If you’ve ever wandered through Geylang at 2am with a grumbling stomach and the moral compass of a hungry ghost, chances are you’ve landed at Yong He Eating House. For almost four decades, this Taiwanese-style, no-frills, eat-till-you-die supper icon has been feeding Singaporeans with silky soy milk, crispy you tiao, warm shao bing, and that comforting lu rou fan we swear we’re “sharing”… but secretly finish alone.
Yet behind this beloved 24-hour institution is a family story that’s been simmering for almost 60 years—one that’s now reaching a breaking point.
🌙 A Legacy Stretching From Taiwan to Geylang
Before it became the go-to spot for night owls, shift workers, and “I’m not drunk, you drunk” supper crowds, Yong He started in Taiwan nearly six decades ago. Back then, the founder worked with a young Taiwanese man—who later became the grandfather of current owner Dong Han Zhong.
After taking over the brand in Taiwan, the grandfather ran it for years before the torch passed to Dong Han’s father, who brought the business to Singapore in 1986. They set up shop in Geylang, in a modest coffeeshop, and the queues practically wrote themselves.
Fast forward to today: the third-generation steward, 46-year-old Han Zhong, finds himself fighting to keep the family legacy afloat.
🔥 The Expansion… and the Collapse
In 2021, Yong He Toast popped up as a takeaway concept in Toa Payoh. Sounds promising, right? Except the Singapore F&B scene is basically Hunger Games. Poor business killed the concept by 2024.
Then in 2023, his father retired due to health issues, leaving Han Zhong fully in charge. He took the responsibility seriously—like “sleeping in the car between shifts” seriously.
😵💫 “Not Losing Money, Just Losing Myself”
Here’s the twist: Yong He isn’t closing because it’s losing money.
“We can still break even,” Han Zhong said. “But I’m breaking down.”
Running a 24-hour business with almost no manpower? Madness.
He’s now looking for S$300,000—not to get rich, but to hand the brand to someone who can keep it alive. Whether it’s a full takeover or a partnership, he’s open. He just wants Yong He to survive.
😪 Running Two Shops, Sleeping in His Car — The True Ah-Beng Entrepreneur Arc
Because one business isn’t enough chaos, he also co-runs a new takeaway outlet at Far East Plaza called Yong He 1986. His friend funded it; he provides the recipes and soul.
But splitting himself between two outlets meant the Geylang HQ suffered. Footfall dropped. His mostly elderly staff—many in their seventies—began resigning to help him save on costs. From over 12 employees, he’s down to three.
So Mr Former Shao Ye became Mr Everything: cook, dishwasher, cashier, runner, and unofficial security guard.
Some nights he slept in his car because driving home for two hours of sleep felt… wasteful. Singapore efficiency at its most tragic.
💔 The Breaking Point: His Mother’s Health Scare
His 78-year-old mum—whom he affectionately calls “the empress dowager”—saw him struggling and returned to help. Every night. Until 3am.
Then her leg began swelling badly. She kept helping anyway.
When she finally collapsed and needed hospitalization, everything in his heart cracked.
In her hospital bed, she didn’t worry about herself. She worried about him.
Can manage the shop or not? Can afford the bill or not?
Wah, if your eyes not wet reading this, you robot lah.
💀 “It’s Not Yong He That Failed — It’s Me”
Even though they weren’t losing money, the manpower shortage meant standards dropped.
Shào bǐng used to be made fresh, one by one. Now they had to make batches. You tiao went from crispy dreams to sad, inconsistent sticks. Even their iconic cold bean curd wasn’t spared—customers complained it tasted bland.
Han Zhong blamed himself.
“When I couldn’t maintain the standard my parents built, I felt like I failed them,” he said.
Bro. The whole of Singapore wants to hug you now.
🧠 Firefighting Leaves No Space to Dream
He was so busy putting out fires daily that he couldn’t strategise, plan, or even think beyond tomorrow. As he said:
“I was too busy just trying to survive each day.”
At this point, many of us would have closed shop, gone Bali, and started a crystal-healing Etsy store.
But he stayed. For his family. For the brand. For the loyal customers.
🛑 If No Investor Steps In, Geylang’s Yong He Will Close by End November
His parents now support the decision. His mother, freshly recovered, even told him to stop torturing himself. His father? Fully trusts him.
Still, it’s clear: Yong He needs manpower and capital. One man cannot run a legacy alone.
What About the New Yong He 1986 Outlet?
Its future depends on whether the new buyer (if any) allows them to continue using the brand name. If the new owner says “change name lah”… then they’ll change lor.
But one thing is certain: his friend who funded Yong He 1986 cannot take over the main HQ. Too expensive, too heavy.
If no one buys Yong He Geylang, he’ll continue co-running the Far East Plaza outlet. Because loyalty is something this man has in excess.
🔥 “I Worked As Hard As I Could”
He has no regrets.
He’s proud.
But he’s tired. Really tired.
Still, there’s hope. Since the news got out, six to seven interested parties have reached out—some with attractive offers.
Maybe Yong He will rise again. Maybe the shao bing will be hand-made fresh once more.
Singaporeans love a comeback story.
📉 Meanwhile… Google Reviews Are Brutal
Let’s be honest. Singaporeans on Google Reviews are basically Gordon Ramsay with keyboard warrior energy.
Yong He sits at 3/5 stars with 1,686 reviews. Many mentioned sold-out items, poorly defrosted food, and inconsistent you tiao.
When the standards dipped, so did the ratings. And rude reviews hurt small businesses more than we realise.
But the man still shoulders the blame.
“It’s me who failed,” he said.
Not the brand.
That’s a heavy burden. Too heavy for one pair of shoulders.
A Google Maps review from two years ago probably said it best — and honestly, it hits like a nostalgia slap:
“One word: disappointment.”
This reviewer had been eating Yong He’s food since childhood, literally growing up with their beancurd and you tiao. But after the move to the new location, they said they witnessed a “slow death” of the place. The title of “king of beancurd”? Gone.
They gave the shop another chance — you know, that classic “maybe today will be different” kind of hope. But nope. Still disappointing.
They even admitted they should have given just one star, but out of sheer loyalty and 20+ years of comfort-food memories, they bumped it to two stars.
Painful, right? It’s like watching your favourite childhood cartoon get rebooted into a budget version — the name is there, but the heart is missing.
⭐ My POV: The Reality Nobody Likes to Admit
Okay, time for some real talk. As someone who grew up in Singapore’s makan culture, it’s painful to see iconic eateries slowly fade. But this case? It’s not a failure of passion. It’s a failure of the system.
Inflation. Manpower shortages. Rising rentals. Gone are the days when F&B was “just cook and sell”. Now it’s survival mode.
Honestly? Yong He’s story mirrors so many old-school makan places. Heart, skill, and heritage alone cannot fight the modern economy.
Yet, seeing a third-gen owner give EVERYTHING—even his health and sleep—is both inspiring and heartbreaking.
If an investor doesn’t step in soon, we’re not just losing you tiao.
We’re losing a slice of Singapore’s soul.
And hor, we really don’t have many of those left.
