In the early 2010s, there was only one restaurant in Melbourne successfully slinging pad see ewe for close to $30. It likely wasn’t the best pad see ewe in town, but it did use the guise of modern Asian fusion to convince hordes of customers to pay more for Thai (or Thai-adjacent) food than they ever had before. This restaurant, and the wave of “Asian-inspired” restaurants that followed, had repackaged immigrant food as trendy and exotic, while delivering what Western diners wanted: an inner-city location, shared plates, Instagram-ready fit-out, casual yet professional service delivered by young and hip staff. They had made Asian food cool.

They were hardly the first. Since at least the 1980s, white chefs all over the world were brazenly adding wasabi to the mashed potatoes, “elevating” Asian dishes, and charging far more for the often-dubious results than any actual Asian chef might hope to charge for her culturally appropriate offerings. (Unless it was sushi, of course.) 

Immigrant food has long been relegated to cheap eats, and while fusion gave it a backdoor to the mainstream, it came at a cost: stripping dishes of authenticity and sidelining the communities from which they originated.

Today, we’ve entered the next era in Australian dining, where diaspora chefs are pushing past labels and crafting dining experiences that reflect a true blend of culture, identity, and the multicultural reality of cooking in modern Australia. It’s no longer a question of what’s on the plate – it’s about who gets to cook, define, and profit from these narratives. We spoke to some of these chefs about challenging the old guard, reclaiming their culinary heritage, and why it matters for the future of food in Australia.

What’s wrong with “fusion” anyway?

Back in the early era, fusion wasn’t just a trend, it was the only way to justify higher prices for ethnic food – part of why the term became so problematic. Fusion meant Westernisation: adapting immigrant food to suit Western palates, with the people who stood to gain rarely being from the negatively racialised and culturally marginalised communities whose food was being co-opted. In other words, immigrant food was ghettoised – confined to stereotypes (low-quality, dirty, smelly, artless) and trapped in the category of cheap eats, meaning that the labour of immigrant chefs was devalued and overlooked. Meanwhile, Western chefs could borrow those same flavours, mark them up, and suddenly it was “elevated” – with no credit given to the originating cultures, or the hands that did the work.

“As much as I hate to say it, ethnic food definitely needed to be claimed by others, bastardised to some degree, and normalised for the general dining public, for my generation to be able to come along and reclaim it,” says Mauritian chef Nagesh Seethiah, who opened Manzé in 2021. It may be a little depressing that immigrant food needed fusion as a gateway, but it did create a path into the mainstream market that didn’t exist before – and it’s a market that’s expected to boom, with a compound annual growth rate of 9.45% from 2023–2032.  It’s also changed who is eating at immigrant-run restaurants. “Our clientele here is young people bringing their parents, or young people saving their money to come in. It’s in an environment, I feel, that’s welcoming to any generation of migrant,” Seethiah says.

We talk about how dining has changed in Australia in the past 10 years and if Manzé could have existed at a different time. Seethiah touches on the generational shifts that have allowed chefs like him to reconnect with their roots: “For my generation, our parents encouraged us to assimilate, so we were, willingly or not, knowingly or not, trying to get away from our cultural heritage and embrace Western culture and Western norms. There was a generational gap between us appreciating our own food, let alone learning how to cook it.” Seethiah credits trailblazers like Kylie Kwong, Thi Le and Asma Khan, who pushed themselves to embrace cooking as a connection to home. “I think these days ethnic cuisines have been embraced by the people who belong to those cultures rather than co-opted by white chefs or reimagined by white chefs for the common crowd,” he says.  

If it’s not fusion, what is it?

Food media is obsessed with categorising food within the boundaries of cuisines. For critics, diners, and SEO purposes, neatly boxing menus within a cuisine helps guide expectations. Where fusion has become a contentious word, chefs have been using other descriptors.

