Can Do Tea Restaurant

 

 

 

 

 

By Chan Koon Chung

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trans. Shirley Poon and Robert Neather

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Literary Review, Vol 47, No.4, 2006

 

 

 

 

Kamdu Tea Restaurant, English name Can Do. Front door facing the side door of the Mirador Building; back door beside Xanadu Night Club (recently under interior renovation, business temporarily suspended). On the left is the Victoria Hourly-rated Love Hotel (former Eton English Tutorial Night School); round the right corner is an off-course betting branch of the Jockey Club (former Royal Jockey Club). Turn round the bend and there’s Chungking Forest; and HSBC is just a few steps away. The traffic extends in all directions. The area is of exuberant vitality and prosperous wealth, keeping up with the trend. To put it grandiosely, it’s been on a roll for several decades. If nothing special happens and everything’s plain sailing, boss Ah Du can surely go back to hometown Dongguan a few years later, buy a Spanish-style villa and rear a spaniel. In front of the house will be a small-scale man-made lake (that is, if the developer doesn’t drop its bundle half-way). At the back of the house will be an 18-hole mini golf course. Neighbour on the left will be the mother of a current Hong Kong government senior official from a worker’s family. Neighbour on the right will be the mistress of a Zhangmutou nouveau riche of unknown origin. He’ll loaf around enjoying life listening to songs by Alan Tam and Hacken Lee playing Big Two gorging on game-meat watching channel Jade killing flies to live a life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Boss Ah Du recognizes his customers, and is eloquent and flattering: I ordered Chef’s Choice Triple Treasure Rice twice; the third time Ah Du saw me he took the initiative and said immediately: Chef’s Choice Triple Treasure Rice? The fourth time: Chef’s Choice Triple Treasure? The fifth time: Chef’s Choice? That’s why I have Chef’s Choice Rice every meal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kamdu’s Chef’s Choice Triple Treasure Rice: BBQ pork, roast pork, roast duck plus salted egg, with free hot lemon honey drink, selling price 36 dollars.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I call Ah Du Ado. In my mind it’s Much Ado, because Ado runs back and forth all day and can’t sit still — like he’s so busy serving the customers, like he’s run off his feet. In fact it’s the waiters who are busy working non-stop.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ado’s a bigmouth, who’s easily distracted. You talk about east, Ado talks about east. You talk about west, Ado will start talking about west, totally forgetting about east.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ado loves playing Big Two, and very often he yells three times without reason: Money! Money! I want to be a money-honey!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Recently Ado is into studying metaphysics. He keeps going on about how the amount you eat, the amount you wear, the ups and downs, are all predestined. Rumbling heaven and mumbling earth—there’s more blather pouring from his mouth than there is tea in his restaurant.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are two good things about Kamdu:

 

 

 

First, it doesn’t rush its customers.

 

 

 

Second, the roast meat is absolutely awesome.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For other mixed kinds of dishes, I haven’t had a chance to try.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The only blot on the landscape is a tattooed Hairy Brown. Sporting a white waiter’s uniform, he exposes his chest, occupying customers’ seats with a couldn’t-care-less attitude puffing on a cigarette and playing video games—an eyesore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Generally speaking, Kamdu is more than price-right; it’s a bit short on romantic atmosphere, but one can’t have everything. I can only fantasize, and start telling myself that the cashier lady at the counter is interested in me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The cashier lady at the counter belongs to the quiet and damn hard-working type. Head down, she doesn’t look at anyone, not even casting an eye over Ado. She looks gloomy and blank all day. Her face is more mediocre than mediocre, so very difficult to remember. Such a hard job for me to build up the romantic atmosphere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Every time I go to the counter and pay the bill, the lady doesn’t even glance at me, but just says, “36 dollars”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On one occasion I changed hot lemon honey drink to iced lemon honey drink, which cost 50 cents more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The lady didn’t look at all, but just said,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“36 dollars…50 cents.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Almost saying the wrong amount.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I seized the opportunity and asked, “Miss, may I have your name please?” Very much the Clark Gable.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The lady said, without so much as giving me a single glance, “I’m the cashier!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Miss Cash!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Miss Cash still doesn’t bother to look at me, her face gloomy, blank.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From then on I give myself totally to Miss Cash. Every night after dinner when I’m left with nothing to do, I use my killing winks to threaten Miss Cash. When I walk to the counter to pay the bill, I’m eloquent and flattering. Miss Cash this, Miss cash that. Miss Cash is still gloomy, blank, and doesn’t bother to look at me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I notice that Miss Cash nods only to frequent customer white-haired Mulder, sometimes smiling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ado’s wife sometimes comes down to Kamdu. Miss Cash will then count the money, or will find an excuse to go to the toilet. In short, she keeps putting on an act. I’m sure Miss Cash definitely has a kind of special relationship with Ado. Ado’s wife has a dull yellow face—nothing wrong with her exactly, just that she looks kind of like the back of a bus. When Ado sees his wife, he immediately lowers his head and shuts his mouth. Ado, Ado’s wife, and Miss Cash, all three look gloomy and blank. Obviously there’s something funny going on with them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Will Miss Cash and Ado’s wife suddenly slap each other in public?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

