by Dr Rahim Said
There was a time when no one paid attention to calorie counts, expiration dates, or allergens. Afternoon tea meant one thing and one thing only — roti kapai.
Not those fancy imported water wafers people talk about these days. Ours were rough, slightly uneven, white biscuits made of nothing more than flour, salt, and sugar.
Crunchy, slightly dry, and perfect for soaking up a cup of thick, home-brewed coffee that could knock sense into the sleepiest uncle at 3 p.m.
Nobody knew where roti kapai came from. By the sound of it, probably brought in by sailors on long sea voyages.
In our kampung, it was roti kapai, with the final ‘ai’ swallowed like how Kedahans and Penangites swallow the last bit of every word. Nobody argued about the origins. We were too busy eating.
The ritual was simple. A handful of roti kapai crushed by hand, mixed with freshly grated coconut, a generous sprinkle of coarse sugar, and sometimes, if the stars aligned, a drizzle of gula kabung. It was bliss. The sort of bliss you can’t package or mass-produce.
Back then, a glass jar of roti kapai stood proudly on the kitchen counter. Its lid screwed so tight you needed the strength of three cousins and an overenthusiastic auntie to open it.
The jar was a shrine of sorts — for unexpected guests, afternoon gossip sessions, and nosy neighbours pretending to borrow sugar.
Then, one day, riding into town on a van with loudspeakers blaring, came a young S.M. Salim. Yes, that S.M. Salim — long before the crooner of Apa Dah Jadi fame, he was the margarine man. Promoting a newfangled butter alternative for the common folk.
Imported butter was only for the tuans and mems or elite of the world. For the rest of us, margarine was the golden spread that turned roti kapai into a tea-time treat worthy of royalty.
Salim would sing a little jingle over the van’s speaker, hawking his margarine while we kids chased behind, hoping for a free sample.
Today, perhaps you can still find the best roti kapai two roads away (Lebuh Noordin) near “Simpang Enam” or “Penang Road roundabout”, from an old Chinese confectioner who doesn’t see much to modernise but relies on the good stuff that flies off from his trusty ovens. I also hear that another Penang confectioner has tweaked his offerings into 108g modern-day packaging at RM7.90 a pack, and is dwelling on the reputation of his ancestors’ shop that started in 1928.
Guess what? Back in the good old days, there were no recalls. No FDA warnings. No ‘may contain traces of peanuts’ labels. Nobody ever died from eating roti kapai. You either liked it or you didn’t.
If you were allergic, you learnt your lesson once, and the kampung knew by sundown.
These days, news of Ritz crackers being recalled because someone slapped a cheese label on a peanut butter sandwich makes me chuckle.
Back then, if you swapped fillings and someone’s face swelled up, you threw water on them and said a prayer. Life was simpler. Riskier, yes. But simpler.
Maybe that’s why those afternoons with roti kapai, coconut, and thick coffee felt so special. Because everything we had was earned, shared, and never recalled.
WE