After the ends are woven to seal the ketupat, it is immersed into boiling water to cook. Stalls at the annual Hari Raya Bazaar used to sell coconut leaves to meet the increased demand, but nowadays, people either buy ready-made ketupat or pre-woven ketupat cases for convenience (Hari Raya Bazaar, Tan). When wood fire cooking was the norm, fallen coconut leaves were also used to feed the fire (Chan). Their dried, thin leaf bone was originally used as rojak and satay sticks, but has since been replaced by bamboo (Vasu, Oh).

Banana leaves are associated with many foods in Singapore. The older generation would remember nasi lemak in the form of a pyramid-shaped banana leaf wrap. It was the way the coconut rice was sold or packed for picnics by the kampong dwellers who had a banana tree in their backyard (Abdullah). Today, waxed papers and plastic boxes are the norm. However, banana leaves continue to be popular for otak-otak, a wrapped fish custard that is either steamed or barbecued. The leaf enclosure helps to hold in the heat and steeps the fish in its own juice. When barbecuing, the leaf protects the fish from direct flame, and imparts a subtle smokiness when it is charred (Ng). This is also why many hawker stalls selling barbecue seafood still place banana leaves on top of their griddle, which hawkers nowadays use instead of charcoal fire.

Another dish synonymous with the leaves is the Indian banana leaf rice. In a restaurant, the leaves are placed face up, midrib parallel to the diners, who then pick the dishes they want to be spooned onto the leaves. The meal is traditionally eaten with hands but utensils are acceptable too (Ng). During the kampong days, Indian households used the leaves as plates because they were easy to get from the banana trees right outside their doors. Before the meal, a leaf was harvested, rinsed with water, and cut into smaller pieces to be divided among the family members. After use, the leaves were simply thrown away (Menon). Indian families today prefer plates and save the banana leaves for special meals like the mandatory vegetarian food served in a traditional Hindu wedding (Koh and Ho 123).

Lotus leaves are frequently used in Chinese dishes such as lo mai gai. This classic dim sum item comprising glutinous rice, Chinese sausage, dried shiitake mushroom and dried shrimps is wrapped in a lotus leaf and steamed. A similar dish is served at Chinese weddings but with regular white rice and more luxurious meats or seafood. Beggar’s Chicken, another banquet delicacy, requires a lotus leaf to be wrapped around a whole marinated chicken before it is covered in clay to bake in an oven. Unlike banana leaves, lotus leaves need to be soaked in hot water to become soft enough to fold (Ng).

Bamboo leaves similarly require soaking for culinary use. They are to bak chang what coconut leaves are to ketupat. Bamboo leaves are first softened and cleaned, and then folded into a conical cup to pack glutinous rice, pre-fried pork belly, chestnuts, dried shiitake mushrooms and a salted egg yolk. The sealed pyramid-shaped dumpling is then submerged in water to boil. Bak chang is usually eaten on the fifth day of the fifth lunar month to commemorate a patriotic ancient Chinese minister, Qu Yuan (Ng).

Betel nut palm leaves, also known as opeh leaves, was a common takeaway packaging for char kway teow, Hokkien mee and hor fun. Only a handful of hawker stalls still provide that today as the light brown leaves have become more expensive than paper and plastic packaging. Another leaf once used for packing food was the simpoh air. It was typically folded into a cone to pack rojak or chee cheong fun which were eaten on the go. This too has become history (Lam).

Works Cited

Ng, Casey. “Plant Leaves in Food Preparation and Packaging.” Agriculture Science Journal, Oct 2015, eprints.utar.edu.my/1986/1/Plant_leaves_in_food_preparation_and_packaging_-_Casey_Ng.pdf.

Klein, Alice. “We May Finally Understand Why Tropical Plants Have Huge Leaves.” New Scientist, 31 Aug 2017, www.newscientist.com/article/2145966-we-may-finally-understand-why-tropical-plants-have-huge-leaves/.

Tan, Bonny. “Ketupat.” Singapore Infopedia, 26 Oct 2015, eresources.nlb.gov.sg/infopedia/articles/SIP_2015-10-26_111827.html.

“Hari Raya Bazaar at Geylang.” National Archives of Singapore, www.nas.gov.sg/archivesonline/photographs/record-details/15726d23-1162-11e3-83d5-0050568939ad, Accessed 20 Feb 2018.

Chan, Chee Seng. Interview by Audrey Lee-Koh. 15 Aug 1980, www.nas.gov.sg/archivesonline/viewer?uuid=deb9ab65-115d-11e3-83d5-0050568939ad-OHC000021_002. Accessed 20 Feb 2018.

Vasu, Suchitthra. “Satay.” Singapore Infopedia, eresources.nlb.gov.sg/infopedia/articles/SIP_888_2005-01-10.html. Accessed 20 Feb 2018. 

Oh, Patricia Choo Neo. Interview by Bonny Tan. 25 May 1995, www.nas.gov.sg/archivesonline/viewer?uuid=3842d163-115e-11e3-83d5-0050568939ad-OHC001631_006. Accessed 20 Feb 2018.

