When I was young, I used to hate going to the nearby wet market. It was crowded, dirty, unhygienic and boring. People spat on the floor, shoved everyone else and generally made it a point to be curt. The food was served on hastily-wiped tables, and getting such a table on crowded weekends required great skill and coordination in the first place. I remember how the family would split up and comb the throng for empty seats. I remember how we’d park one person (usually me) in an empty seat first, the better to reserve the entire table when some other family has finished their meal.

I preferred fast food restaurants with their well-oiled efficiency, air-conditioned surroundings and unbeatable French Fries. I preferred the cool and organized supermarkets, where people queued up to pay, rather than yell and haggle over each others’ heads.

I wondered why anyone would bother going to wet markets, predicting that they would die out within the next two generations (I was wise for my age), because I couldn’t imagine that anyone from my generation will want to frequent the stalls in the wet markets, much less man them.

For years, I had to be dragged to the wet market during Sunday mornings. Sometimes, I’d invent excuses so that I could remain in the comfort of my own home, properly insulated from the madness and chaos. Yet, after trips overseas, the wet market was always the place to be. For $20, we could gorge ourselves on a wide variety of much-missed local fare. The crowd and buzz was sort of comforting too, and there was a familiarity in the way that people behaved. The yells, the friendly calls, the indignant stare from an annoyed auntie. Everything and everyone felt just inexorably right.

Today, the wet market ceased operations.

Oh it’d open again after renovations and the town council said it’ll be modernized. On the news, they promised that the stalls will be able to better compete with fast food restaurants and supermarkets. They were chirpy and upbeat, assured that the change will do the image of the wet market good and endear it to younger generations.

So why do I feel a sense of loss?

Could it be that this popular Chinese cooked food stall, which has a menu so variable that you literally cannot tell what will be available one hour later, will not be around when the wet market reopens? Or perhaps because the footage of the totally deserted wet market was in sharp contrast to the usually vibrant and chaotic scene that I’m used to. Or maybe it is the realization that the routine I’m used to, after trips abroad, will no longer be the same.

Sure the wet market will return. There’d be replacement stalls. The family will still split up and comb the throng for empty seats. We’d still park one person (usually my brother) in an empty seat first, the better to reserve the entire table when some other family finishes their meal.

But the bespectacled uncle and his quirky wife who cooks up a storm won’t be there anymore. The hastily-wiped and disfigured tables with crackling number tags will also be no more, replaced by formica tables with brand new tags. The many faces I’m used to seeing will no longer be there in the crowd, exchanging boisterous greetings.

The wet market may return. But in a sense, it is forever gone.