Galangal: A Peranakan Legacy

The rhythmic clatter of knives against chopping boards came to an abrupt still in Galangal’s kitchen. An harsh silence lingered, broken only by the simmering hiss of pots bubbling on the stove. The kitchen staff exchanged uneasy glances, their hands hovering over half-prepped vegetables and unfinished tasks. Their eyes darted nervously between the two figures at the centre of the storm. Emily Chan stood at the stainless-steel counter, her knuckles white from gripping tightly to its edge. “This dish needs to sing,” she said, her voice low but steely, cutting through the tension. “It has to be flawless. They need to taste why Galangal matters.” Jarrod Leong, the sous chef, slammed his cleaver down with a sharp c***k, the sound echoing in the tight space. His gaze was as sharp as the blade in his hand. “And you think they’ll hear that on a plate dressed up for a goddamn fashion show? This isn’t New York, Emily,” he countered, his tone icy. The tension crackled like oil in a hot wok. Old Chen, the veteran line cook, cleared his throat, his weathered hands unfaltering as he stirred a pot of salted vegetables. Emily turned to Jarrod, her eyes blazing. “Jarrod, if we don’t adapt, this restaurant dies. You think tradition alone is going to pay the rent? They’d want to see something they’ve never seen before.” “They’re here for Nyonya food aren’t they?” Jarrod snapped, his voice rising. “Or are they expecting Michelin-star gimmicks? You don’t need foams or edible flowers to make Ayam Buah Keluak taste good.” Emily opened her mouth to retort, but Old Chen’s quiet sigh cut through the argument. “Careful, both of you,” he said, still stirring. “The investors might be here to taste the food, but they’re watching the chefs just as much. You serve them a fight instead of a meal, and it won’t matter what’s on the plates.” Emily swallowed hard, her jaw tight. The truth of Old Chen’s words stung, but she refused to back down. Not here. Not now. She took a deep breath, forcing calm into her voice. “Focus on the food, Jarrod Leong. This is bigger than you or me.” She watched him retreat grudgingly to his station, then turned her back to the counter, her reflection flickering in the row of gleaming knives. This had to work. There was no second chance. .......... The first drops of rain had already begun to fall, each a tiny, insistent drumbeat against the roof of the elaborate shophouse. Emily skillfully maneuvered her Vespa, just in time, beneath the shelter of the porch, the sleek lines of the scooter gleaming in the fading light of the evening. Just a moment longer, and she would have been completely drenched, as the gentle drizzle quickly escalated into a heavy downpour, the raindrops lashing against the tiled terrace with the ferocity of a hailstorm. Her attention shifted towards the terrace where a magnificent dragon pot, its glazed surface now shimmering in the rain, stood proudly. Majestic dragons coiled around the vast ceramic pot, their watchful eyes seemingly peering out into the storm. The pot overflowed with water, yet amidst the tempest of the rain, a cluster of white lotus flowers stood tall and defiant, their delicate petals unfurling despite the onslaught. Tiny guppies and mollies with their glimmers of gold and silver darted amongst the roots of the lotuses, seemingly oblivious to the storm that was raging outside. Emily had always marvelled at the resilience of the lotus, how it could bloom so beautifully, even when surrounded by water, even when faced with the fiercest downpour. She was equally fascinated by the tiny fish—how did they always seem to be able to find their way back to the centre of the pot, yet never once swept away by overflowing water? Sighing, she gathered her helmet and belongings from the top box of the Vespa, her mind replaying the events of the afternoon as she made her way into the aged house. The memory of the meeting with the Chinese investors still festered, the taste bitter in her mouth. “Galangal is certainly an impressive restaurant, Chef Emily,” they’d said, “but it’s a little niched. The kind of returns we’re looking for require a… broader appeal.” Despite their polite smiles and carefully-chosen words, she’d felt the icy grip of their disinterest, and a subtle dismissal that had chilled her to the bone. She felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her. Six months—six long months—since she’d taken over Galangal from her late father, the renowned Chef Michael Chan, and the pressure of keeping the restaurant going had been a mounting and tremendous weight on her shoulders. Emily had thought that by attracting investors, she could infuse new life into Galangal and elevate Peranakan cuisine, the kind of food that made Galangal what it was: the traditional Nyonya food her father and grandparents had always cooked. Instead, the investors who had been lured by the promise of a Michelin-star chef behind the kitchen, simply walked away without even trying the dishes that her kitchen staff had spent hours preparing, leaving her exasperated. She resented the way they’d called Galangal’s menu too “traditional”, too “Peranakan”. Peranakan. The term, once a source of pride for the Chan family, now felt like a burden—the blend of Chinese and Malay-Archipelago Nusantara cultures, that delicate dance of flavours and traditions—a legacy Emily felt increasingly inadequate to uphold, despite her past successes working at renowned restaurants in New York. “You can’t take it personally, Em,” her fiancé, Joe Prescott, had said, his tone maddeningly casual. “It’s just business.” “Just business?” she retorted, her