Two Years in Amsterdam Oost: How a Familiar Mystery Became Yangon Delight

Two years ago on 7th May 2024, I opened the doors of Yangon Delight in Amsterdam Oost for the very first time. I remember the mix of excitement, real terror and uncertainty, not knowing whether people would come, whether they would understand the food, whether any of it would work. Standing here now, two years later, I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude and still a little surprised that it did.

Some of you probably know that my journey started far away from the Netherlands. For many years, I lived in Singapore, where I ran my own private school. It was a rewarding, stable, and comfortable life, although the first 3 years came with many challenges. That experience taught me how long it takes to stabilise a business and how much resilience entrepreneurship requires behind the scenes.

But over time, that comfort also became limiting. My days became predictable, and I slowly realised I was no longer feeling challenged or inspired in the way I once did. Deep down, I knew I was trading passion and growth for safety and routine. So I made the difficult decision to step away from that life and start over. This time in a completely different country. Leaving Singapore behind was not easy, but it allowed me to rebuild myself in a completely different environment.

Today, my reality looks very different. Long hours on my feet have given me plantar fasciitis, and these days I’ve traded the dresses and boots I once loved for sneakers and jeans. But despite the exhaustion, I feel more alive and connected to my purpose than I have in years.

The Reality

Before opening Yangon Delight, I used to spend a lot of time at the gym — my not-so-secret secret to looking young, though I will let you be the judge of that. Looking back now, I’m grateful for that, because restaurant life is far more physically demanding than I ever imagined. Long hours on my feet, lifting, cleaning, and constantly moving between the kitchen and dining area slowly take a toll on both the body and the mind.

But the emotional side of running a restaurant can be just as demanding as the physical side. Behind every full restaurant and every plate of food is an enormous amount of work that most people never see. There were months when business was very slow, and days when revenue was only a few hundred euros while we continued preparing everything from scratch with care and consistency as always.

For months, the road outside was torn up by construction, making it harder for guests to reach us and fewer foot traffic. There were days I wondered whether we would make it through. But we did.

Mental exhaustion also does funny things to your memory. These days, I cannot confidently take orders from more than two tables without my tablet nearby. In the summertime, when the sun is out, and I am running between the basement and the terrace, while trying to remember extra chili, no coriander, sparkling water, and one more tea leaf salad, my brain simply gives up. To make things more interesting, the internet connection on the terrace is so weak that we are forced to memorize orders like it’s an Olympic sport.

Running a restaurant can also feel surprisingly lonely. Not the kind of loneliness that comes from being alone. I am surrounded by guests, staff, and noise for most of the day. It is a different kind of loneliness: the kind that comes from carrying every challenge, every decision, and every responsibility entirely on your own shoulders. When something goes wrong, there is no manager to escalate to, no colleague to share the weight with. You absorb it, process it yourself, and continue smiling through service. Some days are deeply rewarding. Other days are simply about solving problems and choosing to keep moving forward.

In Singapore, I was the one sitting at the table, choosing from the menu, enjoying the evening. Today I am the one taking the order, running to the kitchen, and smiling through sore feet. I would not change it — but I will not pretend it was not a shock to the system either

The Complexity of the Business

Something I did not fully understand until I was inside it — restaurant businesses are deeply misunderstood from the outside. People often see a full restaurant and assume the owner must be doing very well financially. But the reality behind the scenes is far more complex. Just because someone can cook well does not mean they can run a restaurant. Just because I could teach did not automatically mean I would succeed in running an education business. Technical skill alone is never enough. I once read in The E-Myth that many businesses are started by 'technicians having an entrepreneurial seizure' and I understand that deeply now. Leadership, communication, financial discipline, resilience, and adaptability matter just as much as technical ability. Ego can easily blind us. I have seen people stop learning because they believed years of experience automatically meant they knew everything. But experience without growth can quickly become stagnation. And nowhere is this more visible than in the financials.

