Malcolm Lee: Heart, Heritage, and Honesty

Indeed, rather than adopting a dogmatic adherence to the way things were done, Lee deliberately explores new expressions of heritage Peranakan recipes and ingredients at his restaurants Candlenut and the newer Pangium.

Nothing illustrates Lee’s culinary viewpoint more completely than buah keluak, one of Peranakan cuisine’s most quintessential ingredients. The seed of the Pangium Edule tree is famously complex in flavor, boasting a rich, nutty aroma reminiscent of black truffle.

Also famous is buah keluak’s arduous preparation process to rid it of its high hydrogen cyanide content — yes, the seed is poisonous when raw, and only safe for consumption after weeks of fermentation, scrubbing, soaking and cooking.

The effort, Lee says, is worth it, especially given his childhood memories surrounding the ingredient. “For me, buah keluak has always been about family. It’s so time-consuming to prepare that it only ever appeared during very special occasions — Chinese New Year, Christmas or on my popo’s (grandmother’s) birthday. That alone made it feel precious.”

The seed has always been featured in his restaurants’ menus with elevated takes on traditional dishes. These include a localized version of rawon, a spice-rich Javanese beef soup made swarthy and complex with a symphony of buah keluak paste, lemongrass, galangal and kaffir lime leaves.

“At Pangium, our current buah keluak interpretation is part of a dish called Rawon Mee Sua,” says the chef. “We serve it with charred wagyu short rib, oxtail satay, beef tendon, salted egg, sawtooth coriander and beansprouts. It’s a dish that brings together deep, ancestral flavors with modern structure — reflecting Pangium’s focus on reimagining heritage cuisine through a fine-dining lens.”

Meanwhile, sister restaurant Candlenut dishes out a not-so-traditional ayam buah keluak (braised chicken with tamarind gravy) inspired by a recipe from Lee’s aunt featuring richly marbled Iberico pork jowl.

Drawing influences from members of his family is not unusual for Lee. He explains, “The matriarchs in my family — my grandmother and my mother — were the heart of our kitchen. They didn’t just cook; they told stories through food. Dishes like ayam buah keluak weren’t written down — they were passed on through watching, tasting and repetition.”

“I still remember how my mother would soak the nuts for days, cook just from memory, by feeling and ‘agak agak’ (a Malay expression meaning estimate), and how she could tell just how the dish would turn out. That kind of instinct only comes from a deep, lived connection with the ingredients and personal experiences,” the chef adds.

It is clear that for Lee, legacy in and out of the culinary world doesn’t have to come in a tangible form.

Li Guang Han: Exploring Laksa’s Lost Legacy

It is almost impossible to discuss the preservation of Singapore’s culinary legacy without at least mentioning Han Li Guang and his One-MICHELIN-starred temple to Neo-Sin cuisine, Labyrinth.

For over a decade, the banker-turned-chef has walked a fine gastronomic line with contemporary takes on humble local recipes, at once celebrating the very best of what Singapore has to offer while championing flavors and new techniques.

It’s a balancing act that harks back to the local chef’s own eclectic food influences in his childhood. “My culinary journey is profoundly shaped by the people and environment of my upbringing, particularly my grandparents,” says the chef, better known as LG.

“My grandfather used to own Cairnhill Steak House, one of the earliest Western steakhouses in Singapore, resulting in me growing up in a F&B environment. Meanwhile, I spent most of my childhood watching my grandmother cook traditional Hainanese dishes like chap chye, pork chop and bak chang,” he continues.

The Han of today channels these influences into the unearthing and revitalization of “age-old, often-forgotten recipes” — including, most recently, the hard-to-find Laksa Siglap, a fish-forward cousin to the more common, coconut milk-laden Laksa Katong.

“My first encounter with Laksa Siglap was at a stall in Geylang Serai, where its flavors reminded me of the Penang Assam Laksa,” says the chef. “This sparked my curiosity to delve deeper into Laksa Siglap, where I discovered that it actually predates the more popular Katong variant.

“The historical relevance is important because not many people remember Laksa Siglap, even though it is the original laksa before what is popular today. I’m especially drawn to its unique balance of sweet, sour and umami notes,” says Han.

