A Midday Encounter with Lekker at Rawa Buaya Station

by William Siddhi K. on November 04, 2025.

📌Rawa Buaya Station, Jakarta, Indonesia

It was around one in the afternoon when I found myself standing near Rawa Buaya Station, Jakarta, under a sun that refused to tone down its heat. Usually, my food adventures take place in the evening, sometime after work or university, when the air is cooler and the city starts to slow down. That rhythm feels more natural to me — it’s when I’ve written most of my previous posts, like the one about siomay near Grogol Station (Siomay in Front of Grogol Station: A 10K Street Food Adventure). But that day was different. I was here for a side job, trying to earn some extra money, and the bright midday light somehow turned everything sharper: the road, the dust, even the craving for something small yet comforting.

That’s when I noticed a small cart with a red umbrella that read Lekker “45”. The word “lekker” stood out to me — not something I grew up hearing. Later, I learned it was originally a Dutch word meaning “delicious,” a remnant from Indonesia’s colonial past that somehow found its way into our street food vocabulary. The idea intrigued me even before the taste did.

The cart stood about two hundred meters from the station gate, along a quieter stretch of road. At that hour, there weren’t many people around. Rawa Buaya Station has two entrances, and I happened to be near the one less traveled. Only a few random passersby walked by — a mother with a toddler, an ojek driver scrolling through his phone, and a group of uniformed kids on their way home from school. The sounds were muted: no traffic roar like at Grogol, just a few voices echoing off the train tracks. The heat pressed down on everything, making the metallic parts of the food carts glint like mirrors.

The lekker cart was the typical glass-sided kind you find all over Indonesia — the kind that displays the ingredients openly, letting people peek inside before deciding what to order. The top was mostly glass, while the bottom had dull metal sheets that had seen years of use. A small sticker with an Islamic prayer was attached to the corner, faded but visible. I couldn’t read it, but it reminded me again of how deeply mixed and layered Indonesian street life is — languages, faiths, foods, all blending together quietly in the same space.

The menu was simple but varied: chocolate for 2,000 IDR, Oreo and blueberry for the same, milk-cheese for 2,500, milk-oreo-cheese for 3,000, banana-choco for 2,500, and banana-choco-cheese for 3,500. There was also a small combo deal for the banana-choco-cheese — 10,000 IDR for three pieces. What caught my eye, though, was a phrase written next to the price list: Djajanan Jadoel. It was written in old spelling, a playful take on “Jajanan Jadul,” which means “old-era snacks.” That little detail convinced me to stop. I had never tasted lekker before, but the idea of something “old-fashioned” sold from a cart under a red umbrella on a hot day felt worth the try.

I initially wanted the Oreo flavor, but the vendor, a quiet man in his thirties, told me it would take longer to make — the batter had to be cooked again. I didn’t want to risk missing my next train, so I changed my order to milk-cheese-choco, which was already ready. It cost me 3,000 rupiah — about twenty U.S. cents — and the portion was small, almost like a paper-thin pancake folded into a half-moon shape.

Holding it in my hand, I could feel how fragile it was. The lekker was crisp and light, the kind of texture that threatens to crumble at the first bite. It reminded me of sugar glass — I’d never actually eaten sugar glass, but I’d seen enough videos of it being shattered to know what it looked like. The outer shell was perfectly crisp, slightly thicker than modern crepes, with a uniform crunch that carried through from edge to edge. Inside, the filling — a mix of powdered milk, shredded cheese, and melted chocolate — was slightly uneven but satisfying. The cheese gave a faint saltiness that balanced the sweetness of the chocolate, while the milk added a mild creaminess.

There was no strong aroma at first; lekker isn’t one of those foods that announce themselves from ten meters away. Only when I brought it close to my nose did I catch a faint milky scent. The vendor hadn’t reheated it, so it was at room temperature — pleasant enough, but I realized later, as I sat on the station bench waiting for my train, that I should’ve waited for a freshly cooked one. Something about the thought of the warm filling melting between crisp layers seemed like it would’ve made the experience even better.

As I ate, I looked around. The platform was mostly empty, with the school kids from earlier laughing among themselves near the entrance. The heat shimmered off the tracks. Somewhere, a speaker crackled, announcing the next train — still another thirty minutes away. I had time, but I didn’t mind the quiet. It was a different kind of rhythm compared to my usual Grogol days, where everything feels louder and faster.

While waiting, I searched for lekker on my phone. I learned that it was once a popular street snack across Indonesian cities, especially during the late 20th century. It was cheap, easy to make, and fun to customize — kids loved watching the batter poured and spread thin before being filled and folded. Over time, the carts began to disappear, replaced by trendier snacks and cafe desserts. What remained were a few sellers like this one, quietly keeping the tradition alive under red umbrellas on forgotten corners near train stations.

That little discovery made my bite taste different. I started to think about how easily small pieces of culture vanish, not with grand gestures, but with quiet fading. In a way, that’s what I’ve been trying to capture with these short food stories — not just the taste, but the feeling of finding something that might disappear someday.

It’s funny how we often overlook the smallest foods just because they cost less than a bottle of water. The lekker I bought wasn’t a full meal. It barely filled me up. But it carried something that more expensive meals sometimes lack — a sense of place. For 3,000 rupiah, I got not just a sweet snack, but also a snapshot of Jakarta at midday: the glare of sunlight on glass, the silence between train arrivals, the laughter of school kids, and a moment of stillness between work and travel.

As my train finally approached, I took one last bite and realized how fragile it was — the last piece broke easily between my fingers, leaving just a faint dusting of chocolate and crumbs on my lap. It was a reminder that street food isn’t just about hunger or taste. It’s about moments you can’t repeat exactly the same way again.

The lekker didn’t make me nostalgic, since I had no childhood memories of it. But it made me imagine what it must have been like when the streets were filled with carts like this, when “Djajanan Jadoel” wasn’t a branding phrase but an everyday reality. Maybe that’s what makes street food powerful — even without memory, it creates one.

When the train doors opened, I threw the wrapper into the bin, stepped inside, and found a seat by the window. The cart with the red umbrella grew smaller in the distance as the train pulled away, and I thought about writing this down — not as a review, not even as a recommendation, but as a small record of a fleeting flavor that cost me 3,000 rupiah and lingered much longer than expected.