Abdullah, Masmunah. Personal Interview. 15 Oct 2017.

Menon, Sukumara Ittamuittil. Interview by Jenny Goh. 3 May 1985, www.nas.gov.sg/archivesonline/viewer?uuid=721e767f-115f-11e3-83d5-0050568939ad-OHC000557_007. Accessed 20 Feb 2018.

Koh, Jaime, and Ho, Lee-Ling. Culture and Customs of Singapore and Malaysia. Greenwood Press, 2009.

Lam, Chun See. “Traditional Food Packaging.” Good Morning Yesterday, 27 Nov 2006, goodmorningyesterday.blogspot.sg/2006/11/traditional-food-packaging.html.

The mortar and pestle has a permanent place in local kitchens because it is required to combine the aromatic spices used widely in Singapore’s cuisines.

Sambal, a chilli sauce integral to Malay and Peranakan cuisines, is created in a mortar, usually made of granite. After its ingredients like chillies, garlic and shallots are pounded into one, sambal is either served as a condiment or stir-fried with meats, seafood or vegetables to make a sambal goreng dish. Another common item created with the mortar and pestle is rempah, a spice paste of varying ingredients like candlenuts and galangal that forms the aromatic base for braised meats (e.g. babi pongteh) and grilled fish (e.g. otak otak). So common were these preparation methods that families in the past also kept a batu giling, a large granite slab and roller, to grind more spices for bigger spreads (Sass).

Local Indians also hunch over the mortar and pestle to grind their own masala. Like rempah, its combination of dry spices and wet seasonings varies according to the main ingredient. For example, cardamom and cloves for mutton, but fenugreek goes with fish curries (Hutton 36). In the past, Indian cooks pounded the spices only when they needed it, because the aroma became weaker the longer they were kept. Grounded spices also didn’t keep well in the tropical weather without a refrigerator, which only became a common household item in the 1970s (Gadgets that take the drudgery 26).

The granite mortar and pestle ­– a fat and squat bowl with a round-end stone­ – look primitive because their basic form and function were set some 20,000 years ago. Grinding stones were used by early populations to remove husks or shells from wild cereals to make them digestible. They were also used to reduce nuts and grains into flour. The tools became common thousands of years later when cereals became domesticated. Mortars and pestles of all sorts have been found in the kitchens of Pompeians, Egyptians and Moors. Transcending histories and cultures, they are arguably the most widely used kitchen tools in the world (Wilson 151-153).

The granite mortar has a rough inner surface that makes grinding or pounding spherical nuts and seeds easier. However, mortars and pestles that come in other materials have their own merits too. Besides crushing spices effectively, the heavy marble mortar and pestle also has a smooth surface that is easy to clean. A wooden version works best with dry spices, and although wet seasonings like garlic tend to leave a flavour in the bowl, that is fine too if it is only used for one purpose (Horton).

There are a few things to take note when using a mortar and pestle of any material. The bowl should be filled no more than half way or the ingredients will scatter as the pestle hits. Mortars with a heavy base stay in place during use, although placing a folded towel underneath helps too. The towel also protects the floor tiles from the blows and helps maintain good relations with one’s neighbours downstairs. An old Malayan superstition has it that it’s bad luck to kick a mortar and pestle, but it can be remedied by bowing low and placing one’s head upon the offended stone (Groom).

In the 1970s, women were joining the workforce by the thousands as part of Singapore’s industrialisation drive. They were concerned about juggling dual roles as breadwinners and homemakers, and one solution was to modernise their kitchens with electrical appliances. This became a necessity, not just among the wealthy but also the growing middle class living in public housing (Labour Saving Appliances 30). The blender was one of the popular gadgets brought home to automate cooking processes and to “take the drudgery out of kitchen chores” (Gadgets that take the drudgery 26).

The mortar and pestle was quickly replaced by the blender. At first, only western recipes in the English newspapers called for the appliance. By 1979, it was frequently highlighted as an alternative to a mortar and pestle even for local dishes like the Chinese sweet sticky rice cake and the Malay botok kangkong (Chan 13, Alkaff 19). Prominent cookbook writers in the 1970s also switched their mortars and pestles for a blender. One of them was Mrs Lee Chin Koon, who published the first local Peranakan cookbook in 1974. She told The Straits Times: “The modern housewife is often also working and she does not have as much household help as we had in the old days. So I have kept that in mind and if you follow my recipes you’ll find that you’ll spend very little time cooking.” (Oon 10)

Despite the laborious work involved, many still swear by the mortar and pestle today. Ancient they may be, these tools crush and rupture food cells, releasing fragrant oil and aromatic compounds that can hardly be emulated by the cuts of a blade (Lopez-Alt). A primitive-looking mortar and pestle in a modern kitchen doesn’t clash, but is actually a sign of a discerning and dedicated cook.

