“Don’t mind Grandma,” my cousin Christine said to me. “She doesn’t mean half of what she says.”

“I don’t speak Cantonese, so I won’t know either way,” I said. Christine laughed. So did her father, but the joke didn’t do much to soothe my nerves as we pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot.

“Just eat the food,” Christine said as we walked towards the entrance. “Things will settle down once you do.”

The restaurant was emptier than I expected at this time of day, and added to my feeling of isolation. Usually I was with my Cantonese-speaking mother at these gatherings; right now she was across the country in California, nowhere near this Chinese restaurant in Boston. I mustered my courage as I followed Christine to a table in the corner of the room. Seated around it were Christine’s aunts and uncles, and her grandmother. They greeted us loudly in Cantonese, and Christine and her father greeted them in return. I hung back. I hadn’t met anyone before, but when it came to the Chinese side of my family, there was no point in asking how we were related: they were my aunties and uncles, too.

One of the women noticed my silence as we took our seats. “You don’t speak?” she asked in heavily accented English.

Christine jumped in. “She speaks French.” The one who had spoken gave me a long, measuring look. Christine whispered, “That’s my grandmother.”

My mother had told me stories of my own great-grandmother, who kept a watchful eye on the family and whose word was law. It was the only frame of reference I had, but as I watched Christine’s grandmother scrutinize me impassively, it was the only thing I could think about. I lowered my head and stared at my empty plate. No food yet, so I couldn’t follow Christine’s advice.

The meal was a traditional Chinese dinner, and as the waiters brought out the dishes, Christine pointed out what was what. One was a whole duck, lightly seasoned and poached; I could still see where the feathers had been pulled out. Another was roast pork—char siu, Christine whispered—and still another was a plate of fried rice. Soon there was too much for the seven of us, but my aunties and uncles were undaunted and, speaking rapid Cantonese, began filling everyone’s plates.

Just eat the food, Christine had said. I picked up my chopsticks.

“Your hair is short,” Christine’s grandmother said abruptly. “You won’t find a husband that way. You should grow it out.”

“Grandma,” Christine said reproachfully. Her father put one of his hands against his face.

“She’s so pale,” her grandmother said loudly, and then she turned to me and said, “You go to an all-girls’ school? You will never meet men that way.”

“Grandma,” Christine said again. Her grandmother just clicked her tongue, gave me a cutting look, turned to another auntie and began speaking in Cantonese again. “Sorry,” Christine whispered.

I laughed it off, but her grandmother’s disapproval felt like a heavy weight on my shoulders; it dawned on me that I was lucky that no one had asked if I needed a fork. With that in mind, I picked up a piece of duck. At the very least, I had an excuse not to talk if my mouth was full.

“You like?” Christine’s grandmother said suddenly, and instantly the conversation stopped and all eyes were on me. It hadn’t occurred to me that they would be waiting to hear my verdict on the food, but nodding was apparently the correct answer, because she gave a sharp nod in return and said, “good,” then turned to one of her daughters. “Give her more.”

I looked at Christine. She gave me a smile (I could almost hear her saying I told you so), and tucked into a sliver of pork. The rest of the family was doing the same, chatting gaily as they served each other rice, poured tea, and offered napkins, and all at once I felt my nerves settle.

I recalled meeting Christine, actually my second cousin once removed, just two years ago. We’d been introduced over dimsum, a traditional Chinese brunch, and we had bonded instantly over bao and egg tarts. Although the circumstances were different, this dinner echoed that delicious brunch: while these were uncles and aunties I had never met, they were still my family, and now I understood why I was at this restaurant. There was no better occasion to meet them than over food that reminded them of home.

“It’s delicious,” I said to Christine’s grandmother over the din, and she smiled.