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KaiFebruary 8, 2025

The Chinese origins of Sāmoa’s most popular dish, chop suey

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Many of Sāmoa’s beloved dishes are the result of cultural collaboration, writes Madeleine Chapman.

All photos by Jin Fellet

If you ever find yourself at a barbecue in a Sāmoan home, there’s 99% chance that sapasui (chop suey) will be on the table. For the past century, sapasui has been a staple dish from the island, even rising to the status of being considered “traditional” and a national dish. Alongside the sapasui on the table, you could expect to see an assortment of other traditional dishes including oka (raw fish in coconut cream), keke pua’a (pork buns) and keke saiga (savoury biscuits). All dishes have few ingredients, utilise flavours commonly grown and found in Sāmoa, and share one special ingredient.

They’re all Chinese.

The story of how Sāmoa’s national palate came to be shaped by Chinese cuisine stretches back  the early 20th century, when the first wave of indentured labourers arrived in Sāmoa from southern China. Until then, families and villages grew a large portion of the food they ate on their own land. Meat and vegetables were cooked and served whole, alongside each other, and seasonings were few and far between. Fish was caught and cooked. 

Yellow bananas, raw taro and green bananas for sale on a table. Behind the table is a shop window with partial shop signage that reads "avondale, auckland"
Ripe bananas, taro and green bananas are staple ingredients in Sāmoan cuisine

Indentured labourers were sought to work the growing plantations across Sāmoa, and Chinese workers were considered the best option. In the Fukien and Guangdong provinces, men facing famine and unemployment saw posters promising luxury and women – both Sāmoan and Chinese – on this faraway island. 

When the first shipment of labourers arrived in 1903, they were greeted instead with 11-hour workdays, legal flogging and cut wages. Living in Sāmoa was not at all what they had hoped for, and to make it worse, the food was bland. Enter: a marriage of cuisines.

The men arriving from China brought with them their labour, yes, but also their knowledge of cooking and flavours and some of their own ingredients.  

Brown chop suey fills a buffet tray in a warmer, with cooked taro in front and a curry to the right
Chop suey for sale at Taste of Samoa

While ginger and garlic might be staple ingredients in New Zealand households today, and have been part of Asian cuisines for thousands of years, in Sāmoa in the early 20th century, they were a novelty. As well as ginger and garlic, Chinese staples like rice and noodles were introduced by the labourers, resulting in simple dishes like chow mein becoming hugely popular.

But unlike the many instances throughout history where countries have simply adopted immigrant cuisines alongside their own, sapasui and Sāmoan cuisine is a genuine collaboration of Sāmoan and Chinese flavours to create something distinct. Due to the limited resources and ingredients available, Chinese couldn’t simply recreate their home dishes in another country. 

Chop suey is a true bicultural dish, taking the textures and (some) flavours of Chinese cuisine and fitting them into the existing cooking methods and simple ingredients of Sāmoa. With just six ingredients and a preparation time of 20 minutes (at most) in a single pot, chop suey found the common ground between Sāmoa and China and is a culinary evolution that has stood the test of time.

As Sharon Lam has previously written, such a collaborative approach is hard to find in New Zealand. While Chinese food is often prepared and sold alongside local dishes at takeaway shops, there is no singular dish that illustrates the Chinese-New Zealand relationship like chop suey. 

And it’s not alone in its bicultural distinction. Oka – raw fish and vegetables in coconut milk – is an evolution of cooked fish in coconut milk after the Chinese introduced Sāmoans to raw fish. Keke pua’a are a variation on the traditional char siu bao, with a denser dough and adjusted meat filling. And given the savoury palate in Sāmoa, the “sweet” dessert of kekesaiga is in fact a garlic and soy sauce biscuit closer in taste to a dense cracker. 

Clear bags of biscuits shaped as flowers on a bench, the bags are tied with rubber bands
Kekesaiga, seen in every aunty’s bag at Auckland international terminal

In total, 6,900 Chinese labourers worked in Sāmoa between 1903 and 1934. They married Sāmoan women and fully assimilated (out of necessity) into Sāmoan society. They brought their own knowledge and skills which were integrated into Sāmoan culture, and being all men, they brought their names to a small population, resulting in large Sāmoan family lines with Chinese surnames now. 

