Yusheng (鱼生, literally “raw fish”) or lo hei represents one of the most distinctive Chinese New Year traditions in Singapore and Malaysia. The ritual involves diners standing around a large platter and tossing the ingredients high into the air with chopsticks while shouting auspicious phrases—the higher the toss, the greater the prosperity anticipated for the coming year.
What makes Madam Chong’s performance culturally significant is her evolution of the traditional format. The shift from four-character chengyu (成语, classical idioms) to seven-character phrases reflects a broader tension in Singapore between preserving heritage and adapting it for contemporary sensibilities. Her comment that “four characters was not fashionable anymore” reveals an important cultural negotiation: tradition must feel relevant to remain alive, particularly for younger generations who might otherwise view such rituals as antiquated.
The incorporation of zodiac-specific phrases (horse-themed for 2026) demonstrates how living traditions adapt while maintaining their essential function—bestowing blessings and creating communal joy. This flexibility is what keeps cultural practices vibrant rather than museum pieces.
Marketing Implications of Viral Content
The viral video presents a fascinating case study in organic versus planned marketing. Operations director Rachel Lim’s observation—”No matter how fun the rap is, people won’t come back for the second and third time just for it. The food itself has to be good”—reveals sophisticated understanding of hospitality economics.
Short-term impact: The immediate surge of curiosity-driven traffic (people specifically requesting the “yusheng rap” or visiting just to see Madam Chong) represents what marketers call the “novelty bump.” With 580,000+ views, the restaurant gained exposure that would cost tens of thousands of dollars through traditional advertising.
Long-term sustainability concerns: Ms. Lim’s caution reflects awareness of a common pitfall—viral attention attracts the wrong customer base if you can’t convert spectators into regulars. The restaurant must now:
- Maintain food quality to convert viral visitors into repeat customers
- Avoid over-relying on Madam Chong’s performance (what happens when she’s not working, or eventually retires?)
- Balance the spectacle with authentic dining experience
The scalability question: Unlike a dish that can be replicated, Madam Chong’s charisma and 65 years of life experience are irreplaceable. This creates both a unique selling proposition and a vulnerability. The fact that other staff know the basic rap suggests management is thinking about succession, but individual personality can’t be standardized.
Authenticity as currency: What makes this viral moment powerful is its genuineness—Madam Chong wasn’t performing for social media; someone simply captured her normal service. In an era of manufactured influencer content, authentic joy resonates. The restaurant benefits from this authenticity but must be careful not to over-commercialize it, which could destroy the very spontaneity that made it special.
Intergenerational Pride in Singapore’s Service Industry
Perhaps the most poignant element is Madam Chong’s statement: “I didn’t even have to show the video to my children and grandchildren. They saw it themselves and told me, ‘Mummy, we are so proud of you.'”
This reveals complex social dynamics:
Revaluing service work: Historically, food service has faced status challenges in Singapore’s meritocratic, education-focused society. A 65-year-old assistant manager becoming celebrated for her craft represents a subtle challenge to purely credential-based notions of success. Her children’s pride suggests recognition that excellence, dignity, and joy in one’s work have intrinsic value regardless of the field.
Active aging and purpose: At 65, Madam Chong could be retired, yet she’s thriving in a role that requires physical stamina, memorization, and performance skills. Her eight years at the restaurant and continued enthusiasm challenge ageist assumptions about older workers’ capabilities or desire to contribute. The story implicitly celebrates Singapore’s aging workforce remaining economically and socially engaged.
Digital bridges across generations: The fact that her family discovered her viral fame independently (rather than her showing them) illustrates how social media can create unexpected moments of intergenerational connection. Younger family members, likely frequent social media users, encountered their matriarch through the digital spaces they inhabit—seeing her not just as “grandma” but as a public figure earning strangers’ admiration.
The performance of cultural knowledge: Madam Chong’s mastery of Chinese idioms, zodiac symbolism, and festive customs positions her as a cultural keeper. In rapidly modernizing Singapore, where Mandarin proficiency varies across generations and many young Singaporeans are more comfortable in English, her performance becomes a transmission of cultural literacy. The seven-character format makes this accessible and entertaining rather than didactic.
