Singapore\’s wet markets: will they fade into history?

From Wet Market Novice to Kitchen Hero: The Story of Pamelia Chia

Who Is She?

Meet Pamelia Chia, the former Candlenut chef who swapped her kitchen in Singapore for a crew at a Melbourne restaurant. Now she’s the brain behind Wet Market To Table, a guide that turns humble stalls into culinary adventures.

The Cookbook: A Fresh Take on Forgotten Vegetables

• Fingerroot gets its grand comeback—its zesty kick can elevate any stew into a showstopper.
• Tatsoi, the often‑overlooked green champ, finally lands a spotlight in a dish that’ll make you say “Wow!”

Why Most People Skip the Wet Markets

According to a 2019 NEA survey, 39% of Singaporeans haven’t stepped into a wet market in the last year (up from 33% in 2016 and 23% in 2019). The markets are fading, and so is the buzz around these food hubs.

Chia’s Journey: Growth, Grit, and Grocery Shopping

At just 28, she’s one of the freshest voices rallying for wet markets. But the road wasn’t a stroll down the awn.

Q: How did you fall in love with wet markets?

A: “It started with curiosity and a craving for authenticity. I’d wander through stalls, smell spices, and feel the rush of crowds. That’s when I realized the world of flavors waits right outside the curb.”

Q: What can save these markets?

A: “It’s all about storytelling and community. Teach people how to cook with local produce, turn markets into social hubs, and show that sustainable eating thrives on shared curiosity.”

1. Do you think wet markets will ever die out? In other interviews, you’ve mentioned technology as one way that wet markets could win a new generation of market-goers, but in terms of mindsets, would could help rally our young people to save wet markets?

Why Wet Markets Might Outlive the Instagram Generation

Every time I step into a wet market, it feels like stepping back into a living postcard. The air crackles with the scent of fresh tofu, the clatter of merchants shaking out beansprouts, and the soft thud of ripe vegetables depositing into a plastic bin. It’s a sensory feast that no photo or Insta‑story can quite capture—unless you’re willing to swap sugar‑high scrolling for a nose‑stained experience.

1. The “Real‑Deal” Experience

• Freshness on the Go – Tofu that you can taste the day it steamed.
• Color Pop – Green sprouts that look like a salad exploded on a stall.
• Soundtrack – The hum of a radio, the murmur of bargaining, the rhythmic flick of chop‑sticks.
• Visual Vibes – A scatter of lotus buds in pails drifting like sea‑foam.

Their intrinsic value is a shared, almost communal ritual. You get in there, breathe in, touch the produce, and you’re part of a living tradition—what a photo never fully manages.

2. The Next‑Gen Dilemma

Modern kitchens are all about convenience. Door‑step delivery, pre‑cut veggies, and alarms set to warn you if the fridge goes lidless. Who’s got time to roam a non‑air‑conditioned bazaar? The younger crowd is more likely to skip the whole market dance and opt for the auto‑delivery thumbs up.

3. A Future Market? Not One Piece of IKEA‑Style

If new “wet markets” decide to pop up in a decade, they’ll probably look a touch Muji‑esque, wipe the slate clean with technology, and stream folk tunes. Imagine a sleek, laid‑back stall where your purchase is a tap away, but you’re still greeted by the same regional produce—only the scent, if anything, gets filtered through a smartphone app.

Will such a place keep the old spirit alive, though? Maybe. If the tech adds a human touch and keeps the local vibe flowing, it could kind of work. But will it feel the same? That’s a question even the smartest bot can’t answer.

4. The True Relic

For me, preserving the spirit of wet markets beats preserving a certain format. Wet markets are about kampung spirit, ren qing wei (human warmth), and human connection. The clamor, the smells, the grindsmanship—these are the things that help a community thrive.

So, should future generations qualify the market’s existence with “It isn’t Instagram‑mature enough”? No. Instead, they should celebrate the regional produce in spaces that keep these social bonds alive. That’s our furthest step toward keeping the market alive—and that’s all we need to do.

2. Before you became a regular market-goer, you found wet markets foreign and intimidating. How did you get past those first few humbling experiences to become a regular?

When I first dusted off my taste buds and headed back to the wet markets, everything felt like stepping onto a different planet—paper-thin shoes, days-old fish, and a chorus of dialects that turned my ears into a drum kit.
I’d been living in the sterile world of academia for years, so the sudden, tactile whirlwind was both surreal and nerve‑racking.

At those stalls, you can’t just walk away. You’re expected to:

It was a far cry from those chill grocery aisles where you scan items and script bye‑bye to anyone who dares to ask. In a supermarket, the self‑checkout machine is basically your one‑to‑one interaction—no conversation, just a beep and you’re out.
So, how do you feel at ease when the vendor’s table smells like a jungle?

I used to stand in a corner, Googling obscure ingredients like a detective chasing a clue.
But the real game‑changer? I started chatting. I asked the auntie next to me, “How do you cook this tonight?” or “What’s the trick to prepping this?” The idea that I didn’t have to be an instanty‑wise master of every recipe flamed the pressure off my own expectations.

