The hawker center is one of the biggest icons of Singapore culture. It is an open air complex where a variety of people would eat at any point of the day, from the crack of dawn to the wee hours of the night. I grew up going to the hawker center every day until the big and drastic move to Canada. My own memory of the hawker center had become blurry and fuzzy around the edges.

And now, years later, I was back. I was feeling a little nervous. What if things had changed completely?

I stood at the entrance of the hawker center watching it loom intimidatingly over me. I teetered a little in my stance as the noisy din of the chattering voices pressed against my eardrums. The heavy, too bright sun beat down upon me as I lifted the neck of my scratchy T-shirt to wipe my damp forehead.

I took a deep, slow breath. The odor of sweat and unwashed bodies mixed with the distinct aroma of fried and savory food filled my lungs. Waves of bittersweet memories from my childhood rose up inside me. My eyes stung and I felt a distant echo in my growling stomach.

I sidestepped an old lady balancing a tray of dirty dishes and looked around me.

The stalls lined the inside walls of the center. There were colorful signs on the top of each stall, displaying their menu and pictures of delicious and traditional Singaporean dishes. The menu from each stall ranged from boiled and salty wonton soup, to zesty flaming red Laksa, to oily fried rice topped with seasoned meat or crunchy vegetables.

Four dollars would cover the cost of a meal and drink. I scurried past the throng of people and eyed the ratty sign above an Indian stall selling steaming Roti Prata, fried dough simmering in oil. I pressed a two dollar bill into the callused hands of an Indian cook and rushed to another stall and hurriedly purchased a bright pink Bintang drink to complete the meal.

I sipped from my glass of Bintang. I was shocked at how pleasantly sweet and cool it tasted. Famished, I ripped a piece of fresh Roti Prata and jammed it into my mouth. It was flaky, yet soft and fluffy on the inside, with a touch of buttery flavoring. I grabbed another piece, this time dunking it into a plate of scalding hot curry. The curry was thick and rich, dotted with mini potatoes and tender meat. Oh, and it was spicy, fiercely spicy. My taste buds reacted in shock and I downed half of my Bintang drink. Its syrupy coolness soothed the spiciness.

I left the hawker center feeling full and content. The place had not changed much from the way I remembered it. It made me half relieved and half nostalgic for when my cousins and I were innocent and playful children, adopting this place as a normal part of everyday life. However, times change, and so do people. But if there’s one cuisine you can count on that never changes — it’s the good old Singaporean food.

The hawker center loomed over me. I teetered a little in my stance as the noisy din of the chattering voices pressed against my eardrums. The heavy, too bright sun beat down upon me as I lifted the neck of my scratchy T-shirt to wipe my moist forehead.

I took a deep, slow breath. The odor of sweat and unwashed bodies mixed with the distinct aroma of fried and savory food filled my lungs. Waves of bittersweet memories from my childhood rose up inside me. My eyes stung and I felt a distant echo in my growling stomach.

I sidestepped an old lady balancing a tray of dirty dishes and looked around me. The hawker center was one of the biggest icons of Singapore culture. My eyes took in the variety of hot and tired Singaporeans draped over the round metal picnic tables— old seniors reading the daily newspaper, business people on lunch breaks, students in their school uniforms laughing with their friends, parents trying to control excited children, and tourists fanning themselves with maps.

The stalls lined the inside walls of the center. There were colorful signs on the top of each stall, displaying their menu and pictures of delicious and traditional Singaporean dishes. The menu from each stall ranged from boiled and salty wonton soup, to zesty flaming red laksa, to oily fried rice topped with seasoned meat or crunchy vegetables.

$4 would cover the cost of a meal and drink (such was the cheapness of the hawker center). I scurried past the throng of people and eyed the ratty sign above an Indian stall selling steaming roti prata, fried dough simmering in oil. I pressed $2 into the callused hands of an Indian cook and balanced a plate of roti prata to a table. I rushed to another stall and hurriedly purchased a bright pink bintang drink to complete the meal.

I sipped from my glass of bintang. I was shocked at how pleasantly sweet and cool it tasted. Famished, I ripped a piece of fresh roti prata and jammed it into my mouth. It was flaky, yet soft and fluffy on the inside, with a touch of buttery flavoring. I grabbed another piece, this time dunking it into a plate of scalding hot curry. The curry was thick and rich, dotted with mini potatoes, tender meat and lightly seasoned with coriander, turmeric (and a million other spices that added to its taste). Oh, and it was spicy, so very spicy. My taste buds reacted in shock and I downed half of my bintang drink. Its syrupy coolness contrasted pleasantly with my fiery mouth.

I was momentarily distracted by an old Chinese lady waving packets of tissue paper that she was selling and grunting. I smiled abashedly at the mess I had made in my haste to eat—there were drops of curry on the table and sauce in a ring around my mouth. I bought a packet of tissue from the lady and wiped my face swiftly before digging back in.