Salon du Pain 2026 | 03 What I Am Preparing for the Table

Salon du Pain 2026
Taste of Memories
A Special Two-Day Showcase
30–31 May 2026
GF Concourse, Isetan The Japan Store
Lot 10, Bukit Bintang, Kuala Lumpur
10:00 AM – 10:00 PM

As Salon du Pain gets closer, I want to slowly share more of what I am preparing for the two-day showcase.

Not everything yet.

Just a few thoughts from behind the scenes — the memories, ideas, trials, and small decisions that are slowly becoming the breads I hope to present on 30 and 31 May.

Before a bread appears on the table, there is always a quieter journey.

Many rounds of discussion.

Many tests.

Many things that do not work.

Many ideas that sound good in the beginning, but feel different once they enter the dough.

For this showcase, I do not want to present bread only as flavour.

I want to present bread as memory points from my own journey.

Not the usual kind of memory, perhaps.

Not only childhood tastes or everyday comfort.

But the memories that shaped how I think as a baker — the first techniques I saw, the bakeries I visited, the ingredients I kept thinking about, the ideas I archived for years, and the flavours I now want to reinterpret in my own way.

This is part of the anticipation for Salon du Pain.

A glimpse of what may appear on the table.

A small invitation to understand the breads before tasting them.

One memory goes back to the first time Chef Nogami baked in Malaysia.

I still remember the small baguettine he showed — simple, precise, and full of character. It was not a big bread, but it carried something very clear. Sometimes a small bread can say more than a large one.

It reminded me that bread does not always need to be complicated to leave an impression.

Another memory comes from ideas I had wanted to make for many years, but never fully brought out.

Some ideas stay quietly inside us.

They do not disappear.

They wait.

At different points in my career, I would think of a flavour, a filling, a shape, or a way of eating bread, but then the idea would be archived. Not rejected. Just kept aside. Maybe the bakery was too busy. Maybe the product did not fit the moment. Maybe I was not ready to say what I wanted to say with it.

Salon du Pain gives me a reason to return to those ideas.

Then there is Lyon.

When I visited Lyon, I came across the Saucisson de Lyon. The idea intrigued me — a sausage deeply connected to a city, a tradition, and a way of eating. But visually, it did not pull me in enough at that moment, and in the end, I did not try it there.

Strangely, that missed taste stayed with me.

Not because I knew exactly how it tasted, but because it left a question in my mind.

What would that idea feel like if it passed through my own memory?

Satay is something we understand more naturally here. The aroma, the smoke, the spice, the sweetness, the savoury depth — it is familiar to us in a way that does not need much explanation.

So the bread became an intersection of thoughts.

Not a copy of Saucisson de Lyon.

Not simply satay in bread.

But somewhere between the two — a French-inspired idea I did not fully experience, meeting a Malaysian flavour I know instinctively.

That is how some ideas are born.

Not from one direct reference, but from the space between curiosity, distance, and familiarity.

There is also the memory of my last Mondial du Pain competition.

For the Pain Aromatique category, I worked with local ingredients such as buah keluak and buah kulim. Those ingredients opened another way for me to think about Malaysian bread — not only pandan, coconut, or gula Melaka, but deeper forest flavours, darker aromas, something earthy, wild, and less expected.

That experience stayed with me.

So for Salon du Pain, I wanted to continue that conversation, but in a more approachable way. Something savoury. Something small. Something people can pick up, taste, and understand through one bite.

And of course, there is Japan.

So much of my craft memory is connected to Japanese bakers.

The way they observe dough.

The way they refine small details.

The way a bakery can feel quiet but powerful.

The way flavours are not forced, but carefully placed.

My visits to Japan shaped how I think about bread, not because I want to imitate Japanese bread exactly, but because I admire the seriousness behind it. The restraint. The patience. The respect for small things.

All these memories slowly became the direction of the table.

The final breads are still taking shape.

Some details may still change.

That is part of the process.

But the direction is becoming clearer: a table of small savoury breads, each carrying a different memory, technique, ingredient, or thought.