I made it a habit to circle the same markets almost daily while writing my book and snapping photos.

If the wet market still feels like a horror‑movie, just tag along with your mom or grandma. They’ve been there for years, so the vendors will wryly nod, “Oh, you’re the kid.” Suddenly, you’re treated as one of the regulars without even having to decrypt the whole language.
Remember: It’s all about humility, curiosity, and the confidence that comes from knowing you can say NO when you’re being piggy‑banked.And trust me—eating fresh fish in a bustling market beats a plastic‑padded sandwich any day!

3. What is one local ingredient that you feel deserves more love?

Meet Celtuce: Singapore’s Unsung Green Hero

I’ve been obsessed with this green, vine‑like veggie for years—thanks to my Singaporean mom who turned my childhood porridge into a pickled culinary playground.

A Quick Snapshot

• Also called “pickled cai xin” in my native tongue.
• Bright jade‑green when raw, totally eye‑catching even if you’re not a chef.
• Can be sliced into spirals, giving you instant “noodles” that look straight out of an Instagram recipe reel.
• Flavor profile: gentle, almost pandan‑kissed house‑pet vibes.
• Best served cold for a fresh, crunchy bite—or pickled for that tangy crunch.

Why I Love It

Raw, it’s a billboard of refreshing green energy. When chilled, it feels like a breeze on a sun‑swept afternoon. Pickle it and you’re adding a delightful, crispy note that sings in every bite.

Versatility on a Plate

• Stir‑fries: A pop of colour and texture that turns ordinary dishes into a canvas.
• Salads: Toss the spirals in for a “fancy noodle” twist that looks feast‑proof.
• Breakfast: Pair it under your porridge like the Singaporean tradition—pure comfort.

My Go‑to Celtuce Recipes

Crunchy Cold Noodles

Slice the raw celtuce spiral, chill in the fridge for an hour, then toss with a splash of lime juice, a dash of soy sauce, and a sprinkle of roasted sesame. Boom—instant fresh noodles!

Pickled Cilantro Surprise

Marinate the celtuce in rice vinegar, sugar, and a few chili flakes. Let it sit overnight. When you’re ready to eat, it’s got that perfect gum‑like bite and a sour‑sweet punch.

Stir‑Fry Star

Heat some oil, add garlic, the spiral celtuce, a splash of oyster sauce and finish with a drizzle of coconut milk. Serve hot over rice for a dish that’s both exotic and comforting.

So next time you’re looking for a veggie that’s as versatile as it is beautiful, give Celtuce a whirl. Your palate—and your friends—will thank you.

4. We checked out your food heritage account @sgpnoodles and are really looking forward to the release of your 2021 planner! What can you tell us about it?

Bringing Singapore’s Festive Vibes Back Home: The 2021 Planner Story

When I dropped off the ferry to Melbourne three years ago, I hit an unexpected reality check: the big red lanterns and the smoky aroma of tteok shouldnt have felt so distant. I was adrift from the rhythm of festivals and the subtle meaning behind every dumpling and bak zhang that I’d grown up with.

Why Turn a Calendar into a Cookbook?

Back in Singapore, we download ourselves with family traditions. You pick up a basket, chop down a pineapple, and bake tarts—without a clue that each bite is a homage to seasonal change. No one points out that the pysky sharpness in a pineapple is a cheeky nod to the “hunger” of the holidays. I craved to keep that “internal clock” ticking all the while living overseas.

So I decided: create a calendar that stitches together the big public holidays and the little gems of cultural heritage ignored by most Singaporean calendars. Add a side‑kick recipe in each entry so you can whip up your own bak zhang or other festive treats, even when you’re miles away.

From a Dream to a Designer

After chatting with the locally renowned designer Qin Yi, the idea grew into a full‑blown planner. Each month is a narrative from a Singaporean author sharing a story about that month’s chief celebration, paired with a recipe. It turns the planner into a cultural time capsule that never looks old.

It’s A Tangle of Cultures… And We’re Still Missing Pieces

• Azfar Mazwan opens his heart about Hari Raya Haji and the might of watching animal sacrifice in a temple— a half‑forgotten rite that made his curiosity skyrocket.
• Maxine’s mother shows us how Eurasians start decking out for Christmas right after Easter. Who knew that Christmas prep was a step‑after‑step sequence?
• The contributors hail from Eurasians, Chinese, Indians, Malays, Parsis, Peranakans, many of whom surprise us by sharing truths we’d never expect: that even in Singapore, we are always learning.

So what is this planner? More than a nose‑dive into food, it’s a celebration of multiculturalism and heritage. When you’re wrapped around a bak zhang—my version of the traditional dumpling—just know that your friends and families back home are doing the same in their kitchens, albeit far apart.

And that’s a warm, fuzzy feeling—like pulling together all the threads that create the local tapestry. I hope the planner can keep that sense of belonging alive, wherever you may be. Comfort food meets cultural understanding; it’s a win‑win.

— First published by “Wonderwall.sg” and brought to you carefully curated with love.