Warm Batter in Transit: Kue Pukis at Tangerang Station

by William Siddhi K. on November 30, 2025.

📌Tangerang Station, Jakarta, Indonesia

I don’t usually take the commuter line all the way to Tangerang, but today was an exception. A couple of my cousins live around the area—siblings I don’t get to see often because our schedules never align. University drains my time, their jobs drain theirs, and before we know it, months pass without a proper catch-up. So when they finally sent a message saying they were both free this afternoon, I took the hint. I hopped on the train and made my way west, half-excited, half-tired, but willing to make the small journey.

Tangerang Station has a very different rhythm compared to the stops I frequent. It’s calmer in some corners, louder in others. There’s always this mix of people: families with kids running around, workers heading home, school students buying snacks, and the usual commuters who’ve mastered the art of not making eye contact with anyone. The sun was still bright when I arrived—typical late afternoon heat, not unbearable but enough to make your shirt stick slightly to your back.

My cousins live only a short motorbike ride away, maybe ten minutes if traffic behaves. But before heading out to meet them, I noticed something that yanked my attention without any warning: the unmistakable smell of kue pukis.

The scent drifted through the warm air—sweet, buttery, slightly eggy, and with that distinct aroma of batter hitting a hot mold. It cut through the sounds of the station like a soft signal, subtle but persistent. I followed it almost subconsciously, letting my feet decide for me. And then I saw the cart.

The vendor’s stall was a compact setup—metal table, glass display, and the classic pukis mold pan with its half-moon shapes lined neatly. A small gas stove kept everything running, the flame low but steady. Beside it sat a bowl of pale yellow batter, thick and glossy, with a ladle resting in it. The seller, a man in his late 40s with slightly graying hair and a t-shirt that looked like it had seen a decade of service, worked calmly. One by one, he filled each mold, the batter sizzling as soon as it touched the hot metal.

It had been a long time since I last ate pukis. I’m talking years—not because I dislike it, but because it simply never appears in the places I usually commute. And in my head, pukis is tied to childhood visits to my grandmother’s place, where we’d buy a warm batch from the pasar for breakfast. Somehow, this small station snack felt like a memory calling out.

I approached the stall.

“Mau berapa, Mas?” the vendor asked without looking up, his attention still on flipping one of the half-cooked pieces.

“Lima aja, Pak. Campur. Yang coklat sama original.”

He nodded, scooping up one that was just starting to brown on the bottom. The surface had that slight dome shape, smooth and soft, with a thin crust around the edges. He lifted each piece with a small wooden stick and placed them into a brown paper bag layered with plastic inside—street-food standard packaging.

As I waited, I stood watching the molds fill and empty in a slow, repetitive rhythm. There’s something incredibly comforting about the way pukis cooks: the batter expands, rises, firms, then softens again once it’s taken out. It’s like watching edible breathing. The station crowd moved behind me—buskers, porters, families yelling “Cepet! Keretanya mau jalan!”—but the world around the cart felt oddly peaceful.

When the bag was handed to me, it was warm. Not hot enough to burn, but warm enough that you instinctively hold it with two hands. I thanked the vendor and stepped aside, giving myself a bit of space to try the first piece before heading to my cousins’ place.

The first bite was exactly what I hoped for: soft, porous, slightly buttery, with that subtle sweetness that pukis is known for. It wasn’t dense at all—just airy enough that it felt like it melted without effort. The center was still a little moist, steaming gently as I tore it apart. The chocolate one had those classic sprinkles baked in, the kind that melt halfway and stay whole halfway, creating a mix of soft and crunchy textures.

I leaned against a pillar, watching the flow of passengers entering and exiting the station. Someone selling bottled water shouted “Aqua! Aqua dingin!” repeatedly. A group of teenagers passed by laughing, one of them glancing at my pukis bag like he was two seconds away from buying his own. A few people stood waiting for their ojek, drivers waving their phones to catch their passengers' attention.

Tangerang’s atmosphere isn’t chaotic like some other stations—it’s busy, but in a calmer way. And somehow that made the warm pukis taste even better.

As I ate my second piece, I thought about my cousins. I don’t see them as much as I should, and I realized how easy it is to drift away from people you grew up with. One of them works night shifts; the other is juggling two part-time jobs. We used to share snacks like this all the time whenever I visited during school holidays. We’d sit on their front steps and tear open whatever we bought—cireng, martabak mini, pukis—while talking about games, exams, or whatever nonsense kids talk about. And here I was, eating pukis alone at the station before meeting them again.

Funny how food pulls memories out like that.

By the third piece, the sweetness started settling in, warm and comforting. The vendor glanced at me once from afar—maybe checking if I liked it, maybe just scanning the crowd. It reminded me how street food vendors often become part of the scenery, unnoticed unless we actively choose to pay attention. They stand there for hours, flipping snacks, mixing sauces, dealing with heat and smoke, so people like me can enjoy five pieces of nostalgia for a few thousand rupiah.

I finished the last of my pukis slowly, not rushing the moment. The texture softened even more as it cooled, but it was still good—still that dependable snack you can count on when you need something warm and cheap.

Once the bag was empty, I tossed it into a nearby bin and took a slow breath before leaving the station area. The air still carried faint traces of batter and steam. I walked toward the ojek pickup point, bag slung over my shoulder, fully ready to face whatever chaotic conversation my cousins had planned for the evening.

Before getting on the motorbike, I turned back one last time. The pukis vendor was still working, still filling molds, still flipping pieces with the same calm energy. His small cart blended back into the background of Tangerang Station life, becoming part of the rhythm again.

I made a mental note to link this story to my previous blogs—especially the Pesiŋ ones about sosis bakar and cilok—once everything is published.
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And as the ojek pulled away, I realized something simple: sometimes the best part of visiting someone isn’t the visit itself, but the unexpected snack you find along the way.