voice low but sharp. “They didn’t even bother hiding how uninterested they were, Joe. Why’d you even introduce them in the first place?” Joe leaned back in his chair, unruffled. “Because”, he replied, “they’re the kind of investors who could scale Galangal into something significant. Look, your dad had built something great, but—” “But what?” Emily snapped back. Joe exhaled, trying to keep his patience. “But maybe it’s time to think beyond Nyonya food. Don’t get me wrong, it’s lovely, but… how many people actually seek it out, even here in Singapore? Em, you trained at Cordon Bleu. You earned that Michelin star in New York. You have the skills to create a menu that appeals to a wider, more international audience… ” “And just give up on everything Galangal stands for?” her jaw clenched. “No Joe. Galangal’s more than just a business. It’s my family’s story. Pa passed it to me, and—” “And the tables aren’t filling up,” Joe shot back. “I’m sorry, Em, but the investors can see that. They see risk. And it’s simply not sustainable.” The words had stung, yet Emily knew they held every grain of truth. Galangal, with its old-school Art-Deco facade, Peranakan decor and furnishing, intimate dining space and traditional recipes, while quintessential and authentic, was worlds away from the sleek, modern establishments in the area that investors would have preferred. Yet, she knew all these were part of Galangal’s charm, the fruits of Chef Michael’s dream and efforts when he moved the restaurant from their family shophouse in Joo Chiat to its current premises at Tiong Bahru. “Joe, do you even understand why I’m doing this?” she asked, trying to restrain her anger. But she’d already known the answer. “Because you’re… stubborn?” Joe offered, half-joking, trying to diffuse the tension. “Because it matters.” she slammed her hands on the table. “God, you just don’t get it, do you? Every spice blend, every dish… Galangal is my grandparents’ work. Pa’s work.” “I’m just trying to help, Emily,” Joe had reached the limits of his patience. “You know I want you to succeed—of course I do. But sometimes, it means having to make tough choices. You can’t keep clinging on to—” “To what?” Emily retorted, her tone icy. “My family? My culture? To the very things that define this place?” Joe sighed, running a hand through his hair. She’s impossible, he thought. “Look, Em, if you’re not willing to adapt, then don’t expect me to find people who’ll invest. You’re not making this easy for anyone—not for me, certainly not for yourself. And ‘culture’ doesn’t pay the bills.” “Then maybe you should stop trying to ‘help’ then. I’m tired of this, Joe. I think you should just go,” Emily felt defeated, but she was determined not to let him see it. She walked off, retreating to the small, cluttered office tucked behind the kitchen, closing the door with a loud thud. The smell of tamarind and pandan drifted gently through the air, mingling with the sounds of her kitchen team at work. Emily leaned against the wooden door, her eyes burning with unshed tears. She took comfort in knowing that at least her father had built a reliable staff and mentored a competent sous chef, Jarrod Leong, who, for all his insufferable abrasiveness and his stubborn adherence to tradition, was a skilled chef. Jarrod understood the essence of Peranakan cuisine, even if he didn’t always agree with her vision. Emily glanced at the small desk where a pile of unopened bills lay accusingly next to a stack of printed recipes she’d been researching on. Chef Michael’s photo sat in a simple frame on the desk, his kind eyes and warm smile silently urging her to keep going. .......... The rich aroma of Assam Pedas Ikan stewing in a clay pot over a small charcoal stove filled the air as Emily walked into the kitchen of her family home. It was her mother’s specialty dish, and May Sim was moving around with a practiced rhythm born of years of repetition and love. Watching her mother prepare the meal, Emily wondered if she’d ever achieve May’s grace and that seemingly effortless embodiment of everything she was fighting for—tradition, resilience, and a quiet strength that refused to bow to adversity. As May placed the steaming clay pot of Assam Pedas on the table, Emily couldn’t help but smile. “This is a masterpiece, Ma. You should have your own Michelin star.” The mackerel her mother used had been cooked to flaky perfection, bathed in a vibrant red gravy, speckled with green chili peppers and fragrant herbs. The tangy tamarind, the fiery heat of the chilies, the fragrant hint of lemongrass, the delicate sweetness of the fish—it was a symphony of flavours, a perfect blend of sour, spicy, and savoury all at once. May waved off the compliment with a laugh. “And what do I do with a star? It doesn’t make the food taste better, does it?” Emily had let her mother’s statement slide, more engrossed with enjoying every bite of the mackerel, and every sip of the sour, spicy gravy that left her wanting more. They ate in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds the gentle clink of utensils and the occasional sigh of appreciation. Yet, even as the comforting flavours wrapped around her like a warm embrace, she couldn’t completely shake the doubts creeping in. Joe’s words still echoed in her mind, and the mountain of challenges Galangal faced seemed insurmountable. “Do you ever regret it, Ma?” she asked suddenly, breaking the comforting silence. “Keeping things the same all these years? Never trying to change it up or make it more modern?” May gave her daughter a knowing look as she sat down. “Why would I regret it? This is who we are. If we