Away from Johor Bahru’s sprawling new townships and shiny commercial developments sits a row of old shophouses from the 1970s. There was a time when this street was busy, helped by its proximity to several government agencies. But cities change. The government offices eventually relocated, newer neighbourhoods emerged, and gradually, the crowds moved elsewhere.
One thing, however, stayed.
Tua Thow kept cooking.
The story began in 1975, when Tua Thow operated a nighttime street cart along this very stretch, before the shophouses even came about. “Tua Thow” is Hokkien for “Big Head”, the name of the original proprietor. What began as a humble means of putting food on the family table eventually found a permanent home here.
More than 50 years later, his son now manages the business alongside his mother. But look beyond the counter towards the steaming pot and you’ll find the person who really rules the kitchen.
At a sprightly 78 years old, Madam is still cooking.
Grandma Rules the Pot
There is something mesmerising about watching someone perform a task they have repeated for decades.
There is no frantic rushing. No unnecessary movement. Just a constant rhythm developed through decades of scalding noodles, cooking ingredients and knowing exactly when everything is ready. It feels almost like an orchestra, except there is only one conductor – Grandma is in charge.
Behind those nimble hands and the wrinkles of age is the story of a family business that began with something very simple: survival. Cooking put food on the table. Decades later, she is still standing over the same kind of steaming pot, feeding another generation.
As OG As It Gets
The broth at Tua Thow is about as old-school as it gets.
Made from pork bones, it is clean, light and uncomplicated. There is no attempt to make it excessively rich or aggressively savoury. No need to bury the bowl beneath elaborate toppings or brightly coloured imitation crab sticks and flavoured fish cakes.
This is Grandma’s kitchen.
Original things only, please.
Customers choose their noodles – bee hoon, kway teow or yellow noodles – and have them served either dry or in soup. There is also a selection of fresh ingredients including pork slices, liver, kidney, fish maw, oysters, fish balls, meatballs, fish and prawns.
I went for a medium bowl of bee hoon soup with a generous serving of fresh fish, pork and liver.
The liver immediately stood out. None of those miserably thin, paper-like slices that disappear the moment they hit your tongue. Here, the liver was cut thick enough to actually enjoy its texture. Madam cooked it beautifully: completely cooked through without becoming dry, chalky or tough. It remained soft and tender with that characteristic richness of fresh pork liver.
The fish was fresh, the pork tender, and everything sat comfortably within that gentle pork-bone broth.
As OG As It Gets
These days, nostalgia can be manufactured. Mosaic tiles are installed in brand-new cafés. Vintage biscuit tins are carefully arranged on shelves. Enamel cups, wooden stools and faded signboards are sourced to create the right old-school atmosphere. Give the shop a name inspired by somebody’s fictional Uncle, Aunty, Ah Ma or Ah Gong, and suddenly we have a ready-made heritage story.
Nothing wrong with a little nostalgia, of course. But at Tua Thow, nobody needed to curate it.
The mosaic floors are old because people have actually walked across them for decades. The shop looks aged because it has aged. And the elderly lady behind the steaming pot isn’t somebody’s idea of what Grandma’s kitchen should look like.
There is no carefully manufactured backstory behind the name either. “Tua Thow” really was the name of the man who started the business.
This isn’t a modern restaurant trying to recreate 1975.
Some Things Are Better Left Unchanged
We city folk have become accustomed to food being fast, convenient and constantly reinvented. There is always something newer, richer, cheesier, crispier or more instagrammable waiting for our attention.
Tua Thow offers none of that.
Instead, it offers something increasingly difficult to find: a wholesome bowl of noodles cooked by someone who has spent most of her life perfecting something remarkably simple.
There is a particular comfort in knowing that Grandma is cooking. You don’t question whether the liver will be done properly. You don’t tell her how to cook your noodles. You certainly don’t stand there giving instructions.
You sit down. Grandma cooks. You eat what Grandma gives you. And everything feels just right.
Every now and then, perhaps we city folk need that reminder – to slow down, sit quietly and appreciate the love that goes into our food.
Just like we once did at our grandmother’s table.