Laksa in Singapore has long been an emblem of Straits Chinese cooking. Google its origins and you’ll find that many roads lead to Katong, the enclave that spawned the most famous laksa of all. Yet long before Katong laksa became a national icon, another laksa had been simmering further down the coast in the kampungs of Siglap.
“Laksa Siglap belongs to the same pedigree as laksa Johor or laksa Riau,” said Khir Johari, author of the seminal The Food Of Singapore Malays, as we tucked into the dish at Geylang Serai Market. Its robust gravy was laced with the flesh of ikan tenggiri (Spanish mackerel) and topped with a tangle of cucumbers, beansprouts and julienned herbs (more on that later).
Bound to a time when Singapore was merely a fishing village in a wider maritime world, Khir calls it Laksa Singapura in his book because "it was our first laksa”, he said simply.
Laksa Siglap at Seia House. (Photo: Seia House)
While far less common than Katong laksa today, it continues to be served at stalls in places such as Geylang Serai and Bedok.
Laksa Siglap’s close kinship with laksas across the Malay region is clear. “Penang’s assam laksa, for instance, has a fish-based broth. Then you have laksa Utara, laksa Kedah, laksa Kelantan with the rolled noodles, and of course, laksa Johor, which it is most similar to,” said journalist Azimin Saini, who grew up on his mother’s laksa Siglap and cooks it occasionally in Paris where he now lives.
“When I first tried Katong laksa, I didn’t get it. Where was the familiar fish broth and why was the rempah so… thin? All the delicious herbs and greens that make it a bright dish to have at lunch were also absent. It was then that I realised it was a different type of laksa, that in Singapore we have two types and not just one. Both are delicious and unique in their own way.”
Much like how “mee” describes the noodles in dishes like mee rebus and mee soto, “laksa” is actually the word for the rice-and-sago noodles used in the dish. “That’s why you have laksa Penang, laksa Katong and laksa Siglap,” Khir explained.
Noodles used for laksa Siglap at Seia House. (Photo: Annette Tan)
Noodles, he continued, made their way to the Malay world via three sources: Southern China, from which we got the word “mee”; dried vermicelli from Thailand, hence mee Siam (the old name for the Thai kingdom); and Persia, “where the lakcha was defined as ‘vermicelli, macaroni, or long slices of paste put into broth’”.
As chronicled in The Food Of Singapore Malays, the word laksa is derived from ‘lakhshidan’ (to slide), a word practically extinct in Iran today, but which has survived many other languages: Hungarian (laska), Ukrainian (lokshina), Russian (lapsha) and Lithuanian (lakstiniai). “All these refer to various noodle strains. The Malay word ‘laksa’ is a proud member of this happy confederation,” Khir wrote.
Laksa Siglap got its name from the cottage industry that blossomed in Kampung Siglap in Singapore’s early days. The noodles are made by forming a dough with rice flour and sago starch before it is extruded through a brass noodle press called gebak laksa.
Because sago starch is increasingly difficult to find, most laksa Siglap today is made with rice and tapioca flours instead. The noodles have a pleasant bounce, more akin to bee tai mak (rat’s tail noodles) than the thick rice vermicelli used in Nyonya laksas.
Making laksa Siglap is so labour-intensive that it traditionally took a village. The hefty gebak laksa calls for some muscle while the traditional fish of choice, ikan parang (wolf herring), has a maddeningly elaborate structure of pin bones that takes hours – not to mention the eyesight of youth – to pick apart.
The broth derives its anchoring savoriness from kerisik, which is its own project that calls for toasting grated coconut in a pan till golden and, while still hot, pounding it to an unctuous, fragrant paste. Then there is the sambal belacan, made from chillies and toasted fermented shrimp paste pounded to a pulp, a dollop of which rests on one side of the plate beside a heap of julienned cucumber, bean sprouts and herbs like daun kemangi (lemon basil), daun selasih (sweet basil) and daun kesum (Vietnamese coriander or what Singaporeans call laksa leaves), all waiting to be mixed into a musky, ambrosial velvet.
