Ancient flavours: the oldest recipes and techniques in Asia that still endure to this day
When we talk about ancient food, we often mean ingredients: rice, wheat, millet. But the oldest recorded dishes and culinary techniques reveal more than what people once ate—they show how they adapted, innovated, and created ritual from necessity. Across Asia, some of the world’s oldest recorded dishes not only survived but also evolved into icons of comfort, celebration and identity. Archaeology, ancient texts and culinary traditions reveal how these foods became foundations of Asian cuisines—and why they remain vital today.
This is a journey into origins—into congee pots, fermenting jars and the first fires ever lit for cooking.
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Noodles (China, c. 2000 BCE)
Millet noodles discovered in a 4,000-year-old bowl prove that slurp culture started long before ramen (Photo: Engin Akyurt / Pexels)
How it was made
Grains were milled into flour or coarse meal, mixed with wate and then shaped into thin strands or sheets for drying or cooking fresh.
Why it mattered then
The earliest tangible evidence of noodles—thin strands of millet—was discovered in a sealed bowl in a collapsed house in Lajia, northwest China, dating back over 4,000 years. Far from an experiment, it was a dish already perfected. Later Han Dynasty texts (25–220 CE) describe noodle soups like tang bing (“soup cake”), showing clear continuity. By the Tang era, noodles were an everyday food, long before they became global.
Legacy and reinvention
From wheat-based lamian in northern China to slippery rice noodles in the south, noodles have diversified endlessly. The technique spread across Asia, shaping dishes such as ramen, pho, and pad Thai. The world’s noodle culture owes its beginnings to these ancient strands of ingenuity.
Congee (China, c. 7000 BCE)
Congee has progressed from humble rice dish to prestige cuisine (Photo: Kai-Chieh Chan / Pexels)
How it was made
Grain was boiled in water until it broke down into a starchy gruel to make the first versions of congee.
Why it mattered then
After rice was domesticated in the Yangtze River basin, boiling it with excess water became a way to stretch harvests and make food digestible for children, the elderly, and the sick. Archaeological evidence of charred rice and pottery shards from Neolithic China suggests early versions of this porridge-like dish.
Legacy and reinvention
What’s remarkable is how little its base form has changed. Over the years, one of the oldest recorded dishes in Asia still requires just rice, water and patience. However, regional variation abounds. Cantonese congee often includes small meat or preserved egg, while Japanese okayu is simpler, sometimes just rice and water; Filipino lugaw adds garlic, ginger or calamansi. Modern chefs sometimes infuse porridge with luxury ingredients—abalone, sea urchin. For example, Michelin-starred Cantonese restaurant T’ang Court in Hong Kong elevates congee with preserved eggs, seafood and black truffles. These days, humble porridge can carry prestige.
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Fermentation techniques: kimchi, pickling, soy-paste (as early as 7,000 BCE)
Kimchi, miso, soy—Asia turned preservation into perfection long before fridges existed (Photo: Antoni Shkraba Studio / Pexels)
How it was made
Food was preserved using salt, brine and beneficial bacteria, turning perishables into living foods that deepen with time.
Why it mattered then
Long before refrigeration, salt and fermentation kept societies fed through winter and famine. Records from the Han and Three Kingdoms periods describe salted vegetables stored in clay urns, while early Korean texts from before the chilli pepper’s arrival detail simple brined napa cabbage and radish. Around the 2nd century BCE, East Asians began fermenting soybeans into dense, savoury pastes—precursors to today’s doenjang, miso and doubanjiang. These weren’t just condiments; they were nutritional lifelines, carrying umami where meat was scarce and embodying the idea that transformation—given time and care—can create depth.
Legacy and reinvention
Fermentation remains one of Asia’s most enduring culinary signatures. Kimchi is no longer just a winter staple but a national emblem of Korea, its variants filling Michelin-starred menus and family fridges alike. In Japan, miso artisans such as Marukome are reviving centuries-old methods using wild yeast and wooden vats. In China’s Pixian county, craftsmen still sun-age doubanjiang for years in earthenware pots, a slow process that defines Sichuan’s fiery flavour. Across Asia and beyond, chefs like Noma’s David Zilber and Mingles’ Mingoo Kang are returning to ancestral ferments—not as novelties, but as proof that ancient preservation is also modern innovation.
