I

I
come from a big (and I mean big) family of Chinese immigrants
in the Philippines. One of the biggest dramas during our annual
Christmas family meal is who gets to cook grandma’s hallowed
cellophane-chicken recipe. One year, my ever-defiant mother
volunteered to cook the dish – which involves wrapping bits of
chicken with coriander, shiitake mushrooms and a secret combination
of sauces – and served it during our family meal, in which everyone
volunteers a dish or two to be shared.

My grandmother, secretly wishing her to fail, said it was
“passable but not as tasty as the original”, while other family
members joked and nit-picked about everything from the tenderness
of the meat to the consistency of the sauce, laughing all the way.
All of this culminated in a loud but affectionate debate over the
dinner table. It was one of the best moments of our annual family
meal. The conversation then moved on to the dishes that everyone
would bring to the next gathering.

So much of Asian culture is defined by food. The rich and
endlessly diverse flavours of the continent – from Central Asia,
South Asia and the Far East – tell stories steeped in history and
rituals of familial love and neighbourly camaraderie. In Asia, food
is a language with a vast vocabulary of spice, colour and
taste.

In a similar food-related kerfuffle with my (extremely) British
husband, he told me that tikka masala was actually a British
invention. Confused, I fell into a tikka-masala-conspiracy rabbit
hole, in which I discovered a glaring lack of consensus on its
origins. Some believe that it is a Punjabi dish adapted as a
British curry, while others say it was invented by a Bangladeshi
chef in the UK. The most popular theory attributes its creation to
Ali Ahmed Aslam from the Glaswegian curry house Shish Mahal.
Apparently the masala sauce was created to appeal to British taste
buds, which accounts for it being one of the most beloved takeaway
dishes in the modern-day UK.

This story is great for Shish Mahal (still a cult-favourite
among Glaswegians), but it does a huge disservice to the bountiful
nature of Indian cuisine by diminishing the British populace’s
understanding of it to just one dish. Much like the deep-rooted
complexity and diversity of Asian food culture, the will to take
ownership and commercialise this culture is equally ingrained in
western civilisation.

Let’s take fortune cookies for example. Modern-day fortune
cookies are primarily an American invention. Again, the exact
origins are up for debate, but most trace it back to
San Francisco or
Los Angeles. Others claim that a similar fortune cookie-type
pastry was found in traditional bakeries surrounding Shinto temples
in Japan. However, the earliest inspiration for the fortune cookie
was the Chinese moon cake, which 14th-century Chinese
revolutionaries used to distribute covert messages in a plot to
overthrow Mongol invaders. It’s a fantastical tale, but one which
is lost in favour of commercialising vague East Asian
mysticisms.

In the UK, Chinese cuisine was popularised after the Second
World War as Cantonese immigrants, primarily sailors, settled in
the country. While the number of Chinese takeaways grew
exponentially, the dishes they served were (and still are) created
with the British palate in mind. Sweet-and-sour pork, lemon chicken
and, heck, sesame prawn toast are all creations for western taste
buds painfully unaware of the wonderful flavours also offered in
Sichuan, Fujian and Hainanese cuisine, as well as countless other
regional delicacies in China.

Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t some kind of rant against the
globalisation of Asian cuisines, which oftentimes necessitates a
bit of adaptation. I grew up with a mixed Chinesea -Filipino
heritage and migrated to the UK – for me, it’s a pleasure to see
British people embrace our food and enjoy dishes that so dearly
remind me of home. There are also countless restaurants in London
(Duddell’s, Din Tai Fung, Four Seasons, Romulo Café to name a few)
that honour these cuisines with admirable authenticity.

However, there is a fine line between adapting aspects of a
cuisine to enhance its cross-demographic appeal and losing its
essence altogether. It is a line that is almost invisible, and one
that doesn’t usually cross the minds of most of the people in the
west. So, how do we overcome inauthenticity? It really is all about
context and understanding. As conscious citizens and travellers, we
should seek out the stories behind what we eat, especially when
venturing to places in which certain dishes originate.

On a trip to Japan a few years ago, I experienced the ceremony
of sushi omakase in a traditional sushi shop. The preparation alone
was akin to a performance. I sat by the counter and watched the
chef silently and meticulously clean, prepare and cut the day’s
fresh catch, and roll the rice with just a dash of wasabi
underneath. Proper sushi etiquette is to order piece by piece, eat
with your fingers (unless it’s sashimi; then you use chopsticks)
and consume each piece in one bite. And of course, never use too
much soy sauce.

All of this is certainly a world away from hurriedly grabbing a
sushi box at your local Wasabi, before clambering onto the platform
just in time to catch your train. While there is nothing wrong with
a takeaway sushi box, there is also so much poetry in the ritual
that inspired it, and that you simply can’t get in a plastic
container.

So, while you can have a laugh reading about your fortune from a
baked dessert, don’t forget to seek out the authentic Asian
flavours in the UK too. There are plenty if you know where to look.
And if you do find yourself travelling to popular Asian
destinations, get out of your comfort zone and eat something
unfamiliar. Don’t settle for the dishes that have historically been
adapted to suit your tastes and instead try adapting your tastes to
the local culture. Don’t fall into the trap of the familiar.

To immerse yourself in the food language of each destination,
seek out local recommendations. Maybe even go rogue and try the
cellophane chicken, because if you live the rest of your life just
ordering tikka masala off the menu, wouldn’t that be the worst
fortune of all?