Stand in the kitchen of an experienced Malay cook in Singapore and you will hear a particular sound.
It is not the hiss of a wok or the bubbling of a pot. It is the steady, rhythmic thunk of a stone pestle hitting a stone mortar. Chillies first, then shallots, then garlic, then ginger, then a piece of belacan, then lemongrass and galangal and turmeric, all working together under the weight of someone's grandmother's wrist.
This is rempah. The pounded spice paste at the heart of almost every great Malay dish. The thing that, more than any other single ingredient, defines what Singaporean Malay food tastes like.
Most cookbooks describe rempah as a base. A starter. A foundation that goes into the wok before everything else. That description is technically correct and also misses the point. Rempah is not a step in a recipe. Rempah is the recipe. Everything that happens afterwards, the chicken, the coconut milk, the tomatoes, the rice, is built on whatever flavour you have already pounded into existence. Change the rempah and you change the dish. Master the rempah and you can cook almost anything in the Malay tradition.
A cuisine built on a paste, and a community.
Malay cuisine in Singapore traces back through centuries of trade, migration, and the slow blending of cultures across the Malay Archipelago. Singapore's Malay community is the oldest indigenous community on the island, and their cooking carries influences from Java, Sumatra, the Riau Islands, and the wider Malay world. Each region brought its own dishes and its own versions of the same dishes. Rendang from Sumatra. Sambal from across the archipelago. Satay with origins in the Javanese community that settled in Singapore in the early 19th century.
What ties all of it together is that core technique. The making of rempah.
Real rempah is pounded by hand, traditionally for an hour or more, using a mortar and pestle made of stone. The ingredients change depending on the dish. A rempah for rendang is built around galangal, lemongrass, shallots, ginger, and dried chillies. A rempah for sambal tumis leans heavily on dried chillies and belacan. A rempah for soto might focus on turmeric, garlic, candlenuts, and a bit of ginger. But the principle is the same: pound the ingredients into a paste so smooth and so fragrant that it has its own personality, then cook it slowly in oil until the colour deepens and the kitchen smells like nothing else on earth.
The belacan deserves its own mention. This fermented shrimp paste is the secret weapon of Malay cooking, and one of the most powerful flavour ingredients in any cuisine anywhere. It smells, on first encounter, like something the cat dragged in. It tastes, once cooked into a rempah, like the deepest, savouriest, most umami-rich version of itself you could imagine. The first time a non-Malay cook works with belacan in their kitchen is usually a memorable one. The smell when raw is forgettable to no one. The smell when cooked is the reason people fall in love with this cuisine.
Real rempah is pounded by hand for an hour. The blender works in a pinch. But the pestle is the conversation.
The dishes that hold up Singapore.
If you have eaten Malay food in Singapore, you have probably eaten nasi lemak. The fragrant coconut rice dish is the closest thing this country has to a shared national breakfast, eaten in homes, hawker centres, food courts, school canteens, and posh hotel buffets alike. It originated as a paddy field worker's meal, wrapped in banana leaves and eaten with the hands. It is now one of the most democratic dishes in Singapore, equally beloved by a financial analyst grabbing breakfast in the CBD and a primary school kid eating it at recess from a banana leaf packet bought for two dollars.
Then there is satay. Skewered, charcoal-grilled meat that traces its origins to the Javanese community that settled in Singapore in the early 19th century. There is rendang, the slow-cooked dry beef curry that Malaysians and Indonesians still argue gently about the origin of, and which Singaporean Malay families make for Hari Raya as a matter of cultural law. There is mee rebus, with its sweet-spicy gravy thickened with sweet potato. Lontong, the compressed rice cakes served with coconut curry vegetables. Soto, the warming chicken soup spiced with turmeric and garlic. And nasi padang, the spread of pre-cooked dishes that originated in West Sumatra and became a fixture in Singapore through Malay and Indonesian cooks who brought it here.
None of these dishes are easy to perfect. But many of them are surprisingly approachable for a beginner cook. The trick is understanding what comes first.
