Food Labor Ethics and Garlic on My Hands
Thursday night, Queen Vic
We can afford everything but curiosity. Sixteen bucks for curry. Twelve for dumplings. Fourteen if you’re feeling fancy. No one asks who chopped the garlic.
Thursday night crowd at Queen Vic Market. Neon signs. Steam rising from food trucks. Ordered chaos. Blue jeans. Puffer jackets. Recyclable clamshells already slick with oil before you even open them.
The line snakes past the momos and the banh mi and the guy torching cheese over shawarma like it’s a fucking Vegas act. Everyone recording. No one’s talking to the cook.
Said I came for the culture. Bullshit. I’m bored. It’s Thursday. Sick of my own food. Want someone else’s hands doing the work.
Nepali dumplings in a soy crate
He doesn’t look up. Hands busy. Dough circles laid out like poker chips across a plastic chopping board. Forearms dusted in flour. Bandaid on one finger. Another wrapped in tape. No gloves. Oil crusted under his nails. No one cares. I still ordered.
His name’s Raj. Found that out later. Not from him. From his cousin. They run this stall together on Thursdays and Saturdays. Shared truck. Shared spices. Shared debt probably. They buy the ingredients themselves. Prep late. Wrap dumplings until 3am. Sleep 4 to a room. Drive in from Dandenong. Pay stall fees. Hope weather holds.
I asked what meat was in it. He said chicken. Smiled the kind of smile that’s mostly habit. I didn’t ask about the flour, the chili, the smashed garlic. Didn’t ask how long he’d been wrapping these little things to survive in a city that calls it discovery.
His cousin joked with him when there was a break. Laughed at something in Nepali. Raj didn’t laugh. He was pressing the edges tight on a dumpling. Making sure it wouldn’t leak in the steamer.
The new poverty
It’s not hunger. Not in the stomach sense. Everyone’s full. Instagram’s full. Timing’s precise. You post while the food’s still hot. You say some version of “so good!” with four o’s. You don’t say who made it. You don’t ask what he gave up to be here.
We don’t steal flavours. We rent them. Eight bucks at a time. No attachment. No questions. Just a dopamine hit. Then bin it. Go home. Pretend we understand diversity because we have gochujang in the fridge and still don’t know how to use it.
Guy next to me calls them “the most authentic dumplings.” Says it like he discovered them. I look at Raj’s burnt thumbs. Want to say something. I don’t. Just chew louder.
Don’t know if they’re authentic. Don’t care. They’re hot. They’re good. That’s enough for most of us.
Food labor ethics and a burnt thumb
I watched Raj drop something. His tongs slipped. He caught a piece of meat with his fingers. Swore under his breath. Kept working. No first aid. No pause. Oil still bubbling. Someone asked for extra sauce. He said yeah, sure.
You tell yourself it’s fine. He’s doing business. This is his stall. He owns this hustle. That story sells. Everyone loves the immigrant success arc. Man makes dumplings, puts kids through school, buys a house. Makes your dinner. You call it resilience. You tip $1 and feel generous.
But I’ve worked kitchens. I’ve seen the math.
If you’re making dishes for eight bucks in a market that charges $280 a night just to rent space, you’re bleeding. Every dumpling is a bet. You keep wrapping, keep steaming. Hope enough are sold before they go cold. Hope council doesn’t come early asking about permits. Hope your cousin doesn’t get sick or pissed or give up.
Raj never said a word about struggle. Neither did his cousin. But you can see it in how fast he moves. How he checks the pot. How his hands don’t stop until everything’s sold or spoiled.
The thing I didn’t want to notice
He wore a watch I recognized. Big silver Seiko. The kind tradies love. Heavy wrist. Didn’t match the rest of him. Not new. Probably bought used. Still. I fixated on it. Like some part of me needed evidence he was okay. That maybe Melbourne wasn’t killing him. That maybe this was all choice.
I wanted him to be a symbol. A worker I could root for. I didn’t want him to have taste. Want things. Want more than this. The watch fucked that up. He has preferences. He has vanity. Maybe he likes feeling steel on his wrist because it makes him feel like he’s not just behind a stall, covered in flour, with fingers burnt and bandaged and ignored.
Walking back, garlic breath
The air was getting cold. Tram smelled like sweat and sanitizer. My breath reeked of garlic. The good kind. The kind that gets into your fingers. Your clothes. Lingers for hours. Follows you to bed.
I kept thinking about that Seiko. About Raj. About how I didn’t tip. Didn’t say thank you properly. Didn’t ask anything real.
I’ll go back next week. I’ll probably order the same thing.
I won’t make eye contact. Not because I’m rude. Because I don’t know what story I’m buying when I hand over my card.
Because sometimes food tastes better when we don’t ask who’s burning to feed us.
