As Curtis Chin got ready to talk about his memoir, “Everything I Learned, I Learned in a Chinese Restaurant,” waiters in powder blue jackets delivered steaming platters of lo mein and bok choy to tables full of readers.
It was just another Wednesday night at Hop Kee, a 56-year-old pillar of Manhattan’s Chinatown, but this was no ordinary book event. It was the sixth stop on Chin’s “For Here or to Go?” tour, a 14-city blitz celebrating both his book and family-owned Chinese restaurants like Chung’s, the one his great-grandfather opened in Detroit in 1940.
“Guess how many egg rolls we sold in 65 years?” Chin asked the crowd.
The dining room rang with guesses. “A half a million!” “Two million!” “A billion trillion!”
“Ten million,” Chin said proudly, “all handmade by my mother, my grandmother and my aunties.”
When Chin, 56, was growing up as the third of six children, his mother told him to work hard, obey his elders and be quiet. His father’s advice was more unconventional: Talk to strangers.
He was referring the customers at Chung’s, where the family spent 80 hours a week.
Chin’s dishy, conversational memoir satisfies as many cravings as the restaurant it celebrates. It’s a coming-of-age story, a time capsule of Detroit in the 1980s and a love letter to the place where Chin collected the ingredients for the life he has now.
“My mom didn’t graduate high school. My dad went to community college for two semesters,” Chin said. “They didn’t know the world outside our Chinese restaurant, but they had a dining room full of people who did.”
Every time Chin’s parents struck up a conversation with an interesting customer, they’d summon their children. “We’d barrage them with questions,” he said. “What do you do for a living? How did you get your job? How much money do you make?”
Chung’s taught him many lessons, Chin said. “Don’t be afraid of talking to people who are different. Don’t be afraid of asking questions. Don’t be afraid of asking for help.”
Now he’s paying forward what he learned there. Since his memoir came out last year, he’s embarked on a marathon, self-organized tour involving 300 book talks in five countries. But his favorite events are the ones he holds in Chinese restaurants.
“Behind every restaurant there’s a story,” Chin said. “I’m trying to give restaurant owners a chance to tell their story.”
In the book, Chin recalls the Chung’s diners who made the biggest impressions. There was Yul Brynner, touring with “The King and I,” who snubbed the family by declining to pose for a Polaroid. There was Coleman Young, Detroit’s first Black mayor, who encouraged Chin to pay attention to what made him angry, then figure out how to fix it. There was Bob Vito, bureau chief at CNN, who steered Chin toward journalism.
And, finally, there was the gay couple — a doctor and a lawyer — who reassured Chin’s mother and father after he came out of the closet. “They filled my parents’ heads with stereotypes about gay people,” Chin said. For instance: “‘He’s going to have a fabulous apartment,’ and ‘He’s going to go to the theater.’ After that, my parents were totally fine. I think they were just worried I’d have a difficult life.”
The restaurant was in a rough neighborhood, Chin said, at the peak of the crack epidemic. The sex trade was brisk on the streets outside Chung’s. Racial tensions simmered. Vincent Chin, an honorary cousin, was murdered by two white autoworkers who blamed immigrants for the decline of the auto industry. Chin’s family found a slur carved in fresh concrete outside their suburban home.
“Even more hurtfully,” Chin writes, a letter slipped beneath the front door stated that the delivery van parked in the driveway was “below community standards.”
Chung’s became a refuge where Chin worked tirelessly, if not always enthusiastically. Banished from the kitchen because of poor cooking skills, he folded napkins, did his homework and chatted with guests in the dining room. He also learned to pay attention.
In time, Chin went to the University of Michigan, where he landed a coveted spot in the creative writing program. (He was as nervous to tell his parents about his literary aspirations as he was to announce his sexual orientation, he said; they handled both in stride.)
In his 20s, he co-founded the Asian American Writers’ Workshop, then worked in television — first as a comedy writer, then as a producer of social justice documentaries.
“I never felt the pressure to get published,” he said. “I helped all these writers find their voice; I felt this was my life’s legacy.”
That changed when Chin’s siblings started having children.
