Teoh believes in a chef’s role to help diners appreciate what nature provides (Photo: SooPhye)
For a while now, diners seem to think they have a firm grasp on what constitutes eating at Dewakan, where the intertwined strains of cooking — seasonality, sustainability and science — are guided by a distinctly Malaysian narrative. One may confidently predict a tuft of ulam foraged from the forest floor or an unprepossessing dollop of budu sauce appearing on an earthen plate, radically expanding the boundaries of edibility. The service is prompt, and the mellow P Ramlee music swirling in the background leaves customers in a better mood than when they arrived. But what they probably will not expect is this: After 10 years, even chef-patron Darren Teoh Min Guo cannot quite put a finger on the restaurant’s identity.
That is not to say he lacks vision — far from it. Teoh acts on the premise that a restaurant’s most inimitable quality lies in serving sincere food from our soil, be it exploring what we have but may not know — such as sukun (breadfruit), keranji (tamarind-plum) and litsea — or reimagining the familiar, like smoking curry leaves and turning them into vinegar. For the chef who coined “food from god” by blending the syllabic words dewa and makan, resisting a boxed definition reflects growth. Like nature, a restaurant evolves in spirals — sometimes retreating, always searching and unfolding into something unexpected yet unmistakably its own. But Dewakan’s message has been clear from the get-go: “We are all in the business of creating memories. We don’t want to be everything to everyone. So, in what we do, we try to be impactful.”
Progress often hinges on a paradox: To grow, one must also unlearn. This means unmooring from the customary, confronting the comfortable and letting instinct wrestle with tradition. “When we first started on a university campus at Kolej Damansara Utama in Glenmarie, Shah Alam, my idea of fine dining — shaped by my maturity and maybe insecurities at the time — was to replicate a traditional, Eurocentric establishment. Our front-of-house wore suits and blazers. We had white tablecloths. But moving here [the 48th floor of Naza Tower, Platinum Park, in 2019] gave us the opportunity to rethink and express ourselves more vocally,” says the former molecular gastronomy lecturer at KDU. He also co-founded Kita Food Festival, a celebration of Southeast Asian culinary culture that spotlights chefs, producers and innovators through curated dinners, collaborative cook-ups, symposiums as well as corporate social responsibility programmes.
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“It became a process of dismantling and rebuilding, finding new ways to excite both ourselves and our guests,” he continues. “In traditional fine dining, there’s an unspoken rule about how a menu should flow, like starting with an acidic dish. But here, we’ve led with a savoury course, like roast meat. We didn’t arrange things just for the sake of it; we looked at the dishes and realised they simply made more sense this way. It was about being a little more adventurous by breaking a few rules. I think we’ve carved out a niche for ourselves. About 70% of our customers are travellers, but we’re also fortunate that some of our friends started off as guests and have since become our biggest champions everywhere they go.”
As much as Teoh believes in a chef’s role to help diners appreciate what nature provides, he never loses sight of why people go to a restaurant. They are not there to be given a lecture, but to have a good time with friends over a meal that, hopefully, leaves a memory vivid enough to inspire them to seek out mackerel, patin fish, tempeh or daun selom during their next grocery run. Education can be done through our taste buds rather than our ears.
“To be honest, we don’t promote indigenous ingredients as a personal crusade. But given how people have exemplified us, we do owe a bit of a responsibility to be clear about what we’re doing and why. There’s always this romantic notion that chefs spend years in the jungle and, you know, climb trees like monkeys to source ingredients. That [romanticism] is very far from the truth. We have a business to run, and my responsibility lies with my stakeholders and shareholders.
“People tend to ask me, ‘Did you forage this?’And I’m like, ‘Look at the sun. This is Malaysia.’ It’s hot and some of these plants are nestled deep in the jungle. You might come across a kulim tree an hour and a half from the nearest kampung, but hiking there and back requires tremendous effort. Many don’t have that context because they’ve never been in the jungle. So, what we really want to do — our modus operandi — is speak a little about sustainability and how it feeds back into a circular economy.”
Although Teoh no longer rides his motorcycle to the Malay stall at the Taman Tun market in Kuala Lumpur to stock up, he continues to partner with homegrown communities and artisans “because of the meticulous care that goes into their work”. These include Chocolate Concierge, which uses dried cocoa leaves for packaging its bean-to-bar confections, thus reducing plastic waste; A Little Farm on the Hill for sustainable organic produce; and Langit Collective, whose heirloom rice varieties from Borneo have been a staple in Dewakan’s line-up.
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The restaurant’s approach — one that quietly persuades without sounding didactic — stands in contrast to a dining scene where meals can feel like participation in a chef’s tweezer-bedecked manifesto or an exercise in gastronomic ideals. At what point did our land become a seedbed for trendiness and the demand for intellectual engagement overshadow the simple pleasure of eating?
