He does not hug hello or say “I love you”. Instead, he pushes a freshly fried curry puff (karipap pusing) across the stainless-steel counter.

The evening is the best time to visit my grandfather (爷爷) at the hawker centre. After the stifling humidity and harsh sunlight of Singapore fade, the open-air complex that is the hawker centre comes alive. 爷爷 is a vendor in this sprawling network of food stalls, a place where the whole neighborhood gathers. Young children weave between the tables, chasing each other. Aunties gossip between stuffed cheeks. High schoolers, still donning their uniforms, share laughs.

I have grown to cherish the incessant hum of conversations, the discolored fluorescent lighting, and the chaos of sticky tables and clattering plates because going to the hawker centre is one of the few times that I visit my 爷爷. It is where I know to find him.

I sit at a circular plastic table directly across from 爷爷’s stall. The air hangs heavy with the medley of aromas that fill the hawker centre, settling into clothes, into hair. Tonight, the air is particularly thick with the smoky char of satay from the adjacent Filipino stall. 爷爷 stands behind the glass display case. His shirt is stained with grease, and his hands are coated with flour after a long day of dicing, kneading, and frying. Sweat glistens on his temples from the muggy air produced by the heat of the fryer. Catching my eye, he offers a slight, tender smile as he hands me three curry puffs.

The curry puff is a golden-brown crescent formed from dozens of layers of delicate flaky pastry. It almost looks too perfect to eat. I bring one to my lips, and an initial crunch gives way to a soft, steaming interior. Inside, there are tender cubes of potato and caramelized slivers of onion. Earthy tones of turmeric and cumin fill my mouth. A tinge of spice lingers on my tongue. The curry puff is a satisfying balance between sweet, savoury, and spicy.

As I eat, the care becomes clear. To me, what makes the curry puff so special is not just the delectable taste. It is the dedication in 爷爷’s calloused hands, preparing each pastry with patience despite a long day’s worth of fatigue. It is the extra filling in the curry puffs he makes for me. It is the appreciation of my weekly visits, expressed with an easily overlooked crinkle of the eye or a subtle nod.

I taste the love 爷爷 never says aloud. Our love: his offering, my acceptance.