The herbs that go into laksa Siglap include daun kemangi (lemon basil), daun selasih (sweet basil) and daun kesum (Vietnamese coriander or what Singaporeans call laksa leaves). (Photo: Annette Tan)
None of these components are superfluous. “It’s a very balanced, harmonised dish,” said Khir. “You have the starch from the noodles, protein from the fish, and roughage from the taugeh (beansprouts) and timun (cucumber). Cucumbers have always existed as the simplest ulam (salad) in a lot of Malay dishes, because a meal without ulam isn’t complete.”
University lecturer Emylia Safian grew up hearing stories about how laksa Siglap was made by her paternal family when they lived in Kampung Siglap between 1945 and the 1960s.
Seia House's Emylia Safian preparing a bowl of laksa Siglap. (Photo: Annette Tan)
“We would always have laksa Siglap when my father’s auntie or cousin prepared it because it’s not a dish you prepare for your own family of five or six. It’s not worth putting the time into that. The older people would make their own noodles as well, and others would offer to help because it’s always a big deal. Also, there was this kampung spirit of sharing and offering what you’ve cooked.”
That same spirit inspires Seia House, the private dining experience Emylia runs with her husband Mihn Le-Tien on weekends at their cavernous home in Siglap. The meal’s highlight is an elegant version of the laksa she grew up with.
Seia House's Emylia Safian (left) and husband Mihn Le-Tien. (Photo: Seia House)
The idea took root when a friend they’d served laksa Siglap to asked if he could bring his friends to try it. “On the day itself, he couldn’t make it and asked if his friends could still come over, so we prepared a whole menu to host them,” Emylia said. “That was our first experience hosting strangers.”
One guest, unfamiliar with Malay cuisine, was surprised by the lightness of her laksa, a stark contrast from the rich, heavily spiced dishes she associated with Malay food. “And then we thought, actually, a lot of people don’t know or haven’t heard of laksa Siglap.” And thus Seia House was born.
As a historian, Khir sees a clear connection between how laksa Siglap gave way to Katong laksa. “Katong is a 10 cents throw away from Siglap. People in Katong were exposed to laksa Siglap because it was an industry. And so someone must have decided to go out and sell laksa. But who’s going to put so much work into making the fish pulp?
Khir Johari, author of the book The Food Of Singapore Malays. (Photo: Khir Johari)
“So perhaps the person who wanted to sell laksa thought, what if I used dried prawns, which is in laksa Siglap broth, and prawn stock, which is easier to deal with. Forget about the fish. And tadah! You have laksa Katong,” he posited.
“This is conjecture, of course. But the result is a dish that retained much of its original flavour architecture because the rempah is the same, while becoming easier to produce.”
This inexorable relationship between the two laksas is, arguably, just another example of the passage of foods from one neighbourhood and region to another resulting in the adaptation and evolution of a dish.
Laksa Siglap from Warong Solo. (Photo: Annette Tan)
Laksa Siglap is sometimes sold as laksa cap (pronounced “chap”) at hawker stalls, a reference to the noodles having been extruded through the gebak laksa and coiled into neat piles. For a taste, head to Geylang Serai Market’s Warong Solo (#02-123) or International (#02-132), or to Lemaq at Kaki Bukit 511 Market & Food Centre.
When they eat out, Emylia and Mihn’s laksa Siglap of choice is at Warung Selera Masakan Kampung along Changi Road. And of course, there is their version at Seia House, the most elegant of the three laksa Siglap I sampled. Their gravy, never left over the stove long enough for the coconut milk to split, swirls with notes of salted threadfin bones and the soft twang of lemongrass and assam gelugur. On top, lilac filaments of ginger flower and herbs from their garden register as fragrance. It is a world apart from the greasier rendition I’d eaten at Geylang Serai Market and Food Centre the week before.
Recently, chef Hafizzul Hashim put laksa Siglap on the lunch menu at his contemporary Restaurant Fiz. In his rendering, the broth is lightly sweetened with roasted prawn heads, with trimmings of fatty shima aji (white trevally) added to the ikan tenggiri pulp.
“It’s a disappearing dish in the commercial sense because the broth itself is laborious and expensive to make,” said Azimin. “When a hawker stall does it, they operate on price pressure. Otherwise, it’s still very much made at home where family recipes can be created faithfully.”