“I thought, My god, they’re not going to know anything about the Michigan Asian American experience,” he said. “When you look at Asian American history, it’s always told from the perspective of California, New York or Hawaii. They don’t really talk about Michigan.”
Chin made a list of around 30 stories he wanted to keep in the family. He started fleshing them out in an email to himself, then realized he was writing a book — a family comedy featuring restaurant capers and sibling rivalries.
He approached 90 agents. A third of them never responded. Another third wrote back and said “thanks, but no thanks,” Chin recalled. A percentage of the final group said they “loved the characters,” but wouldn’t be able to sell the book.
He went back to the agents who’d liked his writing and said, “‘I’m also going to talk about the coming out process. I’m going to talk about the racism I experienced.’ Once I did that, I had four offers.”
Vivian Lee, Chin’s editor at Little, Brown, said she was drawn to Chin’s idea of structuring the book like a Chinese menu, beginning with “The Tea,” progressing through soup, noodles and entrees and ending with “The Fortune Cookie.” Each section has eight chapters because eight is a lucky number in Chinese culture.
Lee praised Chin’s “uncanny ability to create community wherever he goes,” and to generate momentum for “Everything I Learned, I Learned in a Chinese Restaurant” at a time when readings can be poorly attended and dispiriting, especially for a debut author.
“I hear stories about the difficulties local Chinese restaurants have been facing, particularly post-Covid,” Chin said, noting the rise of anti-Asian violence and the challenges of the food industry in general. “I thought, Maybe I can use the platform I have because of this book to raise awareness and to help.”
Jeff Kim, Chin’s husband of 16 years, said, “It’s not just about him now. It’s about the whole history of Chinese restaurants and how they’ve touched so many lives.”
At Hop Kee, guests passed dumplings and poured tumblers of tea. From a booth by the kitchen, Yu & Me Books, an independent store in Chinatown, sold stacks of Chin’s rainbow colored paperback — the only evidence that the event was more literary than culinary.
The event was sponsored by the Lower East Side Preservation Initiative and the New York chapter of Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders in Philanthropy. (The food bill at Chin’s events usually comes to around $1,000, with all proceeds going to the venue.)
Chin spoke alongside Grace Lee, a New York state assembly member representing Chinatown; Grace Young, a cookbook author and food historian; and Peter Lee, owner of Hop Kee, who teared up while describing his struggle to stay afloat as neighborhood rents rise.
“We have a history here,” Lee said. “It’s very difficult to maintain our culture and our heritage.”
Young noted the closing of several iconic Chinatown restaurants, and the proliferation of bubble tea stores that charge for a single beverage what diners used to pay for an entire meal.
Restaurant owners have trouble finding employees who want to work in the neighborhood, Lee said: “They don’t feel safe when they travel to work.” Young chefs aren’t drawn to places like Hop Kee; the work is grueling, the hours are long.
Before the pandemic, the restaurant was open until 4 o’clock in the morning. Then Lee rolled back the closing time to 1 o’clock. Now the restaurant closes after dinner.
“The difference of success and failure can be as few as 20 extra customers a week,” Chin said. “That’s what we’re talking about here.”
One by one, audience members stood up and talked about what Chinese restaurants meant to them — as gathering places, hubs of family life, ground zero for celebrations and reunions. Two Detroit natives recalled childhood visits to Chung’s.
“I remember seeing kids from the owner’s family doing homework; one of them was Curtis,” Robert Turley said. “The atmosphere was always so friendly. You could leave your cares at the door.”
Chung’s closed in 2005, after Chin’s parents were in a car accident that killed his father and left his mother seriously injured. Chin recalled cleaning their refrigerator, finding a bowl of fried rice and realizing it was the last food he would ever eat that was made by his father.
“It was a really sad moment in my life,” Chin said. Then he had a monumental choice to make: “Do I stay in Detroit and take over this restaurant, or do I go back to Hollywood?”
He returned to the West Coast. He’s tackling the aftermath of that decision in the memoir he’s currently working on. It’s called “Leftovers.”
For now, Chin said, “I’m gaining about 20 pounds on this tour. But it’s worth it.”
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