The Knife in One Hand and the Pan in The Other
One guy’s fascination with cooking told through the years.
I’ve always been interested in food. My earliest memory is being a boy in Singapore, sniffing the air as sweat-laden men and women attended to bubbling cauldrons and flaming woks in the innumerable hawker stalls of the country. I was still a child, then, ogling the strange world unfolding before me, and food always seemed to make it stranger.
There was one stall that stood out. It specialised in spicy noodles, and whenever my family and I were nearby, I was adamant in that whining way a boy can be that I should be allowed my bowl of spicy noodles. I wasn’t sure what attracted me so. Maybe it was the smell that was so direct it slapped me in the face and said, “Hey, kid, this is it, this is the real world!” Or maybe it was the crackle and pop as chilli peppers sizzled with ground beef, some kind of melody, some kind of lullaby that registered better than any song sang by any mother. I never knew, and I doubt I ever will. My fascination simply was what it was, I was spurred on by some unconscious drive telling me this is it, this is where it’s at.
My parents didn’t agree. What makes the memory so complete is the fact they never let me have my bowl — being adults and all, they must’ve known better— And so that was how it went, so close I could smell that smell that slapped me in the face, so close I could hear the crackle, pop, and sizzle, but so far, the final dream snatched from right in front of me, wagging its stubby finger in my face, “Not now, son, not now…”
I haven’t been back to Singapore in years. Who knows if I’ll ever get to eat my bowl of those spicy noodles, and older now, I’m not sure I even care. Though throughout it all, one thing that’s remained certain is my fascination with food, and nowadays, with cooking as well.
It started with simple curiosity.
I suppose that’s how it starts with everyone. You see your mother or grandmother cooking some dish native to your family or culture and maybe you ask how it’s made. They tell you, and that’s that.
Or it isn’t.
At the point it isn’t is where I think the roads diverge in the wood, separating those who continue looking upon food as something to merely be eaten as opposed to those who plunge headfirst into figuring out the how of it all. That’s how it went with me, at least. In the latter portion of my teenage years, I was always asking my father about the English dishes he sometimes cooked and my mother about the Japanese dishes she always did, then proceeded to listen half-assed every time they explained what was what. Of course, I was interested, but the flame hadn’t caught.
It picked up when I went to university.
Being away from home and missing those dinners I’d grown so accustomed to, I found myself asking my mother to write out recipes. While what I made never tasted nearly as good as my memories of her cooking, I tried, and that was a good enough start. My curiosity only increased watching episodes of anything starring Anthony Bourdain, then Chef’s Table, Munchies — anything, anything! — I’d find myself watching videos of food and people eating, while I was eating. Sure, I could’ve just been a starved university student sick and tired of the constant pasta and booze, but looking back, I know for certain it all played a role in encouraging me to learn how to cook, as then I can start having something better than all this damn pasta and pasta and pa! —
I graduated from university and came back to Tokyo, deciding to live at home for a year to recuperate before starting what people always call, “the new chapter.”
Two things happened during that first year:
#1. I got a job working as a bartender/cook at a pub.
#2. I started cooking dinner for my family once a week.
And just like that, the flame began to roar.
A lot’s happened since then. Covid’s prevented me from moving abroad so I still find myself in Tokyo, which is nice and comfortable, but sometimes too nice and too comfortable. In any case, that’s all besides the point. The point is I’ve only gotten more and more interested in cooking, to where I now find myself working in kitchens. I’m by no means a chef, and I’ll be the first one to tell you that, but it’s interesting to see all the twists and turns I’ve taken since those bowls of spicy noodles that my parents never let me eat.
Who knows what’s next on the menu?
