How Hard Is It To Make Bao? We Tried Making Tanjong Rhu Pau From Scratch

The art behind Tanjong Rhu Pau’s legacy

My fingers fumbled clumsily with the soft dough, as if it outright refused to obey even the simplest instructions. The more I tried to pinch and pleat, the more the dough slipped from my fingers, the filling threatening to spill as the folds collapsed into one another. Looking around, I watched as the other hands moved with quiet precision, churning out perfect little bao in seconds. Mine, in contrast, looked like it had given up halfway through its existence.

For someone who loves food and lives to eat, I surprisingly lack even the most basic kitchen skills. Hence, I was initially relieved when I was told my role at a kitchen tour of Tanjong Rhu Pau would be “just to observe and write about the process.” But as the tour went on, that plan quickly unravelled, and I soon found myself standing in the kitchen of Singapore’s most prominent bao makers—tasked with replicating their time-honoured bao.

Despite now being run by second-generation owners Yap Wei Jie, 43, and Chloe Yap, 48, Tanjong Rhu Pau remains true to its roots. Founded by Wei Jie’s father, Yap Peng Wah, the humble stall began in a Jalan Batu coffee shop in the 1970s, before gaining widespread recognition in 1988, when he brought in a business partner and introduced the now-iconic “mini bao”. 

Before my severe lack of culinary prowess was exposed, we were first taken on a guided tour of the kitchen conducted by the 38-year-old brand. In an age where efficiency is paramount, and businesses often cut corners to boost productivity, it was refreshing to see Tanjong Rhu Pau stay committed to its meticulous preparation process.

It all starts with the brand’s 30-year-old mother dough—older and more experienced in the kitchen than I am—carefully maintained over generations to preserve its signature texture. Unlike dry yeast, the mother dough undergoes overnight fermentation, allowing it to rise substantially and develop a richer flavour. 

But this is where arguably the toughest part of the whole process comes in. The dough starts as a rough, porous mixture that must be patted and smoothed repeatedly, relying entirely on touch and feel until it becomes perfectly silky. I was quietly relieved that this wasn’t the part that they expected me to get hands-on, as my skinny arms would have been no match for this task. 

I learned that while hand-kneading is slower, it produces a more tender dough with less oxidation. It also offers greater control over the texture, which is crucial to the final product.

Besides the steaming room, where baskets of bao are loaded into two massive steamers and whisked out by suction, it was the roasters full of succulent char siew that caught my attention.

Carefully selected strips of hind leg pork are roasted over charcoal every two days at a low temperature to preserve their juiciness and tenderness. Each piece of char siew is coated in the brand’s proprietary sauce, which is cooked over a burner and mixed with the meat to achieve that signature sweet and smoky flavour. 

I was so distracted by the char siew that I nearly forgot I had reached the part I had been quietly dreading—actually making a bao. I had come prepared to keep my hands clean, but my colleagues, eager to watch the spectacle, quickly egged me on.

The dough we were given weighed significantly less than the typical 17 grams used for their bao—just enough for beginners to get a proper feel for it.

Wei Jie kindly gave us a step-by-step demonstration on how to craft the bao. It begins with identifying the rough side of the dough, before flattening it on the counter. Simple enough, I thought—only to soon realise that this was the only step I could manage on my own.

We were then instructed to form a bowl shape with our non-dominant hand to hold the dough, before placing the filling in the centre and using two fingers of our dominant hand to fold and pinch the edges. The technique was delicate: the thumb must maintain constant pressure while moving in sync with the fingers to properly seal the bun. 

We continued folding and pinching around the edge until the hole at the top became too small for the thumb to fit. Following that, we had to tilt the bun 90 degrees while continuing to pinch, which naturally sealed the remaining dough. Just like that, voilà—our very first bao was complete!

From the way I’ve described it, you might think the whole process was a breeze, but in reality, it was anything but.

For one, I struggled with my finger movements. Using my index finger to pinch the edges while keeping my thumb was difficult, as my hands were extremely stiff. That meant I was unable to maintain pressure on the filling, which kept sliding out of place.

I even had three people from different generations guiding me through my first attempt at making a successful bao—Chloe, Wei Jie, and even the founder himself—but to little avail. While the number and neatness of a bao’s pleats often reflect the skill of its maker, mine told a very different story. Instead of neat, symmetrical folds, it looked more like a misshapen pile of dough.

While I struggled, I was amazed at how effortlessly the experts moved through the motions, folding with clockwork precision and completing each bao in seconds. It was clear that only countless hours of practice had turned their movements into muscle memory. 

Hey, at least my bao didn’t taste completely different from the real thing—though that probably had more to do with the delicious pre-made filling. Still, my messy pleats resulted in a thick, doughy base, which took away from that satisfying mouthfeel.

That day, I walked out of the store not just with boxes of my odd-looking bao (and some of the real deal), but also with a newfound appreciation for the craft behind what might seem like an unassuming snack. It is certainly not easy for an establishment like Tanjong Rhu Pau to stay true to its traditions, but in every carefully folded pleat lies a story of perseverance, shaped by decades of tears, sweat, and dedication.

For more fascinating food stories, check out our feature on Orchard’s first ice-cream uncle, Uncle Chieng, or explore our in-depth look at the slow disappearance of traditional wet markets in Singapore.

Address: 389 Guillemard Road, Singapore 399788
Opening hours: Tues-Sun 8.30am to 8pm
Tel: 6842 2112
Website | Full list of outlets
Tanjong Rhu Pau is not halal-certified. 

Photos taken by Marcus Neo
This was a media tasting at Tanjong Rhu Pau.