If the average guest spends around €30, reaching €2,000 in daily revenue already means serving 65 to 70 people in one day — and that is before rent, staff costs, ingredients, utilities, taxes, and countless other expenses. In the beginning, I also gave heavy discounts through platforms like TheFork, believing it would help people discover Burmese food and give Yangon Delight a chance. Looking back, it was one of the things I did not need to do. My food and my story were always enough. I just did not know it yet.

Entrepreneurship in Singapore taught me how to build. Amsterdam taught me how to carry it alone. Running a business with a partner means shared decisions, shared doubt, and shared relief. Running one alone means all of that lands on you and only you. There are days that feels like freedom. Other days it simply feels heavy. What has helped me through both experiences is understanding my blind spots and being willing to learn continuously from people, from books, and from experience itself.

Just Start

Years ago in Singapore, I signed up for a half-marathon before I could comfortably run two kilometers. Also, I moved to the Netherlands without knowing what my future held here. And I opened Yangon Delight before I fully understood the restaurant industry.

I did not wait until I was fit enough, prepared enough, or certain enough. I started before I was ready because the truth is that we will never feel fully ready. Waiting for the right moment is often just fear wearing a more acceptable name.

If there is one thing I want you to take from these two years, it is this: dare to start. Start messy, start scared, start uncertain. Just start.

Introducing Burmese Cuisine to the Netherlands

When I first started Yangon Delight, some people suggested that I should include a few Thai or Chinese dishes on the menu to make it “safer” and more familiar. I chose not to, because it would have defeated the whole purpose. People could already find many other Asian cuisines in Amsterdam.  Burmese food was still largely unknown.

At the beginning, I genuinely did not know how people would react to tea leaf salad, fish sauce, fermented ingredients, or chickpea tofu. There were moments when I questioned myself. But people became curious. Then they became regulars. And eventually, some of them became unofficial ambassadors of Burmese cuisine, introducing their friends, colleagues, and families to the food.

Even now, when customers tell me, “People are raving about the food,” I still think – really? Raving? I honestly never quite know what to do with that word.

Authenticity, Criticism & Growth

Over the past two years, I have faced criticism, especially from my own community.

"fake Burmese food". "lost culture".

Words that sting, especially when they come from your own people. What made it harder was that most of those who criticised had never actually set foot in Yangon Delight. They judged without tasting, without visiting, without seeing. That is perhaps the loneliest kind of criticism to receive.

I do not blame those who criticised. The fear of losing culture is real and it comes from love. But there is also context that is important to understand. Myanmar has been isolated from the world for many years politically, economically, and culturally. Unlike Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese, or Indonesian cuisine, which have travelled the world for decades and gone through their own evolution in foreign cities, Burmese cuisine is only just beginning that journey. Many in our community have simply never seen what it looks like when a cuisine stays deeply authentic while also becoming accessible to the world. They have never had the reference point. So when they see Burmese food presented differently, the instinct is to protect, not to explore. I understand that. But I also believe that Yangon Delight is part of showing what is possible that you can honour your roots and still let them grow in different soil.

I do not believe authenticity means food has to look exactly like roadside food. There is beauty in Burmese street food, and those memories are deeply emotional for many of us. But culture is also alive. It grows, evolves, and adapts as it travels.

During one of my studies, the Global Education module has always stayed with me. It was there that I first encountered the concept of glocalisation - the idea of staying rooted in local identity while thoughtfully adapting to a global environment. At the time, we were discussing it in the context of schools and curricula. I never imagined I would one day apply it to a plate of Burmese food in Amsterdam.

And this is where glocalisation differs from simply localising. Some Burmese restaurants keep everything traditional and authentic and they attract only fellow Burmese, but rarely the wider local community. Others go the opposite direction, modernising so much that outside guests come, but the Burmese community no longer feels at home there. They chose one world over the other.

This is something a Burmese guest noticed. when she visited Yangon Delight from abroad. Where she lives, it works the same way - Burmese go to the authentic Burmese restaurants, while the wider community chooses the modernised ones. The two worlds rarely meet in the same place. Yet somehow, Yangon Delight managed to sit in the middle, staying deeply authentic in flavour, soul, and cooking method, while being approachable enough in presentation and experience for anyone to walk in and feel welcome. Both communities, one table.

