Insights for Food Business Owners: Eastern Promise

When I first arrived in Cornwall as a student, I thought I was simply stepping into a quieter corner of the UK. I didn’t realize I was also walking into a formative chapter of my life — one that would later echo through my work in food, business, and even how I think about mentorship.

Back then, me and my brother didn’t stay with typical British guardians. We lived with my mum’s close friends — a Hong Kong couple who ran a small restaurant. Our aunt worked the kitchen with a relative, and our uncle greeted guests at the front, often offering them a shot of Chinese liquor to warm the atmosphere. It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t Michelin. But it was full of rhythm.

The restaurant only opened for dinner, so daytime was slow — supermarket runs, prep work, laundry. By late afternoon, the kitchen would come alive. We’d sometimes be tasked with removing prawn intestines — a small but meticulous job. Then, around 4 or 5 PM, everyone would sit down to eat. Compared to the bland food we had at boarding school, those dinners were heaven. Fragrant stir-fries. Steamed chicken. A taste of home.

At the time, I didn’t think much of it. I was just glad we weren’t stuck with sandwiches. My aunt and uncle’s daughter was studying architecture — that’s what caught our attention. We followed her footsteps into architecture, not because we knew what it really meant, but because it felt like the natural next chapter. It seemed respectable. Creative. Asian parent-approved.

But now, looking back, I wonder: was it really just the architecture that left a mark? Or was it the experience of consistency, quiet hard work, and hospitality that stayed with me all along?

The truth is, that restaurant planted a seed — not consciously, but deeply. It showed me what it looks like to keep things running: to prep when no one’s looking, to show up day after day, to feed others and make them feel at ease. These weren’t grand gestures. They were acts of quiet dignity.

And maybe that’s what seeds do. They hide inside you, unnoticed. They don’t always point you directly to your future, but they prepare the soil. When the time is right — when your instincts awaken — they sprout, and suddenly you realize you’ve been carrying this memory, this rhythm, this standard all along.

What I do today may not look like that restaurant in Cornwall. But if you ask me where it all began — the attention to detail, the desire to do things sincerely, the instinct to create a space that people remember — I’d probably point to that kitchen table, that early dinner, and the quiet lesson of being cared for.

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