For sisters Gracia and Tasia Seger, defining their restaurant Makan as Modern-Indonesian captures its divergence from the typically informal restaurants found in Indonesia and across Australia. “We wanted to create a dining experience that felt elevated... not just in a bain-marie style,” Tasia says, pointing to elements like service, music, and a curated drinks list that distinguish Makan. They’re refining traditional dishes with local, high-quality ingredients and modern techniques. “A lot of traditional Indonesian cooking requires ‘godok’ or ‘ungkep,’ or braising to infuse flavour in meats. At Makan we have used sous-vide as a modern method way of cooking to yield the same results.” She says that the Australian kitchen and access to modern technology and equipment has led to new cooking methods for the sisters.

“It’s still authentic to what we know and what we grew up eating,” adds Gracia.

Octopus chawamushi, mapo lamb brains, prawn toast potato cake, rabbit thai jungle curry – the menu at Earth Angels lacks any semblance of a clear-cut cuisine. “I hate the term but it’s as ‘Modern Australian’ as it gets,” says head chef Narit Kimsat. “My cooking is influenced by Melbourne. When you go out in Melbourne, you find bits and pieces of everything.”

With 29% of Australia’s population being born overseas and nearly 50% of the population having at least one parent born overseas, Australian food is increasingly defined by the multicultural reality of people cooking on the continent. As a label, “Australian” works because it doesn’t claim authenticity, but it does reflect the intercultural food practices used. 

At Etta, head chef Lorcán Kan shares similar feelings – he calls the food at Etta “Melburnian.” “Blanket terms are helpful for people to understand what [Etta] is, but it's also limiting because it can give a prejudice towards what people think it will be,” he says. Beyond cuisine, “modern” can also signal the way food is consumed. Etta caters for all kinds of diners: those coming in for a snack, a set menu, or just glasses of wine. “There’s just so many different eating experiences that are happening in the building at one time, during one service, and we’re trying to make sure the food is scaled up in all regards,” he says.

Food doesn’t always fit neatly into a category, and it doesn’t need to. It just needs to resonate with those who experience it. “You want to be broadly appealing but have a sort of deep complexity that can be spoken about if asked,” Kan says. “I think that’s what we have here. There’s depth to it, but also knowing that depth doesn’t take away or add to the food.” The takeaway seems to be: The right to define your food belongs to you. Don’t let the media or anyone else dictate it – embrace the complexity.

The challenge of community backlash

If you are a diaspora chef or even the child of immigrants, you know that our aunties and uncles are often our fiercest critics. They might balk at prices, feeling excluded because it’s seen as something that should be affordable to people like them, who have had to fight for their place in Australia. After all, the migrants that first brought Asian food to Australia often came from low-income countries. They had limited capital, limited networks, were burdened by racial prejudice, and had little choice but to open affordable, casual eateries. They may have internalised the systemic undervaluation of their food, believing it should remain cheap and accessible, mirroring their own struggles to make a living in Australia. Or, in a space where there’s immense pressure to be representative, your food might not embody the nostalgia they were expecting.

But the support of your community is crucial – not just for business, but because food is a conduit to culture. For Kan, sending homemade lap cheong to Chinese-Malaysian tables isn’t just a gesture, it’s a personal homage, a way to demonstrate generosity and respect – immutable values that rarely get lost in translation. For Seethiah, honouring the Creole names of his dishes allows Mauritians to feel seen, while encouraging people from different cultures to draw nostalgic similarities. For the Seger sisters, reimagining Indonesian food sparks dialogue and fosters pride. Winning over your community isn’t just about navigating criticism – it’s about creating a space where cultural heritage is celebrated, shared, and sustained for future generations.

Beyond fusion

One could argue that all food has always been fusion in one way or another, constantly evolving and influenced by the movement of people and ideas throughout time. But now, diaspora chefs can challenge the outdated perception that their food should be cheap, reclaiming their right to charge what their food truly costs to produce – labour, heritage, and all. This new era isn’t just about adjusting the price tag; it’s about shifting the narrative, valuing the skills and stories behind the dishes, and making space for a dining culture where food is respected, not despite its roots, but because of them.