Almost like “fine dining rolls”.

But not fine dining in the expensive or formal sense.

Fine as in small.

Fine as in detailed.

Fine as in carefully considered.

And dining because these breads are not just breads to keep for tomorrow. They are closer to a prepared meal — something savoury, assembled, expressive, and best enjoyed on the same day.

A little “role” play, maybe.

Fine dining rolls.

Bread with a sense of humour, but still serious in craft.

These breads may not be the most familiar kind of comfort bread for many people here.

They are not necessarily soft, fluffy, sweet, or gentle in the way many of us grew up recognising bakery bread in Malaysia. In a simple way, they are closer to what we often call “European bread” — breads with a firmer bite, a tougher crust, deeper fermentation flavour, and sometimes darker colours from the Maillard reaction during baking.

Some may look more rustic.

Some may feel stronger.

Some may have a darker crust.

Some are made to carry savoury fillings, oils, cheeses, herbs, spices, or condiments.

And because of that, they are best eaten on the same day.

Not because they are not good enough to keep, but because their character is meant to be enjoyed fresh — like a prepared meal, or a small traiteur item. The crust, the filling, the aroma, the texture, and the balance all belong to that moment.

Will everyone immediately understand this kind of bread?

Maybe not.

And that is part of the journey too.

Sometimes bread needs an explanation before it is understood.

Not a long explanation.

Just enough to open the door.

Enough to say: this is not only hard bread. This is crust, fermentation, aroma, filling, and memory working together.

For the base of these breads, I wanted to use the Respectus Panis® method.

This is important to me because I can finally showcase a more complete series using this method for the first time.

Respectus Panis is not about forcing the dough.

It is about doing less, but observing more.

Pure flour.

Less salt.

Little kneading.

Long fermentation.

Hand mixing.

A slower rhythm.

It asks the baker to listen to the dough instead of controlling everything too aggressively.

For me, this method feels very close to how I now understand bread. It is not only about volume, shine, or perfect appearance. It is about flavour, digestion, texture, and how the bread continues to feel after you eat it.

A bread made this way can have more character.

The flavour is not loud immediately, but it develops.

The crumb feels more alive.

The crust has a different kind of depth.

And because the fermentation is long, the bread carries a calmer, more rounded taste.

For Salon du Pain, I wanted to use this method as the foundation, then build different expressions from it.

Some breads may begin from the original dough.

Some may carry buah keluak.

Some may explore hojicha.

Some may use beetroot.

From there, they become small savoury pieces — assembled with ingredients I like, or ingredients I have been fascinated with for a long time.

Satay sausage.

Anchovies.

Cheese.

Mustard seeds.

Gherkins.

Olives.

Peppercorns.

Bubu arare.

Kulim oil.

Nutmeg.

Cocoa husk.

Gula Melaka.

Matcha from Japan.

Local chocolate.

Some flavours are Malaysian.

Some are Japanese.

Some come from French bakery thinking.

Some are simply things I enjoy eating.

That is the honest part of this showcase.

Before I ask people to like something, I want to make something I like first.

Then I want to find the words to tell them why.

Why this flavour makes sense to me.

Why this ingredient stayed in my memory.

Why this small bread deserves to exist on the table.

Maybe that is the most natural way to present bread.

Not by saying, “You must like this.”

But by saying, “This is something I like. Let me show you why.”

There is a certain risk in that.

When a bread is too personal, not everyone may understand it immediately.

But I think that is also where the beauty is.

A showcase like Salon du Pain does not need to behave like an everyday bakery counter. It can become a place to try something slightly different. Something more specific. Something that carries the baker’s journey inside it.

For now, this is only a sneak peek.

The real answer will be on the table on 30 and 31 May.

I hope people come not only to taste the breads, but to enter a little into the journey behind them — the memories, the trials, the techniques, and the ingredients that brought them here.

First, I make something I like.

Then I try to find the words to tell people why.

And finally, I hope they come, taste it for themselves, and understand it in their own way.