Food and Beverage: “Midnight Braised Fish” by Nhi Nguyen

Midnight Braised Fish

In this humble kitchen of your tiny apartment, your grandma seems alive again, tying her long, silky dark hair into a bun. Your aunts used to frequently compliment her hair, how it remained a raven black despite the passing of time, and it was once her pride. The light occasionally flickers—fourth time this week—and you sigh inwardly because you really need to call someone over to take a look. 

But that is not the most pressing matters, at least for now. Your grandma scrutinises the fish fillets you have just defrosted—snakehead fish, your favourite. 

She furrows her eyebrows. “Not fresh enough,” she stares at you accusingly. 

You shrug. “It’s Singapore, gran, that’s all I can afford.”

She scoffs. “Then maybe you should go back to Vietnam and pay your poor grandma a visit.”

You don’t answer—emptiness and guilt sloshing in your throat—instead resorting to arrange all the necessary condiments onto the kitchen counter, before starting the cooking process. Your grandma drilled this into your head since the day she brought you into her kitchen, her face contorted—immensely appalled—at your messiness: bottles and jars rolling across the kitchen counter, near falling. 

“Ah-girl, what is this?” She flicked you on your forehead, eliciting an indignant yelp, “Stand back.”

“But Gran,” you pouted, as if a bullied child “You promised to teach me.”

She glared at you, before letting out a helpless sight. “Then watch. Carefully.”

You chuckle to yourself while washing the fish fillets, before damping them with clean towels paper and set on a plate for seasoning. MSG sprinkled onto one side of the snow-white meat, your fingers sticky and wet as you rub it in; yellow bits disappearing into coral. Turn, and repeat. Your grandma watches your every action like a hawk, as if you would burn the kitchen down anytime soon—a habit she learned after you had forgotten a pot on the stove; boiling water spilling over the wooden counter. You were spanked three times that day. 

“More,” she complains, reaching out for the MSG packet in your hand, planning to dump them onto the fish fillet.

“Nuh-uh, gran,” you dodge her bony hand—effortlessly. In that old house of hers, where it was so small the living and dining room were practically the same space, you used to sit in the honeyed, rich afternoon sunlight after hours of running around with their neighbourhood kids; your eyes fixed onto the cartoon characters flashing on the boxy TV. Your grandma would angrily yank the controller in your hand, rushing your sweaty body—clothes sticking onto your skin like glue—towards the bathroom, and you would try to take them back (to no avail, of course). But now, you have grown so much taller, and her back has been bending ever since she reached her 60s. Some days her bones would ache as if whipped by thunders, and as she laid motionless on her old wooden bed, she would stare at the ceiling; hours gone by without even speaking to anyone. Perhaps if you were a stranger, you would have mistaken her for a corpse; whose life had ended so abruptly their body refused to rest in peace.  

You used to wonder what she was thinking. 

“You were much cuter when you were a child.” She grumbles, one hand massaging her spine, and you smile—but it is as if you swallowed a bitter gourd, whole, the object lodged at the base of your throat. 

Soy sauce, fish sauce—funny how you add it to fish—and some salt. All your grandma’s teaching is coming back to you now, as if you are still that young child, clothes baked by the harsh Vietnamese weather, standing on a stool as she guided your hands around the ingredients, whispering instructions to you. Motorbikes honked madly out in the street, but in that space, everything was tranquil. Heat flushed your face a florid shade as you cranked the gas stove, but  your grandma would never install or bring a fan over—as if amused by your struggle. You would whine, and she would flick your forehead (classic grandma move), then demanding you to finish your tasks. Little you felt greatly wronged. 

You turn on the stove, rummaging around for a pot. You pulled out stainless steel one—not the best pot for braised fish—but would do. You can tell your grandma is already raising an eyebrow at the sight, but she thankfully does not comment. In the past, you would lament how her grandchildren were getting “too westernised” (you still don’t understand why she would pull out that phrase for every single thing she found problematic). You coat the silver-grey belly with a layer of oil, before adding in some garlic. As you carefully place the fish fillets into the pot, she asks:

“Are you not adding chillies?”

“Hell nah, gran,” you push the fillets around in the oil-slicked pot, “You know I can’t handle spicy food.”

For a moment, it seems as if something has stilled within the air—the source of it being your grandma. Curious, you look at her, only to see her down casted eyes. 

“22 years and you are still the same.” She says, her voice suddenly sniffy. 

Your grandma originated from Central Vietnam, where chillies are an essential part of every dish. You imagine that your great-grandma loved chillies, and that love was passed onto her—you would find her biting on both red and green chillies at every meal. Once, you fooled around in her kitchen, opening the fridge as your stomach grumbled violently, only for a wave of sharp smell to assault your senses. Your mom told you that you were wailing on your first visit to her home, because she made everything—from the meat to the vegetables—too spicy. She would frequently complain about your lack of spice tolerance (“How can you call yourself a Vietnamese like this?”) but then silently prepared a non-spicy portion for you anyways.

You feel a strange itch in your eyes—as if stung by chillies, again—so you immediately turn away from your grandma, busying yourself with making the sauce, since you couldn’t find the condiments made specifically for braised fish—which is sold everywhere in Vietnam, but sadly, not here. You whisk together soy sauce, fish sauce, and coconut water, then pouring the rich-brown liquid into the pot; steams immediately billow up, clouding your glasses with a milky haze. 

Your grandma sighs. “Turn the fire a bit lower. At this rate you would mess up everything again.” You obey. In the kitchen, no one supersedes grandma—no, not even your mom, or any of your aunts. 

The key to making delicious braised fish is time. You were always impatient, always needing a stimulus—but you learned a hard lesson after accidentally serving slightly raw caramel pork belly. You wait until the fillets have turned a cream colour, before lowering the fire and put the lid on, leaving everything to simmer so that the meat would be thoroughly coated with the sauce. For a while, the kitchen is only filled with the soft bubbling inside the pot. A strange silence descends, and you find yourself at a loss of what to say. 

You haven’t seen her in years. There are so many things you have always wanted to tell her, yet when she is here, alive and healthy, you scramble around for words. 

The light flickers. She looks at your stiff posture, then chuckling. 

“Have you been well?”

You open your mouth, then closing, then opening again: only air coming out. You spent past few years trying to fit yourself into an unfamiliar nation, while fighting to keep what little connection you have left with your Vietnamese identity. Friends flooded your life, and left in waves. New opportunities arose and you seized them—you failed some, and succeeded in some. There were nights where you hid yourself from the world inside your blanket, wishing that your grandma was there, so she could sing old lullabies for you as you drift into a peaceful dream. 

You smile. “To be honest, I’m not really sure.”

After an indeterminate amount of time—you never keep track—you open the lid, and a sweet aroma instantly burst into your nose. Your stomach rumbles furiously—but grandma taught you that patience is virtue—so you calm yourself down. The fillets glimmer with a thick sauce as you transfer them to a plate. 

“Don’t forget the last step.” Your grandma calls out to you. 

How can you forget? Garnish with green onions, and add a generous amount of pepper. Even with the not-so-fresh fillets, the dish still smells amazing, and you beam happily at yourself for completing the task so perfectly. 

“Gran!” You happily shout, “Come take a lo—”

You turn to the side—excited—except she is not there, anymore. Your words echo back at you, deafening in the small space. There, stand you, all alone, holding a dish filled with braised fish, as lost as a child. 

You close your eyes, two streams of bitter tears rolling down your cheeks. Your grandma a faint echo, from the past, calling, then disappearing amidst the noises of life. 

About Nhi Nguyen

Nhi is a fulltime student from Vietnam, and is currently exploring and experimenting with creative writing.