By Athan Wong

Food.

Intrinsically, it is something necessary for one’s survival. However, I realise that food has a greater meaning to it too. Food has allowed me to learn about my own culture.

This realisation came from personal experience: somehow, food managed to let me discover more about my stance on Chinese culture. Even more peculiarly, I explored my culture more in America than I had ever done before in Hong Kong, my homeland!

As a young boy, I wasn’t exactly what one would call the biggest fan of Chinese culture. I remember the times of being ecstatic for Chinese New Year, though perhaps that was mostly because of the fact that I didn’t have to go to school. Yet once Chinese New Year arrived, it was to only remember that we had to visit four houses on the exact same day as part of “tradition”, something I found to be rather dreary.
However, the key part that caused the young me to despise my culture the most was the food. 

To put it bluntly, I loathed it- and maybe at some point, you have too.

Perhaps it was the food being too absurd and unnatural for my liking, with seemingly grotesque dishes, odd foods like dim sum and fish of unnatural sewer green, made in uneven shape, size and texture. The cramped environment of people, the loud voices of people talking in a bombastic tone blasting into my fragile eardrums as bits and pieces of food flew out of their mouths, being all bunched together throughout the round table, congested and full of different smells that would simply overwhelm you as a whole. The food, while warm, didn't seem to have the finesse of western dishes, and comparatively, Chinese food seemed to be globs of splattered nonsense.

“I don’t want to eat Chinese food! I want to eat American food - we are in America after all, and I think it’s pretty useless to eat at a place that I could’ve eaten back in Hong Kong!” That was my first argument when my parents told me that we were going to Chinatown for dinner that night as we settled in the new hotel during our vacation in New York. Before hearing the news, my ten-year-old self was perfectly content with how things were going, but now that vivid sense of enjoyment slowly turned into a looming sense of dread.

Looking back to my sudden outburst of anger, I realised that I shouldn’t have drawn the conclusion that my parents were to blame so early on. It would later transpire that my grandmother, a sullen old bat, had also come along for the trip and had demanded that we go to a Chinatown restaurant, instead of a Western restaurant because the tastes were “too exotic and expensive for her liking.” In fact, I now realise that my grandmother and I are somewhat alike; the only difference is that she strongly disliked Western foods while I loved it.

The walk to Chinatown was dampened from my grumpy mood as I stomped on puddles of mud as we reached the restaurant. I remember there being a distinct waft of steam as I entered the restaurant, veiling my face with light water vapour, causing me to cough. I recall the sounds of chopsticks being lifted and thunked rhythmically, plates and tables being turned and spun, chairs being heaved to and fro; as well as loud, indistinct voices that came together in a blur, creating a cacophony of what seemed to be a completely normal Chinese tradition. 

The floor was formed by white squared tiles, dirt and grub stuck on the fillings between them. The tables were round and of a worn, brown, wooden texture, covered by a thin sheet of plastic to allow waiters to more easily remove waste once the customers were finished eating. Bright lights shone from subtly swaying lamps that hung close to the table, with the occasional fly being entranced and fluttering near it.

As my family sat down at our assigned table waiting for the food to come, I continued moping around, mumbling to my parents about how much I disliked the food.

“I thought we came to America so we could experience America, not some random Chinese things we can do back at home!” I argued, “I just wished we didn’t have to be forced to eat these foods just because I’m somehow related to it!”

“We are Chinese people,” my parents would reply softly, “And you cannot change that.”

“Well, I can speak English, and I can go live in any English-based place I want because of that!!”

“You look Chinese, and you can never truly be accepted by a society that you were not born as.”
This statement, more or so fact, was something that I had never truly acknowledged- I knew about racism, discrimination and how very real and serious these issues were. There was something about that blunt statement that made my jaw drop.

“Instead of fussing around,” my parents concluded, “I think you should try to adapt and accept the world and how it is!”

At the time, being relatively immature as to who I am now, I stood up, screaming “But I don’t WANT to do this!” Tears forming in my eyes, “ I don’t like being who I was born to be!”

Everything around me turned into a violent whirlpool as I sobbed. I could hear voices arguing beside me, people standing up and yelling; I covered my eyes and prayed for everything to fade away. It felt as if time passed in a different way than it did as I watched as my grandparents and parents argue like blaring alarms right next to my ears. On the other hand, the repetitive symphony of chopsticks rubbing against each other, food being crunched and gobbled continued in an unfazed manner, waiters placing dishes on silver platters in a smooth flow - the world truly seemed to slow in an excruciatingly laboured manner.

And, I knew that this was a problem that I had created.

After what seemed like hours had passed, the situation had inevitably settled and everyone continued their usual “busied and loud” state. As I slumped down onto the plastic chair, stabbing a chopstick into a dim-sum, I began looking at it in a way that I had never seen before.

Dim sum, something I used to believe was something that tasted mediocre; its exterior something sloppy and assembled without much skill. 

However, as I stared at this one today, I realized the sheer intricacy of the structure. Small crimps lined the delicate white surface, the shape of it was symmetrical in a way that stood out when looked at carefully. The top of the dim sum was lined with light swirls, with stuffings slightly sticking out in a natural way. As I became perplexed by the beauty of dim sum, I came to my epiphany: that I was ridiculously stubborn, despite my childish attempts to convince myself otherwise.

Perhaps, the way I treated food was the same issue with my culture.

Perhaps, the problem was that I hadn’t even given my culture a chance.