SINGAPORE: At a coffee shop in Toa Payoh, a yong tau foo stall is counting down its final days. Soon, the metal shutters will come down and the broth pots drained for the last time.
What should have been a quiet, bittersweet farewell for Hup Chong Yong Tau Foo, however, became a public skirmish over words. Stomp published a critical review of the stall, finding fault in the pricing, ingredients and portion sizes. The review prompted online backlash and the family who runs the business wrote on Facebook that they were “deeply hurt”.
Had the review been of a restaurant or cafe, it might have passed with little notice. Instead, it struck a nerve precisely because it involved a hawker-run business – and one that has been operating for decades.
In Singapore, hawkers are not just food vendors. They are custodians of an everyday culture that cuts across class and generations, formally recognised by UNESCO as intangible cultural heritage.
The hawker industry is also widely understood to be hanging by a thread, sustained by long hours, gruelling labour and razor-thin profit margins. So when a review lands with the force of a takedown, it no longer reads as merely ungenerous – to some, it may feel unethical.
The debate sparked by the Stomp article raises uncomfortable but necessary questions: Are hawkers being shielded from scrutiny that applies to every other business? Or are Singaporeans so protective of hawkers that any form of criticism feels like betrayal? Should hawker food be fair game for negative reviews – and if so, under what principles?
Last year, food vlogger Lucas Neo drew criticism for a TikTok series in which he “exposed” Michelin-rated hawker stalls, questioning whether the accolades were deserved. Neo has described his approach as a corrective to a review culture where “everything is good”.
“I wanted to post something more raw, but not at the expense of the hawker going out of business,” he said in an interview.
Amid a backdrop of rising living costs, that argument has force. If people are spending hard-earned money, why shouldn’t they want frank assessments? Why should hawker stalls be exempt from the critique that applies to restaurants?
Yet, treating hawkers as ordinary entrepreneurs sits uneasily with how Singaporean society regards hawker food.
In a 2012 interview, Ravi Menon, then managing director of the Monetary Authority of Singapore, described hawker centres as offering “good quality meals at almost Third World prices”, a form of broad-based subsidy that benefits rich and poor alike. Hawkers are expected to function simultaneously as entrepreneurs and as providers of affordable social infrastructure, and those who keep prices low even as costs rise are celebrated.
This contradiction matters. If hawkers function purely as businesses, like a typical restaurant, then criticism should be dispassionate and transactional. However, if they are also part of a shared cultural legacy, then critique carries a different weight.
This tension is keenly felt by those behind the stalls; after all, in such a fragile ecosystem, a negative review can feel less like constructive feedback and more like a hammer blow to an already weakened structure.
Reacting to Neo’s videos on Facebook, Jean Lim of Ah Hua Teochew Fishball Noodle captured the sentiment shared by many hawkers: “One careless post, one ‘honest review’ with our signboard shown, can easily crush the heart and effort we pour into this business… We hawkers don’t need pity. We just ask for fairness, respect and a little empathy.”
None of this is to argue that hawkers should be immune from criticism. Bad hawker food exists. Corners are sometimes cut. Accolades are sometimes undeserved.
Honest feedback can be valuable, especially as rising costs push prices upward and expectations follow. Even a 20-cent increase can feel “exorbitant” relative to the low prices Singaporeans have long associated with hawker food. Any price hike, however modest, naturally raises expectations for quality, portion size and consistency.
But the question is not whether criticism should be allowed. It is how it is exercised and through what channels.
If feedback is genuinely offered in the spirit of improvement, the most constructive place for it may be the hawker stall itself. As with restaurants, respectfully raising an issue in the moment gives hawkers the opportunity to explain or correct a lapse without the stigma of public shaming. A disappointing meal may simply be the product of a bad day, rushed service or circumstances invisible to the diner.
Public criticism, by contrast, is often less about resolution than record. A one-star Google review or viral negative reel fixes a fleeting experience into a lasting public record that may be disproportionate to the lapse itself.
To be clear, online reviews are not without value. For hawkers operating in a competitive environment, positive reviews on platforms such as Google Maps or social media can be crucial, helping new customers discover stalls and sustaining businesses that might otherwise struggle. In that sense, reviews can, and often do, serve a public good.
The problem arises when the same mechanisms that amplify praise are used to broadcast disappointment with little regard for consequence. More troubling still is the erosion of accountability in today’s media landscape.
Food criticism was once the domain of professional reviewers, who brought experience, expertise, editorial oversight and journalistic integrity to their work. Today, beyond traditional media, criticism circulates across online platforms that may publish content with minimal fact-checking or editorial review.
Social media has further collapsed the distance between private opinion and public scrutiny. Anyone can broadcast their opinion – instantly, permanently and often without context.
This does not mean lowering standards or insisting that “everything is good”. It means recognising that not every disappointment requires amplification. After all, a bowl of overcooked wonton mee or a lacklustre plate of nasi lemak is rarely catastrophic. Restraint here is not cowardly withdrawal from criticism, but an awareness of one’s power over an industry already under strain.
Holding one’s pen – or tongue – is a responsibility and, in the case of hawkers, one that should be wielded with grace.
Pamelia Chia is the author of the cookbooks Wet Market to Table and PlantAsia, and writer of the Singapore Noodles newsletter.
