A lot can change in one decade.  

Ten years ago, Ruifang Li’s mornings were as predictable as a reheated office lunch: an air-conditioned cubicle, a motivational poster, a spreadsheet waiting to be seasoned with data. The only thing simmering was the office gossip beside the water cooler.  

Her days don’t start like that any more. It’s dawn, and the air is already hot as she stands over a vat of prawn broth roaring at a steady boil, steam rising into the fluorescent strip-lighting of Little India’s Tekka Food Centre. By 8am, a queue has already curled around her stall, the kind of line that suggests these regulars know exactly what they’re here for.  

The draw? A deceptively simple bowl of prawn noodle soup, steeped in almost 60 years of family history. Three generations have dished it out before her; Ruifang the latest to don the apron strings. 

While she now moves with practiced ease between simmering pots and sizzling woks, she didn’t always envision a life behind the counter. Early in her career, she occupied a comfortable post at a multinational finance firm with hours neatly plated, salary dished hot—a master of Excel, not servery.  

Eleven years ago came a big fork in her road. She traded business attire for 2:30am starts and the kind of heat no HR department would dare write into a job description.  

Her family reacted to the transition as if she’d scorched the pot.  

“My parents, especially my father, kept asking if I was sure,” she says, amused. “It’s long hours, you’re on your feet all day, and yes—you’re always smelly, sweaty and sticky. But I realised I genuinely enjoy cooking bowl after bowl.” 

The timing mattered. Had she not taken over the Whampoa Prawn Noodle legacy, her family business risked the same expiring fate of many others. Singapore’s hawker workforce is ageing—the average stallholder is now 60 years old—and cherished recipes risk going cold if younger generations don’t roll up their sleeves.  

Ruifang isn’t the only one refusing to let tradition evaporate. Ai Min Cho, another third-generation hawker, left a stable career in finance to take over her father’s stall when health issues forced him to take a step back.  

“If I didn’t take over, the stall would close,” she says. She tried hiring outsiders but “their heart wasn’t in it”, she says. So she took the ladle into her own hands, determined to preserve the flavours she grew up with.  

Still, she doesn’t sugarcoat the scorching realities of the trade. 

“It is hard work,” she says. “Passion isn’t enough, you need resilience. Business fluctuates, the hours are brutal. If you are happy in an office job, honestly, keep it.” 

Despite the strain and struggle, working in the kitchen still tastes sweeter to her than corporate life.  

“In an office, there’s so much relationship management. It can get tiring because colleagues aren’t always really your friends. Here, I get to spend time with family.” 

For young professionals roiling in the corporate pressure cooker of emails and performance reviews, the hawker trade can look like a breath of fresh—if slightly smoky—air. But as Naanyang Technological University social sciences professor Dr Paul Victor Patinadan points out, some might feel like they’ve “jumped out of the frypan and into the fire.” 

Yet for Ai Min, the reward outweighs the toil.  

“This is my parents’ life work,” she says. “Taking over is my way of ensuring the recipe lives on.” 

Ruifang feels the same. Despite the pre-dawn wakeups and physical toll of the job, she lights up at the sight of familiar faces returning to her stall.  

“That’s the best part—seeing repeat customers. And knowing my parents are proud.” 

But is the juice worth the squeeze? Ruifang laughs. 

“Of course. I wouldn’t still be here after 11 years if it wasn’t.” 

After all, hawker centres are more than open-aired eateries; they are Singapore’s unofficial dining rooms where the nation’s appetite for community and culture is served daily. As common and comforting as a perfectly punctual MRT line, or a conversation seasoned with a familiar “lah”, they are an enduring ingredient of the national palate.  

“Food and group dining are embedded in the region’s collectivist culture,” says Dr Patinadan. “Hawker centres are holistic representations of who we are.” 

In other words, they’re where Singapore’s multicultural flavours meld, literally.  

 But a peek behind the counter reveals a reality far less glossy than the Instagram shots of charred sambal stingray or glistening chicken rice. Most kitchens measure between five and ten square metres—barely enough room to swing a ladle—and while some stalls boast Michelin nods, the work environment itself is far from five-star.  

And there’s no pot of gold waiting at the end of the service line, either: Median hawker incomes range from $30K to $70k SGD annually—more than a pinch from the six-figure starting salary many corporate professionals enjoy.  

Still, many continue to choose meaning over money. Among them is Delonix Tan, who left a lucrative business career to take over his family stall at Toa Payoh Food Centre.  

“What keeps me going is pride for my heritage,” he says, “and wanting a fulfilling life.” But when he first got behind the counter, he wasn’t sure he’d last.   

“It’s intense and let’s be honest, it’s not a very sexy trade when you compare it to other white-collar jobs,” he admits. “But after some time, this became my passion, even my identity.” 

He joins the quiet counterculture cooking among young Singaporean workers who are feeling the heat of corporate burnout, with a recent survey naming Singapore the most mentally taxed nation in Southeast Asia.  

The 2024 Wellness at Work Report, found that 61 per cent of employees are struggling with burnout, with rates climbing to 68 per cent for Gen Z and 65 per cent for millennials. The January 2025 Mental Health Index by Telus Health echoed this strain, reporting that 41 per cent of workers feel mentally overcooked—exhausted by Singapore’s long workweeks, averaging 44.6 hours and ranking among the highest globally. 

“In Singapore, people still value white-collar jobs more,” Delonix says. “But I want others to know it’s okay to follow what you enjoy, even if it doesn’t look cool.” 

According to Assistant Professor of psychology at NTU Dr Lisa Christine Walsh, the hawker trade serves something that most office jobs fail to deliver: genuine psychological nourishment.  

“People flourish when they have autonomy, opportunities for mastery, and by forming meaningful connections,” she explains.  

Hawker culture satisfies all three. Testifying to the benefits of hawker life, Delonix says:  

“My family has been doing this for the past 60 years—It’s a waste to let go of 60 years of expertise and knowledge. Any white-collar job can give you higher financial return with lower effort, but I find more meaning in preserving our culture.” 

Delonix Tan, third generation hawker stall operator 

“It offers joy, purpose and personal growth,” Dr Walsh says, “while contributing to cultural preservation.” 

But a sense of fulfillment—no matter how flavourful—still isn’t enough to poach as many young Singaporean professionals into the trade as is needed to keep the stoves firing for future generations. With the future of hawker culture at stake, the government has turned up the heat on preservation efforts.  

“We know it’s not an easy path,” says policy director for the National Heritage Board Melissa May Tan. “We wanted to highlight hawkers’ contributions to our culture and identity.” 

To keep the industry from thinning out the National Environment Agency has deployed programmes which reduce startup costs and equip aspiring hawkers with essential skills.  

In 2020, Singapore scored a significant milestone: the country’s hawker culture was inscribed on UNESCO’s Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. 

“The UNESCO Inscription recognises the unique role hawker culture plays in the Singaporean way of life,” Melissa says, “and highlights the importance of our multicultural identity.” 

At its core, hawker culture is a conduit—passing flavours, techniques and family stories from one generation to the next. By tying on their aprons, young hawkers like Ruifang, Ai Min and Delonix are doing more than preserving their own family recipes, they are safeguarding a national treasure, one dish at a time.  

“In a city that changes so quickly,” Melissa says, “it is remarkable that our food heritage continues to pass from parent to child. With the combined efforts of the NEA, the NHB and our hawker community, we hope that this transmission continues for generations.” 

As long as there are cooks willing to rise before the sun, sweat beside their stoves and keep tradition on the menu, Singapore’s hawker culture will continue simmering—rich, resilient and unmistakably its own.