Works Cited

Sass, Lorna J. “Nonya Cooking: Revealing he Mysteries of Singapore.” The Washington Post, 6 Feb 1983, www.washingtonpost.com/archive/lifestyle/food/1983/02/06/nonya-cooking-revealing-the-mysteries-of-singapore/11ebc52f-dfc8-4864-bfc5-5003fec897aa/?utm_term=.6319e69eef65. Accessed 12 Feb 2018.

Hutton, Wendy. Singapore Food. Times Books International, 1989.

“Gadgets that Take the Drudgery Out of the Kitchen Chores.” The Straits Times, 21 Mar 1974, p.26.

Wilson, Bee. Consider the Fork. Basic Books, 2012.

Horton, Emily. “Mortar and Pestles for Different Jobs.” The Washington Post, 13 Mar 2012, www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/food/mortar-and-pestles-for-different-jobs/2012/03/08/gIQAgisY9R_story.html?utm_term=.4422d2b0bbfa. Accessed 12 Feb 2018.

Groom, Pelham. “Antidote for a Hantu.” The Straits Times, 30 Mar 1957, p.3.

“Labour Saving Appliances Make Life Simple for the Career Woman.” The Straits Times, 4 Mar 1979, p.30.

Chan, Margaret. “Good Luck Food.” New Nation, 25 Jan 1979, p.13.

Alkaff, Aloyah. “Special and Spicy and Just Like Otak Otak.” New Nation, 25 Nov 1979, p.19.

Oon, Violet. “Soon, A Book on How to Cook Nyonya Style.” New Nation, 16 Nov 1974, p.10.

Lopez-Alt, J. Kenji. “Mortar and Pestles + Food Processor = Great Curry Paste, Fast.” Serious Eats, www.seriouseats.com/2016/07/quick-tip-faster-curry-paste-mortar-pestle-food-processor-test-best-flavor.html. Accessed 12 Feb 2018.

Useful kitchen tools stand the test of time and new technologies. The wok is one of them.

The concaved and round-bottom utensil was designed for fast cooking as China was always short of fuel (Wilson 83). Its metal body conducts heat quickly, while its sloping sides provide a large cooking surface, producing maximum tastes with minimum fuel. The wok also sits securely atop the traditional Chinese stove, a brick- or clay-made open cylinder, but it is not always left to its own devices (Tan 8). A skillful cook likes to give it a jerk in circular motion to cook the food even faster and more evenly. Chinese dishes are by no coincidence pre-cut into fast-to-cook morsels but are designed so for the fuel-poor but food-loving Chinese (Wilson 54-55).

Before small apartments and tiny kitchens, an outdoor wok station was the standard feature in Singaporean houses (Tan and Van 36). Today, the space to wield one’s ladle may have shrunk, but the wok continues to be used in households as well as businesses, because it is versatile enough to stir-fry, deep-fry, braise, stew and steam. As some of these methods transcend tastes and cultures, so has the wok.

The most common use of the wok is stir-frying. Char kway teow and sambal kangkong are examples of local foods produced by this technique. To prevent the ingredients from clumping together or losing contact with the heat, constant stirring and spreading of the food around the wok is essential. Even a clumsy cook can pull this off as the high sloping sides will help bring the food back to the centre, not over the edge. Ingenious hawkers even make use of the heat difference in the wok to standby a few portions by the sides, while they finish up an order in the hottest centre.

To the Cantonese, a stir-fry without wok hei is like sambal without the sting. Wok hei is best understood as the breath of a wok – when the wok breathes energy into the food, giving it a concentrated flavour and aroma. It takes a well-seasoned wok and intense heat to create this prized essence. The wok’s concave shape also helps keep the hot air in, creating a harmony of taste across the ingredients (Young 26). While traditionally a Cantonese concept, wok hei is now coveted by discerning customers of other Chinese dialects, and a pursuit by hawkers and chefs of any cuisine.

A wok becomes useful for deep-frying when filled with enough oil. Compared to a flat-bottom pan, a wok requires lesser oil because its curvature creates depth. The wok maintains a high steady temperature, so that moisture stays in but oil stays out of the crispy batter of goreng pisang or chicken wings. The implement’s high sloping sides are much appreciated for minimising splatters on the stove and countertop.

With good enough depth to swim a fowl, the wok is also handy for bigger projects like a braised whole duck. This Teochew dish is less than ideal without the bursting flavours of stir-fried aromatics. One may start off with that in a wok, adding liquid and duck later, thus, avoid scrubbing several pots for just one dish (Tan and Van 142).

Switch gravy for water and the wok becomes a perfect steam room. Simply use two chopsticks to make a rack, place them above the water level and sit the plate on top. Complementary to this set up is a dome-shaped cover that ensures condensed vapour trickles down the sides into the wok rather than dripping into the food and diluting its flavour (Tan 8).

