13 Asian dishes that survived the fall of dynasties and empires
Long before Michelin stars and celebrity chefs, food was the currency of power. Across Asia, emperors and sultans dictated the evolution of cuisine. As we might have seen in Bon Appetit, Your Majesty, rulers commissioned palace kitchens to invent dishes that represented abundance, divine favour and political harmony.
But empires fell, palaces burned and royal chefs went home. What survived, astonishingly, were the recipes. For instance, biryani that crossed oceans, dumplings that migrated north and south and elaborate bapsang feasts that became templates for home cooking.
Today, the imperial dishes once reserved for kings now fuel the masses, democratised without losing their aura. Fine-dining chefs from Seoul to Singapore are reimagining these courtly meals, not to recreate the past, but to remind us that heritage cuisine isn’t static. These imperial dishes evolved, just like the nations that inherited them.
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Mughal biryani (India, 16th Century)
Biryani fit for kings, now comfort for millions (Photo: Indrajeet / Pexels)
Born in the lavish kitchens of the Mughal Empire, biryani was the product of cultural fusion. Think Persian pilaf techniques married to the Indian subcontinent’s aromatic spices. It symbolised imperial opulence: rice layered with saffron, meat, dried fruits and ghee, slow-cooked in sealed pots called dum.
As the empire’s influence spread, biryani splintered into regional dialects. For example, Hyderabadi biryani with its heat and tang; Lucknowi biryani perfumed with kewra water and rose; and Karachi biryani, brighter and bolder. Today, chefs like Manish Mehrotra of Indian Accent and Asma Khan of Darjeeling Express reframe biryani as both comfort food and heritage. An emperor’s indulgence transformed into a nation’s soul food.
Tang Dynasty dumplings (China, c. 618-907 CE)
Tang dynasty diplomacy, folded into perfect dumpling pleats (Photo: Alex Hu / Unsplash)
Dumplings date to the Han dynasty, but it was during the Tang (the Silk Road’s golden age) that jiaozi transcended sustenance to become a cultural symbol. Filled with lamb, scallion and spices from Central Asia, they reflected the cosmopolitanism of the empire. Historical records even describe Tang emperors hosting dumpling banquets for foreign envoys, a culinary act of soft power.
Today, dumplings are the most democratic of foods: from humble shuijiao stalls in Xi’an to xiao long bao temples in Shanghai. Modern chefs like André Chiang and Vicky Lau are reclaiming these forms, refining them into haute cuisine without severing their lineage. Each fold, still, is a vestige of empire.
Joseon royal bapsang (Korea, 1392-1897)
Korean tables are always abundant, recalling the philosophy of bapsang (Photo: jyleen21 / Pixabay)
The bapsang—a meticulously arranged table of rice, soups and side dishes—exemplified Confucian ideals of balance, harmony and propriety in the Joseon court. Each meal reflected not only the seasons but the moral order: even the placement of dishes was codified in royal manuals like the Eumsik Dimibang.
What was once exclusive to Gyeongbokgung Palace now anchors Korean identity. Today, chefs such as Cho Hee-sook (Hansikgonggan) and Jung Ho-yeon reinterpret the bapsang for contemporary diners, balancing ancient restraint with modern expression. In their hands, royal cuisine becomes less a relic and more a living philosophy.
Imperial Peking duck (Yuan Dynasty, c. 13th Century)
Peking duck: centuries of precision, glazed to golden perfection (Photo: FuReal / Pixabay)
Most of these imperial dishes remain incredibly popular but perhaps not as much as this delicacy. Roasted duck was first served to Mongol rulers of the Yuan dynasty before becoming a Ming imperial staple. The dish required engineering precision: ducks inflated to separate skin from fat, glazed with maltose syrup, then roasted in brick ovens to achieve lacquered crispness.
Today, Beijing’s Quanjude and Dadong preserve these imperial techniques, while global chefs like Alan Yau of Duck & Rice, London and André Chiang have integrated Peking duck into modern gastronomy. Its survival across centuries—not to mention continents—embodies how ritual and innovation can coexist on a single plate.
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Hainanese chicken rice (China/Southeast Asia, 13th Century)
Chicken rice, once imperial, now a democratic national treasure (Photo: Change C.C / Pexels)
Derived from the Wenchang chicken of Hainan, once served to Chinese officials during the Song and Yuan dynasties, this dish travelled with Hainanese migrants across Southeast Asia. Its simplicity—poached chicken, fragrant rice and chilli-ginger sauce—belied centuries of refinement.
In Singapore, chefs like Damian D’Silva (Rempapa) and Hawker Chan have elevated it to near-national status, transforming a bureaucratic banquet dish into democratic comfort food. Few recipes better illustrate how culinary diaspora preserves imperial flavours by making them accessible.
Roasted suckling pig (China, Zhou Dynasty, c. 1046–256 BCE)
Roast piglet: ancient ritual turned timeless celebration (Photo: fevol / Pixabay)
None of these imperial dishes is quite as regal as a roast. Referenced in the Sanli Jing (“Three Books of Rites”), roasted piglet began as a sacrificial offering to ancestors and deities. Think of it as an edible prayer for prosperity. Over millennia, it evolved into a banquet showpiece synonymous with festivity and filial piety.
In Hong Kong, restaurants like Yung Kee and Lung King Heen continue the ritual, perfecting skin so crisp it shatters under the teeth. Chef Chan Yan Tak’s version at Lung King Heen exemplifies how ancient rites survive in luxury dining, while the idea of celebratory roast pork has become universal with the spread of the diaspora.
