A Little Potato Wonder Called Perkedel

 By Akbar Putra Syarif on October 30, 2025

You ever have one of those days when a simple, comforting food suddenly pops into your mind and refuses to leave? That was me earlier, randomly thinking about perkedel, yes that humble, golden, crispy-soft potato patty that somehow manages to taste like a warm hug. I don’t know what triggered it, maybe nostalgia, maybe hunger, or maybe just the universe reminding me that good food doesn’t always need fancy ingredients. So I figured, why not dive into it properly? Let’s talk about perkedel the way we’d talk about a childhood friend we haven’t seen in a while casually, honestly, and with that familiar feeling of “wow, I forgot how good this is.”

When I was younger, perkedel always felt like a treat. I remember sitting in the kitchen watching my mom prepare them, and that memory alone already feels like a warm hug. She would start with a bowl full of boiled potatoes, still steaming, and the kitchen would smell like home even before anything was mixed together. Then she’d grab a fork or the pestle from our mortar and start mashing the potatoes until they were soft and smooth. Right next to her would be all the things that make perkedel truly perkedel: fried shallots that made the entire kitchen smell sweet, chopped garlic, pepper, salt, a little pinch of nutmeg, and sometimes a bit of chopped green onion. Once everything got mixed together, the color of the mixture would change slightly, and for some reason I always found that satisfying to watch.

Shaping the perkedel was always my favorite part. My mom would scoop a little of the mixture onto her palm and gently roll it into a perfect oval shape. Sometimes she’d let me help, and I’d always mess up the shape, but she’d still fry mine anyway. After shaping them, she would dip each perkedel into beaten eggs and slowly place them into the pan. That sound, when the perkedel hits the hot oil, was the signal that lunch was going to be amazing. It wasn’t just a sizzling sound. It was a promise of comfort. The aroma that followed was even better: warm, buttery, slightly nutty from the egg and potatoes, with a hint of that nutmeg that makes every Indonesian kitchen instantly feel nostalgic.

But what’s interesting is that perkedel isn’t originally Indonesian. I didn’t know this growing up, but perkedel was inspired by the Dutch “frikadel.” The funny part is, if you show a perkedel to someone from the Netherlands today, they probably wouldn’t even recognize it as something that came from their food culture. The frikadel they know is mostly about meat, while Indonesia, being Indonesia, looked at that dish and said, “Hmm, meat is expensive. Let’s make it with potatoes instead and add way better flavors.” And honestly? It worked. Perkedel became one of those dishes that transformed completely once it arrived here. We made it our own. It doesn’t taste Dutch at all anymore. It tastes like childhood, like home, like Indonesia.

Different people have different versions of perkedel too. The one I grew up with was the potato version, the classic one. But there are perkedel jagung, perkedel tahu, perkedel daging, and even perkedel made with leftover mashed potatoes or bread. Every family has their own recipe and their own little twist. Some people like it smoother, some like it chunkier. Some season it strongly, while others keep it mellow. But no matter the version, that comforting feeling somehow stays the same. Perkedel seems like the kind of dish that accepts change but never loses its heart.

When you finally bite into a freshly fried perkedel, there’s always that familiar texture: crispy on the outside, soft and creamy on the inside. The warmth hits you first, then the taste of the spices, especially the nutmeg. The shallots give it this sweet aroma, the garlic brings flavor, and the pepper balances everything. It’s simple, but it’s the kind of simple that feels intentional, like somebody actually thought deeply about how all these flavors come together. And that’s the thing about perkedel—it might look like an ordinary fried potato patty, but it holds layers of comfort depending on who you are and where you come from.

I don’t know why perkedel feels so calming to eat. Maybe it’s because I’ve eaten it so many times during moments that mattered, family dinners when everyone was home, gatherings where people talked loudly and laughed, days when rain was pouring outside and everything felt softer, or those simple lunches when perkedel appeared unexpectedly beside a bowl of warm soup or a plate of fried rice. Food memories are strange in the best way. They don’t just sit in your mind. They stay connected to feelings, people, and places. And perkedel is one of those foods that quietly carried all of that for me.

Even the process of making perkedel has something therapeutic about it. Just imagine: the softness of the potatoes as you mash them, the sound of shallots crackling when you fry them, the way the spices mix and blend, the warm smell that fills the entire room, the egg coating dripping gently before you place each piece into the pan. It’s a dish that engages all your senses even before you taste it. And maybe that’s why making perkedel always felt intimate. It’s like each step sets your mood, making you slow down a little and appreciate the simplicity of cooking.

What also fascinates me is how perkedel plays a supporting role in so many Indonesian dishes. It never tries to be the main character, but somehow the meal feels empty without it. Soto with perkedel? Perfect. Sop ayam with perkedel? Even better. Nasi kuning? Always improved by having perkedel on the side. Even eating it as a snack without anything else somehow feels right. It’s honestly a little funny how something so small can affect the entire mood of a dish.

But that’s the charm of perkedel, it’s humble. It doesn’t need to be dramatic to make you feel something. It doesn’t need to be the center of attention to be appreciated. It exists quietly, but whenever it shows up, it makes everything feel more complete. Maybe that’s why I love talking about dishes like this. They remind me that happiness doesn’t always need to be big or fancy. Sometimes, it’s literally just a warm, golden perkedel that tastes like home.

Even now, when I cook perkedel on my own, I still catch myself trying to imitate the way my mom shaped them, or the way she seasoned the potatoes. I don’t know if my perkedel will ever taste exactly like hers, maybe it never will, and maybe that’s the point. Every generation probably adds their own little twist. But every time I take that first bite, the memories come rushing back anyway. And honestly, that’s the part I love the most.

So yeah, that’s my little story about perkedel. A tiny fried potato dish that somehow carries a lifetime of warmth. It might look simple, but for me, perkedel is one of those foods that remind me of home, family, and all the small moments that make life feel a little softer. If you’ve never made perkedel before, you should definitely try. And if you grew up with it like I did, then you probably understand exactly what I mean.

Akbar.