forget that, what’s left?” Later, as she helped her mother clear the table, Emily lingered by the stove, staring into the now-empty clay pot. It was a symbol of everything she loved: simple, unassuming, but filled with depth and soul. “Ma,” she said quietly, “I think I'm going to need to delve deeper into your recipe book. The real ones, not the edited versions Jarrod and I have been using.” Jarrod had been subtly (and not so subtly) nudging her to incorporate more of May’s authentic recipes into Galangal’s menu. “That’s where the real magic is.” Jarrod had always maintained, and tonight, having savoured the fiery depths of her mother’s Assam Pedas, Emily was inclined to agree. ........... In the now-hushed kitchen of the house, Emily felt the memories of her childhood settle over her like a warm blanket. Her father’s presence was everywhere, in the worn cutting boards, the battered clay pots, and the neatly arranged spice jars labelled in his meticulous handwriting. Here, Chef Michael had spent hours with his wife, perfecting and journalling the recipes of the Nyonya dishes their mothers had cooked—the family recipes that had been passed down the generations by word-of-mouth that would have otherwise been left undocumented, if not for Chef Michael’s diligence. She had spent hours watching her parents’ culinary experiments in the kitchen of their home, then replicated at Galangal, under the watchful eyes of her father. She remembered helping her parents pound spices with a mortar and pestle as a child, the rhythmic sound of stone against stone a comforting background to their conversations. She’d marvelled at her parents’ precision, tossing ingredients into the pot without the need for measurements. “Taste,” Chef Michael would tell her, handing her a spoonful of broth. “Your tongue will tell you what’s missing.” Those lessons had stayed with her, shaping her approach to cooking. At Le Cordon Bleu, she’d learned the finer techniques of French cuisine, but her soul had always belonged to the flavours of home. She’d tried to marry the two at Galangal, creating dishes that were a homage to her heritage while embracing modern techniques. But somewhere along the way, the pressure to innovate, to impress critics, had pulled her away from the simplicity that defined her father’s style of cooking. An old ledger book sitting on the kitchen counter caught her attention. It was her father’s, its leather cover worn and cracked. She picked it up and flipped through the pages, her heart swelling as she recognised his handwriting. The entries detailed everything from daily expenses to recipes scribbled on the margins. One page caught her eye, a recipe for Ayam Buah Keluak—Chef Michael’s specialty featuring chicken braised in a rich dark gravy made from the nut of the keluak tree, also known as candlenut. The ink was now smudged in places, evidence of its frequent use. She traced her fingers over the words, and imagined Chef Michael standing at the stove, his brow furrowed in concentration as he prepared the dish. She could almost hear his voice, patient and kind, guiding her through each step to make the iconic dish. “You can’t rush this, Emily. The buah keluak needs time to release its flavour. It’s like life—the best things come when you’re patient.” Tears welled up at the corners of Emily’s eyes, but she blinked them away. She wasn’t a child anymore, and she couldn’t bring her father back. But she could honour him, and she could honour the legacy he had entrusted to her. Her resolve, shaken by her argument that same afternoon with Joe and the investors’ disinterest, began to steady. She walked over to the spice rack and ran her fingers over the jars. Each label brought back memories: turmeric, galangal, tamarind, belacan. These were the building blocks of Peranakan cuisine, the flavours that had defined her family for generations. .......... The storm outside began to ease, the rain tapering off into a gentle drizzle. Emily closed the ledger and set it back on the counter. She turned to the stove, her mind racing with ideas. Galangal didn’t need to change to fit into the mold investors wanted. Instead, it needed to return to its roots, to the heart of what made it special. Her thoughts drifted to the dragon pot outside. Like the lotus flowers standing tall against the storm, she needed to find her own resilience. She couldn’t—mustn’t—let Joe’s words or the investors’ indifference define her path. She took a deep breath and stepped out onto the porch. The air was cool and fresh, carrying the earthy scent of rain-soaked ground. She crouched by the dragon pot, her fingers brushing the surface of the water. The lotus flowers swayed gently, their petals glistening with raindrops. She smiled, feeling a surge of clarity and purpose. She remembered May telling her about the significance of the lotus—that they thrived in muddy waters. As a child, Emily had been amazed by how the flowers would retreat into the mud at the bottom of the vast pots, then re-emerge again the next morning. It felt almost magical. “No matter how deeply they retreated into murky waters,” May would tell her, patting her gently as she sat on her mother’s lap, “they will always re-bloom with grace and splendour when the sun rises again. Just like you.” The storm had passed, leaving the world washed clean and glistening under the streetlights. Emily felt a similar sense of renewal. She would face the challenges ahead with the same resilience as the lotus flowers, drawing strength from her roots and her family’s unwavering belief in her. “I won’t let it die,” she whispered, her voice steady and sure. “I promise.”