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Steamed cakes (as early as c. 3rd century BCE)
Before bao and idli came mantou—the soft ancestor that fed dynasties (Photo: Amanda Lim / Unsplash)
How it was made
To make steamed buns or bread, batter or masa is formed and fermented, and then steamed or otherwise cooked with moist heat.
Why it mattered then
One of the oldest recorded dishes is also one of the most versatile. The ancestor of baozi and countless dumplings, mantou began as plain steamed wheat bread—fuel for northern Chinese farmers whose diets relied on wheat rather than rice. Early references to Chinese mantou date back to the Warring States period (~3rd century BCE) and describe dough cakes more for sustenance than delicacy.
By the Three Kingdoms period, the innovation of stuffing dough led to the creation of baozi. From there, the tree branched: xiao long bao, sheng jian bao, cha siu bao. But the original mantou remains unchanged, eaten plain or dipped into braises and stews.
In South India, texts from around the 10th century CE describe soft fermented rice-and-lentil cakes called idli. These techniques allowed grains or legumes that are difficult to digest when raw to become palatable and nourishing.
Legacy and reinvention
Mantou became baozi, dim sum; idli became breakfast staple. Today, modern variations (multigrain, millet, gluten-free) have revived interest in older grains and ancestral diets, and chefs like David Chang have globalised the concept, while artisanal bakeries in Beijing and Shanghai revisit the original mantou as minimalist, fluffy perfection.
Use of animal roasting (c. 1046-256 BCE)
From Zhou rituals to lechon feasts—fire has always meant celebration (Photo: Milan Masnikosa / Pexels)
How it was made
Roasting whole animals over fire—on spits, in clay ovens, or over glowing coals—was both sustenance and ceremony, a primal method that celebrated abundance.
Why it mattered then
Few cooking techniques speak as universally to early human ingenuity as roasting. Archaeological finds across Asia show charred bones and primitive hearths long before written history, but in China’s Zhou dynasty (c. 1046-256 BCE), the Sanli—the “Three Books of Rites”—already described the roasted suckling pig as a sacred offering, a bridge between the living and their ancestors. In India, open-fire roasting shaped the early forms of kebabs brought by Central Asian traders and later refined in Mughal courts, while Southeast Asia developed banana-leaf or bamboo-roasted meats suited to tropical terrain.
Legacy and reinvention
The essence of roasting has survived empires. In China, the lacquered perfection of Cantonese roast pork and Peking duck traces a direct lineage to those ritual fires. South Asia’s seekh kebabs and roast raan (whole leg of lamb) evolved from royal feasts to street fare, while in the Philippines, lechon remains the ultimate communal celebration, its crackling skin a national obsession.
Today, chefs bridge old and new: Hong Kong’s Chan Yan Tak of Lung King Heen preserves the art of suckling pig with precision control, while Bangkok’sThitid Tassanakajohn of Le Du slow-roasts meats to evoke ancestral flavor with modern restraint. Chef Josh Boutwood from the Philippines has a restaurant dedicated to fire. Even in fine dining, the primal act endures: fire remains the final arbiter of tenderness, memory and mastery.
Rawon (Indonesia, East Java, c. 10th century CE)
Dark, nutty and centuries old—rawon proves depth never goes out of style (Photo: Aldrin Rachman Pradana / Unsplash)
How it was made
To make rawon, beef is slow-simmered in a dark, nutty broth flavoured with keluak, lemongrass, galangal and shallots.
Why it mattered then
Rawon is often cited as one of the earliest named dishes in Javanese records, appearing in Old Javanese inscriptions from the 10th century CE, during the Mataram Kingdom. The use of keluak—a seed that must be fermented and detoxified before eating— reflects ancient Javanese expertise in processing local ingredients for both safety and depth of flavour. The dish’s near-black colour symbolised earthiness and prosperity in royal banquets, while its preparation required communal labour: pounding spice pastes, tending the fire, and slowly coaxing flavour from tougher beef cuts. Over centuries, Rawon became a bridge between Indonesia’s Hindu-Buddhist past and the Muslim era that followed, its taste unchanged even as the islands shifted empires and faiths.
