Egg Tarts

A Creative Writing Piece

The call came early, just after I had put the first batch of custard-filled pastry shells into the oven. For reasons unknown, a flutter of unease washed over me at the sharp, insistent ringing cutting through the quiet calm before customers arrived. We rarely got calls before opening hours, and early calls reminded me of the goodbyes that I wasn’t ready to face.

In the shadowy background of the shop, I could hear Mama humming the tune to one of her favorite Cantonese songs as the aroma of roast pork for the rice noodle rolls wafted through the air, blissfully unaware. I dusted the flour off my hands and answered the phone. “Plum Blossom Bakery, how can I help you?”

“Sylvie,” a voice whispered over static, “can you meet me at our spot after work?”

A rush of excitement passed through me. “Jin? Are you in town? Yes!” I was clutching the receiver with both hands. It had been years since I had last seen my older brother. A spark of desperate hope flickered in my chest – he hasn’t forgotten his promise! “Mama will be so happy that you’re here, I’ll tell her once she finishes cooking–”

A long silence passed before I heard his response. It was what I used to beg him after I quit piano lessons, after I snuck out late at night, after I was expelled from school for cheating on an exam. “Don’t tell Mama,” he said, and hung up.

I hated surprises. The constants in life anchored me in taking days one at a time, at least until I had saved enough to buy a plane ticket out. Until then, there was one thing I could count on: everyone in town knew and loved the Plum Blossom Bakery.

My parents had opened Plum Blossom after I was born, selling Mama’s dowry so that the income from the bakery could feed four mouths. It had started out as the bottom floor of our building on a quiet street, with nothing but used appliances from Best Buy, eight tables they picked up from a garage sale, and the dusted recipes of sweet buns and pastries from our Baba, who had passed away five years ago. But over the years, Plum Blossom Bakery became more than just a place to grab a quick bite in the morning. I had grown up on the gossip and affections of the townspeople that passed in and out of Plum Blossom, all the while learning to knead dough into delicate dumpling skins and picking out the most fragrant tea leaves. After Baba got sick, I began spending more time frequenting the front, becoming the face of our bakery.

From eight until late afternoon, the shop became alive with bustle and chatter. After working three years full-time, I knew everyone in town and their favorite orders. Miya, who was my father’s nurse, liked sweet pineapple-top buns with hot oolong tea. The widow who lived across the bakery was especially fond of crystal har gow, especially the way Mama made them – bursting with freshly-cooked shrimp at the seams of the dumplings. And everyone at the bakery knew the eighty-year-old Mr. Fong, who always ordered egg tarts and smoked outside for hours while chatting with passersby. There he was sauntering in at the usual time, earning a chorus of appreciative greetings from the Mahjong ladies’ corner. “Morning, Sylvie,” he called.

“Morning, Mr. Fong!” I grabbed a box, filling it with the plump, buttery egg tarts that had just come out of the oven. As always, Mr. Fong tapped out his cigarette on the ashtray and savored a pastry in front of me. Today, his eyes went wide with delight. “You did it! These are always great, but today, they’re magical.” Mr. Fong beamed at me. “I’ll take ten more, please.”

“It’s just the same as always,” I said quickly, but secretly, I was overjoyed. Egg tarts were a traditionally-loved dessert, but I had added condensed milk and mango purée to my latest recipe, blending my favorite flavors into the dainty pastry. I’d had the idea for years, but Mama had always believed in preserving the flavors of tradition, fearing that the regulars would reject my experimental endeavors. But after I told Mr. Fong about it, he had been hooked, demanding he have a taste of every half-baked idea I had. Burnt crusts, strange combinations, gooey textures – Mr. Fong had eaten them all and never complained. For the past month, I had stayed up all night perfecting the ratios, trying to find the perfect balance between the creamy custard and the tart, fruity notes of the purée.

At my words, Mr. Fong wagged his finger at me. “Yanyan,” he said, using the affectionate name reserved for close relatives and friends, “you bet I’ll be buying many, many more tomorrow.” As he left, he placed an egg tart on every person’s table as he greeted them, filling the shop with small, shared pieces of sweet delight.

After closing shop, I quickly cleaned up and made up an excuse for going out to meet with friends. It was already dark as I raced to the park, skirting past the playground and descending down the hill to the canoe rentals. I found him in our place on the docks, gazing out into the murky expanse of the river. My brother had just turned thirty, but as he crouched there in the dim light, he could have been a teenager again, teaching me the constellations with patience.

I adored Jin. Everyone in town did. He was the one that the fathers quietly compared their sons to and the mothers wanted their daughters to marry. Jin was one of the only ones who had made it out of this town, graduating at the top of his medical school class. After all, he had been named after the Chinese character for gold; he was everything I never was – tall, charismatic, brilliant. But despite the constant comparisons, he was my protector. He was the one who patiently listened to me through every teenage crisis and brought me to new places – and I was sure he had come to rescue me.

