“Every Time I Serve It, I Remember Her Hands”: Eight Chefs on Their Most Cherished Food Memory

A dish through which mum lives on. A ritual with grandma, re-created. Patriarchs showing love through profiteroles. Family is at the heart of this instalment of If Memory Serves, a Broadsheet series in which top chefs and restaurateurs share their most treasured food memories.

Read on for unforgettable eating experiences from Junda Khoo, Rosa Cienfuegos, Tom Sarafian, Sarah Baldwin, Xerxes Bodhanwala, Alfan “Alfie” Musthafa, Saavni Krishnan and Terry Intarakhamhaeng.

Alfan “Alfie” Musthafa, Warisan (Brisbane)

My mother’s beef rendang was rich, slow-cooked and full of love. She would start early in the morning, the whole house filling with the aroma of spices, coconut and care. It wasn’t just food; it was comfort, warmth and home. She passed away four months ago, but her rendang lives on. It’s on the menu at Warisan, not just to share her legacy, but to keep her close. Every time I serve it, I remember her hands, her laughter and how deeply proud I am to be her son.

Junda Khoo, Ho Jiak (Sydney)

I didn’t set out to reinvent char kway teow. I was just trying to bring back a memory – of Amah, my grandmother. Of the times I followed her to the wet market early in the morning and she’d buy me brekkie: a simple 50-cent char kway teow wrapped in newspaper. Those hawker stalls weren’t about finesse – they were about feeding people, fast. Big wok, big batch, dark soy, light soy, a spoonful of chilli. That was it. It wasn’t polished, but it was home.

When I made my version years later – darker than most, cooked with pork fat, lap cheong and a roaring-hot wok to chase that elusive wok hei – I wasn’t thinking about tradition. I was thinking about how it felt to be loved through food. And then the criticisms came. “This isn’t authentic.” “This isn’t how we do it.” Maybe it wasn’t. But it tasted like something real to me.

Funny how the dish that drew the most pushback ended up becoming the one people come back for, the most ordered dish at every Ho Jiak restaurant, and my signature. Maybe that’s the point. I’m not trying to be authentic. I’m not trying to be original. I’m just trying to make food that means something.

Rosa Cienfuegos, The Tamaleria & Mexican Deli (Sydney)

For me, it’s making tamales with my family in Mexico. I remember the house filling with the warm scent of masa cooking in rising steam, while we all gathered around the table to wrap tamales, learning and sharing stories that connected generations. There was laughter, but also a quiet comfort in simply being together. Hands busy, hearts full. Those moments became part of me and I carried that feeling across the ocean to Australia, where I still make tamales, keeping that memory alive in every fold and every bite.

Saavni Krishnan, Saadi (Melbourne)

I was 10 years old when I visited Nainital, a small hillside town in India where my grandparents briefly lived.

The special Sunday market was crawling with food vendors of all sorts. But the one I ran for was a man selling slices of cake. They were in a big metal tin that looked like a suitcase, strapped around his neck and displayed in front of him, with flavours like chocolate, strawberry and pineapple. We bought a couple of slices, sat near the lake and devoured the colourful, sugar- and margarine-laden sweets.

I haven’t found a better-tasting cake since. Even today on my visits to India I make a point to go to local bakeries to eat cakes that looked like the one I had in Nainital, but nothing has been able to come close. I often think that someday I wish to be a part of someone’s childhood food memory.

Sarah Baldwin, Joy (Brisbane)

Two years ago, my partner and I went hiking across Italy’s Amalfi Coast, staying at a small B&B run by a couple who spoke little English. Before our hike up Monte Faito, the husband told us, “My wife will make you lunch to take”. She handed us two paper bags, telling us they were “ham-and-cheese sandwiches”.

Hours later, at the mountain’s peak, we pulled them out to find fresh-baked ciabatta; thick provolone; soft prosciutto; a ripe, seasoned tomato; and a perfect, thick spread of butter. Eating that sandwich overlooking the sea, I tasted pure generosity and the beauty of simple, perfect ingredients.

Whenever I’m getting caught up in menu creation, wondering if my ideas are interesting or complex enough, I think back to that sandwich and how it offered me and my partner every bit of nourishment and comfort we needed in that moment. That’s what food should do!

Terry Intarakhamhaeng, Soi 38 (Adelaide)

Having grown up in a remote region of Thailand, the taste of som tum, smoky barbeque chicken, and warm sticky rice always takes me back to family gatherings.

But one of my most treasured memories comes from the northern mountains near the Thai-Myanmar border, where I was once invited as a guest of honour by the village chief. The village was unreachable by car – only by foot – yet their generosity felt boundless. They prepared dishes with rare, precious ingredients they sometimes wouldn’t even make for themselves, just to welcome me. Sitting by the fire, surrounded by their stories, I felt like part of their family.

Food, for me, has always been more than flavour. It’s a bridge between people, a keeper of memories and a way to carry home with me wherever I go.

Tom Sarafian, Zareh (Melbourne)

My sweetest childhood memories are filled with family celebrations, birthdays, anniversaries, Christmases – each one ending with a croquembouche. It wasn’t until I became a chef in my late teens that I realised just how extravagant it was to finish a meal with such a towering dessert.

For my father Haigo and my grandfather Zareh, though, it was second nature. They would build those pyramids of profiteroles with style and finesse, filling each one with crème pâtissière before spinning hot caramel into golden threads. I remember the special balloon whisk, cut with pliers so the wires stayed straight, perfect for dipping into caramel cooked right to the edge of bittersweet. My dad would keep a bowl of iced water nearby, ready to ease the burns from caramel-dipped fingers. With that whisk, they spun sugar into delicate strands that wrapped the croquembouche like a silken golden spider web. There were always sparklers crowning the top, and the room would be so excited as it was carried out.

Those moments left a mark on me. They taught me that the labour of love required to make something so beautiful is never too much if the intention is to make someone feel celebrated and special.

Xerxes Bodhanwala, Uma (Perth)

Every time I visit my grandparents in Bombay, my grandmother greets me with the same gift: my two favourite dishes. Khara bheja – a savoury goat-brains stew scented with fragrant spices, fried onions and fresh tomato, finished with coriander. And tareli macchi – pomfret marinated in turmeric and Kashmiri chilli, pan-fried until crisp-edged and golden.

We eat them together at her dining table, where four generations gather, food, stories and laughter flowing. These meals are more than delicious; they are warm, heart-filling reminders of my childhood, each bite carrying the comfort of love passed down through generations.