“Oh, I think it’s already out of hand,” Teoh says. “I tell our team as often as possible that food isn’t just one thing or the other. I’m not a big fan of people telling me what to do, even when I eat. Simple instructions are fine. I don’t care if the chicken has a name, and I definitely don’t need a four-minute introduction to the dish. There’s been a huge overplay, not just from chefs but also diners, who feel compelled to have an experience beyond just good company and a meal. People always want more.
“For example, it’s become a habit for guests to inform the restaurant about a birthday and expect special treatment, like a cake. When they don’t get it, they’re unhappy and complain. If I had the skills to make one, or found it suitable to put on the menu, I’d charge you for it. But the expectation is, ‘This is the amount I’m paying, therefore, this is the service you should provide’. And I disagree. A lot of effort goes into every part of the dinner we curate.”
How does he tackle the trickier parts of the trade, such as navigating negative reviews or criticism?
“We try to be empathetic if you email us or tell us at the door. Aside from that, I don’t have the ability or authority to control your emotions. We take all reviews seriously, but if the food doesn’t suit your taste … well, think of it like Village Park. There are 450,000 people who love its nasi lemak. I don’t. They’re not responsible for how I feel. The shop made a decision to sell and I made a decision to buy; we entered into a contract. But if I don’t enjoy the food, that’s not the owner’s fault. At the end of the day, it’s a business decision.”
Dished + distinguished
After completing his master of business administration at the International Management Institute in Switzerland, Teoh landed an opportunity to stage at Noma in Copenhagen for a few weeks. One of the most valuable lessons he took away from the figurehead of New Nordic cuisine — enshrined in the pantheon of the world’s finest before transforming into a full-time food laboratory with periodic pop-ups — was not to fear mistakes or failure. Now, as a maverick chef with two Michelin stars and the nation’s first Green Star for sustainable practices, is he more comfortable embracing setbacks?
“I don’t think anybody feels comfortable failing. The extent of your failure depends on the systems that support recovery — how quickly you get back on your feet and how agile you are in changing course. Setbacks are a distinct part of any business. Not hitting a monthly target is a setback. Getting a customer complaint? That’s another. But these are all opportunities to assess where you are and what you’re doing, both right and wrong. Failure denotes there’s finality to it. Whereas, if you’re in it for the long run, there’s no such thing as actual failure.”
Perhaps it is this pragmatic mindset, framing missteps as course corrections rather than calamities, that has propelled Dewakan forward. An honest reckoning with each success and shortfall, coupled with humility, has been just as crucial as creativity in the kitchen. Upon receiving his Michelin distinctions for Kuala Lumpur and Penang’s 2025 guide (Dewakan is the only restaurant with two), Teoh thanked his 20-strong team, family and “the guys cooking out there every day”, seizing the moment to also acknowledge the countless eateries — some celebrated, many unsung — that operate with the same fervour.
“[The acclaim] is a reflection of our work. We received this recognition because [Michelin] believes our efforts align with the standards they have set and, for that, we are very grateful.”
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On handling heightened scrutiny from critics, public perception and the pressure that accompanies years of dedication being validated, he remarks, “I’m not sure how much more pressure can be added to what we already put on ourselves. We do what we do because it’s our craft. It’s our responsibility and accountability to each other to strive for the best.
“We need to understand that while Malaysians may view the country as a great dining destination, that isn’t necessarily how the rest of the world sees it. There are aspects of how Michelin has portrayed the restaurants people may or may not agree with, but the brand itself lends a certain legitimacy, giving people a reason to travel here. This list isn’t made for those who already have their favourites; it’s for those who have no clue where to begin.”
While the Little Red Book may confer credibility as a culinary lodestar on the global stage, a restaurant’s worth should not hinge solely on the weight of its accolades, Teoh reiterates. Sustaining high standards also means fostering an environment and culture in which the crew thrives — not as award-anointed, chest-thumping perfectionists — but cooks who take pride in their work, regardless of who is watching.
Kitchens are relentless — too little time, too much heat — yet, there is a kinder way to run them. Books can serve as quiet mentors in a space that demands the honing of not just skills, but minds. To nudge restaurant manager Mohd Hafriz towards mastering the subtleties of reading the room and creating seamless guest experiences, Teoh gifted him Robert Bacal’s Perfect Phrases for Customer Service and Cal Newport’s So Good They Can’t Ignore You. Business development manager Jonathan Ngin received cookbooks on El Bulli and Matty Matheson. Others, whether in leadership roles or just starting out, have benefited from titles handpicked for them, such as Will Guidara’s Unreasonable Hospitality and anecdotes of influential pastry chef Pierre Hermé.
