There is something magical about childhood snacks—their flavours hold memories, their textures evoke emotions, and their scents summon ghosts of the past. For me, that sacred morsel is the egg waffle, or gai daan jai (雞蛋仔), a golden, honeycombed delight that takes me back to long summer days in Hong Kong, spent under my grandmother’s watchful care.
Growing up in London, my brother Alex and I would spend our summers in Hong Kong, where my grandmother became our steadfast guardian, our unwavering pillar of warmth. She was our protector, our guide through the bustling streets of Mong Kok, and our indulgent accomplice in moments of childhood rebellion. The days were filled with boundless freedom—racing through the park, chasing each other under the shade of banyan trees, our laughter ringing through the humid air. Time was an abstract concept; the world was ours to explore, and home was a mere afterthought.
Inevitably, the sun would begin its descent, painting the sky in hues of amber and rose, signalling that it was time to return. But we, intoxicated by the thrill of play, refused to heed her gentle calls. My grandmother, wise and patient, knew better than to engage in fruitless negotiations. Instead, she employed the most effective of bribes—egg waffles.
The moment she uttered those two words, our resistance crumbled. The thought of warm, crisp-edged, golden spheres, slightly caramelised on the outside yet impossibly soft and airy within, was enough to pull us from our games. We would rush to the nearest street vendor, watching with eager anticipation as the batter was poured into the sizzling cast-iron moulds, the air filling with the sweet aroma of vanilla and butter. As soon as they were ready, still piping hot in their little paper bags, we would take our first bite, letting the warmth spread through us. The egg waffles were more than just a treat; they were a ritual, a love language, a promise that home was not a place of confinement, but of comfort.
Years have passed since those summers, and though I no longer see my grandmother as often, our bond remains unchanged. Every week, without fail, I call her. Our conversations, laced with nostalgia, inevitably return to those childhood days. She remembers everything—the games we played, the tantrums we threw, and most importantly, my unwavering love for egg waffles. “You still like them, don’t you?” she asks, her voice carrying across time zones and generations. I smile, because the truth is, I always will.
These days, when I find myself wandering through the streets of Hong Kong, I seek out those same roadside vendors. I watch the batter sizzle and rise, just as it did all those years ago, and with the first bite, I am a child again, standing beside my grandmother, my hands sticky with sugar and my heart full of warmth. Some tastes, after all, are forever tied to the people who made our childhoods sweet.
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