The Prestige oracles

Food is a photo album, a time capsule, and an identity, says Bryan Koh. But what makes food “authentic” and does it matter?

it is shocking to think I have been a food writer and researcher for nearly eight years now, spending many nights waist-deep in pools of culinary literature, making weekend jaunts around the region, interviewing — occasionally accosting — people of all ages and backgrounds, from lolas at roadside bulalo shacks in Batangas to Kachin hotel bellboys in Yangon, in efforts to understand the food cultures in which they exist. I have written two books, Milk Pigs & Violet Gold and 0451 Mornings are for Mont Hin Gar, exploring the regional cuisines of Philippines and Myanmar respectively, with my third, Bekwoh, on the food of the eastern coast of Peninsula Malaysia, to publish later this year.

In the preface of the Philippine book, I wrote that my aim was to capture an “authentic snapshot” of the cuisine at the time. My editor felt that “a snapshot of authentic cuisine” would have been more appropriate, which I understood; The information and recipes were provided by historians, writers and cooks, both domestic and professional. But the truth is, “authentic” is one word I am cautious of using. Its denotation is simple, but what do people actually mean when they use it to describe something as complex as food?

All foods are stories to which anybody can add a narrative. Many have unclear beginnings and none really have an ending. Food is always evolving, though this does not always spell a sea change. What counts as authentic depends on whom you are asking, its place in the historical evolution of a dish (or cuisine). What a millennial would identify as authentic mee goreng will sharply contrast against the one my mother and those of her generation fondly remember. In their days, the egg noodles were patiently fried with a little oil, over charcoal, until they resembled little squiggles, darkened with soy and imbued with smoke and gentle spice, a far cry from the greasy, sweet, lurid concoction of now.

An old Kelantanese cook once shared that the nasi kerabu of her childhood was not blue but a light greenish-yellow. Nor was there an accompanying flotilla of dishes like grilled beef, stuffed chillies and battered fish. All the rice had was flaked fish, herbs, roasted coconut and fermented fish paste. Pekan’s nasi kebuli, these days recognised as a sort of chicken pilaf, once contained the oil of Pangium Edule or buah keluak. Extracting this liquid is tedious and an endangered skill; Only a handful of grey-haired cooks know how it is done today.

Many nyonya kueh have experienced change too, especially those with rice flour. Over the years, wheat and tapioca flours have been added to produce something more tender, as the palate of this day and age desires creaminess and softness. It wants complexity; a bowl of Lanzhou beef noodles from a modern Chinese restaurant is going to be more full-bodied than that from a traditional Gansu noodle house. It also wants sweetness. Filipino rice cakes were nowhere as sugary as they are now. In recent times, many Southeast Asian dishes have been sweetened through the use of red sun-kissed tomatoes, when the fruit was originally added for sharpness like young tamarind.

It would be wise to note that some dishes have multiple representations. The talabaw in Kayin state in Myanmar can contain any beast, fish, fowl and vegetable as long as it has ground black pepper and roasted rice. I have also witnessed cooks from the same city and era bicker passionately over the proper way to make the local adobo.

Any talk of impermanence can make us feel unsettled. In the context of cuisine, this is not just due to our worries about the future of our gastronomic delights, but more because food is a photo album, a time capsule, and an identity. The most sentimental are the most affected; they fear that with these changes, precious memories and ultimately pieces of themselves will be eroded. We get especially upset when it is someone in our tribe who is bringing these changes. For food to survive, it has to move with the times, to fit our lifestyles so we can accommodate it. Casualties are inevitable. For the survivors, we can only hope for the preservation of their essence that, as with many things, is really quite subjective.

Food author Bryan Koh is also the co-founder of cakeries Chalk Farm and Milk Moons.