Cover Wong Jing Kai of Ah Hua Kelong (Photo: Melvin Wong)
Wong Jing Kai of Ah Hua Kelong (Photo: Melvin Wong)
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One of Singapore’s last three kelongs resists extinction by serving up the island’s most authentic farm‑to‑table story, told by fish farmer‑turned‑restaurateur Wong Jing Kai
From having hawker culture inscribed on the Unesco cultural heritage list, transforming its identity from public nuisance in the colonial era to the national treasure of today, to turning nearly every surface into prime real estate, Singapore has long perfected the art of reinvention. Yet, its maritime heritage has become so invisible that most locals would struggle to locate the country on a map, let alone recognise its seafaring gastronomy on a menu. Where once dozens of kelongs—wooden platforms built on stilts over shallow coastal waters and used primarily for fishing or fish farming—dotted the island’s shores, only three remain today, a number stark enough to raise the eyebrow of anyone with even a passing interest in cultural preservation.
One such outpost is Ah Hua Kelong, where we meet Wong Jing Kai, a digital marketing graduate turned accidental custodian of one of Singapore’s last kelongs. Standing on the weathered planks of his platform along the Straits of Johor, Wong surveys his domain with the weary contentment of a man who has spent more than a decade trying to convince his fellow citizens that fresh, local seafood is worth eating. “If we were to run [the kelong] as it is right now, I don’t think we’ll pass the 10‑year mark,” he admits with brutal honesty.
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For Wong, it all began with a simple question: “Why didn’t I know that kelongs existed?” That realisation, when it came, was less an epiphany than a wake‑up call. Back in 2013, he recalls, “there was a big gap between local fish farms and local fish consumption”, and so he set out to bridge it. “I made my first delivery [to a buyer] on April 14, 2014,” he adds without missing a beat, and the rest, as he puts it, is history.
For the uninitiated, kelongs are an engineering marvel. Unlike modern floating fish farms, these platforms rest on stilts driven deep into the seabed, with their nets rising and falling with the tide. “At last count, there are only three kelongs left in Singapore,” Wong says with matter‑of‑fact clarity, noting that these stilted structures are an integral part of the island’s fishing village heritage. “And we’re sitting on one of them, like the last of the Mohicans.” This factual repetition, whether deliberate or not, underscores the sheer improbability of their survival.
Fresh local produce
Above The day’s freshest catch is harvested at dawn and delivered by sunrise straight from Ah Hua Kelong
The day’s freshest catch is harvested at dawn and delivered by sunrise straight from Ah Hua Kelong
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For the fishermen who live aboard the kelong, the day begins in the pre‑dawn hours, when most of Singapore is still fast asleep. “[The kelong business] is a high‑effort operation: you order the day before, we harvest the next morning at optimal timings and deliver the catch fresh to you by sunset,” Wong explains. This is no marketing gimmick but a necessity—the very distinction that defines true farm‑to‑table provenance. Underscoring his philosophy of freshness, he adds: “Nothing is overnight. I don’t dispatch the fish the day before, and nothing is frozen.”
That same commitment to integrity extends to pricing. “When everybody starts raising prices, my seafood prices on the website don’t change,” Wong says, in a stubborn attempt to hold back the economic tide with an increasingly frayed rope. At Ah Hua Kelong, green‑lipped mussels, for example, still retail at $8 per kilogram, a price that has remained unchanged for more than a decade. “We try to maintain prices as much as possible, but I really cannot tahan (endure) already,” he admits, noting that margins are now so thin, they border on the philanthropic.
In reality, Wong’s admirable principle amounts to impossible mathematics: maintaining quality while contending with rising operating costs and the pressure of imports from industrial‑scale operations in Malaysia, Indonesia and China. Quality local produce requires investment, yet many consumers remain focused on price, often opting for cheaper alternatives even if it means compromising on quality.
But perhaps the most damning indictment of Singapore’s culinary psyche lies in Wong’s razor‑sharp observation on its citizens’ relationship with local produce: “If you criticise Japanese Wagyu to a Japanese, be ready for a slap in the face. But tell a Singaporean that their locally caught fish is bad and they’re more than likely to agree with you. The thing is, we have solid produce, but why aren’t we proud of it?”
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Above Ah Hua Kelong is well known for its barramundi, also known as sea bass
Ah Hua Kelong is well known for its barramundi, also known as sea bass
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On top of that, the long‑standing “muddy taste” myth particularly rankles Wong, who has made it his personal mission to debunk the old wives’ tale. “If I say ‘fish farm’ or ‘farmed fish’, most people [automatically think] ‘muddy taste’—but that is simply not true,” he laments. “Yes, we’re a fish farm, but we’re in the sea, in open water.” The science behind the common misconception, as Wong patiently explains to anyone willing to listen, is straightforward: the culprit is geosmin, a compound produced by aquatic microorganisms such as blue‑green algae. It tends to proliferate in land‑based or freshwater farms with closed recirculating systems, where bacterial levels are higher. When absorbed by fish through their gills, it settles in their fat and muscle tissues, leaving their flesh with a distinctly muddy–but harmless—taste.
