The Buffet and the Babad

They say you can't eat history. But here, on Arab Street, they've certainly made a business of it. The air is thick with the ghosts of spices, the phantom scent of attar of roses, and the very real, very modern smell of money. It's a place of beautiful contradictions, this Kampong Glam. A place where you can buy a Persian rug and a bubble tea in the same breath. A place where the call to prayer is a backing track to the latest TikTok dance.

I walk down the street, past the rows of Arab Street restaurants, each one claiming to be the most "authentic." Authentic what, I wonder? Authentic to the Yemeni traders who first settled here? Authentic to the Javanese pilgrims who rested in the pondoks? Or authentic to the Instagrammers who flock here for the perfect #OOTD against a colourful wall? The word "authentic" has been so overused, so commodified, it's become a flavourless spice, sprinkled liberally on everything to make it more palatable to the tourist palate.

And then there's Gedung Kuning, the Yellow Mansion, at the end of the street. A grand old dame, a relic of a time when this land belonged to sultans, not to the state. And inside, Permata, a restaurant that promises a taste of the Nusantara. The "outer islands," the Malay world, all laid out in a glittering buffet. A buffet of history. A buffet of culture. It's a tempting proposition, isn't it? To be able to sample a whole region's culinary heritage in one sitting, to consume a babad in bite-sized pieces.

The food is good. Of course, it's good. The rendang is rich and complex, the ayam percik is smoky and fragrant. Chef Mel Dean is a master of his craft, no doubt. But as I eat, I can't help but wonder what is lost in this translation. What is lost when the messy, complicated, often painful history of a people is neatened up, portioned out, and served with a side of free-flow bandung? Is this a celebration of Nusantara cuisine, or a sanitization of it? A way to make our history more digestible for the modern palate, for the global consumer?

I look around at the other diners, their phones held high, capturing the perfect flat lay of their plates. They are consuming, but are they understanding? They are tasting, but are they feeling? I don't have the answers. I'm just a writer, a professional asker of uncomfortable questions. And as I leave the beautiful, historic, and slightly unsettling world of Permata, I'm left with one more: when we turn our heritage into a product, what part of ourselves do we sell along with it?