The wok has a following outside the Chinese communities too. It has been used by the Malays and Peranakans to cook sambal goreng, begedil and serundeng, while the Indians turn it upside down to efficiently sear chapati, an Indian flatbread. So widely used is the wok that each of these communities has developed its own method of seasoning this tool by applying a layer of protective coating. This is to prevent the wok – usually made of cast iron for better heat retention, or carbon steel for quicker response to heat changes – from rusting and food from sticking on it (Tan and Van 36).  The older generation of Chinese cooks like to fry a kilogram of pork fat and leave the rendered lard in the wok for days. A Malay makcik heats up coconut oil with her wok, while her Peranakan counterpart stresses on frying a bunch of pandan leaves first, adding the oil only later (Tan 8). Most cookbooks today advise just having a thin layer of vegetable oil inside the wok, and then heating it over the stove until the oil carbonises to form a layer of seasoning (Tan and Van 36; Gritzer). Repeating this process a few times will create a pitch black, well-seasoned wok – the pre-requisite for creating wok hei.

Today, the wok has many new versions: the flat-bottomed wok for electric stoves, the stainless steel wok for induction cooking, and the automated wok for productivity in commercial kitchens (Lee). However, none are as multifunctional as the traditional round-bottomed wok, which is why it still claims a place in the Singaporean kitchen.

Works Cited

Lee, Yen Nee. “Your Fried Rice’s Ready, Chef.” Today, 7 Dec 2013, https://www.todayonline.com/business/your-fried-rices-ready-chef. Accessed 4 Feb 2018.

Gritzer, Daniel. “How to Season a Cast-Iron Pan.” SeriousEats, http://www.seriouseats.com/2016/09/how-to-season-cast-iron-pans-skillets-cookware.html. Accessed 4 Feb 2018.

Tan, Christopher, and Van, Amy. Chinese Heritage Cooking. Marshall Cavendish International, 2012.

Tan, Lee Leng. “The Whys of Hys of Wok Cooking.” The Straits Times, 6 Sep 1980, p.8.

Wilson, Bee. Consider the Fork. Basic Books, 2012.

Young, Grace. “Wok Hay: The Breath of A Wok.” Gastronomica, Summer 2004, pp. 26-30.

A barbecue pit made entirely of concrete.

They reside in most condominiums as well as public housing estates. They are also expected at chalets, campsites and beach parks. Barbecue pits are everywhere in Singapore. As more than 80 per cent of the country’s resident population live in high-rise flats, this implement is more often a shared facility than a personal backyard grill.

Barbecue became a popular past-time in Singapore between the 1970s and 80s, reflected by the many stories about this form of cooking published in the local English-language newspapers. They gave advice on meat marinades, specifications of low-calorie cuts, and preached the gospel of barbecue fish: the importance of firm scales —“to seal in the juices”— and the minimum layers of banana leaves (five) to make a wrap (Lee 5; “How to Make” 16; “Calorie Scale” 25). When the fees for barbecue pits at East Coast Park increased by $1 in 1985, it made the news too (“Barbecue Fees Up” 13).

The proliferation of barbecue pits in residential and recreational spaces during this period coincided with the rise of Singapore’s economy. As the people’s affluence grew, they demanded more recreation options. Barbecue pits were amenities offered as part of new parks built across the country (Fung and Ng 1). The biggest project in the 1970s was East Coast Park, which was constructed on a newly reclaimed coast and boasted a 9km cycling track and many barbecue pits along the shoreline. Shortly after, in 1981, the Singapore Institute of Parks & Recreations, reported that barbecue was “the most popular past-time in Singapore, with the young revellers staying on the beach throughout the night” (20).

Barbecue pits at East Coast Park.

Besides parks, barbecue pits also increased in numbers with rise of chalets. Many holiday bungalows, such as the NTUC Pasir Ris Resort, were built between the 1970s and 80s to provide amenities for the Singaporean workers to “relax, recreate and recuperate for better performance” (Ong; Ng 23; “Company Hideaways” 1). The barbecue pit was a standard feature at these chalets. Like those at the beach parks, these barbecue pits were usually made of concrete to withstand the weather, and consisted of a lower tier, where the charcoal was placed, and a removable grill cover. It was popular with the renters who usually invited extended families and friends over for a barbecue party (Wong 3). During the holiday seasons, almost every bungalow unit greeted the breezy dusk with plumes of charcoal smoke (Loh 8).

Condominium dwellers were among the firsts to enjoy the convenience of a barbecue pit just outside their doors. This form of housing was introduced in the 1970s to provide the new middle class an alternative to public housing. The barbecue pit was among the amenities provided to emulate resort living, and it became such a hit that it was soon considered “the usual” facility as compared to the pool-side snack counter and pub that were introduced in the 1980s (Ong 1). The Housing Development Board (HDB) also introduced barbecue pits but to warm up community ties. This was implemented alongside pavilions and amphitheaters as part of the Main Upgrading Programme that ran from 1991 to 2007 to rejuvenate older precincts and encourage the residents to socialise (Lim; Sim).

