IF I were palm oil, I would not arrive with a flourish. No red carpet. No celebrity endorsement. No influencer pausing mid-sentence to gasp.
I enter the wok, not the spotlight. I arrive the way I always do – quietly, confidently, already hot – slipping into a waiting pan, shimmering with purpose, while humans argue loudly about who invented what.
During the Covid-19 lockdowns, my family and I binge-watched Shokugeki no Soma (Food Wars).
It was outrageous and theatrical: teenage chefs duelled with spatulas like samurai swords, judges swooned dramatically, and dishes triggered reactions that defied physics – and modesty.
Absurd? Yes. Entertaining? Absolutely. Uncomfortably accurate? Also yes.
Because long before anime dramatised culinary combat, humanity had perfected it. We simply don’t call it Shokugeki. We call it Food-Origin Wars.
When recipes demand passports
“Who invented this dish?” Few questions ignite more arguments than politics, football – or durian preferences.
Food, it seems, must now carry a birth certificate.
But food has never liked bureaucracy. It migrates. It adapts. It marries local ingredients. It learns new accents without losing its soul.
Chicken tikka masala tells this story beautifully. Declared by Britain in 2009 as a “true national dish,” it raised eyebrows across India and drew knowing smiles from Bangladeshi chefs who had long cooked it in British curry houses.
Punjab? Glasgow? Birmingham via Sylhet? The answer is likely all of the above – and none of the above.
If I were palm oil, I would whisper from the pan: Relax. The curry doesn’t care. Once spice meets heat, nationality melts faster than butter on naan.
By the way, add me to the recipe – and watch borders dissolve into flavour.
Global skirmishes: Meatballs, noodles and fermented pride
Across the world, food wars simmer endlessly.
Swedish meatballs – icons of Scandinavian comfort – turned out to have Ottoman ancestry courtesy of King Charles XII.
Social media reeled. Furniture instructions are forgivable. Meatball identity crises? Less so.
Spaghetti ignited the Italy-China standoff. Did Marco Polo bring noodles west, or were Italians twirling pasta long before him?
China points to millennia of noodles. Italy produces centuries of pasta receipts. Everyone agrees on one thing: civilisation runs on carbohydrates.
Kimchi escalated from fermented cabbage to international standards and diplomatic lobbying.
Only kimchi could be spicy enough to reach the United Nations without being cooked.
Hummus, humble and beige, went legal. Chickpeas and tahini became symbols of sovereignty.
If I were palm oil, I would observe quietly: food fights rarely reveal culinary certainty; they expose identity anxiety. The louder the claim, the deeper the fear of losing something familiar.
By the way – here is a secret – add me to the recipe, perhaps even a dash of red palm oil for colour and character, and suddenly even history tastes better.
Closer to home: Malaysia versus Singapore
Nowhere are food wars more spirited – or more affectionate – than between Malaysia and Singapore.
Two neighbours. One shared pantry. Endless bragging rights.
This is not hostility. It is sibling rivalry – the kind where you argue fiercely, then eat together anyway. If food were football, this would be a derby match played with sambal.
Nasi lemak: Coconut rice with heavy expectations
Nasi lemak is often hailed as Malaysia’s national dish, and rightly so.
Coconut-fragrant rice. Sambal with personality. Anchovies that crunch like childhood memories. Peanuts, egg, and sometimes fried chicken that knows it is the main character.
Then came the nasi lemak burger in Singapore. Cue outrage. Cue social media uproar. Cue national pride lightly battered and deep-fried.
History, however, complicates the narrative. Nasi lemak shares lineage with Indonesia’s nasi uduk and belongs to the wider Malay archipelago.
Some dishes are not national property. They are regional inheritance.
If I were palm oil, I would gently remind everyone that sambal – deep, glossy, slow-cooked sambal – owes its confidence to me. That is not opinion. That is chemistry.
Coconut milk may perfume the rice. But I hold the fire.
Chilli crab: Saucy, sticky and proudly undignified
Invented in a shack. Elevated to legend. Claimed by both sides of the causeway.
Singapore credits Cher Yam Tian in the 1950s. Malaysia counters with Langkawi stories of earlier chilli-laced crabs.
Who added chilli first? History shrugs.
What matters is this: chilli crab forces you to abandon dignity. It is loud, messy and joyous. Any dish that compels you to lick your fingers in public deserves respect.
If I were palm oil, I would note with quiet pride that the sauce’s sheen, body and composure under heat are no culinary coincidence. They belong to an oil that refuses to panic when things get hot.