Yet, facts are often no match for misinformation dressed as inherited wisdom. The pattern has become depressingly familiar: younger customers buy with curiosity, only to face resistance from family members clinging to decades‑old prejudices. “Their grandmothers or parents still tell them not to buy farmed fish,” Wong shares with a sigh. His solution? Offer full refunds, and even making follow‑up phone calls to check on satisfaction. But even with money‑back guarantees and blind tastings where Ah Hua Kelong’s fish consistently came out on top, the fallacy still stands strong, leaving Wong baffled. “Sometimes, I feel like people don’t want to believe what’s in front of them,” he says.
There is also the notion that if local restaurants are sourcing from Ah Hua Kelong, its produce should be good enough for wider consumption. Some fine‑dining establishments, including the one‑Michelin‑starred Labyrinth, were early adopters. “When we first started, chef [Han Liguang] personally came aboard the kelong and decided to showcase our produce on Labyrinth’s menu,” Wong recalls. “It’s amazing to see that there are people who appreciate our craft; it feels like our work is finally getting somewhere.
Heritage preservation
Above Expect a true farm‑to‑table seafood experience at Smolder
Above At Smolder, whole fishes are seasoned with salt and pepper, then grilled over open flame
Expect a true farm‑to‑table seafood experience at Smolder
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In their own way, kelongs stand as a quiet counterpoint to everything modern‑day Singapore prizes: efficiency, scalability and technological advancement. Yet, their continued existence also embodies resilience and possibility. And if Singapore’s ambitious “30 by 30” food security goal, which envisions producing 30 per cent of the nation’s nutritional needs locally by 2030, is to be realised, kelongs can represent a vital thread in that tapestry of self‑reliance. Wong asserts that their sustainability will take more than just a simple initiative. While dwindling numbers is an issue, “it’s never [just] about the supply”, he opines. “It’s [also] about the demand, and it’s not even there.” Gesturing to the empty nets around his platform, he adds: “We can fill [them] up with fish anytime, but who’s going to buy them?”
What disappears when the last kelong surrenders to the inexorable tide of progress goes far beyond the loss of local seafood or economic activity. “We lose a piece of history that’s close to our hearts as Singaporeans,” says Wong. “Everyone knows we were a fishing village; we talk about it, we sing it in our songs, but we’re doing little to preserve or sustain it.” The broader question, then, is this: what does Singapore become when the pursuit of efficiency erases everything deemed inefficient?
It is against this backdrop of quiet extinction that Wong’s latest venture recently emerged. Having first launched Scaled by Ah Hua Kelong, a Singaporean seafood restaurant rooted in local aquaculture, in 2018, he introduced in August Smolder, a 90‑seater seafood grill on Outram Road. This is not just culinary ambition; it is a defiant effort to show that Singapore’s maritime heritage deserves more than a token nod from the heritage board.
With Smolder, Wong sets a new standard for enjoying seafood by presenting fresh bounty on the very day of harvest. It is also an ode to simplicity: just like how the fishermen on kelongs do it, whole fishes (sea bass, snapper and grouper) here are seasoned with salt and pepper, then grilled over open flame. On his decision to serve up coastal backyard barbecue at Smolder, Wong expounds: “When I first worked on the kelong, I stayed over on a lot of nights. There’s no food delivery. But when you’re out on the sea, there’s plenty of seafood. We’d often catch it and grill it as naturally as possible.”
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Above Freshly caught seafood is served at Smolder
Freshly caught seafood is served at Smolder
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Otherwise, for amplified flavour, guests can savour fresh barramundi seasoned with Cajun spice, or a smoke‑kissed snapper paired with a piquant Jamaican‑inspired sauce. Even the wild‑caught green‑lipped mussels arrive plump and perfectly simmered in a piquant Portuguese seafood stew enriched with the succulence of clams, prawns and pork belly.
When asked about his biggest takeaway from the past 12 years, Wong quips: “Don’t do farming.” His laughter that follows is tinged with real exhaustion, yet there is something unmistakably quixotic about his pursuit. Whether Singapore’s fishing heritage survives another decade remains to be seen, but one thing is certain: Wong will go down swinging, serving the island’s freshest catch until the very last net is hauled in.
In a world saturated with manufactured experiences, it takes a stubborn, almost defiant kind of authenticity to keep Singapore’s old maritime soul alive, before the tide washes away the final traces of who we are. And perhaps that is the greatest luxury of all.