Here are three recipes that walk you through it. The first is the rempah that becomes a sambal, the foundation that everything else builds on. The second is nasi lemak, the dish that proves you have arrived. The third is ayam masak merah, the celebration favourite that turns the same fundamental techniques into something special enough for guests. None of them require special equipment, although a blender will save you the hour of pounding if you have one. All of them can be made with ingredients available from any Singapore wet market, supermarket, or Malay provision shop.
Recipe 1 — Sambal Tumis
Before you can cook nasi lemak, you have to be able to make sambal. Before you can make sambal, you have to be able to make rempah. So this is where we start. Sambal tumis literally means "fried sambal", and it is the version that goes into nasi lemak, that gets stirred into stir-fried vegetables, that gets eaten with rice when there is nothing else in the fridge and dinner still needs to happen.
Once you have a jar of this in your fridge, you have unlocked a whole category of cooking. It keeps for about a week refrigerated and freezes beautifully if you want to make a larger batch.
SAMBAL TUMIS — MAKES ABOUT 1 CUP
For the rempah
15 dried chillies, soaked in hot water for 20 minutes, then drained
4 fresh red chillies (optional, for brightness)
8 shallots, peeled and roughly chopped
4 cloves garlic, peeled
1 small thumb of belacan (about 1 teaspoon), toasted briefly in a dry pan
1 stalk lemongrass, white part only, sliced
For the tumis (frying)
4 tbsp neutral oil
1 medium onion, finely sliced
2 tbsp tamarind pulp, soaked in 4 tbsp hot water and strained (or 1 tbsp tamarind concentrate)
1.5 tbsp sugar (gula melaka if you have it, palm sugar or regular sugar otherwise)
Salt to taste
Optional: small handful of dried anchovies (ikan bilis), for ikan bilis sambal
How to make it
Toast the belacan. Wrap the small piece in foil and dry-toast in a pan over medium heat for about a minute on each side. This is the step that wakes up the shrimp paste. Your kitchen will smell strong for a moment. Open a window. The smell becomes incredible once it cooks.
Blend the rempah. Put the soaked dried chillies, fresh chillies if using, shallots, garlic, toasted belacan, and lemongrass into a blender or food processor. Add a tablespoon or two of the chilli soaking water to help it move. Blend until you have a smooth, deep red paste. (If you are pounding by hand, give yourself an hour.)
Fry the rempah. Heat the oil in a heavy pan over medium-low heat. Add the rempah and the sliced onion. Stir constantly. This is the most important step. You are looking to fry the rempah until the oil starts to separate from the paste and the colour turns from bright red to a deeper, slightly darker red. This takes about 15 to 20 minutes. Do not rush it. Undercooked rempah tastes raw.
Add the tamarind water and the sugar. Stir well to combine. Cook for another 5 minutes until the sambal is glossy, thick, and the sourness, sweetness, and heat are in balance. Taste, and adjust with salt and more sugar as needed.
If you want sambal ikan bilis (the kind that goes with nasi lemak), add a small handful of fried dried anchovies in the last minute. Stir to coat.
Let cool. Transfer to a clean jar. It will keep in the fridge for a week, or in the freezer for months.
Tip: The colour change is your timer. Bright red sambal is undercooked. Dark red, slightly orange-tinted, oil-separated sambal is the goal. Walk away too early and the rempah will taste sharp and raw.
Tip: Belacan smell is non-negotiable. Cook with the kitchen fan on and a window open. The pay-off is worth it, but the first ten minutes are a commitment.
Recipe 2 — Nasi Lemak
Nasi lemak is the dish that defines Malay home cooking for most Singaporeans. The coconut rice is the canvas. The sambal is the headline act. The peanuts, anchovies, cucumber, and egg are the supporting cast. Together they form a plate that has been the most reliable breakfast in Singapore for over a century, and a dish that genuinely surprises first-time cooks with how simple the rice itself is to make.
