The Immigrant Shop
It was what long time residents would call an “immigrant shop”. For most of this shop's customers, it is a slice of home, a reassuring place of what they knew from childhood and where they can be fully themselves. It was also a sort of McDonalds for them, where you know you can get what you want. This happened to be a Hong Kong-styled eatery I was in that day.
The owners had to encourage business to compete with similar outlets surrounding them. The staff tried to greet every person who stepped inside, past the plastic sheaves vertically hanging down at the entrance, placed perhaps to discourage insects. It was obvious this was originally a butchery business now expanding to sell food.
So on a typical day at what would be lunchtime, there are steaming bowls of egg noodles in soup graced with roast chicken or duck. The so-called fellow countrymen and women knew what to order – hot pots with chicken and mushrooms – without having to refer to numbers. The mainstream society customers, who did not know the language and food of the owners, had to ask for descriptives, and quote numbers from photo panels on the wall.
Yes, business was growing, but the operators were slow in coming out with the meals required. They did not distinguish between take-aways and sit-in food orders. Who can wait longer when there was pressure on the cook, heard but not seen, audibly busy with his wok in the kitchen somewnere behind another door and beyond the view of the customers. There was an obvious boss moving around, but he too looked overwhelmed, although happy with the number of people who had ordered food.
An elderly lady was struggling with the size of the serving in front of her. She had just returned from Hong Kong the day before, and maybe just a bit shocked at the huge amount of food served in this fortunate land. On another table, a mother and her grown up son were quietly enjoying their food. She looked tough and aggressive while her son seemed too gentle and demure – what a contrast! There were grandparents who brought their grandchildren, the former conversing in the mother tongue, while the latter were twirling their tongues in Australian English.
The impatience of customers who had waited more than the customary ten minutes began to show. Fidgeting, eyes staring into the counter or the ceiling. A teenager walked in with his Maltese on hand. Young mothers brought bags of shopping with them and waited for their take-aways. An ambulance service woman could not contain her impatience anymore whe, after ordering, she had to wait for an inordinate length of time just to get fried rice. She burst out in English to the staff member at the counter, “how long is it going to take further, I have a job to go to”. Unfortunately this staff member did not understand English. Now why have someone, who did not understand the mainstream language, serve at the front line? Ah, she does actually know the language of most of her customers, originally from Hong Kong and other parts of Asia.
There are boxes stacked up even beside customers’ tables. There is no emphasis on aesthetics, only the logistics to bring in the money. It’s interesting how yuppie restaurants go to the other extreme, with ambience and designer environs, while Hong Kong restaurants tend to be rough and ready. It’s okay as long as the food tastes good and is value for the money paid. There’s no point to have paintings to observe while swallowing unpalatable food.
Two young men in white overalls carry the cleaned carcass of a pig past the customers’ tables. Their long truck is parked outside. So the Hong Kong shop turns such raw stuff into delicacies such as roast duck, smoked flat chicken and barbequed pork. From the inside, one could hear two men making a bit of a riot in trying to sell boxes of bananas at wholesale prices on the pavement.
A little bit of Hong Kong thrives in a Sydney suburb. Hong Kong may have changed through the years, but this shop shall most likely carry on traditions and practices that may already be discarded in Hong Kong itself.
The owners had to encourage business to compete with similar outlets surrounding them. The staff tried to greet every person who stepped inside, past the plastic sheaves vertically hanging down at the entrance, placed perhaps to discourage insects. It was obvious this was originally a butchery business now expanding to sell food.
So on a typical day at what would be lunchtime, there are steaming bowls of egg noodles in soup graced with roast chicken or duck. The so-called fellow countrymen and women knew what to order – hot pots with chicken and mushrooms – without having to refer to numbers. The mainstream society customers, who did not know the language and food of the owners, had to ask for descriptives, and quote numbers from photo panels on the wall.
Yes, business was growing, but the operators were slow in coming out with the meals required. They did not distinguish between take-aways and sit-in food orders. Who can wait longer when there was pressure on the cook, heard but not seen, audibly busy with his wok in the kitchen somewnere behind another door and beyond the view of the customers. There was an obvious boss moving around, but he too looked overwhelmed, although happy with the number of people who had ordered food.
An elderly lady was struggling with the size of the serving in front of her. She had just returned from Hong Kong the day before, and maybe just a bit shocked at the huge amount of food served in this fortunate land. On another table, a mother and her grown up son were quietly enjoying their food. She looked tough and aggressive while her son seemed too gentle and demure – what a contrast! There were grandparents who brought their grandchildren, the former conversing in the mother tongue, while the latter were twirling their tongues in Australian English.
The impatience of customers who had waited more than the customary ten minutes began to show. Fidgeting, eyes staring into the counter or the ceiling. A teenager walked in with his Maltese on hand. Young mothers brought bags of shopping with them and waited for their take-aways. An ambulance service woman could not contain her impatience anymore whe, after ordering, she had to wait for an inordinate length of time just to get fried rice. She burst out in English to the staff member at the counter, “how long is it going to take further, I have a job to go to”. Unfortunately this staff member did not understand English. Now why have someone, who did not understand the mainstream language, serve at the front line? Ah, she does actually know the language of most of her customers, originally from Hong Kong and other parts of Asia.
There are boxes stacked up even beside customers’ tables. There is no emphasis on aesthetics, only the logistics to bring in the money. It’s interesting how yuppie restaurants go to the other extreme, with ambience and designer environs, while Hong Kong restaurants tend to be rough and ready. It’s okay as long as the food tastes good and is value for the money paid. There’s no point to have paintings to observe while swallowing unpalatable food.
Two young men in white overalls carry the cleaned carcass of a pig past the customers’ tables. Their long truck is parked outside. So the Hong Kong shop turns such raw stuff into delicacies such as roast duck, smoked flat chicken and barbequed pork. From the inside, one could hear two men making a bit of a riot in trying to sell boxes of bananas at wholesale prices on the pavement.
A little bit of Hong Kong thrives in a Sydney suburb. Hong Kong may have changed through the years, but this shop shall most likely carry on traditions and practices that may already be discarded in Hong Kong itself.
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