Growing up in and around my family’s restaurant, Ga Hing, was an education in itself. It wasn’t just about learning to serve tea or clear tables; it was a subtle schooling in the complexities of people, expectations, and the often-unspoken dynamics that simmer beneath the surface of any family, even a “Happy Happy Family.”
My Yi Ma, my aunt, was a constant presence, a quiet force managing the daily chaos. Then there was my cousin, Victor. Just a few months younger than me, Victor was a creative soul, more at home with piano keys than chopsticks. My mother, ever pragmatic, never missed an opportunity to gently highlight Victor’s artistic inclinations as a divergence from, shall we say, the more “grounded” family path, a narrative amplified at every family gathering. Victor, in her eyes, was “another head in the clouds,” a trait she attributed to “that side of the family, of course.” He dreamed of rock stardom, Bon Jovi style, while my mother envisioned… well, something more sensible.
At Ga Hing, Victor’s attempts to help were… endearing. He’d clear tables, serve tea, arrange chairs, the basic ballet of restaurant work. Simple tasks, one might think. Yet, for Victor, they presented a unique challenge. Kids are keen observers, picking up tricks of the trade. I’d mastered the art of using two spoons as tongs, a silent language of efficiency learned from watching the seasoned waiters. But these practicalities didn’t ignite Victor’s interest. Tasks took him longer, often needing a second pass – napkins refolded, place settings realigned.
Still, like Yi Ma, Victor tried, in his own way. He was brimming with enthusiasm, if not always practicality. Before summer break, he’d visited his teachers, armed with Ga Hing menus and business cards, convinced they’d flock to our restaurant, transforming Sunday lunch and dinner into a teacher-family bonanza. I recognized that familiar parental phrase echoing in my head: “not with it.” But I kept my counsel.
Days turned into a week, Victor’s hopeful inquiries persistent. “Have they come? Any teachers? With their families?” He even cornered my mother and stepfather, who, puzzled, would then turn to me, seeking an explanation for Victor’s persistent “ramblings.” I became the reluctant translator of Victor’s optimistic, slightly naive world.
One day, the dam broke. “How could you be so…stupid? So not with it?” The words tumbled out, startlingly similar to my mother’s pronouncements. Too late to retract, I pressed on. “Why would your teachers trek all the way downtown? Just to eat here?” Ga Hing wasn’t in the bustling heart of Chinatown, but on its periphery, a less glamorous side of Canal Street. Back then, it was a symphony of less-than-pleasant city smells, especially in the summer heat, the outdoor fish market across the street adding its own pungent notes. Nights were quiet, the streets dimly lit and carrying an air of uncertainty. This was the backdrop of Victor’s grand plan.
“Why not?” Victor countered, unwavering. “You just wait and see. They’ll come.”
We waited. Days bled into weeks. No teachers materialized. Not the chemistry teacher, the math teacher, or even the music teacher. Even Mr. Reeberg, his social studies teacher, who’d vaguely promised to visit “next time he was in Chinatown” (a frequent occurrence, apparently), and implied we’d have that elusive Zagat rating by then (another Victor-ism), remained absent.
Then, mercifully, the teacher inquiries ceased. I noticed a subtle shift in Victor, a quiet shrinking of his grand ideas, as if he’d glimpsed the inherent possibility of failure lurking within each one.
But there was one diner I kept to myself. It was a sweltering summer day, my parents absent, immersed in the world of real estate. Victor was at summer music camp. Yi Ma was holding down the fort, guardian and guide. A man walked in for lunch. Something about him sparked a fleeting thought: teacher? Even now, I can’t pinpoint why. Perhaps the book he carried. Or his attire – a button-down shirt, not business formal, yet not tourist casual either. He lacked the guidebook and camera of a typical visitor, and he didn’t exude that wide-eyed tourist wonder. He carried a certain air, a subtle echo of the Stuyvesant teachers I knew – dark-rimmed glasses, that button-down, an aura of privilege and academic entitlement.
Then, a delayed recognition. Victor’s description of Mr. Reeberg, his social studies teacher, flickered in my memory, aligning with the man now halfway through his meal. The salt-and-pepper beard, the approximate height. The urge to ask battled with my shyness. I retreated to the register, stealing glances. Kung pao chicken and yin yang fried rice – an unusual pairing. Fei Zai, the cook, had clearly excelled, the dishes looked perfect. Even the waitress remembered both tea and water – a detail sometimes overlooked, a point my stepfather often emphasized: “Chinese people might not mind, but white people are different – they notice.”
Shy. That’s the word people use to describe my younger self. Reticent, quiet, my thoughts an enigma. But here’s what I was thinking: Perhaps I didn’t truly want to know if he was a teacher. Maybe I just wanted to be right, to confirm my initial dismissal of Victor’s plan. If cell phones with cameras existed then, a photo might have been taken. But as the potential teacher requested his bill, my chance, I felt, had slipped away.
The man gestured for a waitress. Their exchange, initially muted, escalated quickly. Yi Ma swiftly intervened. The bill was the point of contention. An overcharge, he claimed, a small amount, but extra nonetheless. “You people,” he began, determined to unravel this injustice. Yi Ma would later recount, “Some people need to be like this to feel superior, to wield whatever small power they imagine they possess. And we, the rest of us, we let them.”
Ling, the waitress, tried to explain in her limited English. His rapid-fire outrage drowned her out. She’d added the tip – ten percent. Understanding dawned, fueling his indignation. “You can’t dictate my tip!” Then, the quintessential American phrase, repeated for emphasis: “It’s a free country.” “You people,” again. Lost on Ling, who hailed from Toishan, lived in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, a single mother to a five-year-old son.
Yi Ma examined the bill. Ling had indeed added the tip. Cantonese flowed as Yi Ma explained to Ling why the man was upset: “We don’t do that here.” (Yi Ma also noted, in Cantonese, that even with Ling’s added tip, the total was less than what the man had initially left before the dispute). But as I knew, and Ling didn’t, our parents skimped on waitstaff wages, recouping those tips. This crucial detail remained unspoken, unexplainable in the escalating tension.
Grudgingly, he paid, the exact amount owed. I knew he wouldn’t return, despite Yi Ma’s profuse apologies, trailing him to the door as he departed in a huff, the plate glass door almost slamming in his wake.
Yi Ma, disheartened, simply shrugged. “What can you do? Some people just aren’t ready to understand.”
I’ve always pictured him as one of Victor’s teachers, a silent, unresolved question. But I never told Victor. It wouldn’t have changed anything. His plan, in the end, hadn’t worked. And sometimes, perhaps, that’s just part of the unspoken, messy reality behind the idea of a “happy happy family” – navigating expectations, misunderstandings, and those moments when things simply don’t go as planned.