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“Laksa Siglap belongs to the same pedigree as laksa Johor or laksa Riau,” said Khir Johari, author of the seminal The Food Of Singapore Malays, as we tucked into the dish at Geylang Serai Market. Its robust gravy was laced with the flesh of ikan tenggiri (Spanish mackerel) and topped with a tangle of cucumbers, beansprouts and julienned herbs (more on that later).
Bound to a time when Singapore was merely a fishing village in a wider maritime world, Khir calls it Laksa Singapura in his book because "it was our first laksa”, he said simply.
Laksa Siglap at Seia House. (Photo: Seia House)
While far less common than Katong laksa today, it continues to be served at stalls in places such as Geylang Serai and Bedok.
Laksa Siglap’s close kinship with laksas across the Malay region is clear. “Penang’s assam laksa, for instance, has a fish-based broth. Then you have laksa Utara, laksa Kedah, laksa Kelantan with the rolled noodles, and of course, laksa Johor, which it is most similar to,” said journalist Azimin Saini, who grew up on his mother’s laksa Siglap and cooks it occasionally in Paris where he now lives.
“When I first tried Katong laksa, I didn’t get it. Where was the familiar fish broth and why was the rempah so… thin? All the delicious herbs and greens that make it a bright dish to have at lunch were also absent. It was then that I realised it was a different type of laksa, that in Singapore we have two types and not just one. Both are delicious and unique in their own way.”
SEPARATING THE DISH FROM THE NOODLES
Much like how “mee” describes the noodles in dishes like mee rebus and mee soto, “laksa” is actually the word for the rice-and-sago noodles used in the dish. “That’s why you have laksa Penang, laksa Katong and laksa Siglap,” Khir explained.
Noodles used for laksa Siglap at Seia House. (Photo: Annette Tan)
Noodles, he continued, made their way to the Malay world via three sources: Southern China, from which we got the word “mee”; dried vermicelli from Thailand, hence mee Siam (the old name for the Thai kingdom); and Persia, “where the lakcha was defined as ‘vermicelli, macaroni, or long slices of paste put into broth’”.
As chronicled in The Food Of Singapore Malays, the word laksa is derived from ‘lakhshidan’ (to slide), a word practically extinct in Iran today, but which has survived many other languages: Hungarian (laska), Ukrainian (lokshina), Russian (lapsha) and Lithuanian (lakstiniai). “All these refer to various noodle strains. The Malay word ‘laksa’ is a proud member of this happy confederation,” Khir wrote.
A DISH WITH KAMPUNG SPIRIT
Laksa Siglap got its name from the cottage industry that blossomed in Kampung Siglap in Singapore’s early days. The noodles are made by forming a dough with rice flour and sago starch before it is extruded through a brass noodle press called gebak laksa.
Because sago starch is increasingly difficult to find, most laksa Siglap today is made with rice and tapioca flours instead. The noodles have a pleasant bounce, more akin to bee tai mak (rat’s tail noodles) than the thick rice vermicelli used in Nyonya laksas.
Making laksa Siglap is so labour-intensive that it traditionally took a village. The hefty gebak laksa calls for some muscle while the traditional fish of choice, ikan parang (wolf herring), has a maddeningly elaborate structure of pin bones that takes hours – not to mention the eyesight of youth – to pick apart.
The broth derives its anchoring savoriness from kerisik, which is its own project that calls for toasting grated coconut in a pan till golden and, while still hot, pounding it to an unctuous, fragrant paste. Then there is the sambal belacan, made from chillies and toasted fermented shrimp paste pounded to a pulp, a dollop of which rests on one side of the plate beside a heap of julienned cucumber, bean sprouts and herbs like daun kemangi (lemon basil), daun selasih (sweet basil) and daun kesum (Vietnamese coriander or what Singaporeans call laksa leaves), all waiting to be mixed into a musky, ambrosial velvet.
The herbs that go into laksa Siglap include daun kemangi (lemon basil), daun selasih (sweet basil) and daun kesum (Vietnamese coriander or what Singaporeans call laksa leaves). (Photo: Annette Tan)
None of these components are superfluous. “It’s a very balanced, harmonised dish,” said Khir. “You have the starch from the noodles, protein from the fish, and roughage from the taugeh (beansprouts) and timun (cucumber). Cucumbers have always existed as the simplest ulam (salad) in a lot of Malay dishes, because a meal without ulam isn’t complete.”
