Everything I Learned, I Learned in a Chinese Restaurant by Curtis Chin

Author:Curtis Chin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Published: 2023-10-10T00:00:00+00:00

The restaurant was split between our side of the family, the Chins, and my grandpa’s sister’s family, the Chungs. Because my uncle Phil wasn’t too keen on working, every weekend, he hired me or one of my older brothers to cover his shift. Still leery of surprise visits from any bathroom van Goghs, I hesitated to accept, but I could never pass up the fifty bucks.

Unless there was a show going on at the nearby Masonic Temple or Orchestra Hall, Saturday nights were slow, so my dad often stayed in the kitchen trying new recipes. My parents didn’t have the time or resources to travel, so cooking became their way to see the world. Thanks to our food distributors, an endless array of samples—new products ranging from Mexican salsa to Middle Eastern hummus—arrived in our kitchen. My parents got to taste a panoply of flavors and spices. None of the dishes ever ended up on our printed menu, but we temporarily escaped Detroit through a bowl or plate.

Cantonese food tended to be on the mild side, but my dad loved spicier fare. One night, he was squirreled away in the kitchen whipping up a hot Indian curry. That left me in control of the dining room. Despite his large size, Frank, our security guard, was a picky eater. He didn’t care for the group meals—the traditional Chinese dishes with fish heads and chicken feet—so he’d wait until everyone was done eating, then ask the cooks to make him a special order, something recognizable, like egg foo yung. Ngin-Ngin decided Frank’s daily requests cost us more money than his services were worth, so she fired him. Our last remaining line of defense to keep out the riffraff was the buzzer my dad had installed for use at night. We had been robbed at gunpoint several times, so it made perfect sense to have one.

One night around nine, several taps echoed off our front door. I raised my head to see a young white guy in jeans and a denim jacket standing in our glass vestibule. He looked like one of those wholesome students from the ubiquitous college brochures now flooding my mailbox.

Wayne State stood a few blocks north. In the late afternoons, our dining room made for a convenient study hall. Students would commandeer our comfy booths and take advantage of the bottomless pots of tea and free shrimp chips. While this was on the late side and the guy didn’t have a backpack, he was nice to look at, so I buzzed him in.

“Welcome to Chung’s. Is this for here or to go?”

He stopped in the lobby, signaling this was a takeaway. I handed him one of our paper menus, listing over a hundred mouthwatering items, but his eyes were checking out the room. He tipped his baseball cap. “Slow night?”

My parents had taught me that when discussing the restaurant with outsiders, I should be vague. No point in letting everyone know our business. My mom would even pretend not

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