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What should have been a quiet, bittersweet farewell for Hup Chong Yong Tau Foo, however, became a public skirmish over words. Stomp published a critical review of the stall, finding fault in the pricing, ingredients and portion sizes. The review prompted online backlash and the family who runs the business wrote on Facebook that they were “deeply hurt”.
Had the review been of a restaurant or cafe, it might have passed with little notice. Instead, it struck a nerve precisely because it involved a hawker-run business – and one that has been operating for decades.
In Singapore, hawkers are not just food vendors. They are custodians of an everyday culture that cuts across class and generations, formally recognised by UNESCO as intangible cultural heritage.
The hawker industry is also widely understood to be hanging by a thread, sustained by long hours, gruelling labour and razor-thin profit margins. So when a review lands with the force of a takedown, it no longer reads as merely ungenerous – to some, it may feel unethical.
The debate sparked by the Stomp article raises uncomfortable but necessary questions: Are hawkers being shielded from scrutiny that applies to every other business? Or are Singaporeans so protective of hawkers that any form of criticism feels like betrayal? Should hawker food be fair game for negative reviews – and if so, under what principles?
Related:
THE HAWKER ENTREPRENEUR PARADOX
Last year, food vlogger Lucas Neo drew criticism for a TikTok series in which he “exposed” Michelin-rated hawker stalls, questioning whether the accolades were deserved. Neo has described his approach as a corrective to a review culture where “everything is good”.
“I wanted to post something more raw, but not at the expense of the hawker going out of business,” he said in an interview.
Amid a backdrop of rising living costs, that argument has force. If people are spending hard-earned money, why shouldn’t they want frank assessments? Why should hawker stalls be exempt from the critique that applies to restaurants?
Yet, treating hawkers as ordinary entrepreneurs sits uneasily with how Singaporean society regards hawker food.
In a 2012 interview, Ravi Menon, then managing director of the Monetary Authority of Singapore, described hawker centres as offering “good quality meals at almost Third World prices”, a form of broad-based subsidy that benefits rich and poor alike. Hawkers are expected to function simultaneously as entrepreneurs and as providers of affordable social infrastructure, and those who keep prices low even as costs rise are celebrated.
This contradiction matters. If hawkers function purely as businesses, like a typical restaurant, then criticism should be dispassionate and transactional. However, if they are also part of a shared cultural legacy, then critique carries a different weight.
This tension is keenly felt by those behind the stalls; after all, in such a fragile ecosystem, a negative review can feel less like constructive feedback and more like a hammer blow to an already weakened structure.
Reacting to Neo’s videos on Facebook, Jean Lim of Ah Hua Teochew Fishball Noodle captured the sentiment shared by many hawkers: “One careless post, one ‘honest review’ with our signboard shown, can easily crush the heart and effort we pour into this business… We hawkers don’t need pity. We just ask for fairness, respect and a little empathy.”
THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT
None of this is to argue that hawkers should be immune from criticism. Bad hawker food exists. Corners are sometimes cut. Accolades are sometimes undeserved.
Honest feedback can be valuable, especially as rising costs push prices upward and expectations follow. Even a 20-cent increase can feel “exorbitant” relative to the low prices Singaporeans have long associated with hawker food. Any price hike, however modest, naturally raises expectations for quality, portion size and consistency.
But the question is not whether criticism should be allowed. It is how it is exercised and through what channels.
If feedback is genuinely offered in the spirit of improvement, the most constructive place for it may be the hawker stall itself. As with restaurants, respectfully raising an issue in the moment gives hawkers the opportunity to explain or correct a lapse without the stigma of public shaming. A disappointing meal may simply be the product of a bad day, rushed service or circumstances invisible to the diner.
Related:
Public criticism, by contrast, is often less about resolution than record. A one-star Google review or viral negative reel fixes a fleeting experience into a lasting public record that may be disproportionate to the lapse itself.
To be clear, online reviews are not without value. For hawkers operating in a competitive environment, positive reviews on platforms such as Google Maps or social media can be crucial, helping new customers discover stalls and sustaining businesses that might otherwise struggle. In that sense, reviews can, and often do, serve a public good.
EXERCISING RESTRAINT
The problem arises when the same mechanisms that amplify praise are used to broadcast disappointment with little regard for consequence. More troubling still is the erosion of accountability in today’s media landscape.
Food criticism was once the domain of professional reviewers, who brought experience, expertise, editorial oversight and journalistic integrity to their work. Today, beyond traditional media, criticism circulates across online platforms that may publish content with minimal fact-checking or editorial review.
Social media has further collapsed the distance between private opinion and public scrutiny. Anyone can broadcast their opinion – instantly, permanently and often without context.
This does not mean lowering standards or insisting that “everything is good”. It means recognising that not every disappointment requires amplification. After all, a bowl of overcooked wonton mee or a lacklustre plate of nasi lemak is rarely catastrophic. Restraint here is not cowardly withdrawal from criticism, but an awareness of one’s power over an industry already under strain.
Holding one’s pen – or tongue – is a responsibility and, in the case of hawkers, one that should be wielded with grace.
Pamelia Chia is the author of the cookbooks Wet Market to Table and PlantAsia, and writer of the Singapore Noodles newsletter.
Continue reading...