Pho (Vietnam, 19th Century Imperial Period)
Pho has gone from Hue’s royal kitchens to Hanoi’s bustling streets (Photo: JANG 'S/Pexels)
Though pho emerged during French colonial rule, its roots lie in the imperial kitchens of Hue, where broths were prized for balance and clarity. The Nguyen dynasty codified the idea of broth as both medicine and art—each simmered bone a gesture toward longevity and virtue.
Street vendors later adapted those royal broths into modern pho, democratising what was once an elite expression of culinary refinement. Even now, the national dish carries imperial echoes in every aromatic bowl.
Pad thai (Thailand, 1930s Nationalist Revival)
Pad thai—born from politics, loved by the world (Photo: John Aledia / Unsplash)
Though seemingly modern, pad thai was born from politics. During the 1930s, Prime Minister Plaek Phibunsongkhram sought to unify a post-royalist Thailand with a new national identity. He commissioned cooks to invent a dish that was quick, nutritious and distinct from Chinese noodle dishes. Thus, pad Thai was born. Its balance of sweet, sour and spice embodies the harmony of the kingdom itself.
Today, chefs like Supinya Junsuta (“Jay Fai”) elevate it from street fare to Michelin-starred legend. Hey, nationalism that was once exclusive in palace kitchens can thrive in alleyways.
Nasi lemak (Malay Archipelago, 15th Century Sultanate)
Nasi lemak: royal breakfast, people’s pride (Photo: Suhairy Tri Yadhi / Pexels)
First recorded in the Sultanate of Malacca, nasi lemak, or rice steamed in coconut milk and pandan leaves, was royal breakfast fare, paired with sambal and fried anchovies as palate cleansers between court dishes. Over centuries, it became the people’s meal, wrapped in banana leaves and sold at dawn markets. Its transformation from royal indulgence to national comfort food parallels Malaysia’s own journey from kingdom to nation-state—a monarchy’s meal reimagined for the masses.
Ayam betutu (Bali, Majapahit Legacy)
Ayam betutu: Bali’s sacred spice and smoke (Photo: Instagram/@holidayinnbalisanur)
A descendant of Javanese court cuisine, ayam betutu was once served in royal ceremonies, its slow-roasted bird marinated in base genep, which is a complex blend of turmeric, galangal, shallots and chillies. The technique reflected Hindu-Balinese ritualism, where food symbolised devotion and cosmic order.
Now a Balinese national dish, betutu bridges spirituality and sensuality, reminding diners that even after empires vanish, ritual remains edible.
Rendang (Indonesia, Minangkabau Kingdom, c. 16th Century)
Rendang: slow-cooked patience from Minangkabau courts (Photo: prananta haroun / Unsplash)
Before it became a global darling, rendang was royal preservation. It was an ingenious Minangkabau technique to slow-cook beef in coconut milk and spices until the sauce evaporated, sealing the meat in a protective oil. It was designed for kings, travellers and warriors—food that could survive weeks of journey through the archipelago’s humid jungles.
In the courts of West Sumatra, rendang symbolised patience, resilience and wisdom—virtues expected of nobility. Today, it remains a ceremonial centrepiece and a metaphor for Indonesia itself: rich and enduring. The same dish that once anchored royal banquets now sits in tiffin boxes, warung stalls and Michelin-starred menus alike. Rendang shows that power, given enough time, becomes culture.
Soto Betawi (Dutch East Indies / Indonesia, 19th Century)
Soto Betawi: Jakarta’s colonial history in a single bowl (Photo: ikhsan baihaqi / Unsplash)
Soto Betawi, Jakarta’s creamy beef and coconut soup, stems from the colonial kitchens of Batavia, where Malay, Arab, Chinese and Dutch influences simmer together. The term soto itself comes from the Chinese caudo, meaning “offal soup.” Still, the Betawi people made it their own. They thickened it with coconut milk, spiced it with nutmeg and galangal and enriched it with brisket and tomatoes.
What began as a working-class stew mirrored the port city’s diversity. At roadside warungs and in heritage restaurants like Soto Betawi H. Ma’ruf, the dish endures as the city’s soul food: rich, multicultural and defiantly local. In its fragrant broth lies Indonesia’s colonial history, rendered edible: empire absorbed, softened and rewritten for comfort.
Laap (Lan Xang Kingdom / Northern Laos and Thailand, 14th Century)
Laap, larb or laab is a salad of fortune, unity and royal memory (Photo: Alexandra Tran / Pexels)
Laap (also spelled larb or laab), the national dish of Laos, traces its lineage to the royal and ritual feasts of the Lan Xang Kingdom. Originally made from freshly minced game or fish mixed with herbs, lime, toasted rice and padek (fermented fish sauce), it was both sustenance and symbol. After all, its name echoes the Lao word for “fortune.” In courtly and animist ceremonies, laap represented prosperity and unity. It was also a way to respect ancestral spirits.
Modern laap still honours its elemental balance of sour, salty, bitter and spicy, though it has travelled far from the palace kitchens. In Bangkok and Luang Prabang, chefs like Bee Satongun (Paste) reinterpret laap with wagyu, river prawns or foraged herbs, proving that even a humble minced salad can carry the weight of empire. Once a dish of kings and rituals, laap today speaks of survival, its memory making it even more delicious.
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