Taste of Home

By Adrienne Fung ‘25

The first time I had egg waffles in America, I was surprised by my own disappointment. The day before Christmas, I waded through the slush and slurry of Manhattan’s Chinatown with my mom and aunt. Eventually, we found a dinky tin-man wagon parked at the intersection of Canal and Prince. We huddled there, tearing off one piece at a time from a single chocolate waffle with trembling gloved hands. I wish I could say that the waffle tasted like it does back home: fragile and caramelized only on the outside, but still light and fluffy within. In reality, we had bought a mushy pancake pretending to be an egg waffle. Its squashy, doughy exterior should’ve been a clear warning: STOP. GO NO FURTHER. 

In primary school, Mom drove me home every day. Sometimes, she bought me these waffles—also known as gai daan jai (雞蛋仔) or “little eggs”—as an afternoon snack; they were a rare, coveted treat. By the time I dug in, the gai daan jai had always cooled into a husk of its former glory. Still, the puffs stayed crunchy, easily pried apart to reveal two halves: a crackly-shelled air pocket and a gentle dome of batter puffing up from the bottom of each individual eggette.

The history of gai daan jai is nothing if not elusive, as slippery as the yolks which constitute the treat’s star ingredient. As one of many legends goes, gai daan jai emerged as an economic solution to utilize broken eggs in the characteristic 1950s mentality of ‘waste not, want not.’ Rather than throw out precious dairy, street hawkers mixed these discard eggs with flour, sugar and evaporated milk to create a batter leagues better than the Eggo. The modern recipe usually adds custard powder and baking powder to the medley, substituting regular milk for evaporated. 

I remember very well the day I first tried gai daan jai the way they were meant to be eaten. Under the awning of a thimble-sized stall called Mammy Pancake, the waffle man ladled a thin layer of mix onto a special mold, tilting the iron back and forth. He flipped the pan over, lightning-quick, and set a timer. Bound by lacy brittle, the mini eggs formed a hexagonal cloud with the airy composition of bubble wrap. Each piping hot mouthful, initially crackly but later moist and dense, reminded me of almond florentines or buttery crème caramel. Folded into a gentle smile, the gai daan jai sat in paper bags punched full of holes. This sophisticated ventilation system ensured enduring crispness; unfortunately, it also released a blizzard of crumbs, burnished gold flakes that clung to the patches where passing cars splashed rainwater onto my legs.

Today, brick-and-mortar shops have all but taken over the landscape of vendors, for the illegal hawkers who created gai daan jai culture disappeared years ago, banished from the streets by government crackdowns. For their part, gai daan jai have evolved as well. They’ve become a trendy fixture the world over; contrary to the stark tradition of no-toppings-no-fillings, gai daan jai now comes adorned with ice cream, oozing with molten ube, or anointed with shavings of sweet cheese or pork floss. Brooklyn’s Wowfulls, for instance, sells DIY egg waffle parfaits with all the fixings—Oreos, marshmallows and mochi, to name a few. I’ve even seen iterations dyed with gaudy rainbow colors and twisted into fancy configurations. It's all about the decoration nowadays; the base has been relegated to the backseat, and gai daan jai seems to have become less of a treasured local secret than a varnished global spectacle. 

My cravings disappear when I see these modernized gai daan jai flopping over the edges of their cones, painted with rainbow streaks and dusted with glitter. These desserts don’t sit in bags; they’re propped up in an ivory tower of glass windows so far removed from the stalls I know best. I’m all for innovation and fusion cuisine, but not in this case. To me, gai daan jai represent both a conspicuously gleeful indulgence and a commonplace comfort food. When I popped a piece of gai daan jai into my mouth after school, I knew I was going home, finding solace even in the dots of oil that leaked through and stained my fingers. Here, with these waffles, that special feeling doesn’t bubble up any more. So, I’ve made it my mission to find Boston’s best gai daan jai (if you know a place, let me know). That way, maybe I can reclaim a small taste of home—if only for a moment.