Remembering the Travelling Satay Man

Image from MummyICanCook.

Younger Singaporeans, especially those who grew up in the brand new housing estates of the country island, have no inkling what the Satay man is or understand the privilege of having one.

A decade or two ago, which seemed like a long time back in the fast-paced city of Singapore, the travelling Satay men visited neighbourhoods like bees buzzing from flower to flower. In our eager pursuit of progress and GDPs, we left the travelling Satay men to a nostalgic distant past. I liked to imagine the inhabitants of these honoured neighbourhoods yearning for the weekly or bi-weekly visit of these Satay men. Excitement follows wherever the Satay man goes as the tantalising smell of barbecued meat creeps into the conglomeration of boxy apartments, luring its inhabitants out. Sometimes the smell lingers too, though we would have gotten our fill of delicious Satay to not be bothered by it.

In some neighbourhoods, the Satay man announces his arrival by calling out “SAAA-TAY!” or honking a little horn. But when enforcement was stricter, and their presence was illegal on the streets, we know the Satay man is here when we smell him. When we reach the spot where the mobile charcoal stove puffs away with diligence, money in hand, there would already be a couple of customers. We would stand around, in silence, enthralled by the embers and the smoke while the Satay man works his magic. As the sun sets and the sultry heat of the day slowly dissipate, the neighbourhood comes alive with the buzz of people heading home for dinner after work. The Satay man chooses his timing well—usually beginning his day at this moment. We might be thinking about school, about the day we had, losing ourselves in the memories of the day we had, or busy planning for the coming evening, yet these thoughts sink to the back of our mind when the meat sizzles and drip animal fats into the hot coals. The smell of the sugar caramelising and the delicious fat burning is thought arresting. We are brought back to the present and we would eye the Satay man’s movements hawk-like, our mouths watering at the idea of savouring those little pieces of meat in the privacy of our homes with the people we love.

Many late afternoons and early evenings, our lives have been enriched by these short and transient visits by the Satay man. As my siblings and I stepped into adulthoods, these were wonderful childhood memories we would recall fondly. If we had a choice between a cleaner Singapore where street food are all institutionalised into Hawker Centres or one where street food like these could thrive, I would choose the latter. Even if the risk of getting diarrhoea or food poisoning is present, the possibilities of bringing people in the neighbourhood closer to each other, and having a great reason to love the place you grow up in would be enough to compensate.

In this current Singapore, allowing street food back on the streets would raise many concerns. We might see a greater diversity of them, Thai, Pilipino, Indonesian, Chinese, Indian etc. But we should be given the opportunity to choose and to take the risk of discovering if we have found a gem or a disappointment. Perhaps, with greater openness towards a street food culture, Singaporeans will not only discover what the new inhabitants have brought to this island through food, and the cacophony of voices may begin to amalgamate and sing in unison.