This recipe assumes you already have the sambal tumis from Recipe 01 ready to go. If not, make a small batch first. The rest of the components come together in about 30 minutes.
NASI LEMAK — SERVES 4
For the coconut rice
2 cups jasmine rice, rinsed until the water runs clear
1 cup coconut milk (one small can works fine)
1.5 cups water
2 pandan leaves, tied into a knot (frozen pandan from the Asian supermarket works)
1 stalk lemongrass, smashed with the back of a knife
1 thumb of ginger, sliced
1 tsp salt
For the sides
4 tbsp peanuts (raw skinless, or pre-roasted)
4 tbsp ikan bilis (dried anchovies)
4 eggs (boiled or fried, your preference)
1 cucumber, sliced into rounds or wedges
Sambal tumis from Recipe 01, about 4 tablespoons
Oil for shallow frying the peanuts and anchovies
How to make it
Cook the coconut rice. Combine the rinsed rice, coconut milk, water, pandan leaves, lemongrass, ginger, and salt in a rice cooker. Cook on the regular rice setting. Once done, let it sit for 10 minutes before fluffing. (Or cook in a heavy pot: bring everything to a boil, then reduce heat to low, cover, and cook for 15 minutes. Stir once halfway through to prevent the coconut milk from catching.)
Fry the peanuts. Heat a small amount of oil in a pan over medium heat. Add the raw peanuts and fry for 4 to 5 minutes, stirring often, until golden and toasty. Remove and drain on kitchen paper. (Skip this step if using pre-roasted peanuts.)
Fry the ikan bilis. In the same pan, fry the dried anchovies in a thin layer of oil over medium heat for 2 to 3 minutes until crispy and golden. Drain on kitchen paper.
Boil or fry the eggs. For boiled eggs, simmer for 7 to 8 minutes for a slightly soft yolk, or 10 minutes for fully set. Peel and halve. For fried eggs, sunny-side up with a runny yolk is the classic Singaporean way.
Assemble the plate. Scoop a generous mound of coconut rice into the centre of each plate. Arrange the cucumber slices, peanuts, ikan bilis, and egg around the rice. Spoon a generous helping of sambal tumis on the side. Serve immediately.
Tip: If you want the truly Singaporean experience, serve it on a banana leaf or wrapped in one. The leaf adds an earthy fragrance and changes the whole experience. Most NTUC FairPrice outlets sell small packets of banana leaves in the fresh produce section.
Tip: The peanuts and anchovies can be made in advance and stored in airtight containers for up to a week. If you are making nasi lemak for a crowd, prep these the day before.
Tip: Add a piece of fried chicken (ayam goreng) to elevate this from breakfast to a full meal. Marinate chicken pieces in turmeric, salt, and a little lemongrass for 30 minutes, then deep fry until golden.
Recipe 3 — Ayam Masak Merah
Ayam masak merah translates literally to "chicken cooked red", and it is one of the dishes that Malay families in Singapore make for special occasions. Hari Raya. Weddings. Family gatherings where there are more people in the kitchen than seats at the table. It is festive food in the best sense: rich, tangy, slightly sweet, slightly spicy, and built on the same fundamental rempah technique as the sambal in Recipe 1.
Once you understand sambal tumis, you basically understand ayam masak merah. The flavour base is similar, the technique is the same, the difference is the chicken, the tomatoes, and the slightly different balance of sweet and sour. If you can make sambal, you can make this.
AYAM MASAK MERAH — SERVES 4
For marinating the chicken
700g bone-in chicken pieces (drumsticks and thighs work best), or 600g boneless thigh
1 tsp turmeric powder
1 tsp salt
For the rempah
10 dried chillies, soaked in hot water for 20 minutes, drained
5 shallots, roughly chopped
4 cloves garlic
1 thumb piece of ginger
1 stalk lemongrass, white part only, sliced
For the sauce
3 tbsp neutral oil
1 small cinnamon stick
3 cloves
2 star anise
3 cardamom pods
1 large onion, sliced
1 can (400g) chopped tomatoes (or 4 fresh tomatoes, blended)
2 tbsp tomato ketchup (sounds wrong, is right)
1.5 tbsp sugar
1 tsp salt, or to taste
¼ cup coconut milk (optional, for richness)
Fresh coriander to garnish
How to make it
Rub the chicken with turmeric and salt. Let it sit for at least 20 minutes.
