What old kitchens taught me

18

One evening a message came from a customer: the noodles were soft and soggy.

For a noodle shop, that is not a small complaint. Noodles are the centre of the bowl. If they lose their bite, the whole dish collapses.

When I read the message, I did not rush to find someone responsible. Instead I traced the steps in my head. Was the dough slightly too wet that day? Was the water not fully boiling? Did the bowl wait too long for the delivery rider?

In a kitchen, nothing happens alone. Every bowl is the result of a sequence.

Later we gathered the team and went through the process together. Not to scold anyone, but to look for gaps. I always believe the first thing to control is what we can control. External factors come later. Sometimes when a rider arrives late, a staff member quietly remakes the noodles rather than serve a bowl that has already sat too long. It costs a few extra minutes and a little more money, but I never criticise that decision. When someone acts like that on their own, it means they understand the boundary.

A small restaurant grows through moments like this.

Strangely, many of the things I understand today did not begin in my own shop.

Years ago in Hong Kong, there were still real dai pai dongs — loud, smoky, and packed with people. From the street the scene looked chaotic. Flames jumped from the wok, voices echoed across the tables, orders flew in every direction.

But if you sat down and watched the owner for a while, the chaos slowly disappeared. He stood at the stove with the same calm expression no matter how busy the place became. Orders were shouted, repeated clearly, and understood instantly. A small gesture from him and the kitchen knew what to do next. Tables turned quickly, yet nothing felt rushed.

The noise belonged to the environment. The steadiness belonged to him.

At the time I simply thought he looked cool. Only later did I realise the reason. He understood the sequence of everything around him.

Another memory comes from a small cha chaan teng in Tsim Sha Tsui that I used to visit often. The owner liked to chat with customers about his children. Nothing serious, just ordinary small talk while the shop kept running in its busy rhythm. Some afternoons I would sit there with a bottle of fresh milk, a bowl of wonton noodles, and an egg tart while he came by for a moment.

What stayed with me was the taste of the wontons. The soup carried a hint of braised beef sauce, giving the bowl a flavour completely its own. The details of the shop may fade with time, but that taste still returns clearly. Looking back now, the place was memorable because the owner never tried to be anything other than himself.

Even earlier than that, during school holidays in Cornwall, my twin brother and I often stayed at a small Chinese restaurant run by my uncle and aunt. The family lived upstairs while the restaurant opened in the evening downstairs.

My aunt worked quietly in the kitchen every night, repeating the same rhythm — preparing, cooking, plating. My uncle moved between the tables greeting customers and pouring small shots of Chinese liquor from a green bottle whose name had something to do with bamboo. Old Chinese songs played while local villagers filled the room with laughter. Outside the village was quiet and cold. Inside the restaurant felt lively.

Looking back now, the place worked because they understood each other. One carried the heat of the kitchen, the other the warmth of the room.

These memories return to me sometimes while standing in my own kitchen.

A bowl of noodles looks simple, but behind it is always a chain of small steps — timing, rhythm, trust, and people understanding their roles. When those pieces fall into place, even a busy kitchen feels calm.

Nothing grows in a sudden leap. It builds slowly, through small corrections and repeated effort, until one day the place simply runs the way it should.