In certain circles, it’s the highest praise you could ever give a dish. Grandmothers and aunties of a certain age, taking a spoonful and nodding approvingly. “Yes, that’s good: sweet, but not too sweet.”

“Not too sweet.” Mm hai tai teem. It’s the high watermark for Chinese desserts. As children, there was no limit to how much sugar we could cram into our bodies. As we mature, we realise soft drinks and corn syrup are not conducive to long-term existence. And we develop a sense of taste, the knowledge that there’s more to life than sugar. There has to be a balance.

Take Thai mango sticky rice: nectared mango with savoury sticky rice, imbued with salty-sweet coconut milk. Or the mooncake: the best ones contain salted egg yolk, an essential element to offset sweet lotus paste. Then there’s ma lai gou, Cantonese steamed sponge cake, made with a fermented starter for a touch of chew and complexity. Or the humble egg tart, its pastry laced with lard to contrast with the sweet custard.

Of course, there are many sweet-forward Asian desserts which instead emphasise texture or spice: think South East Asian cendol; Indian gulab jamun; Hong Kong’s own cream-decked sponges. You may love them, but they’re not always for me – or many an auntie.

The concept has become a stereotype among the Asian diaspora – especially among those searching for their cultural roots, or just approval from older generations. But “not too sweet” is a lesson we can take from our grandmothers and aunties, a watchword for dining and living alike.

After all, we define ourselves in opposition, not concordance. What is life, without a bit of challenge? What is harmony, without a dab of chaos? What is sugar, without a touch of salt?

Sweet, but not too sweet. It’s the only way that life has flavour.