Legacy and reinvention
Today, rawon remains a cornerstone of East Javanese cuisine, served from humble warungs to ceremonial tables. It’s often eaten with rice, salted egg and mung bean sprouts. The goal is a full meal meant to comfort and fortify. Modern Indonesian chefs such as Petty Elliott and Mandif Warokka reinterpret rawon with tender short ribs or wagyu beef, yet keep the keluak soul intact. Abroad, it’s gaining recognition as Indonesia’s answer to mole or black curry: aromatic and mysterious. The endurance of rawon proves how a thousand-year-old village dish can hold its own in the era of tasting menus—its darkness, once ritual, now reimagined as culinary sophistication.
Kinilaw (Philippines, c. 10th-13th century CE)
The Philippines’ kinilaw, still as bright and bold as the sea (Photo: Lokalpedia / Wikimedia Commons)
How it was made
Raw fish or meat is cured in natural acids—vinegar, calamansi or sour fruits like kamias—to denature proteins without heat.
Why it mattered then
Archaeological evidence from the Butuan balangay excavations in Mindanao (dated between the 10th and 13th centuries CE) revealed fish bones cut into cubes and remnants of tabon-tabon fruit. The latter is still used today as a souring and antimicrobial agent in Mindanao kinilaw. Spanish chroniclers later documented the method in the 17th-century Vocabulario de la lengua tagala, describing “cquinicqilao” as a native preparation long predating colonisation. Similar to Latin American ceviche, the acid in kinilaw comes from local palms and fruits, making it one of Asia’s earliest examples of chemical cooking. It reflects a maritime people’s intuitive grasp of preservation and freshness, curing fish moments after it leaves the sea.
Legacy and reinvention
Today, kinilaw is both an everyday dish and a marker of Filipino regional identity. Visayan fishermen favour tuna or mackerel with coconut vinegar, while Ilocano kilawen lightly grills goat or beef before the acid cure. Contemporary chefs like Jordy Navarra of Toyo Eatery and JP Anglo of Sarsa have reimagined kinilaw as a tasting-menu centrepiece—pairing vinegar infusions with tropical fruits, seaweed, and coconut cream. Yet the essence remains the same: immediacy, rawness and a sense of place that predates the Philippines itself.
Ghee (Indian Subcontinent, Vedic Period, c. 1500-500 BCE)
Golden, sacred, eternal—ghee has fuelled both kitchens and rituals for millennia (Photo: Megumi Nachev / Unsplash)
How it was made
Butter is clarified by separating milk solids from golden butterfat, creating a pure, shelf-stable cooking medium.
Historical significance
The story of ghee begins in the Vedic period, where it was both sustenance and sacrament. In early Indian texts, such as the Rigveda and Atharvaveda, ghee was poured into ritual fires as an offering to Agni, the god of fire. Its very name symbolised purity and transformation. The process of heating butter until its solids caramelised and its water evaporated also reflected practical wisdom: it prevented spoilage in India’s tropical heat. By the Mauryan and Gupta eras, ghee had become essential not just to diet but to medicine. Ayurvedic texts praised it for promoting digestion and longevity.
Legacy and reinvention
Millennia later, ghee remains the heartbeat of South Asian kitchens. It anchors everything from Mughlai biryanis and Punjabi parathas to temple offerings in Tirupati. Artisanal dairies and diaspora chefs alike are reviving desi ghee traditions, using grass-fed milk and low, patient heating to reclaim depth lost in industrial versions. Modern chefs such as Garima Arora of Bangkok’s Gaa and Floyd Cardoz helped introduce ghee to global fine dining, treating it as liquid gold rather than mere fat. In a sense, it’s the oldest clarified idea in the world: how to turn something so impermanent as milk into something immortal—flavour.
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