Come Sit At The Table

The Lunar New Year is almost here, and 2026 ushers in the Year of the Fire Horse (Bing Wu). If you’ve ever read about the zodiac, you’ll know the Horse is already a symbol of energy, movement, and independence. Add fire to that and you get intensity. Passion. A little unpredictability. Fire Horse years have a reputation for being bold and fast-moving — the kind of year that doesn’t politely wait for you to catch up.

But when I think about Lunar New Year, I don’t immediately think about zodiac charts or elemental cycles.

I think about Montreal.

I think about round tables with lazy Susans in the middle, glass spinning softly under impatient hands.

I think about tea.

More specifically: yum cha.

Weekend dim sum with my parents, my brother, my sister, my grandparents, and my great grandmother. The sound of aunties pushing the carts through the aisles and hollering the names of the various dishes.

If you’ve never done proper yum cha, you don’t just go for the food. You go to sit; to linger; to pour tea for someone else before you pour for yourself.

Because that’s the first rule, you never fill your own cup first.

The teapot would arrive almost immediately, usually jasmine or chrysanthemum, and someone at the table would take responsibility. The lid would tilt slightly, steam rising, the pot heavy and warm in the hand. Cups would be filled clockwise. Elders first. Always.

And when someone poured for you, you’d tap two fingers lightly on the table.

A quiet thank you.

If you didn’t grow up with it, it looks like you’re impatiently drumming your fingers.

But it isn’t that, it’s acknowledgement. It’s respect. It’s muscle memory.

Then the carts would start coming around.

Siu Mai. Har Gow. Char Siu Bao. The names are as familiar to me as the faces that used to sit around that table.

Siu Mai — open-topped dumplings, pork and shrimp, sometimes crowned with a little orange dot of roe. They were always one of the first things we grabbed. Reliable and savoury.

Har Gow — translucent shrimp dumplings, pleated so precisely they looked almost architectural but still delicate at the same time.

Char Siu Bao — fluffy white buns hiding sweet barbecue pork inside. The contrast of soft dough and sticky filling felt like a trick every time. I still pull them apart instead of biting into them. Some habits don’t leave.

There were egg tarts too — Dan Tat, glossy custard set into flaky pastry. Dessert, but not really dessert.

Lo Mai Gai — sticky rice wrapped in lotus leaf. You’d unwrap it like a gift. Steam would escape. The rice would carry the scent of the leaf with it. That smell alone could transport me back decades.

And the steamed beef meatballs: Shan Zhuk Ngau Yuk. Springy. Savoury. Often overlooked unless you grew up reaching for them.

There were dozens more dishes, of course; there always are. Dim sum isn’t a short menu experience. It’s abundance by design. But these are the ones that surface first when I close my eyes.

At the head of the table was my grandmother, Yen Yen. If Montreal’s Chinatown had been a mafia, she would have been the don — decisive, observant, quietly in charge.

And then there was my great grandmother, Bak Bak. Tiny. Fierce. Shovelling rice into her mouth at a speed that felt competitive. She would eat so quickly that she’d sometimes aspirate and choke, and the entire table would freeze for a split second before someone handed her tea. She’d wave us off like it was nothing.

Back to eating.

Back to the rhythm.

That’s the thing about dim sum; it isn’t just food, it’s also ceremony.

Tea poured in the right order. Fingers tapping in thanks. Plates spinning slowly on a lazy Susan. Elders choosing first. The quiet negotiating gesture of “have you tried this one yet?”

Yum cha literally means “drink tea.” The food came along for the ride. But the tea is the anchor.

Multiple conversations stretch longer over refills. Steam rises between sentences. The act of pouring for someone else slows you down just enough to notice who’s there.

As we step into the Year of the Fire Horse, a year that promises motion and intensity, I find myself thinking about that table.

About slowing down long enough to pour for someone else.

About tapping two fingers in gratitude.

About dishes that tether me to Montreal weekends, to my grandparents, to Bak Bak shovelling rice with reckless enthusiasm.

Fire Horse years may be about forward motion.

But dim sum reminds me that some things are worth circling back to.

Some things are worth sitting down for.

Some things are worth remembering.

And maybe that’s the balance we carry into this new year; intensity paired with ritual, speed paired with pause, and fire tempered by tea.