Spending New Year in Australia, Counting Eggs Just to Survive
I. Australia’s Egg Crisis
Over the New Year that has just passed, our family rented an Airbnb in Sydney, Australia, to ring in the New Year. Unfamiliar with the area, we shopped only at large chain supermarkets every day.
With Christmas and New Year falling together, I discovered for the first time that I could not afford the Organic eggs on the supermarket shelf. I had to grit my teeth and settle for a carton of Free Range eggs—one rung lower on the “egg hierarchy”.
Free Range eggs are far from cheap, either: a dozen costs nearly AUD 10. At an exchange rate of roughly 1 AUD to 4.65 CNY, that works out to close to 4 yuan per egg—several times the price back home. A 4-yuan egg truly deserves the title of “golden egg”; one can only eat it through tearful resignation.
At the time, I assumed it was simply the combined Christmas and New Year holidays, with most stores shut and suppliers on hold. It was only after returning home, when I came across news about the US egg shortage and revisited Australian local reports, that I realised Australia, too, was suffering a severe egg shortage brought on by avian influenza.
The two major chain supermarkets have even begun rationing: a limit of two cartons per person. The Australian mainstream broadcaster ABC has recommended that residents try smaller local grocers for a more stable, firm small-farmer supply chain untouched by large-scale culling.
II. Besides Eggs, What Else Has Gone Up in Price?
Returning to Sydney after five years, it is not only eggs that have risen in price because of avian influenza. Severe inflation has pushed many items on the shelves to prices beyond reach: the legendary, pulp-rich Australian high-end “Guoli Cheng”—Nothing But Oranges—has leapt from 5 dollars a few years ago to 10 dollars. Two litres of orange juice now costs close to 50 yuan. Yes, it is genuinely fresh-squeezed, but at that price, I may as well buy a few oranges and squeeze them myself.
The selection of leafy greens at the large chain supermarkets remains as limited as ever—row upon row of nothing but green leaves. The locals call them all “greens”, with the same sweeping casualness that some friends from southern China bring to calling every leafy vegetable “qīngcài”. Prices, too, are steep: AUD 3 (about 15 yuan) for a bunch of greens, AUD 5 (about 25 yuan) for two corn cobs—though the husks have at least been stripped off, saving whoever boils them a little work. For a more varied plate, all one can manage is a bag of salad mix—various chopped vegetables in a single packet—taking us another step further down the minimalist “white-people food” path.
Of course, Chinese residents in Australia can choose different shopping routes: at Harris Farm Markets—an Australian take on Whole Foods—and Chinese supermarkets, a wider variety of vegetables is available. Sydney’s two great markets, Sydney Market and Paddy’s Market, also boast richer produce stalls. If you are after the full spread of hotpot vegetables, head over to see what the local farmers and Chinese growers are producing—though the bunches are said to be rather generous.
Every Sunday the markets hold massive clearance sales, where a bag of fruit for a single dollar can still be found. Settled long-term in Australia, with a bit of thriftiness and a backyard vegetable patch of one’s own, it is quite possible to eat well and affordably.
All in all, though, Australian food prices are steep. If one were to lay out a hundred baskets of produce like Chentang Pass in Ne Zha II, for the immortals to peruse one by one—well, heaven knows what that budget would look like.
The discerning Australian skincare brand Aesop once placed a basket of ginger in its stores, named “spring ginger”, as a New Year giveaway. Shoppers flocked to it. Do not underestimate that little lump of complimentary ginger—at the supermarket it would set you back 20 yuan; one could happily buy a tube of hand cream just for the sake of it. Truly, every generation has its own “check in at the store, get free eggs”—and every generation has its own tale of buying the box and returning the pearl.
III. What About Eating Out?
The perfectly roasted, richly milky latte, the thing Australians are proudest of, used to cost four or five dollars a cup; now it is seven or eight. The simple daily pleasure of strolling into a café for two cups dissolved away, automatically downgrading to a bottle of ultra-concentrated cold brew coffee from the supermarket, which I then bulk out with a generous pour of milk—five dollars keeps me going for two days.