Heat oil in a heavy pan or wok over medium-high heat. Lightly brown the chicken on all sides until golden. You are not cooking it through, just sealing the surface. Remove the chicken and set aside.
Blend the rempah ingredients into a smooth paste. Add a tablespoon of water if needed to help the blades.
In the same pan with the chicken oil, add the cinnamon, cloves, star anise, and cardamom. Let them sizzle for 30 seconds until fragrant. (These four whole spices are sometimes called the "four friends" in Malay cooking. They lift the whole dish.)
Add the sliced onion and the rempah paste. Fry on medium heat, stirring constantly, for about 10 to 12 minutes until the rempah deepens in colour and the oil starts to separate. This is the same technique as sambal tumis. The same rules apply. Patience pays off.
Add the tomatoes, ketchup, sugar, and salt. Stir well. Bring to a simmer. Return the chicken to the pan. Stir to coat in the sauce.
Cover and simmer on low heat for 25 to 30 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the chicken is fully cooked and the sauce has thickened into a glossy red gravy. If it gets too dry, add a splash of water. If you want extra richness, stir in the coconut milk in the last 5 minutes.
Taste and adjust salt and sugar. Garnish with fresh coriander. Serve hot with steamed rice or nasi minyak (ghee rice).
Tip: The tomato ketchup is not a shortcut. It is genuinely how many Malay home cooks make this dish. It adds sweetness and a particular tangy flavour that fresh or canned tomatoes alone don't quite achieve. Trust the process.
Tip: This dish is even better the next day. Make it in the morning, let it sit in the fridge for an evening meal, and the flavours will have deepened beautifully.
Tip: For a more festive version, finish with a small handful of fried shallots and a few extra pieces of fresh red chilli on top. This is how it is plated at Malay weddings.
The bigger picture.
These three recipes are connected. Master the rempah in Recipe 01 and you have effectively solved the hardest part of Recipe 02 and Recipe 03. That is how Malay home cooking works. The technique transfers. The rempah you pounded for sambal tumis on a Saturday morning becomes the foundation of a chicken curry on Sunday and a stir-fried long bean dish on Tuesday. Once you know how to make rempah, you can cook almost endlessly within this tradition.
Malay home cooking has always been generational. Recipes pass down from mother to daughter, from aunt to niece, from grandmother to whoever happens to be in the kitchen that afternoon. The exact ratios change slightly with each handoff. A grandmother might use eight dried chillies, while her granddaughter uses twelve because she likes more heat. A great-aunt might insist that real sambal needs a touch of palm sugar, while a young cook might skip it because she prefers the savoury edge. None of these versions are wrong. All of them are the recipe, evolving.
That generational thread is what makes Malay food in Singapore so worth protecting. The aunty in Geylang Serai who has been making rendang the same way for forty years. The mother in Tampines who packs nasi lemak for her children's school lunches every morning. The grandmother in Bedok who learned her sambal recipe from her own grandmother, who learned it from someone in Sumatra a hundred years ago. These home cooks are some of the most skilled food makers in this country, and most of them have never thought of themselves as anything other than mothers, aunts, and grandmothers cooking for their families.
Ownmades exists because we believe those kitchens are quietly extraordinary. The kitchen behind the door you walk past every day. The cook who has never sold a single plate of nasi lemak but could probably outdo every hawker stall on her block. The home chef whose ayam masak merah is the thing your friend's family eats every Hari Raya and that you have only ever heard them describe with reverence.
Their food deserves more than a kitchen. It deserves a neighbourhood.
Go cook something. Or order from someone who already has.
Cooking food worth sharing? Open your shop on Ownmades.
