I grew up in restaurants. Not in the way that Asian kids grow up in restaurants because it’s the family business, but in the way that dining is a huge part of Chinese culture. Food was the excuse to see each other and connect as a family. Growing up, there were no words of praise, no hugs, no ‘I’m so proud’ or ‘I love you’, there was just dinner.
Care was expressed by laborious, intricate knife cuts using only a cleaver, simmering a herbal soup to address a minor ailment, slaving over a stove all day to cook my favourite dish, driving several suburbs over to buy a whole fish we couldn’t afford and having family banquets.
By the time I started making memories, my family had sold their venue. My dad used to cook with my uncle in a joint venture in Preston back in the 80s. All I know of the place is that it was incredibly hard work with a newborn (I’m referring to my sister; I don’t think I was even a smudge in either of my parent’s underpants at this stage) and my dad was barely at home, so good riddance to it.
The building is still there, functioning as a suburban Chinese restaurant, but I have never stepped foot inside. I only remember the occasional drive out to Preston where Dad would leave me in the back seat of the car with the window cracked, like a dog, while he picked up cash from being paid out of the business. He’d hand me a bag of warm, greasy prawn crackers to keep me quiet on the drive home. I’d sit with them in my lap, work the knot out with my tiny fingers and split the fried treats with him.
"Don’t tell your sister," he’d say, dreading having to deep fry as soon as he got home.
My childhood revolved around the lazy Susan. I was tucked into a chair against the wall of the local Chinese restaurant, so I couldn’t escape, watching my bowl being topped up with herbal soups, crab noodles, steamed fish, clay pot crispy pork, stir fried snow pea shoots, tofu, and eventually, sweet red bean soup followed by cut fruit.
I was tucked into a chair against the wall of the local Chinese restaurant, so I couldn’t escape, watching my bowl being topped up
I quietly shovelled food into my mouth as I listened to my aunties gossip about their friends I’d never met but would eventually call ‘Aunty’, watched my cousins complain that their parents didn’t order the dish they asked for, heard my mother tell her siblings off for doing stupid shit with their money, while my grandfather sat opposite me, chewing on a fish head, grinning wordlessly like a king presiding over all his spawn, probably thinking to himself, I made all this, until the bill arrived and this frail 90-year-old transformed into a flyweight boxer in a family-wide battle to pay it.
If you haven’t seen a five-foot, 40-kilogram man punch your dad (his son) in the head before, you haven’t lived. This happened every birthday, promotion, engagement, going away, home-coming, New Year, Chinese New Year, or just because it had been a while.
Booking a table for six somehow always turned into 10. If a cousin couldn’t attend, one of the aunties would invite a friend and their spouse (and we would be instructed to call them aunty and uncle); if anyone had a visitor over, they might as well come for family dinner. We would manage to cram everyone in: we shuffled in or out, shared seats and took turns sitting or standing so everyone would get a chance to eat. Dining made us a community rather than just a family. To this day, if I call someone aunty or uncle, I have to check with my sister to see if we are actually related to them. We never have the answer.
As small children, these dinners always seemed late and long to me and my sister, and we’d be bored before we even got there. Our aunt was known for running on her own time; anyone from my mother’s side would be travelling from the other side of the city. My older cousins didn’t prioritise family dinners, and by the time they turned up, we always ended up eating way past our bedtime.
Booking a table for six somehow always turned into ten. We would manage to cram everyone in
To keep us occupied, my dad taught us a ‘magic trick’ where we’d snap toothpicks into the shapes of stars and uncoil them by dropping hot tea into the folds with the end of a chopstick. We were only allowed to do this with our own packet of toothpicks because old Asian men really have a thing for picking food out of their teeth with a stick. We had to make two picks last for the whole dinner. The rest of the time, we just sat there, trying to occupy as little space and airtime as possible until we fell asleep at the table. My dad would carry us into the back seat of the car and buckle us in for the drive home.
Occasionally, strangers would come up to our table and comment on how well behaved my sister and I were, being so young. They’d say that though their own kids were much older than us they still weren’t brave enough to bring them for dinner. The reality is, in Asian cultures having children is more than love and lineage. We are a retirement plan, there to serve a purpose.
We are raised to fit into our parents’ lives; they don’t fit around ours. My sister and I were taken to dinners and taught to sit still, eat and listen to what was going on, even if we were too young to understand it. We were taught discipline by being disciplined. If we saw another child throw a tantrum, my sister and I would whisper to each other, "I wonder if they’ll still be alive for the next dinner."
This is an edited extract from by Jess Ho (Affirm Press). Listen to Jess’s podcast series, . Find Jess on Twitter and Instagram .