Singaporeans’ eager embrace of the barbecue pits, be it within the estates or at chalets, is not in the least bit surprising. The country’s tropical weather is conducive for outdoor cooking all year round, and this method of cooking over an open fire is familiar to this nation of satay and bak kwa lovers — although rarely performed in apartment homes. Barbecue is also easy to learn. It requires little preparation and barely any skill to turn over chicken wings or hotdogs on a grill. Even if one accidentally charred the food, there are plenty of people who would actually savour it . Since anyone can contribute at the barbecue pit, no single person would be burdened with cooking. This makes barbecue a desirable food option for big parties such as a class gatherings.

Although barbecuing is universal, the variety and tastes of barbecued food are specific to cultures. Unlike the Southerners in the United States who tend to cook a whole rack of pork ribs or beef brisket, Singaporeans prefer single-portion cuts such as beef steaks and pork chops, as well as small bites including chicken wings, hotdogs and crabsticks. While a classic Korean soy sauce marinade for barbecue includes pear and sugar for sweetness, a Singaporean soy sauce rendition typically combines with oyster sauce, honey or both. Barbecue prawns or fish, on the other hand, is incomplete without the pungent sambal belacan and a squeeze of calamansi.

Over the years, Singaporeans have developed an appetite for foreign barbecue flavours such as Lousiana’s Cajun and the Japanese teriyaki (EZBBQ; BBQ Wholesale Centre). Today’s easy access to barbecue caterers and pre-marinated meats at major supermarkets help make these options more widely available, and sustain the popularity of a barbecue party.

Works Cited

“How to Make Your Barbecue the Hit It Should Be.” The Straits Times, 31 Dec 1970, p.16.
Lee, Geok Boi. “For Twice the Flavour, Grill Fish Over an Open Fire.” The Straits Times, 27 Jul 1986, p.5.
“Calorie Scale for your BBQ.” New Paper, 31 Aug 1988, p.25.
“Barbecue Fees Up.” The Straits Times, 18 May, 1985, p.13.
Fung, Otto, and Ng, Siew Yin, editors. Recreation and the Community: Papers of the 1st Regional Congress on Parks and Recreation, Singapore, 10-13 July 1981, Republic of Singapore.
Ong, Teng Cheong. Donation Dinner Jointly Organised By the NTUC and the Singapore Labour Foundation to Raise Funds for the Pasir Ris Resort Project, 15 Oct 1984, Mandarin Hotel, Singapore. Speech.
“Company Hideaways.” The Straits Times, 27 May 1984, p.1.
Wong, Ai Kwei. “Get the Company Chalet and Let’s Have a Party.” The Straits Times, 27 May 1984, p.3.
Ng, Josephine. “ClubNTUC.” The Straits Tines, 28 Jul 1988, p.23.
Loh, Tuan Lee. “Booked to the Last Resort.” The Straits Times, 3 Nov 1988, p.8.
Ong, Paul. “Resort Living as a Way of Life.” The Straits Times, 1 Dec 1985, p.1.
Lim, Hng Kiang. Annual Dinner of the Singapore Institute of Architects, 19 Apr 1996, Shangri-La Hotel, Singapore. Speech.
Sim, Cheryl. “Estate Renewal Strategy.” Singapore Infopedia, 10 Nov 2014, eresources.nlb.gov.sg/infopedia/articles/SIP_2014-11-10_113032.html.
EZBBQ. www.ezbbq.com.sg/. Accessed 22 Jan 2018.
BBQ Wholesale Centre. www.bbqwholesale.com/. Accessed 22 Jan 2018.

Images from roots.sg

The icons of a kopitiam (coffee shop) vary depending on who you ask. A young person who knows the coffee shop as it is today – underneath a Housing Development Board (HDB) block and comprising of several food stalls – identifies with the transparent glass cups with big handles. Those who used to while away their afternoons at the coffee shops before the 1970s, fondly remember the stout porcelain cups with green or blue floral motifs as well as their matching porcelain saucers and spoons.

This porcelain coffee set was the de facto utensils used by coffee shops since they began in the early 20th century (Ong). Pioneered by the people of Fuzhou and Hainan, such establishment peaked in numbers during the Depression Era in the 1930s when many vacant shop lots were up for grabs at low rent. The Hainanese, in particular, many of whom had been cooks for the British, snapped up shophouse units by the dozens to capitalise on what they learned in the British kitchens. As the barriers to entry for selling coffee and tea to the working class was low, coffee shops sprouted across the island beginning from the Hainanese enclave of Middle Road, Purvis Street and Seah Street (Han 24).

These coffee shops enjoyed brisk business, receiving hundreds of customers every day. Despite tea and coffee costing a mere 2 to 4 cents before the war, a flourishing coffee shop could make $70 a day (KKCMRBOA 286). The porcelain coffee set was in many ways useful to the coffee shop assistants coping with this high-speed operation. An assistant typically served several drinks at one go, especially when large groups of customers arrived together. However, the porcelain cup, which became hot when filled with coffee, must be held by its ear. The assistants would have to make multiple trips to the tables if they delivered only two orders each time. With a saucer, they could easily juggle five cups on both their hands and wrists (Ong).