“I made you something,” I said, handing the parcel to him. He closed his eyes and held it to his nose, inhaling deeply without opening it.

“Honeycomb cake, my favorite,” he said. We had stopped making them because it was so hard to get the texture and flavor right – too hot in the oven and the cake would collapse; too cold and it would come out tasting like eggs. But it was the first thing that Jin had taught me to make, and I still clung to the memory of licking sticky brown sugar off my fingers and basking in his smile of approval when I finally perfected the recipe.

“Where have you been? It’s been...years, Jin,” I said. “Mama always wishes you visited more.” I always wish you visited more. Despite the hurt that I had felt from not hearing from him, everything that I wanted to tell him came spilling out. “I’m applying to go back to school now, I’m taking the LSAT in a month. Mama’s working on this new crepe cake that has been really popular...” As I trailed off, I realized that Jin wasn’t even looking at me. He was fidgeting with his nails, but they had already been bitten so raw that I could see streaks of redness at the tips.

“Meimei,” he said, our term for younger sister, “I need money.”

“How much do you need?”

“You need to sell the bakery,” he said, a strange desperation in his voice.

“What?” I was taken completely by surprise. “Plum Blossom is... it’s our home!”

“Sylvie, please. I...owe people a lot of money,” he pleaded, leaning forward. “If I don’t pay them...they’ll take my license, and I’ll never practice again. I won’t just lose my job—I’ll lose everything I’ve worked for. Just say you need it for law school. You have to help me, Sylvie. Please.”

“You’re asking me to sacrifice what Mama and Baba built for us,” I said slowly. “ What about our customers? What about...”

He shook his head frantically, eyes wild with an animalistic fear. “I promise, if I make it out of this mess, I swear I’ll find a way to bring you with me. We can leave this town together.”

How long had I waited to hear those words? The night Jin left, I had begged him to bring with me. He had laughed, curling his pinky around mine in a silent promise. But now, it would have to come at an impossible cost. Plus, something was bothering me about this. “Why don’t you just ask Mama? I’m sure she would be willing to help.”

As the words left my mouth, a horrible realization struck me. Why would he? In Mama’s eyes, he was the perfect, successful son, and I was the drop-out, the child who had never finished college. “You know that if she doesn’t have you, she won’t be able to run the bakery,” Jin added coolly. “Do you really want to be tied down by it forever?” The awful thing was, he was right. Mama was proud, but her vision was failing. I knew deep down that if I quit, no one would be able to help Mama bake.

“Jin,” I whispered, “I’ve spent years working here, learning everything I can to help Mama. If I do this, you have to keep your word. You can’t just disappear again.”

Jin nodded vigorously. “I promise, Meimei. We’ll make it work. Together.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

For the first time since I had started working at the bakery, Mr. Fong didn’t come. In the chaos of the unspeakable guilt lodged inside me, his absence slipped by me until the second day, when the special batch of egg tarts I had saved went unbought. Before I got a chance to ask, Mama asked me to make dozens of egg tarts, a welcome relief from having to think about Jin’s ultimatum. As I cut out dough for the last batch, I noticed something strange. All of the tables had been pushed to the side to make way for the large round table reserved for banquets and parties. “What’s this?” I asked, peering at all of the wrapped white pastry boxes around the bakery.

“It’s for Mr. Fong’s vigil tonight,” Mama sniffed, tying a red ribbon around a box. I suddenly realized that every box was filled with egg tarts, and it felt like a nail had been shoved deep into my heart. “It’s a shame. He told you the same advice that he told Jin, but you didn’t listen. You just wanted to spend all your time here, and aiyah, now you’re still wasting so much time playing around with new things in the kitchen instead of studying for law school.”

For years, I had stayed silent when she had thrown the same words at me. Xiao shun, everyone said, respect your parents, daughters never talk back. And for years, I had believed her, that I was in the wrong for never bringing the honor and respect that Jin had afforded our family. But in my complete shock at Jin’s request the previous day and the jagged grief at hearing about Mr. Fong’s passing, the knife slipped and grazed my finger. I bit back a scream as my blood dripped onto the cutting board; cursing, I grabbed linen under the counter to wrap my hand. How many times had I swallowed my dreams for the bakery? How many times had I forced myself to stay in this suffocating town until there was enough money to hold Mama and I together because Jin was gone? I could feel the deep resentment bubbling in my chest, hot and sharp, ready to spill over. “Mr. Fong,” I said slowly, “was more of a parent than you ever were. What...” I said, “do I need to convince you that I’m my own person, and I’m trying my best?” I slammed the rolling pin down, running before she could see the hot tears rolling down my face.