In 1930, after three decades of questionable treatment of indentured labourers in Sāmoa, the New Zealand administration ordered all indentured labourers to be repatriated back to China. Two decades later, only 174 men remained, who were either too old or sick to travel, and who had strong roots in Sāmoa after living there for decades. There is much still unknown about those 6,900 men, with language barriers resulting in many transliterating their names upon arrival in Sāmoa and sparse records of their Chinese homes and families.

Esera Teleiai, Cecilia Sapati and Master Chef John Mataafa from Ulutoa & Sons

Despite the dwindling numbers by 1950, the Chinese presence and influence in Sāmoa has only grown in recent decades, both culturally and politically. And as Sāmoan migration continues to New Zealand, so does the Sāmoan-Chinese connection. A number of specialty Sāmoan food stores in New Zealand are owned and operated by Chinese families, being familiar with the techniques and ingredients used in all the dishes. There’ll be keke pua’a, kekesaiga and of course, chop suey – the humble noodle dish sapasui, that is a little bit Chinese and a whole lot Sāmoan.

Sapasui recipe

Serves 4

  • 400g diced meat (pork or beef is best, diced)
  • 1x packet vermicelli noodles (soaked in cold water to soften)
  • 1x onion (chopped)
  • 3 cloves garlic (finely chopped)
  • One teaspoon grated ginger (or more if preferred)
  • Dark soy sauce

Once vermicelli noodles are softened, trim with scissors and drain. Heat one tablespoon cooking oil in large pot, add onion and garlic and cook until fragrant. Add meat, stirring consistently until browned. Add ginger and enough soy sauce to cover the meat. Bring to simmer, then add vermicelli by the handful, stirring until all noodles are brown. Add 1/2 cup of water, cover and leave to simmer for five minutes or until thick.

The Tse’s stall in the Queensgate Mall in the 1990s.
The Tse’s stall in the Queensgate Mall in the 1990s.

The Best OfFebruary 4, 2025

Those sweet and sour days: Life behind the counter of Queensgate mall’s first Chinese takeaway

The Tse’s stall in the Queensgate Mall in the 1990s.
The Tse’s stall in the Queensgate Mall in the 1990s.

Growing up in a Chinese takeaway left Chris Tse with a deep appreciation for his parents’ hard work – and a years-long aversion to sweet and sour pork. 

My partner once made the observation that when my family and I reminisce about a holiday or some significant moment, we tend to fixate on the food we ate. I guess it’s because we’ve always been around food – not just in our homes, but in the many restaurants and takeaways my parents and extended family ran for decades. Food wasn’t just our livelihood, it was our connection to each other and community, a way of celebrating our culture – although I’d come to appreciate this much later, when I was no longer a surly teenager forced to work in the family shop.

In 1979, before I was born, my parents and two of their close friends opened Lower Hutt’s first authentic Chinese restaurant, the Ming Dynasty. Although there were already restaurants and takeaways in the Hutt that offered some Chinese dishes, they were an afterthought to their main offerings of steak dinners, burgers, and fish and chips. My parents and their friends, all first-time business owners, wanted their restaurant to be 100% Chinese cuisine, particularly Hong Kong-style dishes that Dad had grown up eating and missed since moving to Aotearoa.

The menu at Ming Dynasty in Lower Hutt. (Photo: Supplied).

It didn’t take long for the restaurant to take off thanks to strong word of mouth and the exclusively Chinese menu. As well as introducing traditional fare like steamed whole fish, there was room on the menu for oddities like banana chicken roll, which sounds like something you’d find on TikTok: a banana wrapped in thin slices of chicken, crumbed, then deep fried and served with a sweet and sour-style sauce. Encouraging diners to try something new wasn’t difficult, but there were other aspects of a Chinese meal that had to be explained, like using chopsticks, family-style sharing, and ordering a balanced selection of dishes rather than, say, five variations from the black bean sauce section of the menu. 

