Street Food with a Story: The Cultural Legacy of Hong Kong Fish Balls

Article by: Sarah Bisacca | Photography by Sarah Bisacca | Published September 11, 2025

There’s a certain rhythm to Hong Kong’s street food scene: the buzz of the crowd, the rattle of bamboo skewers, and the soft plop of something round and golden diving into bubbling curry. More often than not, that bouncy, briny, beloved “something” is a fish ball. 

For decades, fish balls have been a fixture of Hong Kong’s fast-paced outdoor dining culture. They’re nostalgic and practical, humble and iconic. But behind their simple appearance lies a rich story — one that connects Hong Kong’s maritime roots, economic grit, and hunger for bold, efficient flavor. 

I’ll admit that, even as a food writer, fish balls were not high on my must-try list when planning my 2024 trip to Hong Kong. My Western palate wasn’t exactly craving squishy spheres of fish paste. But determined to give fish balls a fair shake, I dove into their history to better understand the cultural weight they carry. 

That’s how I found Virginia Chan, founder of Humid With a Chance of Fishballs Tours. Born in Vancouver and now based in Hong Kong, she seemed like the ideal person to explain the enduring charm of this humble dumpling. 

“Fish balls are the byproduct of Hong Kong people’s persistence and scrappiness — that lion rock spirit,” Chan told me. “Fish that weren’t sold at the end of the night at the wet market, or meat near the bones that didn’t sell, were made into a paste. They’d incorporate starch to create more volume, then deep fry them. It’s not the freshest fish, so how do you mask that? Curry! That’s how curry fishballs came to be.” 

That spirit of resourcefulness, turning leftovers into something craveable, is core to Hong Kong’s cultural identity. It dates back centuries, especially in the coastal Chiu Chow and Fujian regions of Southern China. Fish balls were a clever way to use every last bit of seafood — a culinary strategy born in the floating villages and fishing harbors that once defined Hong Kong’s shoreline.

By the 1960s and ‘70s, fish balls had cemented their place in the street food canon. Sold from mobile carts and roadside stalls, they were cheap, filling, and fast —the fuel of a city always in motion. 

Angel Lau, a local guide who walked me through Kowloon’s bustling night markets, put it simply: “It’s practical to have a quick bite. It fits our lifestyle. We’re surrounded by the sea, and always looking for speed.” 

It’s this marriage of flavor, function, and flexibility that turned fish balls from a snack into a daily ritual, especially among working-class residents and students. Over time, street hawkers added their twist on tradition by adding unique sauces and seasonings. “You can choose spicy with curry, or not spicy with a drop of soy sauce,” Lau says. “Or add chili, salt, sweet sauce…It’s all about choice.” 

Still, for Hongkongers, no matter the cooking style or sauce, texture is everything. The ideal fish ball should be springy — a tactile quality known locally as “Q.” Achieving this bounce is part technique, part tradition. Hand-pounded paste made from firm, white fish like dace, Spanish mackerel, or even eel yields the best chew, but many mass-market versions now rely on cheaper fillers that dull both flavor and texture. 

“The perfect bite,” says Chan, “has a little crisp from being deep-fried, and then when your teeth sink in, it breaks the skin. The inside is bouncy, not doughy, and you get that hit of fish without it being too fishy.” 

Lau agrees: “Fresh fish taste, bouncy texture, and curry that’s not too spicy but makes you want another bite.” 

Beyond the classic curry-drenched version, Hong Kong has no shortage of fish ball varieties. Smooth, white Chiu Chow-style fish balls are often served in noodle soups. Fried versions can be enormous (“like a fist,” Lau recalls) but shrink dramatically in oil. The curry itself ranges from mild and soupy to thick, clingy, and hot enough to make you sweat. 

And then there are the specialty versions: squid balls, beef tendon balls, even cheese-stuffed hybrids. “We love the texture so much that we’ve created all kinds,” Chan says. Think of it as dim sum meets street food. 

But fish balls aren’t just street food, they’re edible memory. For expats like Chan, fish balls are like mini time capsules. As a child visiting her grandparents in Hong Kong, “fish balls were exciting; it meant I was on holiday,” she recalls. Years later, living in a shared flat on Nathan Road, fish balls “became my frugal or desperate dinner,” she says. Now, she embraces her “fish balls” nickname with pride. “They’re my branding,” she says. 

“They taught me gratitude,” she said. “And now I get to use them to tell stories about Hong Kong.” 

But as Hong Kong changes, so does its street food. Skyrocketing rents have forced many hawkers off the  iIsland, and fewer young chefs are carrying on the tradition. “They’re not as readily available now,” Chan says. “The places I’ve seen make you buy a bowl instead of just one skewer…and they might contain more filler than fish.” 

Lau echoed the concern: “I don’t see younger chefs or vendors reimagining the dish, sadly.” 

Still, pockets of resistance remain. On her food tours, Chan visits a Kowloon fish ball factory that still uses traditional methods: bones for broth, meat for the balls, and skins for fried snacks. “They’re making high-end fish balls that have little to no filler,” she says. They don’t skimp. They don’t rush. While this commitment to quality makes them too expensive for street food, they’re perfect for at-home hot pot. 

For locals, they’re comfort food. For tourists, they’re often a cultural litmus test — love at first bite for some, a briny mystery for others. But either way, they tell a story. 

“It’s why we’re called Humid With a Chance of Fishballs,” says Chan. “We use food as a vessel to teach about Hong Kong’s culture, heritage, and traditions. Because if you want to understand this city, start with a fish ball.”