It was a Sunday lunch at Min Jiang, tucked into Dempsey Hill, when I noticed it again. My parents scanned the menu, and as a son who just can’t stop being observant, I noticed immediately. Their body was leaning just a bit forward that confirmed everything. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love my parents, but they do have a knack of making me feel responsible when it comes to food.
The thing is, they’ve eaten here before, yet the question comes out the same: “What’s good here?”
I could point to the Beijing duck, how its skin crisp and golden, or the turbot fish, carefully plated to balance richness and lightness. Yet I stop myself for a moment , not because I can’t decide, but because these questions are less about the dishes themselves and more about the conversation they spark. Watching them again lean slightly forward, listening to me describe the texture, the subtle heat in a Sichuan stir-fry, I realise that they genuinely enjoy hearing how much I know about food.
The space at Min Jiang frames the exchange. The openness of Dempsey’s greenery beyond the terrace, the warm tones of marble and wood inside, it all shapes how we engage. How its not just about the food, or the place even but how we engage with the people we chose to be here with.
I notice small gestures: my father taking the first piece of crab, my mother suggesting a sip of chrysanthemum tea between bites. Even repeated experiences are reshaped by attention and interaction, giving each visit a subtle novelty.
By the end of the meal, I understand something simple. Dining carries both tradition and exploration, the act of asking “what’s good here” is not about uncertainty, it’s about trusting someone to guide you through a landscape of taste, memory, and culture. And in that, the meal becomes a little richer than any signature dish on the table.