Although the restaurant struggled with the lunch service, evenings were regularly fully booked with lengthy waitlists and queues out the door. The demand was so great that after a couple of years the restaurant’s dining area was expanded to the second floor, doubling the seating capacity and allowing for functions in a private dining room. Over time the Ming Dynasty became a local favourite with support from loyal regulars and the occasional celebrity like All Blacks Bernie Fraser and Stu Wilson. 

My own memories of the restaurant are hazy, mostly derived from my parents’ stories and family photographs of special occasions held there, like 滿月 banquets for me and my brother (a celebration held to mark a newborn’s first month) and my 公公’s 60th birthday party. I was too young to understand what went into running the restaurant, but I knew it was a special and important place because of its prominence in our lives. These days, there’s a more tangible reminder in my own house in the form of four dining chairs, which were custom-made for the restaurant.

Eventually, the long hours and my parents’ desire to spend more time with me and my younger brother, who was about to start school, prompted them to sell their share of the restaurant. It wouldn’t be long before they found themselves back in the game with a new venture: a stall in the Queensgate Mall food court.

When the food court opened in 1991 after the mall’s first major expansion, each stall was given a perfunctory name by mall management. Along with our “Asian” stall, there was “Seafood”, “Coffee and Desserts”, “Carvery”, and “Sandwiches”. They were also given the same minimalist fit out, which gave the food court a clean if underwhelming ambience. I suppose this uniformity gave each stall a level playing field – there were no attention-seeking signs or fast food chains to compete with (these would come a little later when the mall was expanded again in the early 2000s).

A young Chris Tse in his parents’ shop. (Photo: Supplied).

With the mall venture, my brother and I soon became much more aware of the family business and its impact on our daily lives. After school we tagged along with Mum or Dad as they ran errands like banking or picking up supplies. On the weekends, if we weren’t being looked after by grandparents or cousins, the mall became our playground. We were the resident mall rats, begging the staff at Farmers to let us have a hoon on a Sega Mega Drive or flicking through every magazine at the London Book Shop. If we were feeling particularly brave, we’d leave the confines of the mall to spend our pocket money at the arcade a couple of blocks away.

Even though the hours weren’t as punishing as the restaurant’s, there was still everything else that had to be done after hours: invoices, wages, tax returns, rosters, and a seemingly endless stream of aprons and tea towels to wash. While I didn’t resent my parents always being so busy with the food court, there was a part of me that wished they had “normal” jobs that allowed them to switch off after work, and enjoy weekends and public holidays.

This wish for normalcy grew stronger once I was old enough to help out. It started with peeling vegetables and washing dishes, before I was trusted to serve customers or cash up the till at the end of the day. My frustration with not being able to hang out with friends after school or on the weekends was a sore point. My friends, on the other hand, thought I had the best life because I could eat all the Chinese food I wanted. But the truth is, being around sweet and sour pork and chow mein all the time put me off Chinese takeaways for the longest time. Surprisingly, nowadays I have an unhealthy obsession with eating all the sweet and sour pork I can get my hands on. Maybe it’s a late appreciation for it, or deep down it reminds me of those days when I got to spend so much time with my parents.

The menu at Ming Dynasty in Lower Hutt. (Photo: Supplied).

I always knew Mum and Dad worked hard, but it’s only as an adult with responsibilities of my own that I realise how exhausting it must’ve been to juggle work and family, even when the two were so intertwined. Now I realise what a gift my parents gave me – a strong work ethic and, of course, an appreciation for food and cooking. Like many parents in their position, they never wanted my brother and I to follow in their footsteps. Their wish was for us to get a good education and find careers that would allow us to have the work-life balance they never had.

I don’t remember our first day at the food court, but I do remember our last. The mall was being closed for yet another expansion, so we had to move out all our belongings and clean the place. We were tired and emotional after a full day’s work, punctuated by friends and regulars stopping in for one last meal and to say goodbye. Dad removed a pair of giant chopsticks that had been added to our signage at some point over the years and pretended to pick something out of the empty bain-marie with them. It’s one of my most endearing memories of our time and a reminder that even when we were busy and stressed we still found ways to make each other laugh. They were strange days, but I wouldn’t change a thing.