The saucers also served as plates for food. Coffee shops did not have hawker fare like they do today (those that subsequently did were differentiated as “eating houses”), but they sold breakfasts and snacks influenced by the British. Soft-boiled egg, an English breakfast item, was served in a saucer with shell on. To consume them, customers crack the eggs and mixed in dark soy sauce and white pepper before slurping it up from the saucer with a spoon. Some coffee shops also used the saucers to serve cakes they baked or toasts with kaya that they cooked in-house. Using a standard-size plate kept things straight forward for the busy assistants (Ong).

The porcelain wares originated in China, either purchased directly from the Chinese manufacturers or through local importers. An advertisement published in 1959 in the Kheong Keow Coffee Merchants Restaurant & Bar-Owner Association souvenir magazine listed porcelain coffee cups among the kitchenware offered by a wholesaler at Temple Street. These cups came from Jingdezhen, the advertisement claimed, a city known for its high-quality porcelain (74). However, bigger coffee shops bought directly from the manufacturers so that they could have their business name printed on the cups, says the association’s former chairman Mr Ong Siew Ping. Only flourishing establishments could afford to do that, he adds, as the manufacturers only provided this service to those who bought in bulk. Other big buyers of porcelain coffee sets were drinks suppliers, who printed their logos on the cups and gave them to the coffee shops to promote their products to the patrons (Roots; Ong). Such product placement is still practised today but in the form of soft drink cups and parasols.

Besides containing drinks, porcelain cups were used as a tool for communication as coffee shops were also important social venues where people played mahjong, met their blind dates or settled disputes. Members of rival gangs used to negotiate at coffee shops, and instead of “talking” things out, they signalled their intentions by the kind of coffee they ordered, how they placed it on the table, and whether they turned the cup or stirred the milk (Tan). However, this should not be mixed up with drinking coffee from the saucer – a common practice amongst people rushing to work as the coffee would cool quicker when poured onto a saucer. (Ong; PM 44).

In the 1970s, coffee shops began switching to glass cups as the replacements were cheaper, easier to hold — as many as five in one hand — and they eliminated the need of a saucer (Ong). Melamine plates substituted the fragile porcelain saucers for serving eggs and toasts. By the mid-1980s, porcelain wares had largely disappeared that they were reminisced about in the Chinese newspapers (PM 44). Today, the porcelain cup continues to be used by a select group of long established coffee shop chains such as Killiney and Ya Kun Kaya Toast. However, its replacement, the glass cup, which makes a bright, clinking sound when stirring with a metal spoon, has also become an icon in its own right.

Works Cited
“Porcelain Cup Used at the ‘Kopitiam’ (Coffeeshop).” Roots, https://roots.sg/Roots/learn/collections/listing/1103119. Accessed 6 Feb 2018.
Ong, Siew Ping. Personal Interview. 2 Feb 2018.
Kheng Keow Coffee Merchants Restaurant & Bar-Owner Association Souvenir Magazine. Kheng Keow Coffee Merchants Restaurant & Bar-Owner Association, 1959.
Malaysia Singapore Coffee Shop Proprietors’ General Association 45th Anniversary. Malaysia Singapore Coffee Shop Proprietors’ General Association, 19–.
Tan, Neivelle. Interview Jesley Chua Chee Huan. 21 Feb 1995, http://www.nas.gov.sg/archivesonline/viewer?uuid=d1b086c1-115f-11e3-83d5-0050568939ad-OHC001600_007. Accessed 2 Feb 2018.
PM. [The traditional way of making coffee]. Lianhe Zaobao 联合早报, 31 Jul 1987, p. 44.
Han, Shan Yuan 韩山元. “Ka Fei Wu Liang Fen” 咖啡乌两分 [Black Coffee Cost Two Cents]. Lianhe Wanbao 联合晚报, 20 Dec 1985, p. 24.

To explain new products or special features.

Here, the oven’s “unique double quartz elements” need explanation.

It seems that packet coconut cream was still a novelty in the mid-1980s, which is why Harlen compares itself not with similar products but with freshly squeezed coconut milk.

This and the following ad highlight the fact that these oils are polyunsaturated fat, at a time when people were waging war against saturated fats, believing that they cause heart disease (we discover later that this argument is based on junk science).

To highlight a new packaging.

To showcase a wider range of products or functions.

It’s likely that Singaporeans first came to know Kraft for their cheese.

The advertisers sometimes get creative…

This ad for National, now defunct, read like a haiku. Pay attention to how the fine prints about discounts respond to the poem.

or corny.

In the previous year, Kikkoman’s ad went on lengthily about its history, production methods, and market reach. This one here ditched the narrative to state the qualities outright from the perspective of the product itself.

Recipes used to be an attractive gift since people didn’t have the internet and the alternative was to shell out money for cookbooks.

Customer: “One kangkong.”

Server: “With minced garlic or fu yu (fermented bean curd)?”

