A dish that has supposedly been a staple in Malaysia and Singapore, two countries I have, according to my passport, set foot in. And yet, my memory offers me nothing. A complete void, like an old VHS tape that someone hit the erase button on.
The Cultural Significance of Bak Kut Teh
Bak Kut Teh is a dish woven into the fabric of Malaysian and Singaporean culture, two lands my feet have surely touched, though my mind holds no record. It is a curious gap in an otherwise unshakable memory—so vivid I can recall the way light once danced through childhood windows, the scent of rain before a storm, and the gentle cadence of voices I loved. And yet, in this chapter, there is only silence.
But silence is not absence. There are echoes. A dimly lit hotel room. The rustle of sheets as I feign sleep. Words—sharp, hushed, colliding in the air between my parents. Words that did not know I was listening. Words that weighed, measured, and assigned value. And somehow, between them, I was the one left unchosen.
Perhaps that is why my mind has locked this place away. Not out of anger, nor accusation, but preservation. A door gently closed so that a child’s Oh, but I remember something. I remember being in Grade 2, in bed, pretending to sleep, while my parents were in the other room, engaged in a whispered fight. I remember that they were planning a divorce. I remember that they both wanted my brother. And I remember that neither of them wanted me.
Rediscovering Childhood Through Food
Funny how the brain works. I can recall the exact words, the sinking feeling in my tiny 8-year-old chest, but not what I ate on that trip. Did I eat Bak Kut Teh? Did I love it? Did I hate it? Was it overshadowed by finding out that I was the disposable child?
Well, there is only one way to find out. I order it.
The First Taste: Revelation and Healing
The suspense is killing me. Will this soup be a taste of my lost childhood? Or just another meal? My hand hovers over the microwave buttons, and my heart races as I watch the packet rotate in slow motion. Five minutes. Eight minutes. Ding.
I rip off the top, and a pungent mist of medicinal herbs and spices bursts out to punch me in the face. Oh, this soup doesn’t play around. The smell alone sounds like it could resurrect the dead—or at least pound the trauma out of my system. I scoop some of it up with a spoon and stir, watching the tender pork cartilage bob in the dark, fragrant broth. It looks soothing. It feels warm. It feels like a childhood I have no memory of.
The initial sip is revelatory. It is an explosion of richness, pepperiness, and garlic, a warm embrace from a relative who actually loves you. The pork dissolves in my mouth, each bite opening up years of repressed emotion. I chew. I swallow. I wonder if my mom is reading this or not, and if she is… Mom, are you crying yet? No? Alright, I’ll keep writing.
The spiced broth, thick with cinnamon and star anise, pervades every nook of my being, softly speaking, “You were never disposable, just misplaced.” I squeeze my eyes shut and allow the heat to flow through me, defrosting some of the pieces of my heart frozen since that ill-fated journey.
And then, reality bites. I glance down at the empty bowl, the remaining broth clinging to the sides. It’s gone. I loose my Malaysian and Singapore childhood memories. I lost the feeling of being wanted. I lost memories of the ice cream cake that my brother and I shared with glee before everything got in the way.
But you know what? Maybe a few things need to be rediscovered. Maybe I don’t require the lost pieces to know that I was never broken. Maybe this soup filled not only my belly—it filled a little space in the hole, and suddenly I found myself.”.
Or maybe I’m just really hungry. Either way, this Bak Kut Teh slaps. 10/10 would emotionally unravel again.
The Historical Roots of Bak Kut Teh
Even as the food steamed before my eyes, before it exhaled its heady sighs into the air, there was a time when hunger was not just a hollowness of the stomach but a weight in the bones, a shadow that fell over the spirits of men working under the merciless sun.
Bak Kut Teh was never a creation of excess. It was survival, slow-cooked over the fire. Early Malaya, where the scent of spices curled through the damp morning, and Chinese coolies worked on the piers, their bodies the only currency they had. Each dawn, they bent their backs to the earth, their sweat seeping into the soil, their bodies demanding sustenance that rice alone could not give.
And so, a broth was born. It was a humble offering to weary hands and aching spines—pork ribs coaxed into tenderness by hours of gentle persuasion, bathed in a potion of herbs and spices that carried the whispers of distant homelands. Star anise, cinnamon, cloves, and garlic—each one an ancient guardian stirring life back into tired limbs. It was a healer’s brew, a lifeline ladled into waiting bowls, a silent promise that the body would endure another day.
The name itself was simple, practical—‘Bak’ for meat, ‘Kut’ for bone, ‘Teh’ for the tea that was so commonly sipped with it, although no tea leaves ever came in contact with the broth itself. It was a meal that belonged to no one man yet to everyone who could use it. It grew, over time, into more than nourishment. It grew into tradition, it grew into comfort, it grew into home.
And now, in my possession, the bowl holds more than its storied history. It carries the weight of what was lost, of a memory misplaced in the folds of time. As the steam rises, it calls to something deep within me, a connection I never knew I sought. With each sip, I am no longer just a traveller tasting a dish—I am part of a legacy that has fed generations before me, a legacy that endures not just in history but in the warmth that fills me now.
A Dish That Echoes Through Generations
Some dishes are more than food. Some dishes are echoes. And tonight, in the quiet hum of my kitchen, Bak Kut Teh sings its story to me.