After numerous taste tests of Malaysia’s diverse laksa variants (which more closely resembled Laksa Siglap) and several experiments, he settled the winning recipe now served today at Labyrinth.

For the coup de grace, he pairs it with Japanese kinki — dry-aged for three days to achieve perfectly crispy skin when seared, then finished over a charcoal grill for subtle smokiness — a smattering of aromatic dill and shrimp oils, and a Balinese-inspired urap (salad) of wing beans, bean sprouts, spinach and desiccated coconut.

To Han, his take on Laksa Siglap is emblematic of how legacies are meant to be bequeathed.

In any case, he believes a chef’s impact is measured not just by the dishes he creates. “We are also trying to inspire younger chefs from Singapore to learn more about the past. My personal hope is to foster in them a love for our Singaporean heritage and the confidence to innovate. If they walk away inspired, then my legacy lives on,” he adds.

Jimmy Lim: An Unspoken Inheritance

"I'm grateful for the difficult people, too — the ones who doubted me or even actively tried to push me down. They, in their own way, had a significant influence on me. They forced me to dig deeper, to unearth a strength I didn't know I possessed.”

However, none were as invaluable to the chef’s journey as his own father. “His unwavering persistence and perseverance have left an indelible mark on me, shaping how I approach every challenge and every dream,” says Lim.

In fact, it was Lim’s father who taught him how to cook chicken rice at what would be their last Lunar New Year together.

“I remember the warmth of the kitchen, the scent of ginger and pandan filling the air, and his patient guidance as we simmered the chicken and perfected the rice,” he says. “At the time, I didn't know the quiet gravity of that moment, that this would be the last dish he ever taught and shared with me.”

Today, the chef honors the treasured memory with his father — and a Singaporean icon he says is “as ubiquitous as the tropical humidity” — with an interpretation of the dish both exceptional and outlandish.

At his restaurant, Lim serves a version of chicken rice with neither chicken nor the classic fragrant oil rice. Instead, he pairs poached fish (the most likely protein of abundance in the island nation’s early years) with rice, drawn out to a consistency not unlike porridge.

“I vividly recall the stories my grandmother would share from her childhood, tales of profound poverty and rationed food. Rice, she'd often say, was precious, a staple to be stretched as far as possible,” he explains. “From this memory, I found my inspiration: I envisioned the rice not as a grain, but as a rich, comforting porridge-like sauce, a tribute to resilience and resourcefulness.”

Despite these transformations, Lim says that with their eyes closed, guests often can’t quite believe that they aren’t chowing down on a traditional plate of chicken rice. “That, right there, is the exact provocation I aim for,” he says. “I want to offer something they never thought possible, to challenge their perceptions of what a familiar dish can be.”

The chef’s reaction to his diners’ enjoyment reflects his opinion on the weight of legacy. To Lim, it is not about accolades or possessions, but in “the genuine connections we forge and the subtle, yet powerful, ways we uplift those around us”. Such a thing cannot be forced — it can only be influenced.

The new father continues, “Take my son, for example. My deepest hope is that one day, he looks at the way I've lived my life and how I've treated the people around me, and if he feels that's right, that's what he believes in, he will follow naturally.”

“My role isn't to dictate his path, but to live my own life in a way that, perhaps, lights a spark within him, allowing him to forge his own remarkable legacy, built on the authentic lessons he chooses to carry forward,” he adds.

Barry Quek: Deconstructing Singaporean Classics

For Quek, what sets bak kut teh apart from other local Singaporean icons is its status as a food for the people.

“Throughout history, dishes that the working class ate stood the test of time. Bak kut teh is the same,” the chef explains, “Back then, Singaporean laborers did not have access to many ingredients and pork was hard to come by. In order to nourish themselves, they added garlic and white pepper. It’s something uniquely Singaporean.”

Then again, it could just be the dish that reminds him most of home. After all, the recipe for Quek’s signature dish comes from his greatest source of inspiration, his Teochew mother. “My mom is an amazing cook. She can whip something up from what she has available on hand, and it will always be good,” he says. He now hopes to pass on that same inspiration to the upcoming generation of budding chefs.

“We also pass on legacy through music and Singlish,” he adds. “We may have to tone it down when we are abroad, but once we meet other Singaporeans, that accent is sure to come out, lah!”