China Café

I was working in the evenings for Friends of The River as a fundraiser and was, in just three and a half hours a night five nights a week making enough to support myself. For once I was looking for a job without really needing a job. A Chinese bakery on broadway had recently gotten a makeover and a help wanted sign hung in their window. I selected which jobs I’d list on the application and stretched my employment periods to cover the gaps. I could assume that most potential employers wouldn’t check to closely, and the truth is I didn’t want to work for the kind of employer who would.
I’d defined where I didn’t want to work. I didn’t want to have to be perky all the time. After all, I could be a real sweetheart without having to hide the fact that I was tired. I didn’t want to have to keep my hair real short and combed and be clean shaven every day. I wasn’t looking to get a Mohawk or anything but I liked to look a bit more like I felt. I didn’t feel like a clean cut guy. I didn’t want to have to wear a uniform, a tie, or anything that I wouldn’t wear when I was off work. I didn’t want to work for corporate America. I wanted to know my boss, my top boss, the owner of the company. I didn’t want to answer to some faceless, god like entity that always yelled for more work done in less time without having any idea what was really going on. I thought I might slow my job turnover rate if I could get a handle on what kind of job I'd like to have or not have.
The China Café looked like it would fill the bill. I was interviewed by Wayne, a clean cut Asian man in his late twenties who was commuting in from San Francisco. He was the nephew of the bakery’s original owner who had recently passed away. Wayne and his brother Bill inherited the business and were determined to create a hip San Francisco style café while keeping the bakery operating as well. I was the first white person to work in this building in many decades and Janet, the Japanese girl hired just before me was the first non-Chinese employee.
The work was similar to what I’d been doing: running the register, making coffee drinks and selling baked goods. The difference being the baked goods were now moon cakes, almond cookies and Baos. The baos were what brought in the money. These sweet buns were filled with Pork, Chicken or Beef. I had to learn to count to ten in Chinese and to say Chicken, Pork and Beef, other than that I could get by with lots of smiling and pointing. The older Chinese folks seemed to resent my being there as did Pam, a militant Chinese pride advocate. She looked like all the white girls I knew, same hair, same jeans, but her black concert shirts advertised Chinese American indie bands with pale skin and eating disorders instead of Caucasian American indie bands with pale skin and eating disorders.
I was manning the register when an older woman who did not want to speak to me started ordering from Janet in Chinese. I could care less and was ready to ring up whatever Janet threw in the bag. Janet looked confused and I joined her as Pam started yelling in Chinese at the customer. She took the bag from Janet, through some Baos in it, and sent the now upset woman on her way.
“Woah! What’d she say?” I asked Pam, assuming the lady had insulted Janet or me.
“She thinks Janet’s Chinese. It’s bad enough you people can’t tell us apart.”
“What are you talking about? Chinese and Japanese people have the same ancestry.”
This obviously was a bad response. She turned super mean. “You and a gorilla have a common ancestry too, but I’ve learned to tell you apart.”
Well, if she wanted to fight, I’d oblige. “Okay then, what am I?”
“You’re white.”
“Then you’re Asian.”
“White is white.”
“Asian is Asian.”
She was getting more furious by the minute. “Okay then, gorilla, what are you?”
“I’m Danish, as evidence by my long square shaped head and my ridiculous jaw bone. In Brooklyn I was recognize and referred to as a Square Head everywhere I went, and few folks were even able to detect the hint of Scottish I’ve got from my mother’s side.” I felt I’d gotten her good and I gave her a big smile. I was hoping this could become a fun bit of sparring and the beginning of a friendship.
"Fuck you!” she answered. She took off her apron. She walked out the door. She did not come back.
Janet and I did not miss her, though Janet kept apologizing over and over for not being Chinese.

Charlie, the old man that made the baos was a barrel of laughs. He knew I was vegan, and he offered to make me some vegan pineapple baos. I was interested in trying this delicacy that the Chinese folks were so enthusiastic about. He’d call me in and show me a big tray of baos ready for me to eat, and then with a big smile on his face, he’d brush a thick glob of egg over the whole batch. I explained to him that being vegan meant I couldn’t eat egg either. “Like a Buddhist” I’d explain, since Bhuddist delight means vegan in Chinese, or at least in Chinese restaurants.
I played Charlie Brown to his Lucy as he pulled the tray of boas out from under me a good dozen times. Finally I told him I was done. I laughed as I said it, and he laughed too. He came out and patted me on the back. All of the younger cooks who spoke no English laughed. The joke had brought us closer I thought. My being a good sport about it, but getting on top of it showed I was a good guy but nobody's fool. Charlie put a tray of fresh pineapple boas in front of me… and slathered them in egg yoke.
Wayne was cool. He was trying hard to make the café classy and to attract the kind of upscale customers he’d get in S.F. Sacramento though just wasn’t that sophisticated. He gave up trying to explain to people why they’d pay a little extra to get real maple syrup with their breakfast. “Don’t French toast gotta come with syrup?” He was also getting tired of fighting with the older Chinese folks who thought that Chinese customers should be good enough.

Wayne welcomed our suggestions and begged us to bring our friends around. “My friends have no money” I’d try to explain. He did end up meeting most of my friends when he hosted after hours pot luck dinners so that we could show him recipes we were working on. I had recently discovered a love of cooking but when I brought in my Seiten stir fry it was dry and not very appetizing. Wayne was nice enough to pretend he liked it and I was nice enough not to mention it when he put together a new menu.

At home I was hanging out with the happiest liveliest folks I knew. We’d go to the river, take road trips, cook dinner in my bus out on some farm road, just for the hell of it. And we’d watch the Arlo Guthrie movie Alice's Restaurant. The film captured the life I wanted at that time perfectly. Traveling around, meeting beautiful people, getting arrested now and then. I would make everyone watch it again and again, and if they didn’t sing along with the Car Car Song I’d rewind and give ‘em another chance. I enjoyed or northern California road trips, but I needed more.
It was about this time that Christine met Doug and Homes and brought them over to watch Alice’s Restaurant. These two guys were traveling around promoting Spike and Mike’s Festival of Animation, now playing in Sacramento. I hit them up for all the details of their seemingly ideal life. I knew this was my ticket out of Sacramento and onto the road. I knew that this would let Christine grab me once and for all or let me go. I knew this was something I had to have so I quit my two jobs and dedicated all my energy to getting on with Spike and Mike.
Wayne was a good sport. I told him what an opportunity it was and he told me I should go for it. He asked me to drop by when I was in town and visit. The café had closed by the time I got back. I never saw Wayne again and I’ve still never tasted a bao, pineapple or otherwise.

>>>> Go To Next Story, Spike and Mike part 1 >>>>>>