A Friendly Contest Turns Into Cultural Pride Battle
The flyer appeared on the bakery’s community board on a humid Monday morning, its bold red letters immediately catching everyone’s attention: “PETALING JAYA TRADITIONAL KUIH COMPETITION – Celebrate Malaysia’s Heritage Through Traditional Sweets!”
Priya was the first to spot it during her morning setup. “Eh, look at this! Competition at the community center. Prize money is RM5,000!”
That got everyone’s attention.
Zul peered over her shoulder, reading aloud: “Categories: Malay Kuih-Muih, Chinese Dim Sum & Pastries, Indian Sweets, Nyonya Heritage Kuih. Judging based on authenticity, taste, and presentation. Open to all home bakers and small businesses.”
Mei Lin’s competitive instinct flickered to life immediately. They were a bakery that prided itself on multicultural fusion and traditional respect. This competition was made for them.
“We should enter,” she said, her mind already racing through possibilities.
Arif looked up from his morning inventory, intrigued. “All of us? Or one category?“
“Why not all categories?” Mei Lin’s eyes gleamed with the kind of dangerous ambition that had led to both their greatest successes and most spectacular disasters. “We have the expertise. Ah Gong knows Chinese pastries. Arif, you’re the kuih-muih master. Priya handles Indian sweets. We could sweep the competition!“
Ah Gong set down his kopi-o with unusual firmness. “Slow down, girl. Competition is not about winning everything. Is about showing respect for tradition.”
“Exactly! And we respect all traditions,” Mei Lin countered. “That’s our whole identity.”
What she didn’t see yet was the dangerous line between celebrating diversity and commodifying it. That lesson would come later, through fire, tears, and a grandmother’s unexpected wisdom.
The team’s enthusiasm was infectious but complicated.
Over the next few days, each person claimed their category with growing territorial protectiveness. What started as collaborative excitement slowly transformed into something more intense—cultural pride mixed with personal stakes.
Arif took charge of the Malay kuih-muih category, choosing to make kuih lapis (layered cake) and ondeh-ondeh (pandan balls filled with palm sugar). “These are my grandmother’s recipes,” he explained, his voice taking on a reverence the others rarely heard. “She made them for every Hari Raya. Taught me when I was Zul’s age. This isn’t just about winning. It’s about honoring her memory.“
Ah Gong claimed the Chinese dim sum category, announcing he’d make char siu bao (BBQ pork buns) and tang yuan (glutinous rice balls). “Fifty years I make dim sum,” he said with quiet pride. “Before this bakery, before everything. Dim sum is my first love in cooking.“
Priya selected the Indian sweets category, still riding high from her Deepavali success. “I’m making Mysore pak and kaju katli (cashew fudge). After learning to honor tradition during Deepavali, I know exactly what the judges want to see.“
**That left the Nyonya category—**the beautiful, complex heritage of Peranakan Chinese who’d married into Malay families centuries ago, creating their own unique food culture.
“I’ll handle Nyonya,” Mei Lin declared. “As a Chinese-Malay person, it feels… right. Like it’s my heritage too.“
Zul raised his hand tentatively. “Can I help with something? I want to learn properly, not just as helper.”
The adults exchanged glances. Zul had been with them for almost a year now, growing from enthusiastic teenager to genuinely skilled assistant. Maybe it was time.
“You work with me,” Ah Gong decided. “I teach you proper char siu bao. But you must listen, must be patient, must respect the tradition.“
Zul’s face lit up like Deepavali. “I won’t let you down, Ah Gong!”
When Tradition Becomes Territory
The problems started subtly, like cracks in a perfect kuih lapis layer.
Mei Lin researched Nyonya kuih obsessively, reading blogs, watching videos, consulting cookbooks. She decided on kuih bingka ubi (baked tapioca cake) and kuih seri muka (two-layer coconut-pandan cake). Both recipes required techniques she’d never mastered—the precise layering, the specific timing, the balance of Malay and Chinese influences.
She approached Arif for help with the Malay elements. “Can you show me how to get the pandan layer right on the seri muka?”
Arif hesitated, and in that hesitation, Mei Lin saw something unexpected: protectiveness. “That’s very similar to my kuih lapis technique. Maybe… you should find a different recipe? So we’re not competing against each other’s methods?”