Eating out at a restaurant calls for agonised deliberation. Although most Sydney restaurants have stopped adding a tipping surcharge during regular hours over the past few years, fifteen dollars—nearly eighty yuan—is merely the starting price for a single bowl of Chinese noodles. Pasta that suits a Chinese palate goes for twenty-five dollars a plate: my stomach is perfectly content, my wallet is not. Back home, Yang Guo Fu Malatang will fill you up for thirty yuan or spoil you for fifty; here it transforms into a thirty-dollar-a-bowl affair. What ingredients are so precious? Must the fish fillet be Pacific-caught and iced fresh just to enjoy a bowl of málàtàng?
Not feeling like heading downstairs, so you order delivery? Even more frustrating.
I tried the city’s biggest delivery platform, Uber Eats. Compared with the racing electric scooters of China’s delivery riders, Sydney couriers generally cycle, pedalling gamely up and down the city’s hills—a workout and a job rolled into one. There are those who drive, of course, but they have not exactly conjured a corresponding Australian speed. I have heard of couriers strapping a delivery box to their backs and walking the lot, practically hiking—after all, it is all about staying relaxed.
Once, after picking up some groceries from a nearby supermarket, I placed a delivery order. The store was not far away, and the courier was even driving, yet after covering a kilometre, he stalled with a mere two hundred metres remaining—held up for an entire hour, worlds apart from the brisk efficiency of home.
A quick search online reveals that Uber Eats does not seem to enforce strict management over its couriers, and with no tipping system to spur them on, deliveries are very much a best-effort, at-one’s-own-pace affair. A courier may well be juggling orders from several platforms simultaneously, working out a route on the fly—as long as it gets delivered, that is enough.
Equally unhurried is Sydney’s transport network. With New Year’s Eve approaching, I wanted to head to Sydney Harbour to catch the world’s earliest firework display of the new year. In a flash, the news broke: the transport union had decided to strike on New Year’s Eve. How many fireworks yet to be launched, how many hotel restaurants already booked—their fates all gripped in the hands of the transport system.
Thankfully, the government and the union ultimately reached a phased settlement, and by evening we made it to the harbour, found a scenic spot, and sat down on the ground. During the long wait, everyone’s snacks converged on the beef jerky and crisps from the little shops nearby. Those willing to push their boundaries on this fantastical journey could also try the Australian speciality—kangaroo jerky—for a taste of proper rustic Aussie charm.
Alongside my Australian, Brazilian, Indian, Korean, and Japanese neighbours, we sat on the ground for seven or eight hours, and in the end we were treated to the world’s earliest New Year fireworks of 2025.
IV. Australia’s “Aftereffects”
In Australia, the “invisible value” of everyday labour becomes painfully clear: every handmade dumpling, every carefully cooked egg is a form of work with considerable “market value”. One can imagine that even a couple splitting household chores might start looking at each other with a little more fondness: husband has fixed the plumbing—well done, a thousand saved; wife has made dumplings from scratch—splendid, another three or four hundred saved. Back and forth, each deeply appreciating the other’s tireless contribution, and so the household runs on—bound together by mutual gratitude.
After the New Year, once back in China, I went on a week-long feast of Chinese cuisine. But there was another aftereffect too: making myself a cup of coffee or boiling a bowl of noodles at home, I now heap lavish praise on myself—Brilliant! Money saved! Living the good life! What a treat! And just like that, the enthusiasm for life itself grows a little stronger.
Come to think of it, is a bunch of greens grown through honest toil, a meal delivered right to your door, or a skill that can save a house from flooding, not worth being “a little pricey”? Australian delivery couriers are often criticised for being expensive and “inefficient”, yet farmers, couriers, and plumbers—what we tend to call “low-paid manual workers”—live with more dignity than their counterparts at home. I believe there is a balance to be struck between guaranteeing fair pay for labourers and keeping society running efficiently.
Unless otherwise noted, all images are courtesy of the author.
Editor: Wang Hao