There are different kinds of recognition in life. There’s the big-stage kind, where your name is called out and you get a certificate. Then there’s the professional kind, an email from your boss that says, “Good job.” But I think the most comforting kind, the one that really sinks into your bones, is quieter. It’s the kind that happens on a sweltering Tuesday afternoon at a hawker centre.
It’s the nod from the uncle at the chicken rice stall as you approach. Before you can even open your mouth, he’s already shouting your order over his shoulder. “One roasted chicken, thigh meat, more chilli, no ginger, takeaway.”
That simple act feels like a warm hug. In a city of millions, where we move through our days in a blur of efficiency and anonymity, being remembered is a small miracle. It’s a signal that you are not just another transaction, another face in the lunchtime crowd. You are a regular. You belong here.
I’ve been going to the same chicken rice stall since my secondary school days. The uncle’s hair is a little greyer now, and so is mine. But the fundamentals have never changed. The scent of the pandan-infused rice hits you from ten feet away. The chicken, glistening under the heat lamp, is always tender. And his chilli sauce still has that perfect, sharp kick that makes your eyes water just a little.
The first time he remembered my order, I was probably seventeen. I was having a rough week, fumbling through exams and teenage anxieties. When he looked up and said, “The usual?” without me having to say a word, it felt like someone had thrown me a lifeline. It was a small gesture, but it anchored me. It told me that even when everything else felt chaotic, there was a place where I was known, where my preferences mattered.
This is the unspoken language of our hawker centres. It’s the auntie at the drink stall who starts making your kopi C siew dai the moment she sees you join the queue. It’s the bak chor mee uncle who knows you like extra vinegar and no beansprouts. These stallholders are the quiet keepers of our routines, the custodians of our comfort foods.
They remember our orders, our quirks, and sometimes even our stories. They’ve seen us through school uniforms, first jobs, and bad haircuts. They’ve packed our lunches on good days and bad. In their own steady, unassuming way, they create a sense of community.
So the next time a hawker remembers your order, take a moment to savour it. It’s more than just good service. It’s a sign that you have a place in the fabric of this neighbourhood, a thread in the story of this stall. It’s the quiet, delicious feeling of coming home.