“We’re on the same team,” Mei Lin said, surprised. “We’re not competing against each other.”
“But we are, aren’t we?” Arif’s voice was careful. “Different categories, different judges, different prizes. And only one winner per category.“
The temperature in the kitchen seemed to drop.
Across the room, Ah Gong was having a similar moment with Priya, who’d asked about Chinese sugar work techniques for decorating her kaju katli.
“Why you need Chinese technique for Indian sweet?” Ah Gong asked, his tone sharper than usual. “Should be authentic Indian, not fusion.“
“I thought we celebrated fusion here,” Priya shot back, hurt creeping into her voice.
“Fusion is for regular baking. Competition is for tradition. Cannot mix.” Ah Gong’s words were firm, almost harsh.
Mei Lin watched her bakery family fracture along the exact cultural lines they’d spent months trying to bridge. The competition had turned them from collaborators into competitors, from family into rivals.
That night, she couldn’t sleep. Something felt fundamentally wrong. They were preparing to celebrate cultural heritage while simultaneously becoming protective and territorial about it. Where was the “Rasa Sayang” in that?
The week before the competition brought everything to a head.
Ah Gong and Zul worked in tense silence on their char siu bao. The old man’s patience, usually infinite, wore thin as Zul struggled with the precise pleating of the bun tops.
“No, no, no! Eighteen pleats, always eighteen. Bring good luck. Cannot be seventeen, cannot be nineteen. EIGHTEEN!” Ah Gong’s frustration boiled over. “You not paying attention!”
“I AM paying attention!” Zul snapped back, his teenage pride wounded. “Maybe your way is too old-fashioned. Modern dim sum doesn’t need exactly eighteen pleats!“
The kitchen went silent.
Ah Gong’s face closed off completely, that terrible hurt look of an elder whose wisdom has been dismissed as obsolete. “If you think tradition is old-fashioned, maybe you not ready to learn.“
He walked out, leaving Zul standing there with imperfect buns and immediate, crushing regret.
Meanwhile, Mei Lin’s Nyonya attempts were failing spectacularly. Her kuih bingka ubi refused to set properly—too wet, too dense, lacking the delicate bounce of authentic versions. Her seri muka separated, the glutinous rice layer and pandan custard refusing to bond.
Arif watched her fifth failed attempt with barely concealed concern. “Maybe you’re overthinking it. Nyonya cooking is about feel, not precision.”
“Easy for you to say!” Mei Lin’s stress erupted. “You grew up with this. It’s in your blood. I’m just… faking it. Trying to claim a heritage that isn’t really mine.“
There it was. The truth she’d been avoiding.
“Your grandmother was Chinese, your husband is Malay—how is Nyonya heritage not yours?” Arif argued.
“Because I didn’t grow up with it! I grew up eating French pastries in Paris, learning Western techniques. Now I’m trying to compete in traditional Malaysian categories like I belong, but maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m just… appropriating.“
The word hung heavy in the air.
Priya, who’d been silently struggling with her own perfectionism, finally spoke up. “Is that what we’re all doing? Trying so hard to prove we belong to these traditions that we’ve forgotten why we loved them in the first place?“
A Grandmother’s Wisdom Saves the Day
The intervention came from an unexpected source.
Arif’s mother, Mak Midah, appeared at the bakery two days before the competition, summoned by her son’s stressed phone call. She surveyed the tense, separated team—each person working in isolation on their entries, the collaborative spirit completely gone.
“Astaghfirullah,” she muttered. “What happened to the happy bakery from Hari Raya?“
She listened to their confessions: Ah Gong’s frustration with Zul’s modern ideas. Mei Lin’s imposter syndrome about Nyonya heritage. Priya’s pressure to represent Indian sweets perfectly. Arif’s territorial protectiveness over Malay kuih. Zul’s feeling of not being good enough for tradition.
Mak Midah let them finish, then laughed—not mockingly, but with genuine amusement.
“You all so silly! You think competition is about showing who owns which culture?” She shook her head. “Let me tell you story about my grandmother—Ah Gong, you listen too, this is for you especially.“
She settled onto a stool, and everyone unconsciously gathered closer, drawn by the promise of elder wisdom.
