By Jim Park
I am sitting at a slightly sticky, bright orange table at Kok Sen Restaurant along Keong Saik Road. The ceiling fans push the warm evening air around the room, carrying the deep, smoky scent of wok hei. The auntie approaches and slides a worn, laminated menu across the table. I open it, tracing my finger down the familiar columns of text and faded photographs.
I already know exactly what I am going to order. I have known since I stepped off the MRT three stations ago. Yet, I still open the menu and pretend to deliberate.
We all do this. We hold these printed pages as if we are making a rational, calculated decision about our nutrition. But the truth is, a menu knows far more about us than we care to admit. It is a quiet mirror reflecting our exact emotional state.
Think about it. When you have had a bruising week at work, you do not look at the salads. Your eyes naturally bypass the lighter options and lock onto the heavy, savory comforts. For me, a stressful Tuesday always ends with Kok Sen’s Big Prawn Hor Fun. I need the thick, umami-rich gravy. I need the charred noodles. I need the culinary equivalent of a heavy blanket. The menu knows I am tired, and it offers me exactly what I need to rebuild myself.
In Singapore, our relationship with menus is incredibly intimate. We live in a city defined by its food, where eating is our primary love language and our favorite pastime. Our menus are maps of our cultural heritage, blending decades of migration, adaptation, and shared history. But they also map our personal histories.
When you scan a familiar hawker signboard or a restaurant menu, you are not just choosing a flavor profile. You are negotiating with your mood. Are you feeling adventurous enough to try the seasonal special, signaling a rare burst of spontaneous energy? Or are you retreating to your usual order, seeking the safety of a guaranteed outcome in an otherwise unpredictable week?
We use food to self-medicate, to celebrate, and to anchor ourselves. The act of ordering is deeply revealing. You might tell your friends that you are feeling perfectly fine, but the fact that you just ordered extra chili and a double portion of fried pork belly tells a completely different story.
I close the laminated pages and hand them back to the auntie. I place my usual order, feeling a quiet sense of relief as she nods and walks away toward the kitchen.
The next time you sit down at a table and someone hands you a menu, take a second before you read it. Look at what your eyes naturally search for. Notice what you crave before you even read the descriptions. You are not just deciding what to eat. You are answering the menu when it quietly asks you, How are you really doing today?
