Kopitiam Mornings in Singapore

The air-conditioning blasted against my skin as I slid into a corner seat at Ya Kun Kaya Toast in Marine Parade, Singapore. A plate of kaya toast, soft-boiled eggs, and an upgraded iced lemon tea — the kind that costs an extra $1.50 but somehow feels like abundance — sat in front of me. Around me, people came and went, many of them alone, just like me. Nobody stared, nobody questioned why I was by myself. In Singapore, the city feels designed for single people — independent, efficient, moving at their own rhythm.

Most mornings, I came here before heading to my full-time job. From my condo in Bayshore, the Ya Kun at Marine Parade was just a short journey — three MRT stations away, or about twenty minutes by bicycle if I wanted the cool morning ride. Cycling there always felt refreshing until the sun began to bite, and by the time I walked in, the blast of air-conditioning felt like heaven. That ritual mattered: I couldn’t afford to arrive at the office humid, so Ya Kun became my anchor — the perfect place to cool down, eat breakfast, and gather my thoughts before work.

Seeds of a Bigger Dream

And it was here, in these quiet early hours, that the seed of something greater was planted. While others scrolled or read newspapers, I was sketching ideas about what kind of platform Southeast Asia needed: a space to tell success stories that weren’t just about numbers or business, but about culture, emotion, and memory. I didn’t know it then, but this was where the soul of what would later become 22Muse Media first began to form.

That kopitiam became one of my sanctuaries. A place where I could sit, write, and dream. It wasn’t just breakfast; it was the soft life, hidden in plain sight. I thrived there, not because of the country itself, but because I was never made to feel like an outsider.

Kopitiam Culture: A Mirror of Belonging

Kopitiams, after all, are a Chinese-rooted tradition. These coffee shops have long been part of the cultural fabric of Malaysia and Singapore — steaming cups of kopi, kaya toast, the perfect warm soft boiled eggs, seasoned with light soy sauce and white pepper, the hum of families and uncles debating over newspapers. Yet in Singapore, kopitiams often hold space for the lone diner. They feel like neutral ground, a backdrop where independence is as natural as community.

In Malaysia, the kopitiam feels different. Eighty percent of the tables are occupied by families — children crying, parents sharing curry puffs, aunties and uncles holding court. It’s warm, but it can be overwhelming when you sit there alone. As much as I’ve always been confident in dining solo, Malaysia’s kopitiam culture pulls a mirror to my heart. It reminds me of absences I’d rather not count.

The Quiet Rebellion of Eating Alone

And yet, eating alone has always been my quiet rebellion. As an introvert and a reserved soul, even in my bachelor days I found joy in food, in the ritual of sitting down with myself. My career as a musician didn’t follow the nine-to-five. We performed late nights, traveled outstation, and snatched four days off when others were in their offices. My friends worked corporate hours; I lived by the rhythm of rehearsals and curtain calls. So, while they were in boardrooms, I was often in cafés and kopitiams, savoring my freedom one meal at a time.

Serai: Malay Cuisine in Fine Dining Form

One of those sanctuaries was Serai, a Malay fusion restaurant that had just opened in Section 14, Petaling Jaya, a short drive from KLCC. Conveniently close to my studio, it became my place of escape. Walking in was an experience in itself: the aroma of lemongrass lingered like a five-star hotel lobby, not a spa, not overly perfumed, but elegant, luxurious, alive. The décor was chic, the food refined — traditional Malay dishes given a contemporary twist. Eating there felt indulgent, yet grounding. Serai wasn’t just a restaurant; it was a statement of how Malay cuisine could sit confidently in the world of fine dining.

Markets and Memories

Not far away, the Section 14 market offered another rhythm entirely. On Sundays, the queue for lontong wrapped around the stall: nasi impit in golden coconut turmeric gravy, bergedil potatoes, vegetables, a whole boiled egg, and sometimes a telur mata on top. It was humble food, but it carried the weight of tradition. There, I also picked up my ikat gantung watermelon for RM4 — fresh, sweet, practical. On other days, I’d treat myself to a watermelon lychee drink or a teh o ais lemon, mixed with care by the abang who always knew how to get the balance just right.

Duality of Southeast Asian Food

It struck me then — and even now, as I write this — that Southeast Asia’s food landscape carries both duality and unity. From Chinese kopitiam breakfasts in Singapore to Malay fine dining in Kuala Lumpur, from bustling markets to elegant lobbies, food here isn’t just about taste. It’s about memory. It’s about identity. It’s about independence.

For me, meals alone have never been a void. They have been chapters of belonging — whether in a café where independence feels celebrated, or a market where the hum of community wraps around me. Even when the tables around me were filled with families, I learned to savor my own company, to let food anchor me into the moment.

The True Luxury of Eating Alone

And perhaps that is the true luxury: the ability to sit anywhere — from a warung to a fine dining restaurant — and feel at home in the act of eating. The kopitiam toast, the elegant Serai dishes, the lontong at a Sunday market — they all tell the same story: that Southeast Asia’s flavors are inseparable from the lives we live, and the memories we carry.

From Breakfast to Legacy

This is, in essence, what 22Muse Media seeks to do. To write stories that aren’t just about the food itself, but about the memories created around it. Because one day, a simple kopitiam breakfast, a warung lontong, or a fine dining Malay dish might become the setting for a memory that lingers — a reunion, a friendship, a partnership, or even just the quiet joy of eating alone.