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Beyond the pages, Teoh, who describes himself as “viciously introverted”, is committed to immersing his equally reserved team in the realities of world-class hospitality. Any member who has spent a year with Dewakan is entitled to an exposure trip to some of the most revered culinary institutions internationally, including Noma; L’Arpège, Alain Passard’s vegetable-driven temple of haute cuisine in Paris; Koan, a Copenhagen standout combining Nordic and Korean influences; and Fu He Hui, Shanghai’s tribute to elevated vegetarian dining.
“There’s a need to invest in younger people without expecting a direct return. When everything becomes too transactional, the other party becomes calculative about it. For our restaurant and its offerings to reach a greater level of maturity, I believe the team must grow alongside that journey as well.”
Course to cause
In a perennially shifting culinary landscape, palates change and the markers of dining are redrawn with each passing season. Some constants remain steadfast for Teoh, though: the use of lime leaf oil, a fixture since Dewakan’s inception; his unvarnished candour; and, above all, the deep-seated family values that ground him.
“The discipline of building things from the ground up — something I inherited from my mother — has shaped 43 years of my life. I hope it carries me through another 43, if God allows me to live that long. Both my parents have influenced me deeply, and I am a chef only by virtue of my career,” says Teoh, who grew up in Sea Park, Petaling Jaya. He fondly recalls mum’s special fish cutlets during Christmas, though he leaves the cooking to his aunties, as the prep work is “very long and arduous”. On other days, he frequents neighbourhood haunts like Shuang Siew Chicken Rice, Lao Ping Hokkien Mee and Loong Foong for roast duck.
The deep connection to food as a means of bonding now weaves into how he nurtures his own family, whether by cooking together or ensuring a homemade meal each day. He usually works with whatever is in the fridge or browses the 50% discount vegetable corner at Ben’s Independent Grocer, turning his finds into sauces and pickles that make their way into couscous and porridge for his two boys, aged six and four.
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But beyond mere practicality, resourcefulness for Teoh is more than just stretching the life of a crop — it embodies a larger philosophy and paints a diorama of the fragility of a system. How we grow, consume and respect our produce is inseparable from urgent conversations about consumption and the future of food. With Malaysia’s population projected to reach 44 million by 2050 according to the World Health Organization, food security is an escalating concern, exacerbated by climate change, urbanisation and heavy reliance on imports.
“Our real problem is dependence on imported staples and inability to feed ourselves through our local agriculture,” he notes. “Look at how much of our rice is sourced from outside the country, and how few people are actually working in agriculture. Yes, we’re considered lucky to have a climate that allows year-round cultivation. But at the same time, the way we’re irresponsibly consuming should not make us feel as confident about the future as we might think.”
Economic disparity further complicates the cause. “For some, it’s not about choices but a question of whether they can eat at all. The ideal circumstances of ‘future of food’ are often not inclusive of all strata of our society,” he adds. “So, while we claim to worry about food security, what we’re really concerned with is how much we can live in the luxury that we have appropriated, rather than addressing sustenance. Food security should also be a private endeavour.”
Instead of passing the blame, Teoh calls for finding a middle ground through collective effort — one that functions like mycelium, a vast, interconnected network capable of driving change. “It can be as simple as adjusting your diet or supporting your local grocer. Maybe eat less rice to ease the burden of imports. Or rethink how we consume food entirely — don’t just eat chicken breast because it’s boneless, but the whole bird. This is a circular problem, and change begins with people.”
Divine intervention
Always tinkering with new hypotheses in the test kitchen and seldom one to stay idle, Teoh is already gearing up for his next dining venture, a French establishment in Damansara Heights called Bidou (which means ‘belly’) featuring a concise menu that comprises no more than four courses. Slated to open in the first quarter of the year, this sister restaurant to Dewakan will pay homage to the grande cuisine of 1950s and 1960s France while honouring the chefs who defined the era’s dining movement.
Nonetheless, Dewakan will still remain very much at the heart of his journey. “We’re really proud of the people who have come through our doors — those who found meaning in their time here and recognise it as a significant chapter in their lives. We’ve seen them go on to become private chefs, work in three-Michelin-starred restaurants or open a noodle shop,” says the chef, wryly adding that the latter has been causing parking problems in front of his house. “I think what they’ve taken from this place isn’t just an ethos about being local, but the belief you can do anything if you put your mind to it.”
No restaurant triumphs alone, as it is built upon the efforts of those who came before. “We have stood on the shoulders of giants. We could not have done this without the pioneers — names such as Cilantro [restaurant and wine bar], the hotels that used to house some of the better fine-dining places in the country and the people who have been selling wine for the longest time. We’ve been greatly influenced by those we surrounded ourselves with.”
Ultimately, leaving a footprint, he suggests, is not just about looking back. “Our impact is also one that grows downwards, like roots. Who knows, maybe in the next few years, another restaurant will emerge to do purposeful things. And that, I believe, would be our legacy.”
Dewakan celebrated its 10th anniversary on March 2.
This article first appeared on Feb 24, 2025 in The Edge Malaysia.