Customer: “Fu yu.”

Server: “How about soup?”

Customer: “Okay.”

Server: “Fish head, bitter gourd or salted vegetable and tofu? Take fish head. The fish is really fresh today.”

Customer: “Okay, fish head then.”

There was no printed menu. Customers usually had an idea of the types of food—meat, seafood, vegetables, soups or noodles—they wanted, and servers would then suggest the possible flavours and styles of cooking, a conversation that led to a dish.

It was not uncommon for servers to rattle off names of dishes because a zi char restaurant then seldom had more than 20 dishes to offer. It helped that many customers were regulars who could easily order off the top of their head. At some places, cut out, rectangular pieces of vanguard sheets with names of dishes were pasted across the wall as a kind of public menu, but that did not work for every patron. “Many people in those days were illiterate. They couldn’t read. We had to tell them,” said Lam Yau Hoe, whose father founded the zi char restaurant at Toa Payoh, Hong Sheng, in 1968.

Kok Sen, which has the entire coffeeshop at Keong Saik to itself, keeps the practice of displaying menu items on the wall. Others that rent only a stall at a coffeeshop don’t have this kind of space to do so.

Lao Ban Niang at Joo Jiat Road showcases some its staples on acrylic boards.

JB Ah Meng at Geylang lists its menu on styrofoam boards.

This is unlike today when almost all Singaporeans can read—not only in their mother tongue but also in English. But a bigger reason behind the now widespread use of printed menus in no-frills zi char restaurants is the rapid expansion of their repertoire.

From just 20 dishes before 1990, Hong Sheng now offers 87 items to its customers. Same goes for long time zi char spaces such as Keng Eng Kee at Bukit Merah, and Kok Sen in Chinatown, which have both seen their offerings more than doubled between the 1970s to 1990s. While such restaurants may have once started specialising in just one type of Chinese cuisine, by the 1980s, they were expanding their menus in response to a more demanding clientele, explains Keng Eng Kee’s owner Kok Liang Hong. More Singaporeans were eating out, and with that came an expectation of greater choices from a single restaurant. Fuelling this consumption was the growth in women entering into Singapore’s labour force. Eating out became a convenient alternative to cooking at home and something more could afford as household incomes rose.

As zi char restaurants tried to outdo one another, cuisines from different regions were mixed and matched. In the 1990s, Cantonese establishments like Hong Sheng added Hokkien specialities, like ngoh hiang to their repertoire, while its pai kwat wong also began appearing in the menus of other restaurants. Restaurants also cooked up new-fangled creations in order to stand out from the rest. More often than not, popular dishes were soon copied by others and added onto their menus to ensure they could satisfy all kinds of tastes. For instance, the then recent creation har cheong kai made its way into Hong Sheng’s offerings even though its main ingredient, fermented prawn paste, was considered too “pungent” for its customers just a decade ago. Even the Southeast Asian ingredient, sambal, eventually became a staple in Hong Sheng, which by the 1990s had a printed A4-size menu as the number of dishes it offered became too many to be remembered by heart.

Besides competition, the cooks in zi char restaurants were also being replaced by a new generation from neighbouring Malaysia as Singaporeans turned their backs to being food producers, preferring office jobs instead. Many of these cooks were Cantonese from Ipoh who had also worked in cities like Kuala Lumpur and Johor Bahru at the equivalent of zi char, known as tai chow.

Wong Foong is one such cook who arrived in Singapore in 1984. He recalled reproducing his employer’s signatures, but also started introducing dishes he prepared back home. Over the years, he has kept in touch with friends and fellow cooks across the border, whom let him in on new dishes to import to Singapore. Cereal prawns and san lou mi fan are just some of today’s zi char staples that are believed to have come from Malaysia. When I phoned Wong for this interview, he was in Johor catching up with friends chefing there, learning new dishes he could bring in to now his own zi char business, JB Ah Meng, at Geylang.

The printed menu of zi char restaurants is a product of changing times and an answer to changing eating behaviours. Spanning from a single A3 sheet to a A4 file, these menus can accommodate—better than a human memory—the insatiable appetite of consumers. They make any zi char restaurant accessible to everyone, especially first-time customers, whom restaurants are welcoming in bigger proportions than before. Thanks to the constant buzz about the latest and the “tastiest” in traditional and social media, consumers in Singapore are constantly on the move to somewhere new.

A sentimental attachment to the familiar and an empathy for those who toil for our food are hardly the qualities of today’s zi char customers. In place of the absent food memories and relationships developed from these sentiments, are the fuss-free menus more palatable to the consumers of the digital age.

PART II: What’s on a Zi Char Menu?

Restauranteurs play with ink colours, type sizes, and omit the dollar sign from their menus to coax diners to spend more. Zi char restaurants don’t attempt such sophisticated engineering, which is why their menus aren’t typical of a restaurant, and are even unique to this category of eatery. A collection of these menus informs the idiosyncrasies of both the businesses and their customers. The generic food pictures, the correction stickers, and the laminates suggest that zi char are shoestring operations that tend to attract people who are more concern about how their fish is steamed than whether their table is cleaned.