Emotional labor recognized: Service work involves significant emotional labor—the requirement to maintain positive affect regardless of personal circumstances. Madam Chong’s comment that she doesn’t even eat yusheng at home, yet brings “festive joy and spirit to diners,” highlights this professionalism. The viral recognition represents rare public acknowledgment of skills (reading rooms, calibrating energy, creating memorable experiences) that typically go unnoticed.
Synthesis: The Madam Chong Phenomenon
What makes this story resonate is the convergence of multiple narratives Singapore finds meaningful: successful aging, cultural preservation through adaptation, dignity in service work, family pride, and the democratizing potential of social media to celebrate everyday excellence.
The tongue-in-cheek conclusion—”Diners who leave a positive Google review would make me the happiest”—shows Madam Chong understands her viral moment’s practical implications while maintaining her characteristic light touch. She’s savvy enough to leverage attention into tangible business benefits (reviews drive future customers) while staying grounded in her role.
For Kelly Jie Seafood, the challenge ahead is converting this moment into sustainable advantage—not by exploiting Madam Chong, but by letting her example elevate their entire service culture. The real test comes not during the viral peak, but in six months when the novelty fades. Can they maintain the warmth, creativity, and excellence that made the moment possible in the first place?
The Last Yusheng
The kitchen at Kelly Jie Seafood smelled of ginger and sesame oil, but Alice Chong wasn’t thinking about food. She was thinking about her voice.
It had started three weeks ago—a hoarseness that lingered after her morning “rap.” She’d blamed it on the dry air, the long shifts, the constant talking. But this morning, her doctor had used words like “nodes” and “strain” and “rest.”
“Two months,” Dr. Tan had said. “Complete vocal rest. No speaking, no singing, and definitely no—” he’d glanced at his notes, smiling slightly “—no yusheng performances.”
Alice had nodded, her throat tight with more than just inflammation.
Now she stood in the restaurant’s narrow back office, watching the evening reservations fill the screen. Twelve tables. Probably eight yusheng orders. It was February 14th, the last big weekend before Chinese New Year ended. After tonight, she’d planned to tell Rachel about the doctor’s orders.
But there was one table she couldn’t ignore: the Lim family reunion. Thirty-two people. They’d requested her specifically, had mentioned in their booking notes that Grandmother Lim had watched the viral video seventeen times and insisted on celebrating her 80th birthday here, tonight, just to hear Alice’s performance.
She thought of her own grandchildren, how they’d shown the video to their friends at school, how her youngest had said, “Por Por, you’re famous!” She thought of the years she’d spent as invisible as the plates she carried, and how strange and wonderful it had felt to be seen.
Rachel found her there twenty minutes later, staring at the screen.
“You’re worried about the Lim table,” Rachel said. It wasn’t a question.
“My voice—”
“I know.” Rachel pulled up a chair. “I heard you this morning. You sounded like you’d swallowed sandpaper.”
Alice’s hand went to her throat. “I didn’t think anyone noticed.”
“Alice, I’ve worked with you for three years. I notice.” Rachel was quiet for a moment. “You should see a doctor.”
“I did. This morning.”
Rachel waited.
“Two months vocal rest. Complete silence.” Alice tried to laugh, but it came out as a rasp. “Me, silent. Can you imagine?”
“What did he say would happen if you didn’t rest?”
Alice looked away. “Permanent damage. Maybe surgery.”
The words hung between them. Through the office door, they could hear the kitchen coming to life—the clatter of woks, the sizzle of oil, someone calling out orders in Hokkien.
“I’ll handle the Lim table,” Rachel said finally. “I know the seven-character format. I’ve heard you do it a hundred times.”
“It’s not the same.”
“No,” Rachel agreed. “It won’t be. But it’ll be good enough. And you’ll still be here, still be part of it. Just quietly.”
Alice shook her head. “That grandmother watched the video seventeen times. She’s coming for me. How do I tell her I can’t—” Her voice cracked, and she pressed her lips together.
Rachel stood. “You don’t tell her anything. I do.” She paused at the door. “Alice, you’ve given this restaurant eight years. You’ve given hundreds of families joy. One night won’t change that. But ruining your voice forever might.”
At 7:30 PM, the Lim family arrived in a cascade of red and gold, three generations pouring through the door with the particular chaos of large family gatherings. Grandmother Lim was small and bright-eyed, leaning on a dragon-headed cane, her children and grandchildren orbiting around her like planets.
