When I order the jumbo-sized Milo Godzilla at Ho Jiak in Sydney’s Haymarket, it arrives as advertised – it’s comically large. The Malaysian restaurant prepares the drink by swirling Milo powder with hot water, adding sweet drizzles of condensed milk then chilling the mix with ice. Scoops of ice-cream are added and extra choc-malt powder is showered on top. Served in a one-litre jug, it’s so big I can’t finish it solo: staff hand me three takeaway cups to transport the leftovers.
Like many beloved Milo drinks, the Godzilla is native to south-east Asia. Without ice-cream, it’s essentially a Milo Dinosaur: an iced Milo heavily sprinkled with more of the choc-malt grains and served everywhere from Malaysian market stalls to Indian-Muslim restaurants in Singapore.
For Ho Jiak co-owner Junda Khoo, the Godzilla recalls the Milo Ais (iced Milo) of his Kuala Lumpur childhood. Following his move to Sydney at 16, he constantly argued with schoolmates that Milo originated in Malaysia. “Until I finally found out the truth and admitted defeat,” he says.
Sydney’s Aileen Aguirre and Francis Dela Cruz had similar revelations. They launched Adhika, their Filipino-inspired cafe, in September with Milo lattes on the menu. They were surprised the choc-malt powder was Australian, as crunching on Milo was a foundational Filipino childhood ritual.
Milo is currently sold in more than 40 countries. Colombians enjoy it in a dessert called postre de Milo, Nigerians pronounce it “Me-lo” and think it’s weird you’d say otherwise, and Milo Dinosaurs originated in Malaysia (or Singapore, depending on who you ask). Lewis McDonald, who serves the choc-malt beverage at his Adelaide cafe Idle Hands, is struck by “the quiet colonialism of Milo, just insidiously inserting itself into local cultures”.
Now owned by Swiss-based multinational Nestlé, the powdered drink was invented in Smithtown on New South Wales’s mid-north coast, where it’s still produced for the local market, along with other Nestlé products.
While Vegemite has a global reputation for being Australian, Milo doesn’t share this status. Even Nestlé had to be reminded of its origins. “The Swiss could not imagine an Australian invented it,” the drink’s inventor Thomas Mayne said on Milo’s 60th anniversary. The chemical engineer created the choc-malt powder in 1934 as a Depression-era health drink for kids; it debuted at Sydney’s Royal Easter Show as “Milo tonic food” that year.
It’s a stunning origin story, given Milo can be turned into cake with just milk and microwave beeps, according to a viral TikTok hack. Its basic formula contains powdered milk, malt barley, cocoa and sugar, and varies regionally – in Malaysia, it features palm oil, which according to Khoo, creates a sweeter, choc-heavy flavour. But the beverage began as an economical way for children to consume essential minerals and vitamins.
“These days, we’re so worried about childhood obesity,” says Jan O’Connell, who runs the Australian Food Timeline website. “Whereas back in that era … they were trying to put weight on children.”
Milo’s powers extended to other age groups, apparently. A 1957 ad in Women’s Weekly claims the drink overcomes “frayed nerves, irritability and that ‘saggy’ feeling” that emerges in hot weather. “I mean, that’s a big ask for a handful of chocolate and malt, you know?” says O’Connell, laughing.
Our understanding of health has also evolved from Milo’s launch during food-scarce times. “We’re in a completely different era,” says Dr Evangeline Mantzioris, program director of human nutrition at Adelaide University.
Milo can be helpful in certain contexts. “If it’s the only way you can get your child to drink milk, then that’s important, right?” says Mantzioris. But “consuming Milo is not going to make your diet more healthy”.
Nestlé claims one glass offers 34% of your daily iron intake as well as beneficial amounts of protein, calcium and vitamin D – but that’s based on a drink made with three teaspoons of powder. Mantzioris has seen teenagers throw “half a cup of Milo” into their serve. In 2016, consumer advocacy group Choice handed Nestlé a Shonky, an award reserved for questionable products. Choice noted Milo’s 4.5 star health rating was based on a serving with 200ml of skim milk, yet “only 13% of Australians actually drink Milo with skim milk” and the drink powder was “46% sugar”. Milo has since released a 30% less added sugar product, but disregarding health advice might be the beverage’s appeal.
“My brother and I would sneak tablespoons … when Mum wasn’t watching,” says Melbourne pastry chef Kay-Lene Tan, who whipped up a reinvented Milo Dinosaur on the 2023 season of MasterChef’s Dessert Masters.
Khoo’s children also eat Milo straight from the tin. “I join them,” he says, laughing.
When McDonald was younger, Milo was so “heavily policed” by his parents that crunching grainy scoops resembled “acts of minor rebellion”. At his cafe, he serves Milo with three heaped tablespoons with milk in a chilled 285ml beer glass – in contrast to the two-teaspoon maximum he endured as a kid. There’s “jingoistic pride” in offering it, he says.
Though the powder has appeared on a commemorative $1 coin in Australia, it strangely doesn’t share Vegemite’s spotlight. Australian celebrities, such as Hugh Jackman, Margot Robbie and Jacob Elordi, often act as voluntary ambassadors for the salty spread on global press tours.
“Vegemite needs advocates … to say, ‘Actually, it’s good – you’re just doing it wrong,’” says McDonald. Newcomers don’t require conversion to appreciate Milo.
