They say politics divides and food unites—but that feels like a platitude until you’ve watched a Malay auntie and a Chinese uncle bicker over spice levels, then wordlessly pass each other a plate. Or when you’ve sat on a plastic stool under a Tel Aviv overpass, tearing into warm sabich made by an Arab-Israeli chef who learned the recipe from a Jewish grandmother. Or when you’ve seen a Colombian vendor in Bogotá steam tamales with guava leaf and cassava, an Indigenous technique she learned from her mother’s side, topped with a Caribbean sauce from her father’s.
In alleyways and marketplaces, under tarpaulin roofs and fluorescent lights, something remarkable is happening. In a world that feels increasingly fragmented—by borders, by history, by hashtags—hawker stalls are becoming sites of quiet resistance. Of creativity. Of reconciliation.
These are places where history simmers, cultures collide, and the menu tells a story no textbook ever could.
Penang, Malaysia: Harmony in a Wok
If Malaysia is a culinary crossroads, Penang is the beating heart. This island city off the northwest coast is a riot of smells, sounds, and sizzle. Chinese, Malay, Indian, and Peranakan influences swirl through the air like the scent of star anise and sambal.
And yet, beneath the clatter of woks and shouts of “lagi satu!” is a kind of choreography. You’ll find it at the New Lane Hawker Centre, where Uncle Tan, a Chinese-Malay man in his seventies, still fries char kway teow like it’s an Olympic event. His assistant, Faizal, a young Malay from the mainland, slices cockles and ducks the steam like a boxer. They don’t say much. They don’t need to.
“We argue sometimes,” Tan says with a grin, passing me a plate piled high with wok-kissed noodles and prawns. “But we eat together. That’s what matters.”
Food diplomacy isn’t a new concept in Penang. The city’s multicultural identity was forged in its kopitiams and markets. Today, its hawker stalls remain not just micro-businesses but microcosms—proof that coexistence is possible, deliciously so.
Tel Aviv, Israel: Where Flavor Crosses Borders
On a side street near Levinsky Market, just past the spice merchants and the Russian bakeries, there’s a stall that doesn’t fit cleanly into any category. Here, you’ll find za’atar alongside amba, schnitzel folded into laffa, hummus laced with harissa. The chalkboard reads: The Peace Plate.
The man behind the grill is named Sami. He’s Palestinian-Israeli, born in Haifa. His wife, Miriam, is Jewish—Ashkenazi roots from Poland, Yemenite from her mother’s side. They met while working in a hospital kitchen and fell in love over chopped parsley and burnt eggplants.
Their food, like their marriage, defies easy labels.
“People come here expecting politics,” Sami shrugs, spreading labneh on a warm pita. “We give them pickles and stories instead.”
The Peace Plate is more than a marketing gimmick—it’s become a local icon. Regulars include Muslim families, Orthodox Jews, international students, and the occasional Israeli soldier on leave. Everyone comes for the same reason: it tastes like home. Or maybe, a better version of it.
Bogotá, Colombia: Roots and Resistance in a Corn Husk
Plaza de Mercado La Perseverancia is a vibrant thrum of Andean produce and Afro-Caribbean spice. But step around the back, behind the old cantina with peeling murals, and you’ll find a stall run by a man named Simón. His menu? Short. His mission? Not.
Simón identifies as both Wayuu and Afro-Colombian. His grandmother taught him how to make bollos with wild cassava and green plantain, wrapped in banana leaves. His grandfather passed down the recipe for coconut fish stew. His father added his own twist: a hot sauce made with guava pulp and ant eggs.
“I’m not fusing cultures,” he says. “I’m showing they’ve always been fused.”
Bogotá is a city scarred by displacement and inequality, but at Simón’s stall, the mood is light, the broth is rich, and people linger. Teenagers snap selfies with their bowls of chontaduro soup. Office workers learn to say “mashi” (friend) in Wayuunaiki.
In a place where political reconciliation often feels like performance, Simón’s food offers a simpler kind of healing: honesty, served hot.
The Bigger Picture: One Plate at a Time
We tend to think of diplomacy as something that happens in marble halls between men in suits. But maybe it starts with sharing a table. Maybe it lives in plastic stools and borrowed spices, in recipes passed down through arguments and love.
From Penang to Tel Aviv to Bogotá, hawker chefs are proving that taste buds don’t recognize borders. That flavors can carry history and hope. And that the best kind of fusion isn’t forced—it’s lived.
Because when a street vendor chooses to serve you something that holds their story, that moment—spicy, messy, fleeting—is an act of generosity. A quiet invitation to listen. And maybe, if we’re lucky, to understand.
By Aina Harun
Aina Harun is a Chinese-Malaysian food and culture writer based in the U.S. Her work explores the intersections of cuisine, identity, and community—from night markets in Penang to taco trucks in Los Angeles. Raised between cultures and continents, she brings a personal lens to global food stories. When she’s not chasing street food across time zones, she’s cooking her grandmother’s laksa in a Brooklyn walk-up.