Alice watched from behind the host stand, her throat aching with more than damaged vocal cords.
Rachel greeted them with her professional warmth, led them to their tables. Alice saw the moment one of the daughters leaned over to whisper something, saw Rachel shake her head and respond. Saw Grandmother Lim’s face fall, just slightly.
The evening progressed. Alice moved through her duties mechanically—seating guests, bringing water, smiling without speaking. Several diners recognized her, asked for photos. She posed with them, pointed apologetically to her throat, mouthed “sorry.”
At 8:15, the yusheng arrived for the Lim table. Rachel stood at the head, the platter gleaming with shredded vegetables, salmon, crispy crackers. She held the serving chopsticks and took a breath.
Alice couldn’t watch. She turned toward the kitchen, but then—
“Wait.” Grandmother Lim’s voice, surprisingly strong. “Please wait.”
Rachel paused. The family quieted.
“I know you’re not the lady from the video,” Grandmother Lim said. “My daughter explained. But is she here? Can we see her?”
Rachel’s eyes found Alice across the restaurant. Alice felt every head turn.
She walked over slowly, her legs heavy. Up close, Grandmother Lim’s eyes were kind, creased with decades of smiling.
“I’m sorry,” Alice whispered, barely audible. She touched her throat.
“Don’t be sorry.” Grandmother Lim reached up and took Alice’s hand. Her palm was warm and papery. “I’m eighty years old today. You know what I’ve learned?”
Alice waited.
“The joy isn’t in the words. It’s in the person saying them.” She squeezed Alice’s hand. “You brought me joy through a little screen in my phone. You made me laugh. You made me want to come here, to celebrate with my family. That gift doesn’t need a voice.”
Alice’s eyes burned.
“Now,” Grandmother Lim said, releasing her hand and turning to Rachel with a smile, “let’s see what you can do, young lady. And you—” she nodded at Alice “—you stand right there and toss with us. Silently. That’s an order.”
So Alice stood at the edge of the gathering as Rachel began the seven-character phrases, her voice clear and practiced but lacking Alice’s rhythmic swing. The family began to toss, chopsticks rising and falling, shouts of huat ah filling the air.
And Alice, wordless, lifted her chopsticks and tossed with them.
She tossed for the diners who’d left five-star reviews. For her grandchildren’s pride. For Rachel, who’d protected her when she couldn’t protect herself. For Grandmother Lim, who understood that gifts take many forms.
Most of all, she tossed for the voice she would have again in two months—rested, healed, ready.
As the vegetables rained down and the family laughed and Rachel shouted the final blessing, Alice felt something loosen in her chest. The performance was different, yes. But the joy—the communal, chaotic, absolutely human joy—was exactly the same.
Later, as the Lim family was leaving, Grandmother Lim stopped beside Alice one more time.
“Next year,” she said, “I’m coming back. You can rap for me then.”
Alice smiled and nodded, tears on her cheeks.
“But tonight was perfect too,” Grandmother Lim added. “Because you were here. That’s what mattered.”
She patted Alice’s hand and moved toward the door, surrounded by her children and grandchildren, their voices blending into the night.
Rachel found Alice a few minutes later, still standing in the same spot.
“You okay?”
Alice nodded. She pulled out her phone and typed: Thank you.
Rachel read it and smiled. “Two months will fly by. And when you come back, we’re going to need new material. Maybe dragon-themed? For next year?”
Alice typed again: Already working on it.
“Of course you are.” Rachel laughed. “Come on. One more hour, then we close. Think you can manage without talking?”
Alice raised an eyebrow and gestured broadly at the dining room, at the kitchen, at the world of communication that existed beyond words.
Rachel understood. “Right. Silly question.”
They walked back into the restaurant together, into the warm lights and the clinking dishes and the sound of families celebrating. Alice moved through it all silently, but not invisibly. Never invisible again.
Outside, the Singapore night was humid and alive with possibility. Inside, the yusheng continued—tossed by other hands, blessed by other voices, but carrying the same ancient hope forward: that the year ahead would be abundant, that wishes would be fulfilled, that joy would find its way into every corner.
Ma shang ru yuan, Alice thought, the words vivid in her mind even if her voice couldn’t shape them. Yi ma dang xian.
Immediately, and pioneering forward.
Always.