Protein categories

Most zi char menus are categorised by protein type—meats, seafood, and the affordable tofu and eggs. The last category may seem odd to the uninitiated, but in the hands of a skilful zi char chef, eggs or tofu can stand on their own as a dish. They adequately replace the more costly meats and seafood, to make a communal Chinese meal with vegetables and rice.

A zi char dinner may go even cheaper. In the 1960s and 70s, when most Singaporeans ate their meals at home, zi char was a luxury. A plate of rice or noodles—another menu category—stir-fried with meats or seafood and leafy vegetables was the only thing most could afford. Hor fun with beef and kai lan, bee hoon with char siew and cabbage, and fried rice with salted fish and diced carrots, are just some iterations of the one-dish meal that have come to define zi char restaurants. Suitable for one or to share, they are what make an eatery “zi char” instead of a seafood restaurant, which tends to offer similar mains.

Yet the most expensive dish from every category combined can raise the profile of a zi char meal. Like many others in the 80s, Keng Eng Kee, previously at Havelock Road, served modest dinners to families. But come midnight, big spenders like nightclub patrons and bookies made up the majority of its clientele. “The hostess would bring the towkays or Japanese tourists,” says owner Kok Liang Hong. “When there were women around, these men ordered excessively—abalone, shark’s fin, crabs, and prawns.” Many more zi char patrons today can afford these foods, but Kok notes that the 21^st century well-to-dos look out for good tastes rather than exclusive ingredients.

Laminates

Most zi char menus come in laminated sheets of A3 paper. The plastic protection allows the restaurants to wipe off food stains and water without damaging the paper. This is where zi char and regular restaurants are markedly different. The former is fuss-free and customer turnaround is at lighting speed. Often, the next customers are seated before the tables are cleaned. When they have been cleaned, it is usually with a damp cloth in a few zigzag motions, and the tables are still wet when the menus are placed on top for the next customer. Laminates maximise the lifespan of the menus and still allow the businesses to continue their harried service.

Generic photographs

Food pictures mean good business, and zi char owners know that, which is why they blow up images of their best dishes. But most would rather use generic photographs (sold to them by signboard makers) than to have pictures of their own labour taken. “We advise our clients to shoot or to use their own signature food images, instead of the usual stock images,” says Justin Lee of Phocept, a company that makes signage for food stalls. “Then again, business owners tend to have their own considerations, usually the cost and logistic issues.”

The option to use stock photographs proves two things. One, zi char restaurants offers similar food. In fact, one can hardly call itself a zi char if it doesn’t offer the usual repertoire, which include, among many others,  prawn paste chicken, cereal prawns and pai kut wong. What’s left for a zi char restaurant to pit itself against the others are its cooking skill and the quality of its ingredients. This brings us to the second point about zi char restaurants—they compete by cooking better, rather than cooking different.

Hong Kong Street Sum Kee at Ang Mo Kio (left) and Hong Kong Street Chun Kee at Bukit Merah (right)

Correction paper

Not only do zi char restaurants serve the same food, they also rarely change their repertoire. We see menus covered in white correction papers, and the new food prices scribbled on top. This is especially so among the older establishments. Lai Huat Seafood’s menus are more than 10 years old and each of them has almost a hundred correction stickers, informing the updated prices of “sambal balachen pomfret”, “drunken live prawns” and many more.

That said, some restaurants, especially those that have been taken over by the second generation, are introducing new dishes on a regular basis. Their menu, consequently, come in different formats to accommodate the ever expanding repertoire. Instead of A3 laminated sheets, these restaurants use A4 files with plastic pockets. Many items can be displayed on one A4 sheet, otherwise, a new dish needing publicity may have an entire page to itself. Most importantly, these menus can be produced with home printers, allowing the restaurants to make changes cheaply and instantaneously.

Icons

Menus have replaced servers as reliable sources for information about a zi char’s repertoire. Besides the dishes available, the restaurants rely on their menus to communicate other details. We see chilli icons that warn about spiciness, while there are chef hats, and more recently Facebook ‘like’, to guarantee tastiness. In the last 15 years or so, logos of television programmes and magazines emerged, to nudge customers into ordering dishes endorsed by the media.

Greater reliance on menus for communication suggest a few things. Zi char customers are not patronising the restaurants enough to know their servers or their food. Had they been a regular, they would not have to find out, from a menu, what’s good or not. Either they would already know what to order, or the servers would like them enough to suggest. But Singaporeans today have too many dining options, and they also eat out too often to want to dine at the same few places.

A menu also gives a false idea that the dishes and recommendations are set in stone. Anyone who has eavesdropped on a conversation between a regular patron and his server would know that eating zi char is anything but. Pepper crab may be popular, and is stated so in the menu, but prawns could be exceptional that particular day. Ingredients can likewise be negotiated in or out of a dish. These will only be known to diners who engage their servers in a conversation.