Chef Tommy’s Journey
From East Timor to Melbourne: a life told through food.
I was born in East Timor, in eastern Indonesia, where my earliest memories are of family, food, and firewood. In our house, food wasn’t just eaten, it was experienced. My mother, a brilliant self-taught cook, ran her own restaurant and recorded every recipe by hand. My father could cook, my siblings could cook, we were a family shaped by the kitchen. Cooking together wasn’t a chore – it was a language of love.
After moving to Java and briefly studying in Jogja, I eventually spent nine years in Bali. There, I deepened my love for traditional cooking and learned how food was intimately tied to rituals, healing, and community. These years taught me that in Balinese culture, food is not rushed – it’s sacred. It’s how we gather, pray, and restore.
In 2006, an earthquake destroyed our family home in Jogja. There were no insurance systems like in Australia, no safety nets. My father had just retired, and I felt a deep sense of responsibility. That moment shifted my life. I decided to leave Indonesia and start over in Australia, not just for me, but for my family.
“2006 — when everything fell apart, I learned what rebuilding really means.” (Photo for illustration: credit Photo Muhammad Bundhowi. Licensed under CC BY 2.0)
Starting again was humbling.
I arrived in Australia with nothing but determination and a few kitchen knives. The first months felt endless; the language, the cold, the loneliness. Every sound in the kitchen was new; the accent, the pace, the expectations. But the heat of the stove was familiar, and that was enough to keep me going.
Slowly, work became my rhythm. Mornings in class, afternoons in stocking, nights in restaurant kitchens. The days blended into one another, exhausting but purposeful. There were weeks I didn’t know what “weekend” meant anymore;
I was just surviving, one shift at a time.
I remember one winter night vividly: riding a second-hand fixie through rain and freezing winters just to save on transport costs — every dollar mattered because every dollar could feed someone back home — shoes soaked, hands numb, but heart warm because I was sending money home the next morning.
That bicycle became my quiet companion through those early years, proof that progress doesn’t always look glamorous.
“This old bike carried more than me — it carried my dreams.”
Eventually, my hard work paid off.
I found stability, and a new sense of belonging inside the kitchen. Cooking became more than just survival; it became identity. I worked my way up, leading teams, mentoring younger chefs, and managing entire kitchens. Every dish I created was a step closer to the life I once dreamed of.
There’s a rhythm to a professional kitchen. It was exhausting, yes, but it was also exhilarating. For a while, I thought this was what success looked like. The long hours, the precision, passion. But somewhere in the middle of all that noise, I realised something was missing.
When my daughter turned four, I started noticing the little things I was missing at home — her laughter during dinner, her drawings on the fridge, the quiet moments that slipped away while I was at work. At the same time, my father, now elderly and living with us in Australia, needed more care, more presence. I began to feel a pull in two directions: toward my passion, and toward my family. And that tension grew until I knew I had to make a choice.
So I made a decision I never expected: I left the kitchen.
Not because I lost my love for cooking — but because I didn’t want to lose the people I loved most.
It was the hardest, yet most meaningful choice I’ve ever made. After years of rushing, I began to slow down. Cooking became something intimate again — something I shared with my daughter, my family, my community.
“From restaurant kitchens to home kitchens — now, my favourite sous-chef is my daughter.”
Now, I’m rebuilding — slowly, intentionally. I’m creating Rasada as a space where food and family come together. A space that holds memory, healing, and connection.
Melbourne showed me the world through food. From Ethiopian injera to Vietnamese pho, I saw how cuisine could carry stories across oceans. And it made me look inward, to my own roots. I realised how little people knew about Indonesian food — not just as something spicy and delicious, but as a living tradition rooted in care, ritual, and ceremony.
Today, I dedicate myself to sharing this knowledge. Whether I’m hosting pop-up dinners, teaching wellness cooking, or collaborating with retreats, I bring the soul of Indonesia into every dish. I cook slowly, mindfully. I tell stories through spices.
I believe that cooking is a full-body ritual — a way of healing not just the body, but the heart. I want to bring people together through pop-up dinners, wellness retreats, and workshops that honour tradition, celebrate culture, and remind us of what it means to truly share a meal.