“My grandmother was Javanese, married Malay man, lived in Peranakan neighborhood. She make kuih that mixed everything—Javanese spices, Malay techniques, Chinese ingredients. People used to criticize: ‘Not authentic Javanese!’ ‘Not proper Malay!’ ‘Not real Nyonya!’“
“You know what she said?” Mak Midah’s eyes sparkled. “‘I don’t make Javanese kuih. I don’t make Malay kuih. I make MY kuih. My love, my family, my life—all mixed together. That is my authentic.’“
She pointed at each of them in turn. “Ah Gong, your char siu bao—is it exactly like your mother made? Or got some changes you added over fifty years?”
Ah Gong admitted reluctantly, “I… adjust filling ratio. Make it less sweet for modern taste.“
“Arif, your kuih lapis—you use pandan from your mother’s garden, yes? Not traditional ingredient from your grandmother’s time?“
“Pandan more available now,” Arif conceded. “Grandmother used different coloring.“
“Priya, your Mysore pak—you reduce ghee amount for health conscious customers, correct?“
Priya nodded sheepishly.
“Mei Lin, you think Nyonya heritage not yours? Your grandmother was Chinese, you married Malay. You ARE Peranakan in the making! That’s literally how Nyonya culture started—Chinese people marrying into Malay families!”
Mak Midah’s voice softened. “Tradition is not museum piece to preserve in glass case. Tradition is LIVING thing. It grows, adapts, survives because people love it enough to keep it alive—even if that means changing it a little bit.“
She stood, dusting imaginary flour from her hands. **”The competition judges, they not looking for perfect copy of grandmother’s recipe. They looking for love, respect, skill. They looking for people who understand WHY the tradition matters, not just HOW to replicate it.“
“So what should we do?” Mei Lin asked quietly.
“Make food that tells YOUR story with the tradition. Ah Gong teaching Zul—that’s tradition being passed down! Doesn’t matter if Zul make seventeen pleats or eighteen. Matters that he LEARNS, that tradition continues.“
“Mei Lin making Nyonya kuih even though scared—that’s tradition welcoming new family! Your struggle is part of the story.“
“Priya adapting Indian sweets for Malaysian taste—that’s tradition EVOLVING, staying relevant!“
“Arif honoring his grandmother while using modern ingredients—that’s tradition LIVING!“
She headed toward the door, then paused. “You know what real competition should be? Not who makes most authentic copy. But who makes food with most HEART. Who makes judge FEEL something. Who makes them remember why they loved these kuih as children.“
“THAT is winning.“
Redemption Through Collaboration
After Mak Midah left, the team sat in contemplative silence.
Zul broke it first, his voice small. “Ah Gong, I’m sorry. I was disrespectful. Your traditions aren’t old-fashioned. They’re… foundations. I need to learn the eighteen pleats before I can decide if seventeen is good enough.”
Ah Gong’s weathered face crinkled into a smile. “And I’m sorry for being stubborn old man. Maybe sometimes seventeen pleats is okay, if the reason is good. Come, I show you again. This time, I explain WHY eighteen—not just HOW.”
Mei Lin stood up decisively. “We’re doing this wrong. We’re competing as individuals representing cultures. But that’s not who we are. We’re Rasa Sayang Bakery—we’re ALREADY a mix.”
“What are you suggesting?” Arif asked.
“Each of us makes our entry, yes. But we help each other. Share techniques. Tell each other’s stories. Because that’s the real Malaysian tradition—we borrow, we learn, we adapt together.“
Priya grinned. “So I CAN use Ah Gong’s sugar work technique on my kaju katli?”
“If you teach me proper tempering for Indian sweets,” Ah Gong countered with a twinkle. “Always wanted to learn that.“
“Deal!”
The energy transformed immediately. The bakery became a collaborative laboratory again—Ah Gong showing Priya Chinese techniques while learning Indian ones. Mei Lin and Arif working side-by-side on their entries, offering tips instead of protecting secrets. Zul absorbing everything, his notebook filling with wisdom from multiple traditions.