COMMUNAL EATING
University lecturer Emylia Safian grew up hearing stories about how laksa Siglap was made by her paternal family when they lived in Kampung Siglap between 1945 and the 1960s.
Seia House's Emylia Safian preparing a bowl of laksa Siglap. (Photo: Annette Tan)
“We would always have laksa Siglap when my father’s auntie or cousin prepared it because it’s not a dish you prepare for your own family of five or six. It’s not worth putting the time into that. The older people would make their own noodles as well, and others would offer to help because it’s always a big deal. Also, there was this kampung spirit of sharing and offering what you’ve cooked.”
That same spirit inspires Seia House, the private dining experience Emylia runs with her husband Mihn Le-Tien on weekends at their cavernous home in Siglap. The meal’s highlight is an elegant version of the laksa she grew up with.
Seia House's Emylia Safian (left) and husband Mihn Le-Tien. (Photo: Seia House)
The idea took root when a friend they’d served laksa Siglap to asked if he could bring his friends to try it. “On the day itself, he couldn’t make it and asked if his friends could still come over, so we prepared a whole menu to host them,” Emylia said. “That was our first experience hosting strangers.”
One guest, unfamiliar with Malay cuisine, was surprised by the lightness of her laksa, a stark contrast from the rich, heavily spiced dishes she associated with Malay food. “And then we thought, actually, a lot of people don’t know or haven’t heard of laksa Siglap.” And thus Seia House was born.
EN ROUTE TO A NEW FLAVOUR
As a historian, Khir sees a clear connection between how laksa Siglap gave way to Katong laksa. “Katong is a 10 cents throw away from Siglap. People in Katong were exposed to laksa Siglap because it was an industry. And so someone must have decided to go out and sell laksa. But who’s going to put so much work into making the fish pulp?
Khir Johari, author of the book The Food Of Singapore Malays. (Photo: Khir Johari)
“So perhaps the person who wanted to sell laksa thought, what if I used dried prawns, which is in laksa Siglap broth, and prawn stock, which is easier to deal with. Forget about the fish. And tadah! You have laksa Katong,” he posited.
“This is conjecture, of course. But the result is a dish that retained much of its original flavour architecture because the rempah is the same, while becoming easier to produce.”
This inexorable relationship between the two laksas is, arguably, just another example of the passage of foods from one neighbourhood and region to another resulting in the adaptation and evolution of a dish.
WHERE TO FIND LAKSA SIGLAP
Laksa Siglap from Warong Solo. (Photo: Annette Tan)
Laksa Siglap is sometimes sold as laksa cap (pronounced “chap”) at hawker stalls, a reference to the noodles having been extruded through the gebak laksa and coiled into neat piles. For a taste, head to Geylang Serai Market’s Warong Solo (#02-123) or International (#02-132), or to Lemaq at Kaki Bukit 511 Market & Food Centre.
When they eat out, Emylia and Mihn’s laksa Siglap of choice is at Warung Selera Masakan Kampung along Changi Road. And of course, there is their version at Seia House, the most elegant of the three laksa Siglap I sampled. Their gravy, never left over the stove long enough for the coconut milk to split, swirls with notes of salted threadfin bones and the soft twang of lemongrass and assam gelugur. On top, lilac filaments of ginger flower and herbs from their garden register as fragrance. It is a world apart from the greasier rendition I’d eaten at Geylang Serai Market and Food Centre the week before.
Recently, chef Hafizzul Hashim put laksa Siglap on the lunch menu at his contemporary Restaurant Fiz. In his rendering, the broth is lightly sweetened with roasted prawn heads, with trimmings of fatty shima aji (white trevally) added to the ikan tenggiri pulp.
“It’s a disappearing dish in the commercial sense because the broth itself is laborious and expensive to make,” said Azimin. “When a hawker stall does it, they operate on price pressure. Otherwise, it’s still very much made at home where family recipes can be created faithfully.”
Continue reading...