My mother passed away when I was seven and I remember little of her, except that she was slim and elegant, typical of a well educated lady from Shanghai who arrived in Hong Kong in the late 1940's where she met my dad. The maid who looked after my sister Clara and I in our little apartment in Hong Kong said I was a demanding baby, always wanting to be held and cuddled. When she could not put me down without me screaming the house down, she would carry me on her back with a ‘mair tai’ or Chinese baby sling so she can get on with her chores, like preparing our meals. I vaguely remember the motion of her shuffling around the small kitchen space with me peeking out of her shoulders, and the faint smell of raw fish in the air after they’ve been gutted and cleaned. The maid, Ah Lok, had come from a village in Canton, like thousand others, to make a living in Hong Kong after the communists took over China in 1949, and she would faithfully send most of her earnings back to the family she had left behind. Ah Lok has a room in our apartment just big enough for a small bed wedged against the walls and not much more. Forever dressed in a white Chinese tunic and black polyester pants, she was more than a maid but like a member of the family who did her best taking care of us, growing up without a mother. She made sure our school uniforms were clean and pressed, took me to violin lessons, sat by my bed when I couldn’t get to sleep at night and helped me fit into my first bras.
I remember going to the wet market with Ah Lok, a trip she made daily. With a cane basket over her arm, I watched her purchase the freshest vegetables from the stalls, the choicest cuts of meat from the butcher, and the fish, well, they need to be alive and swimming. During these trips to the market, she might drop by a little shop run by her cousin who sells anything from cigarettes, haberdashery, kitchenware to women’s underwear. We would come across the woman who made her living trimming ends of beansprouts in the street corner on a stool, and the hunchback with his head down sharpening everyone’s cleavers on his portable whetstone station. My father gave Ah Lok a weekly allowance for groceries. Being illiterate, my mother had taught her how to write a few basic Chinese words for the account book which she had to keep. Sometimes, she would draw a picture or use a symbol if she didn’t know the word for it or come to me for help. Being cruel as a child, I would tease her for it.
And how could I forget the family banquets! With a large extended family, special occasions such as Chinese New Year and the Moon Festival were celebrated with my paternal grandfather, aunties, uncles, and cousins gathered around the table for sumptuous eight course meals, put together by who else but Ah Lok. Each dish would be presented at the table and greeted appreciatively by everyone with a chorus of ‘oohs and aahs’. There would always be a soup, a variety of stir fry dishes, braised meats, a whole fish, seafood and delicacies, seasonal vegetables, and plenty of rice. On one occasion, Ah Lok forgot to cook the rice in the heat of all the preparations for the different dishes and was most embarrassed. When I come to think of it, Ah Lok’s cooking epitomises the genius of Cantonese cuisine – using ingredients at the peak of their freshness and quality, simply prepared by traditional cooking methods that bring out their best, with spices being used sparingly to preserve the food’s original flavour. There is a certain discipline in Cantonese cooking, and in all good cooking, really. Each dish is prepared with care and presented with pride. Timing and co-ordination is critical. While the soy sauce chicken can be cooked, chopped up and arranged prettily on a plate in advance, stir fries must be hot and consumed as soon as they leave the wok. And who would bother with a whole fish that is not steaming hot when it hits the table? Though Ah Lok had never taught me how to cook, I must say I have learned a few things from her by 'immersion'.
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