I think some of the foods we love are never truly ours. They arrive through someone else first.
A friend who insisted we try something. A family member who ordered the same dish every time. A person who, without realizing it, attached a memory to a particular flavour.
For me, it was mee rebus.
When I was younger, I had a friend who could not stop talking about it. Whenever we were deciding what to eat after school, he would somehow find a way to bring it up. He described the thick gravy, the sweetness of the sauce, the fried shallots scattered on top, as though it was the greatest discovery of his life.
I remember finally giving in and ordering it with him. I expected it to be just another meal, but I understood why he kept returning to it. There was something comforting about the combination of textures and flavours, a dish that felt familiar even though it was new to me.
I sometimes wonder if I love mee rebus because of the dish itself, or because of the memory attached to it.
Years later, whenever I order it, I still think about that friend and those afternoons when our biggest decision was where to eat after school. Food has a strange way of carrying people with it, even long after those moments have passed.
I found myself thinking about this while visiting different neighbourhood food spots, including places like Toa Payoh, where everyday meals often carry stories of the people who return to them.
Behind many of our favourite orders are the people who first made us notice them. The dish may stay the same, but the reason we return often has a much deeper story.
It is moments like these that remind me why exploring Singapore’s food places always reveals more than just what is on the plate.
