By Jim Park
I remember staring at the bowl in the center of the table, feeling a quiet sense of defeat. I was sitting inside Guan Hoe Soon in Joo Chiat, one of Singapore’s oldest Peranakan restaurants, surrounded by families passing around plates of vibrant chap chye and crispy ngoh hiang. But my attention was fixed on the ayam buah keluak.
The dish was intimidating. The chicken was bathed in a thick, ink-black gravy, and the dark, hollowed-out shells of the buah keluak nuts looked almost prehistoric. I scooped out the black paste, mixed it with a little white rice, and took my first bite.
It was earthy, bitter, and intensely pungent. It tasted like damp soil, dark cocoa, and mushrooms all at once. I chewed slowly, smiled politely at my dining companion, and quietly pushed the plate a few inches away. I just didn’t get it.
We often talk about food as a universal language, assuming that if a dish is well-cooked, we will automatically understand its brilliance. But dining in Singapore has taught me that this simply isn’t true. Our palates are shaped by our habits. At the time, my tastebuds were tuned entirely to immediate gratification, the sweet, fiery punch of chili crab, or the comforting, fatty embrace of Hainanese chicken rice. I wanted flavors that shook my hand and introduced themselves loudly.
I wasn’t ready for a dish that demanded patience.
The buah keluak nut is famously toxic when plucked from the tree. It has to be boiled, buried in ash, and fermented for months before it is safe to eat, let alone delicious. It is a stubborn, labor-intensive ingredient that requires deep cultural knowledge to unlock. When I tasted it that first time, I was asking a dish with centuries of heritage to make sense to me in three seconds.
Food is not just a reflection of the chef’s skill; it is a mirror of where we are in our own lives. We grow up. Our edges soften. We start to appreciate bitterness in our coffee, complexity in our relationships, and depth in our meals. We learn that not everything needs to be bright and sweet to be beautiful.
Years later, I found myself back at a Peranakan table. The familiar black gravy was placed in front of me. I scooped out the paste, mixed it with my rice, and took a bite. The earthy, bitter cocoa notes flooded my senses again, but this time, there was no confusion. It tasted like history. It tasted like comfort.
The kitchen hadn’t changed its recipe. The restaurant was exactly the same as it had always been. I was the one who had finally caught up. Sometimes, a great meal isn’t about finding the perfect restaurant. It is simply about waiting until you are finally ready to pull up a chair.
