Ms Anthea Loucas
Features Editor
Gourmet Traveler Magazine
SYDNEY 2000
Letter to the Editor
Dear Anthea Loucas
I am researching and writing a personal essay about how food influences the grieving process when someone passes away.
Drawing mainly from my personal experiences at Chinese funerals in Sydney, and Malaysia, I shed some light on Chinese food customs, and what goes on during feasts after funerals, or simply when a relative passes on. In the end, I illustrate how dealing with death through eating, is not just about a physiological need to eat. It is about feeling alive, swallowing your pain, and experiencing the process of preparing and consuming cultural foods to remember important events, and people.
I also touch on the frequency for families to continue Chinese food customs at Christian funerals.
The article is around 1100 words. Would you like to preview it?
Yours sincerely,
Matthew Lee
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Ten days after my cousin’s wedding banquet in Malaysia, my aunties and uncles are again deciding what to eat to appease our moods/circumstance. Only this time, we make do without the luxury of butlers, smiling guests, decorative chopsticks and spoons, and the company of my mother’s father, who passed away five hours ago at a hospital nearby.
Instead, while waiting for our supper around a little table, we stare at the street cats looping their tails around plastic chairs, and wake from our dreamy states every time the aromas of curry, chilli paste and home-made noodles (on over-sized straw baskets), drift down the rows of Hokka Malaysian food stands to where we sit. By this time, the news of a relative’s death sinks in a little bit more, survival instincts kick in, and we eat.
At funerals, this means plain finger food for Christians, Kosha food brought by visitors to
Jewish Shivas, and vegetarian ‘Tofu meals’ for the Shanghainese people. But whether it is offered at the funeral ceremony, the meal after, or following a relative’s immediate passing; food, for all cultures, is not just about satisfying that physiological need to eat.
The cook at our restaurant, wearing jeans and a tattered Nike jumper, signals to us that the food is ready. We snap our wooden chopsticks apart, and admire his handy work. It is a
Laksa noodle soup made from scratch: thick coconut sauce; king-size prawns; spongy tofu; tender chicken; yellow and white noodles made minutes ago; and, fresh spices in the chili paste, not the preservative filled jar variety.
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I remember my other grand-pa; the one on my father’s side who turned to Christianity at the last minute, but out of custom, his family continued Chinese food rituals for his funeral.
When he was in his thirties, he had brought two families down to Sydney from his homeland: his own family of six, and his brother’s family of four. Supporting both meant working overtime at local Chinese restaurants. A dispute over who should have the honour of making speeches at a family wedding banquet, six years ago, was enough for my mother to weaken our ties with him.
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‘Give these to everyone,’ Aunt Shelley says to her nephews and niece after grandpa’s funeral, handing them white envelopes, each containing a piece of candy and one silver coin.
‘What’s this for?’ I ask.
‘Bak Gim. White Gold,’ is all Aunty Shelley manages between sobs, as she slumps back onto her eldest son’s shoulder and begins the long way back to the car.
‘They are gifts. You eat the sweets now, and buy something with the silver coin later today, something that will make you happy,’ Mum explains. ‘Remind me, okay?’
Later, at Grand-pa’s favorite Chinese restaurant near the city, the waiters serve several dishes meant to help us digest our grief. The steamed fish covered in dark sauce gives us prosperity, the crunchy crispy chicken, family unity; the fried noodles, longevity; sticky fried rice dessert, a sweet life, and family reunion. The other plates we also devour: Abalone and sea cucumber; scallops covered in snow peas and corn strips; and, a plate of fried rice. I count seven dishes in total per table. There are always seven for a funeral meal.
The restaurant owner greets us with his condolescences, and offers to discount our expenses by ten percent.
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At the wedding in Malaysia, the guests have arrived on time. Some are in their ‘sarongs’ and ‘kabayangs,’ traditional Malaysian attire, and others are wearing business t-shirts paired with jeans, or formal suits and dresses. Following introductions on main stage, my cousin and her groom sit with their immediate families at the front, and signal for the butlers to begin the feast.
From fish, chicken, fried noodles, and pork, to sweet desserts; the selection of dishes on the menu is quite similar to the one at the funeral meal I attended some time ago. The exotic tongues of Malay, Cantonese, and Mandarin visitors, competing with the sounds of the happy
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Chinese violinist playing a tune on his ancient instrument, the Erhu; somehow makes all the difference.
There are slight variations of course-some dishes that offer fortunes not seen or tasted at funerals. The shark-fin soup, symbolizing status, is a warm delicacy that leaves tingling sensations as it travels down to your stomach. The saucy eight-treasure duck dish, fidelity, is a display of colour and gravy, placing mushrooms and duck meat on top of bok choy vegetables.
For desert, the boiled egg in Glutonous rice, fertility, melts in your mouth. In the end, there are exactly ten dishes per table, an even number for additional luck.
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After thanking the restaurant owner for his generous discount, the extended family say their goodbyes to each other, and promise to come back to the gravestone three days later. For my immediate family, there is one last stop-an expensive Chinese bread shop.
‘How much for this one?’ Mum says, pointing to a large sponge cake.
‘Four dollars,’ the shopkeeper says. Mum rummages through her handbag for the four silver coins we gave her earlier, adds an extra gold coin, and drops them into the palm of the shopkeeper.
At home, Mum opens the plastic bag, takes out the cake, and cuts it open, revealing a moist centre with an alien green color.
‘I use to have this all the time when I was growing up,’ she says.
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It has now been six hours since the passing of my mother’s father, and the cook’s extra chilli hot version of Laksa noodle soups, are just what we need. We slurp the noodles louder to show our appreciation, and feverishly gulp down cold water. But Aunt Khim grabs her tissue now. She pauses, and that’s all it takes.
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‘I didn’t say goodbye in time,’ Aunt Khim says; steam from her bowl rising to meet her glasses. ‘Why didn’t he wait for me?’ Her brother closest to her, places his hand on her shoulder, and speaks words of comfort.
The others follow in fashion.
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