Dear white people,
Stop gentrifying my mooncakes.
You know what I’m talking about; those mouthwatering treats with a perfectly golden-brown crust, decadent filling and perfectly salted egg yolk in the center (you cannot have a moon cake without the egg yolk).
Growing up in a predominantly white area, mooncakes were a luxury, a once-a-year treat that my aunt would bring from San Jose.
The crispy shell, creamy filling and salty egg yolk all evoke memories of drinking tea to stay up late with my parents, lighting brightly colored paper lanterns and seeing relatives who lived near and far.
It wasn’t just my childhood that was inextricably linked to these golden treats. My mom used to make them with her best friend and her mother in Vietnam when they were children.
I grew up on stories of her making these confections, meticulously measuring lye water and golden syrup for the dough and portioning out the filling to wrap around the salted egg yolks that are as tasty as they are symbolic.
The weekend before Tet Trung Thu, I was able to make a trip to my favorite Chinese bakery and procure some Cantonese-style mooncakes. I was able to peruse through mooncakes in their perfectly baked crusts, deciding which of my favorites I wanted to bring home and which ones I wanted to try.
So, imagine my horror when my roommate told me about her millennial friends asking her opinion about their modernized mooncakes.
Flavors such as matcha and ube were only slightly offensive, but when strawberry lychee was mentioned, my reaction was less than polite. As she so succinctly states, “Isn’t it just pie at that point?”
What was wrong with the lotus paste and red bean and mixed nut fillings I had grown up with?
As someone who has spent the better part of my life suppressing my heritage to fit in, that conversation prompted some serious soul-searching. I grew up Americanizing my name to make it more palatable to the white tongue, quietly envious of my cousins who all had “regular” names.
I didn’t fit in.
I didn’t think I ever would.
It wasn’t until lockdown when I spent a year and a half under the same roots with my parents that I began to embrace my roots. The pandemic offered the space for self-reflection I so desperately needed.
Moving in with my Vietnamese roommate helped solidify the nagging feeling that there was still a part of me I had been neglecting to nurture for so very long.
It took a very long time to accept my heritage, even if there are some things I still need to reflect on, and maybe that was why this conversation stood out to me.
I’m not one to believe in coincidences.
A meticulously crafted, centuries-old tradition has been westernized and gentrified.
Mooncakes are packed with symbolism, their very existence being a tribute to the fat harvest moon that has been revered in East and Southeast Asian culture. Not only are mooncakes an integral part of the culture, they also have a religious significance.
Legend has it that mooncakes are Mid-Autumn Festival offerings for the moon goddess Chang’e who is eternally separated from her lover, Houyi. According to the Chinese Lunar calendar, this holiday falls on the 15th day of the eighth month of the lunar calendar.
They are meant to be cut into wedges and shared, the roundness of the pastry symbolizing family and togetherness.
The embossed designs on top of the cakes come from being pressed into elaborately carved wooden molds. Popular designs include florals, rabbits, or the name of the bakery in which they were made, and, of course, that beautiful salted egg yolk represents the full autumn moon.
Traditional fillings can range from sweet to savory, with popular flavors including white lotus seed paste, mixed nuts, Chinese sausage, and black sesame paste.
Lately, I’ve been seeing contemporary twists such as ice cream, coffee, and even Oreo.
Why do Westerners feel the need to adapt ethnic foods to their palates?
Let me rephrase that question because “ethnic” has underlying negative connotations; inferring strange, foreign, and other.
Why do traditional foods need to be adapted to the Western palate?
From the correct way to eat pho to pho being trademarked to the very recent congee controversy, I’ve watched my beloved childhood favorites become bastardized versions of themselves.
I’m a firm supporter of exploring other cultures, branching out and taking the time to appreciate the nuances that make each culture unique.
I also believe that, in order to do so, every aspect of that experience must be kept as authentic as possible. Of course, there is a wholly separate issue of the anti-Asian sentiment in the wake of the pandemic.
Bakeries and small businesses are struggling right now and it only makes sense to create new flavors in an effort to draw in a Western crowd. Additionally, younger generations are pulling away from tradition. Modernization no longer seems to be an alternative but a way to survive.
Where is the line between attracting newer generations and adapting to white palettes?
This issue is too complex for a simple opinion piece about mooncakes. But it’s striking to see how deeply multifaceted and controversial the simple notion of having alternate mooncake flavors can be.
Tet Trung Thú has since passed, with my roommates and I sharing mooncakes, of course. But there is still an inner conflict that lingers.
There’s anger and annoyance that traditional foods must be adapted to appease the Western palate. There’s a lot of guilt about excluding those who want to try something new but aren’t wholly comfortable with something so different.
There’s absolutely nothing wrong if you prefer ube over red bean or matcha over white lotus. Everyone has different tastes and what I grew up eating may be completely new to someone else.
But how much of Tet Trung Thú are you experiencing if you don’t fully immerse yourself into the experience?
I guess, instead of asking white people to simply stop gentrifying my mooncakes, I should be asking everyone to give traditional flavors a try. Not just with mooncakes but all dishes.
Maybe try a tuna nigiri the next time you get sushi instead of a rainbow roll. Or order some bun bo hue instead of the wildly popular pho the next time you’re craving Vietnamese food.
iIf you want to venture out to buy some mooncakes next year, I encourage you to try a traditional flavor. Aside from Harvest Wheat on Clement St, some of my favorite Chinese bakeries include Golden Gate Bakery in Chinatown and Sheng Kee Bakery on Irving.