We’re shaking up our longstanding Pop Cantonese series by inviting author Eva Wong Yi to offer her take on distinctly Cantonese expressions. Wong is known for her Chinese-language short stories, including the collections Ways to Love in a Crowded City (擠迫之城的戀愛方法) and The Four Seasons of Lam Yip (林葉的四季).
I live by multiple calendars in Hong Kong, so for me, a year has more than one end. There’s the end of the academic year that I look forward to every summer as a university lecturer, the end of the calendar year in December when a new schedule book for the next year begins its tenure, and then there’s the end of the lunar year some time in January or February — an extra excuse for me to delay the whole “new year, new me” thing just a little bit more.
People generally stop doing things towards these ends of the year: students stop coming to class as often, admin staff stop responding to emails because they are using up their days off for the year, and it is common courtesy to not fire people at the end of the lunar year. It is so frowned upon that people invented a whole term for it: treating your employee to a piece of heartless chicken (請食無情雞, cing2 sik6 mou4 cing4 gai1).
Getting fired sucks, and there are plenty of Cantonese euphemisms to hide the shame. There’s the famous 炒魷魚 (caau2 jau4 jyu4, stir-fried squid), alluding to the rolled up mattress and bedding live-in employees take with them which looks like pieces of stir-fried squid rolled up in the heat of the wok; there’s also 收大信封 (sau1 daai6 seon3 fung1, receiving a large envelope), referring to the letter of termination issued to employees. But being given a piece of heartless chicken came from the especially sucky kind of getting fired right at the end of the lunar year, when everyone else’s celebrating the year’s hard work, collecting yearly bonuses, and looking forward to all the festivities that come with the Lunar New Year.
It’s also the time of year when adults hemorrhage money on large expenses like big family banquets, new clothes and shoes, household repairs and hair cuts before the Lunar New Year taboos kick in, cash in red packets for the younger generation and suddenly very enthusiastic security guards — the financial stress can be so significant that most companies in Hong Kong would pay employees their monthly salary early so everyone can use the cash on their festivities. The heartlessness it takes to fire someone at this most festive and expensive time certainly explains the mou4 cing4 part of the heartless chicken, but why chicken?
Towards the end of the lunar year, many companies follow the tradition of treating everyone to a meal called 尾禡 (mei5 ngaa4) to wrap up the last day of work before the new year. These meals are always elaborate Chinese feasts with auspicious punny names, and a whole chicken served with the head. No traditional Chinese feast is complete without a whole chicken; besides, many companies conduct rituals at the end of the year and offer food to the gods for prosperity, and a whole chicken is one of the most important food offerings that gets eaten afterwards.
Back in the day, employees of Chinese businesses usually stayed with their employers for a very long time, and employer/employee relationships were more personal. Firing someone was a much bigger deal, thus breaking such bad news took on a much more subtle form. If the boss wanted to fire someone, they would point the chicken head at the unlucky fellow at mei5 ngaa4. The poor guy would know then they needn’t return to their job in the new year. If no one was to be fired, the boss would point the chicken head towards themselves. Sounds like a game of Chinese Roulette with the bullet replaced by a poached chicken head.
Nowadays, many refer to getting fired at any time of the year as 比人雞咗 (bei2 jan4 gai1 zo2, getting chickened), and the term mou4 cing4 gai1 is still frequently used in the news, mostly when TV and radio stations let go of their at least once-popular presenters. Much like the conventions of employer/employee relationships of the olden days, on-screen talents in Hong Kong expect to work with the same broadcaster for decades, with expectations of mutual loyalty and long-term cooperation. Presenters choosing to leave their broadcaster or talent agencies are said to be leaving the nest (離巢 lei4 caau4), much like children or fledgelings leaving the environment that loved and nurtured them. With such a sense of sentimental loyalty colouring employer/employee relationships, a broadcaster terminating contracts with its presenters is said to be treating them to heartless chickens, ending their relationship ruthlessly and leaving them to their own devices. Given the limited number of local broadcasters, being let go might mean never finding similar on-screen work again.
Of course, nothing lasts forever, and even long-running shows with great ratings can get cancelled for reasons that are routine, personal, political, financial, or simply inexplicable. As freelance writers, teachers and presenters, we have no control over when our columns, TV/radio hosting gigs, or teaching jobs are taken from us. Most of the time, there are no hard feelings on both sides, because routinely switching up the line-up is common practice. But what makes these inevitable goodbyes more heartbreaking is that these “employment terminations” are no less private than getting fired at the dinner table in front of all your colleagues. Loyal audience members do notice when their favourite radio show host disappears from the air, and readers can be vocally upset when the columnists they follow are stripped of their space to publish.
I guess imagining the end of a gig as leaving the nest for another opportunity is a lot less depressing than having to sit through a company dinner after getting fired, or being stir-fried in a wok like a piece of squid. Onwards to better things, I say. Like a big fat deep-fried chicken leg.