When Mei Lin’s seri muka finally worked—the layers bonding perfectly, the pandan custard silky smooth—it was because Arif had shared his mother’s secret (a tiny bit of corn flour for stability) and Ah Gong had demonstrated the proper steaming technique.
When Ah Gong’s char siu bao achieved their most perfect texture ever, it was because Priya had suggested the Indian technique of resting the dough in a warm place wrapped in damp cloth, and Zul had researched modern yeast ratios that complemented traditional methods.
When Arif’s ondeh-ondeh came out with the most beautiful coating, it was because Mei Lin had taught him a French pastry trick for even rolling, and Priya had shared how to keep the grated coconut fluffy.
When Priya’s Mysore pak achieved perfect texture, it was because everyone had taste-tested and given honest feedback, helping her find the exact balance between traditional richness and modern palate.
They weren’t just making competition entries anymore. They were creating love letters to tradition, written in the collaborative language of Malaysian multiculturalism.
The Competition Day Reveals What Really Matters
The Petaling Jaya Community Center buzzed with nervous energy on competition day. Dozens of contestants had set up stations, each displaying their cultural heritage with pride. The air was thick with competing aromas—gula melaka, char siu, ghee, pandan, all mingling into a deliciously chaotic symphony.
The Rasa Sayang team arrived together, their entries carefully packed, their nerves balanced by genuine excitement to see what others had created.
The judges were formidable: A Nyonya cookbook author, a famous Chinese dim sum chef, a Malay celebrity baker, and a renowned Indian sweet maker. All elders, all traditional, all with exacting standards.
As the judging began, something beautiful happened.
When Ah Gong and Zul presented their char siu bao, the judge asked about the eighteen pleats. Zul explained the traditional symbolism, then added: “But Ah Gong taught me it’s not just about the number. It’s about the intention. Each pleat is a prayer for the person who will eat it. So whether it’s seventeen or eighteen, what matters is that I made each one with care.“
The Chinese judge’s eyes misted. “Your teacher taught you well. The pleats are perfect, but more important—you understand the spirit behind them.“
When Arif presented his kuih lapis and ondeh-ondeh, the Malay judge noticed the modern refinements. “This is not exactly traditional recipe.“
“No, ma’am,” Arif agreed. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe, lived through me, adapted for today while honoring yesterday. I use pandan from my mother’s garden instead of artificial coloring. I reduce sugar slightly because that’s what my community prefers now. But the technique, the love, the intention—those are pure tradition.“
The judge tasted, closed her eyes, and smiled. “Your grandmother would be proud. This is exactly what tradition should be—alive, not preserved in amber.“
When Priya presented her Mysore pak and kaju katli, the Indian judge examined the sugar work decoration—clearly influenced by Chinese technique. “This is not traditional Indian presentation.“
“No sir,” Priya said steadily. “I work in a multicultural bakery. My colleague Ah Gong taught me his sugar work method, and I applied it to my grandmother’s recipe. I think… that’s very Malaysian. We learn from each other while respecting our own roots.“
The judge studied the sweets, then broke into the widest smile. “This is PRECISELY what Indian sweets need—evolution while maintaining soul. The taste is perfectly traditional. The presentation shows you’re open to learning. Both matter.“
When Mei Lin presented her Nyonya kuih, she was visibly nervous. The Nyonya judge—a formidable woman in a beautiful kebaya—examined each element critically.
“Tell me about yourself,” she demanded.
Mei Lin took a breath. “I’m half-Chinese, half-Malay. Grew up in Paris, returned to Malaysia, married a Malay man. I’m… becoming Nyonya, I suppose. Learning what my grandmother might have known if she’d stayed in Malaysia instead of migrating.“
“So you have no childhood memories of these kuih?“
“No ma’am. But I have love for this heritage I’m discovering. I have my husband’s guidance, my bakery family’s support, and deep respect for what Nyonya culture represents—the beautiful blending of Chinese and Malay that creates something unique.“
The judge tasted the kuih bingka ubi. Her expression remained neutral. Then she tasted the seri muka. She took a second bite. Then a third.
“This is very good,” she finally said. “Not perfect. The bingka ubi is slightly too dense—you were nervous, yes? Overworked the batter?”