What makes this even more meaningful is that today, despite that early criticism, Yangon Delight is being discovered by Burmese people far beyond Amsterdam. From different cities, different countries, different corners of the diaspora. I never expected that. It still surprises me every time.

Traditional Burmese curries are naturally darker, richer, and more rustic in appearance. But Amsterdam is a city where dining is a visual and sensory experience. People eat with their eyes first. I had to learn how to present Burmese food in a way that still respected its roots while making it approachable to a wider audience. The flavours, cooking methods, and soul of the food remain deeply Burmese. We still slow-cook our curries for hours, hand-make our Shan tofu from scratch, and prepare many dishes the traditional way every single day.

Staying true to your culture does not mean refusing to grow. It is possible to honour your roots while allowing your cuisine to be appreciated on a wider stage.

The Invisible Labor of Hospitality

My perspective on hospitality has changed completely. Before opening Yangon Delight, I mostly experienced restaurants from the customer side. Today, I see the invisible emotional and physical labour behind every service not only in my own restaurant, but across the hospitality industry as a whole.

Physical exhaustion, staff shortages, rising costs, online reviews, reservations, delivery platforms, and social media pressure — all happening at once. Hospitality can look joyful from the outside. Behind the scenes, it often requires enormous emotional resilience.

The Digital Burden of Small Restaurants

I also did not fully understand before entering this industry how fragmented restaurant operations can be for small independent businesses. Reservations, POS systems, inventory, delivery platforms, accounting, staff scheduling, payroll, analytics, and marketing tools often operate completely separately from one another. Instead of simplifying things, this fragmentation can create more manual work, more stress, and more inefficiency for owners who already have limited time and manpower. These experiences have strongly influenced how I now think about sustainability, hospitality, and the future of small businesses.

My Dutch Learning Journey

 Dutch Embassy in Singapore to take Dutch exam because I thought I needed one

Interestingly, my journey to learn Dutch actually started long before Yangon Delight. Back when I was still living in Singapore, I started learning Dutch because I mistakenly thought I needed to pass a Dutch language requirement for my visa application. After the exam at the Dutch embassy, the staff asked me who would sponsor and pay for my insurance. I looked confused and replied, “Of course I will pay for it myself.” That was the moment I realised I had completely misunderstood the visa category and had been preparing for the wrong process entirely.

Looking back now, it still makes me laugh. But strangely, maybe that misunderstanding was also the beginning of my connection with the Netherlands.

Recently, I started taking Dutch more seriously again, but speaking confidently is still one of the hardest parts for me. Sometimes I know exactly what I want to say in my head, but the words disappear the moment I have to speak, and my brain automatically switches back to English.

So I thought, why not combine language, food, and culture?

If you would like to practise Dutch conversation with me for an hour on a Saturday afternoon, I would love to exchange that time for a Burmese party platter and tea. No formal lessons, just relaxed conversation, cultural exchange, and hopefully helping me become a little more fluent along the way.

What You Have Given Me

Looking back, these past two years have changed me in ways I never expected. Yangon Delight started as a small idea inspired by a memory years ago —walking into a Burmese restaurant in San Francisco and feeling something shift. Familiar flavours in a foreign city. The thought of "Amsterdam does not have this" slowly became something much bigger than I imagined.

It became a place where people discovered Burmese food for the first time. A place where conversations started between strangers. A place where homesick Burmese people found comfort, and where different cultures met around one table.

To you, whether you visited once, became a regular, brought your friends, shared kind words, supported us during difficult periods, or simply believed in this journey, thank you from the bottom of my heart. You did not just support a restaurant. You helped build a small piece of Myanmar in Amsterdam.

There are still many things I want to improve, learn, and build in the years ahead. But no matter how much Yangon Delight grows, I hope it never loses the warmth, honesty, and human connection that made people fall in love with it in the first place.

With gratitude,

Thandar