That is me – steady in the flame, generous in contribution, rarely demanding applause.
Cendol: Sweet ice, hot debate
Cendol should unite us. Cold, soothing, sweet. Pandan jelly, coconut milk and palm sugar – my close cousin.
Yet even cendol sparked rivalry. When CNN praised Singapore’s version, Malaysians protested. Indonesians calmly pointed to dawet manuscripts from 12th-century Java.
Perhaps cendol’s true calling is to cool tempers after heated arguments.
If I were palm oil, I would say this without apology: palm sugar may be my sweeter sibling – the one everyone applauds – but I am the one sweating at the stove.
Together, we define South-East Asian comfort: sweet, savoury and unmistakably ours.
We are not rivals but partners - one steals the applause, the other holds the dish together.
Meanwhile, back in the wok
While humans argue, I work. I tolerate high heat without drama. I remain stable when things get hot – unlike social media. I fry, saute, emulsify and carry flavours faithfully.
I do not shout like olive oil. I do not pose like butter. I do not whisper exclusivity like truffle oil. I am practical. Reliable. Democratic.
Naturally trans-fat-free. Non-genetically modified organisms. Balanced in fats. Rich in vitamin E tocotrienols. I age gracefully - and help food do the same.
And if there is one truth even master chefs quietly concede, it is this: when the fire is honest and the stakes are high, palm oil remains. It does not falter under pressure. It is never the ingredient sent home from the kitchen.
Kitchens trust me. And kitchens, unlike headlines, cannot afford performance failure.
Food wars are really memory wars
Why do we argue about where a dish was first born?
Because food is memory. Because recipes are ancestors speaking softly through our hands. Because claiming a dish can feel like claiming belonging.
But food was never meant to sit behind borders. It was meant to travel - along rivers, across seas, through marriages and migrations. It was meant to adapt, absorb and nourish.
Perhaps we should replace “seeing is believing” with something gentler, something braver: Eating is understanding.
Taste nasi lemak in Kuala Lumpur. Taste it in Singapore. Taste chili crab. Taste cendol. Notice the differences. Savour the similarities. Let curiosity arrive before pride does.
Because when the noise fades and the plates are cleared, one quiet truth remains: Food is a bridge, not a battleground.
And I, palm oil, am quietly proud to be one of the planks holding that bridge together. The dish may wear a passport, but flavour has no nationality.
Behind most unforgettable flavours, someone like me was simply steady in the heat - unseen, but essential.
Festivities, food and muhibbah
If I were palm oil, I would stay where I have always belonged - close to the flame, cradled in the wok, moving patiently through kitchens where memory is made.
As Hari Raya draws near, I would remain there still - steady beneath slow-simmering rendang, rich with patience and devotion; shimmering softly as trays of kuih turn golden, their sweetness a quiet promise of celebration to come.
I would be there in the tender hush before dawn meals, in the grateful gathering at iftar, in the early morning bustle before prayers on Syawal’s first light.
I would linger in the careful plating for visiting neighbours, in the warm exchanges of forgiveness, in the quiet pride of recipes guarded and perfected over decades - not merely cooking food, but keeping tradition alive.
My fragrance would slip through open windows at dusk, mingling with the call to break fast, carrying comfort, memory and anticipation of reunion.
In the end - and more importantly than all our debates - whether it is Chinese New Year, Hari Raya, Deepavali, Gawai, Kaamatan or Christmas in Malaysia, our celebrations have never been merely about bright lights or open houses.
They are about reconciliations offered without ego. Bonds renewed across tables. Gratitude spoken in the language we know best - food prepared with patience, shared with love, and seasoned generously with grace.
And if I were palm oil, I would leave you with this gently sizzling reflection: Unity is not built in speeches or slogans. It can be built in kitchens. It is stirred into pots. It is served to all.
Malaysia is strongest not when we argue over whose dish it is, but when we ask, “Have you eaten?” Not when we guard recipes like territory, but when we pass them down like gifts.
For in the end, what sustains a nation is not only what is on the table - but who we choose to welcome to it.
And so, as the last dish is washed and the kitchen lights dim, I - palm oil - will quietly wipe the wok, turn down the flame, and call it a night. Signing off. No speeches. No spotlight.
Just a gentle shimmer and a warm wish to all Malaysians: May your pots stay full. May your tempers stay cool. And may your tables always have room for one more.
Joseph Tek Choon Yee has over 30 years of experience in the plantation industry, with a strong background in oil palm research and development, C-suite leadership and industry advocacy. The views expressed here are the writer’s own.
