Discover how tempeh, once dismissed as “native food” by colonial powers, became a quiet symbol of resilience and an unexpected scientific marvel.
In the 18th and 19th centuries, Indonesia — then known as the Dutch East Indies — was a land divided not just by class, but by food. On one side of the colonial divide were the Europeans, dining on imported cheese, salted beef, and wine. On the other were the Javanese, eating rice, vegetables, and a curious fermented cake made from soybeans — tempeh.
To the Dutch, tempeh was strange, rustic, and slightly unsettling. It was food of the inlander — a word they used to mark the difference between “civilized” and “native.” They did not understand the white mold that grew on it, and many saw it as a sign of decay rather than transformation. Yet, while colonial officials looked down their noses, millions of Indonesians quietly sustained themselves with one of the most nutritious foods ever created.
The story of tempeh during the colonial period is not just about a dish — it’s about survival, prejudice, and the ironic triumph of indigenous knowledge over imported arrogance.
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A Taste of Resistance
Colonialism was not only political; it was culinary. What people ate reflected their place in the social hierarchy. Imported food meant wealth and power, while local food was a symbol of poverty.
The Dutch ate bread, meat, and butter. The Javanese ate rice, tempeh, and vegetables. That difference — simple as it sounds — reinforced the idea that Europeans were “modern” and Indonesians were “backward.”
But here’s the twist: the Javanese diet, though humble, was far healthier. It was low in saturated fat, high in fiber, and packed with plant-based protein. Tempeh, in particular, offered nutrients that colonial science didn’t yet understand — probiotics, vitamin B12, and a balance of amino acids unmatched by most animal proteins.
Without realizing it, the so-called “poor man’s food” was quietly outperforming the colonizers’ proud European diet.
Tempeh became an act of quiet defiance — not by rebellion, but by endurance. While the colonial system exploited the archipelago’s resources, the people nourished themselves with something they could produce entirely on their own. It was independence on a plate.
The Curious Dutch Scientist
Ironically, the first Europeans to take tempeh seriously were not chefs, but scientists. In the early 1900s, Dutch microbiologists began studying Indonesia’s fermented foods out of sheer curiosity — and perhaps a hint of condescension.
One of them, Dr. W. H. Koorders, noted how common tempeh was among Javanese households and decided to study its fermentation process. Soon, others joined, including Dr. van Veen and Dr. S. W. J. van der Burg, who published early microbiological papers describing the mold responsible for tempeh’s transformation: Rhizopus oligosporus.
To their surprise, the mold wasn’t dangerous — it was beneficial. It acted like a natural laboratory, breaking down complex soy proteins into simpler amino acids, improving digestibility, and even creating new nutrients.
This revelation flipped the colonial view upside down. What had been dismissed as “poor man’s food” was now seen as a biological wonder — a natural fermentation that modern science could barely replicate.
Tempeh was no longer an accident. It was a masterpiece of microbial cooperation, perfected by centuries of local wisdom.
A Silent Revolution in Nutrition
As the research spread, nutritionists in the Dutch East Indies began to notice something remarkable. Communities that ate tempeh regularly were healthier, stronger, and suffered fewer nutrient deficiencies than those who relied heavily on imported foods.
Tempeh became a subject of study in local agricultural and medical schools. By the 1930s, Dutch researchers were already recommending it as a low-cost protein source for both indigenous people and European settlers living in tropical conditions.
What started as curiosity turned into reluctant respect. Tempeh was now officially recognized — not as peasant food, but as a scientific solution to malnutrition.
Still, prejudice lingered. Even when Europeans began eating tempeh, they often did so quietly, or disguised it in other dishes. The social stigma was too strong to erase overnight.
Yet, within Indonesian households, nothing changed. They didn’t need validation from science to know what nourished them. Tempeh had always been part of their rhythm — fried for breakfast, simmered in coconut milk for lunch, or sliced thin and dried for travel.
They simply smiled, as the colonizers finally caught up.
Tempeh as a Social Equalizer
In an age defined by hierarchy, tempeh refused to discriminate. It fed everyone. Farmers could make it at home, vendors sold it in markets, and families shared it across generations.
It was a food of togetherness — the essence of gotong royong, or collective harmony. Even during times of economic hardship, when rice prices rose and imports were restricted, tempeh remained reliable.
Banana leaves were free, soybeans were cheap, and the fermentation required only patience and care. In the poorest villages and the busiest cities, tempeh was there.
This universality made it dangerous to colonial systems built on inequality. A food that could nourish both poor and rich, without dependence on foreign imports, was a subtle threat to the colonial economy. It whispered a quiet truth: the people didn’t need their rulers to survive.
The Dutch-Tempeh Paradox
By the late 1930s, Dutch scientists were publishing studies praising tempeh’s nutritional benefits. Ironically, the same administration that once mocked it now saw its potential to feed the empire’s workers more efficiently.
Some Dutch households in Java even began serving tempeh as part of their daily meals — though often under more “refined” names like sojabonenkoek (“soybean cake”) to make it sound less local.
But the Javanese never cared about labels. They knew that real refinement lay not in what was served, but in how it was made.
Tempeh remained their quiet victory — a testament that true value doesn’t need foreign approval. It existed long before the microscope arrived and would continue long after the colonizers were gone.
A Lesson in Humility
If history teaches anything, it’s that wisdom doesn’t always wear a lab coat or speak a European language. Sometimes it sits in a small kitchen in Yogyakarta, wrapped in banana leaves and left to breathe.
Tempeh’s survival through the colonial era is a story of humility and perseverance. The people who made it didn’t see themselves as scientists, yet they mastered microbial ecosystems long before microbiology had a name.
When colonizers left, tempeh remained — stronger than ever, carried forward by generations who understood that the simplest things often hold the deepest truths.
The Modern Echo
Today, as the world turns toward plant-based living and sustainable food, tempeh stands tall as a global star. Ironically, the very West that once dismissed it now embraces it as a superfood. Health stores in Amsterdam, vegan cafés in London, and nutritionists in New York all celebrate tempeh for its protein, probiotics, and planet-friendly production.
But in Indonesia, its meaning runs deeper. For Indonesians, tempeh is not a trend — it’s heritage. It’s proof that true nourishment comes from harmony with nature, not domination over it.
A Call to Taste the Wisdom
Tempeh’s colonial story is a reminder: even in oppression, culture finds ways to thrive. What was once seen as “food for the poor” became a symbol of knowledge, resilience, and pride.
If you wish to taste that history — to savor something that defied empire and time — you only need a bite of freshly fried tempeh. Visit Indonesia, walk through its traditional markets, smell the earthy fragrance of fermenting soybeans, and remember that this humble food once outsmarted an empire.
To truly know Indonesia, you must taste its wisdom — and that wisdom is tempeh.