In my daze, I found myself back at the river as the sun was beginning to set. I swayed back and forth on the rocks that fed the lapping waters, hiccuping through the sobs that wracked my body. How is it fair? I remembered burning myself in a desperate attempt to fill an order for fried taro puffs and having to walk three miles to see a doctor because Jin was busy at a chess tournament and my parents were there instead; fainting from exhaustion after working the entire day to fund Baba’s surgeries because Jin was away in residency; buying the exam answers that got me expelled in a final act to save my scholarship at school. The obedient, cowardly, always-worse-than-Jin daughter. Maybe Jin’s offer was a blessing in disguise. Maybe it was the push I needed to finally free myself of the damned bakery once and for all.

As I returned back home and stepped into the kitchen, I heard the sounds of wrenched, quiet sobs. I peered into the back room, shocked to see my mother knelt on the floor in front of our ancestral altar. I quickly ran to her side, sinking down to my knees beside her. “Mama,” I croaked, wiping her tears from her face.

She turned her head and gathered me in her arms tightly. I couldn’t remember the last time she had hugged me – when had Mama become so frail? “Your Baba was always so proud of you,” she said. “I think he was selfish, for allowing Jin to go his own way and wanting to keep you around to be our family’s future. But your Mama is so happy that you’re here.”

The unspoken words – of who wasn’t here – hung between us. My heart twisted as I realized that I wasn’t the only person who missed and resented Jin for leaving and never coming back. Mama had raised him, put her lifeblood into ensuring his success as the golden child – the one who could do no wrong in Mama’s eyes. And now, the weight of his absence pressed down on us both like a heavy shroud. I squeezed her hand, and told her, “I’m happy that I’m here, too.”

That night, the bakery felt transformed. The usual scent of pastries intermingled with the heady aroma of incense, wrapping the room in a warm embrace. At the center of the room, someone had placed a portrait of Mr. Fong painted as he was mid-laugh, bathing his face in a rosy glow. As we began praying the Buddhist rites in a circle, I caught glimpses of familiar faces—Miya, with her warm smile; the widow who had frequented the bakery with her late husband; and Mr. Fong’s family standing close, drawing strength from each other in their grief.

As the ceremony ended, I stepped forward, my hands trembling slightly as I held a box of my egg tarts. “Dàn tǎ were his favorite,” I said, my voice wavering. “Each bite is a reminder of the sweetness he shared with us. Please share some tonight and carry that joy forward.”

The room filled with murmurs of appreciation as the desserts were passed around, and my heart swelled. To my surprise, Mama spoke up. “Sylvie is our treasure,” she said. “Today, we celebrate not only Mr. Fong but also my daughter, who is stepping into her own light.”

Warmth filled my chest, and I teared up. “Thank you, Mama,” I whispered, overwhelmed.

“Here’s to Mr. Fong,” Miya called, raising her glass. “And to you and your daughter Sylvie, for creating a second home for all. To the community we’ve built at Plum Blossom!”

The crowd raised their glasses, a chorus of “To Mr. Fong and to Sylvie!” filling the air. At that moment, surrounded by my community, I felt an enormous weight lifted from my shoulders.

The next morning, I called Jin.

“I’m sorry, Jin,” I said, “but I can’t do it to Mama, or the people who need us.”

A heavy silence hung between us. I could almost see him, shoulders slumped, defeated.

For the first time, it occurred to me that the brother I had once idolized was no longer there.

“I’m sorry, Sylvie. I just thought...” He trailed off. “I thought you were waiting for me to come back,” he said quietly. “I thought you’d be happy to leave this place behind.”

“I was, but I’m not waiting anymore. Maybe it’s not about escaping anymore,” I said, more to myself than to him. ” I’d forever be his little sister, but I was no longer the girl who needed him, the girl who would fold to protect him. “Maybe it’s about figuring out how to build something here that’s mine. Something that matters, for me, for Mama, for everyone who comes here. You’ll always have a place here, when you want to come home.”

“I understand. Goodbye, Sylvie,” Jin said, voice cracking.

“Goodbye, Jin,” I said, fighting back the salty tears spilling down, each teardrop a wrenching goodbye to the Meimei who had believed that Jin would make everything right again.

As I silently wiped my tears away, I noticed a little girl with large eyes and braids was standing at the counter. It was Anne, Mr. Fong’s granddaughter from the vigil. “How do you make them taste so magical?” she asked, voice trembling with nervousness.

“It’s about putting a little bit of yourself into every recipe,” I said, smiling at the hopeful expression in her large, round eyes. “Everyone’s egg tarts will taste a little different because everyone is their own person, and that’s okay. Do you want to make one with me?” Her eyes brightened and she nodded, dashing to grab an apron.

It was still true that I hated surprises, and that I yearned to see the world beyond – but I’d do it on my own terms, keeping Baba’s memory and our community alive with it. Standing there, as generations of laughter filled the cocoon of our space and the scent of freshly baked egg tarts enveloped us in a warm embrace, Plum Blossom Bakery had never felt more like home to me.