“Yes ma’am.“
“But the seri muka… the seri muka is excellent. And you know why?” The judge’s stern face softened. “Because it tastes like love. Like someone learning their heritage and honoring it. That’s what Nyonya culture IS—people learning to blend their traditions with love and respect.“
“You belong to this heritage just as much as those born into it. Remember that.“
The Results Bring Unexpected Joy
When the results were announced, Rasa Sayang Bakery didn’t sweep all categories.
Ah Gong and Zul won THIRD place in Chinese dim sum.
Arif won SECOND place in Malay kuih-muih.
Priya won FIRST place in Indian sweets!
Mei Lin won SECOND place in Nyonya heritage kuih.
But the real victory came with the judges’ special announcement:
“This year, we’re creating a new award,” the Nyonya judge announced. “The ‘Spirit of Malaysian Heritage Award’—for contestants who best embodied what makes Malaysian food culture special: the willingness to learn from each other while respecting tradition.“
“This award goes to… Rasa Sayang Bakery, as a team. For showing us that tradition doesn’t mean isolation. It means community, learning, and love.“
The team walked up together to accept the award—a beautiful certificate and RM2,000. But more valuable than the money was the validation that their approach—collaborative, respectful, evolutionary—was not just acceptable, but exemplary.
That evening, back at the bakery, they displayed all their awards and shared the competition kuih with their regular customers.
“So what did we learn?” Mei Lin asked, starting their traditional debrief.
“That tradition is living, not dead,” Ah Gong said, putting his arm around Zul. “And that teaching tradition means accepting it will change in the next generation. That’s not loss. That’s life.“
“That belonging to a culture isn’t about blood or birthplace,” Mei Lin added. “It’s about love, respect, and willingness to learn.“
“That my Mysore pak won first place!” Priya exclaimed, then laughed. “But seriously—that fusion can enhance tradition instead of destroying it, if done with respect.“
“That eighteen pleats aren’t magic by themselves,” Zul said seriously. “But understanding WHY they matter—that’s the real magic.“
Arif smiled at his team, his family. “That competing doesn’t mean we can’t collaborate. That protecting tradition doesn’t mean building walls around it. And that Rasa Sayang Bakery is exactly what Malaysian heritage should be—different traditions, cooking together, creating something new while honoring what came before.“
[CLOSING SCENE]
Late that night, Mei Lin found the Nyonya judge’s comment card with the scoring. At the bottom, the judge had written:
“Your kuih bingka ubi shows nervousness, yes. But your seri muka shows belonging. You are Nyonya—not by birth, but by choice and love. That is the most authentic kind. Keep learning. Keep honoring. Keep making your grandmother proud—the one you remember and the one you’re becoming.”
Mei Lin pressed the card to her chest, tears streaming down her face. Not from winning or losing, but from being SEEN. From being welcomed into a heritage she’d been afraid to claim.
Through the window, Petaling Jaya glowed in its chaotic, beautiful way—temples and mosques and churches all within view, neon signs in multiple languages, the smell of different cuisines all competing and complementing each other.
Impossible. Beautiful. Malaysian.
Just like the perfectly imperfect seri muka cooling on the counter.
Just like Rasa Sayang Bakery.
Just like family.
[POST-CREDIT SCENE]
One week later, Mak Midah returned to collect her kuih containers.
“I heard you won special award,” she said, trying to sound casual but obviously proud.
“Because of your wisdom,” Mei Lin said. “You should share the prize money.“
Mak Midah waved her hand dismissively. “Keep your money. But I have request.”
“Anything.”
“Teach me your seri muka recipe. I want to learn how the new generation makes it.” Her eyes twinkled. “Tradition goes both ways, you know. Young learn from old, but old must also learn from young. That’s how we all stay alive.“
**And so they did—**Mak Midah and Mei Lin, two generations of women separated by age but connected by love, making seri muka together, each teaching the other, tradition flowing in both directions like it always should have.
Outside, Zul filmed the whole thing for TikTok, his caption reading: “This is what Malaysian heritage looks like—not walls, but bridges. #RasaSayangBakery #TraditionIsLiving”
It got 100,000 views in 24 hours.
Because some stories—the true ones, the important ones—always find their audience.
Always.