More excitingly: Will Miss Cash complain to Ado about me, and will Ado order tattooed Hairy Brown to beat me up? Then, I will counter-question Ado and tattooed Hairy Brown: “I say hi to Miss Cash. Could this be offending you?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If Miss Cash complains, the worst is, I never go to Kamdu again. It would be a pity, sure, …

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But if Miss Cash doesn’t complain, it means she doesn’t dislike my winks, implying she accepts me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I depend on my pair of eyes to hit the jackpot. My dad is a fat white English gweilo, my mum a short thin Guangdonger. My body size is like my mum, skin colour like mouldy chocolate, as if I was born from the union of my mum and a Nepal Gurkha soldier. You can imagine how perplexing it’s been since my childhood. Luckily my eyes are deep-set and quite blue, your genuine original English gweilo eyes. At first sight you know I’m mixed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My dad was a civil servant all his life, working under the Works Bureau. He talked about shit ditches and sewage drains all day, like shit ditches and sewage drains were some big deal, like they were bestowed on Hong Kong by the Great British, for heaven’s sake. I’d like to’ve given him a damn good punch. But recently SARS drains have been found in Amoy Gardens. So I realize that hidden infrastructure is actually of much importance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My dad went back to England once in ’84. From then on he didn’t mention about going back. A few months later he retired, gone without saying goodbye—and he definitely didn’t go back to his hometown. Heard that he went to Rhodesia.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After that my mum remarried in her twilight years to a Nepal Gurkha she’s known for decades. He’s actually an army officer. Before ’97, with special identity, his wish finally came true and they migrated to England. They live in the suburbs of Manchester, with South Asian immigrants as neighbours. I’m already in my thirties, so I volunteer to be an English detainee of post ’97 Hong Kong. I refuse to recognize my new old man. With my pair of eyes, I can well assure you that I got some white gweilo blood in me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I finished my O Levels in King George V School in Ho Man Tin, Kowloon. I can understand and speak Cantonese well, actually very fluently. But when it comes to Chinese characters, I’m totally illiterate. I taught in Eton English Tutorial Night School, played in the preparatory team of Rangers in Division A soccer, got into a small English newspaper, Star Post, as a reporter, fooled around as an auxiliary policeman (expelled for misconduct), ran a private investigation company, got a job in a jump-job job-hunt company, was a legal executive in a law firm specialized in writing up land leases (jailed for misconduct), and sold life insurance. Two years before ’97 I changed my profession to real estate agent, having luxurious shark’s-fin soup to eat with rice. I also set up a snooker room with my bad buddies. Then we saw that hookers from the north were turning up incessantly, so we operated a boxed karaoke night club. You have to take the rough with the smooth. The financial crisis together with Tung Chee-wah knocked a huge hole in our fortune. I pledged that I’d never be a minority shareholder, because too many cooks spoil the broth. Luckily every single penny of the business money was lost, so there was no money to buy an asset, so I didn’t end up with negative equity. Easy-peasy I re-entered the job market to become a hired man. With my rich experience of fooling around with cars, I helped sell new cars for a car company. What a mighty disgrace though: this time what I sold were low-price cars from a newly industrialised country in East Asia.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’d fooled around in second-hand Mini Coopers, second-hand Triumph roadsters, second-hand Celicas, second-hand Corvette Stingrays, second-hand BMW 325i’s. At the height of things, I’d even got my hands on an old handicapped E-type Jag.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From high school years I’d already grasped my hockey stick, going to Pokfield Road Sports Stadium to hook Hong Kong U girls.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My eyes had killed many innocent young ladies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I happened to be in good luck for a few consecutive years, sponging on my boss, sailing on yachts, picking up unpicked Miss Hong Kongs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sandra Ng, if you’re going to make the prequel or the sequel of the film Golden Chicken, remember to hire me as a consultant. I’ll teach you to sing: money money money, no more money, it’s a stick man’s world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve had the time of my life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Recently there’s been an increase in car tax. Low-price cars are also tied up. Suddenly without an explanation, I’ve nothing to do. I’ve contributed to the positive increase of Hong Kong’s unemployment statistics.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I used to go to the Bowling Green Club in Cox’s Road every night after work, have Indian curry chicken rice every meal, then spend the whole long night sitting in the bar with a few old British buddies held up in Hong Kong drinking spirits to kill boredom. My dad was a member of “Gweilo’s Rod” Club, and hadn’t applied for termination of membership. I used my dad’s name to sign the bill, and every month I just paid 500 dollars basic membership fee. This saved me a packet on the enrollment fee. A real best buy. Recently I’ve changed from middle-class to no class. Poverty stifles ambition. I could only tell the club that I have to leave the city so have to suspend the membership.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At first I had Doll instant noodles every night at home. One night I looked at the bowl of noodles, and I couldn’t eat it. Alone, and having Doll noodles for dinner, is too difficult for me to accept. So I walked down to the street and sat my buttocks straight down in Kamdu. Ever since then, every night I have a plate of Chef’s Choice rice and a cup of lemon honey drink and sit there for the whole night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today, Ado has gone back to Dongguan, his hometown. Miss Cash, head down, is counting the cash, quiet and damn hard-working. I’m in a good mood, so I turn over the menu. To my surprise, the whole thing’s bilingual, in Chinese and English. Kamdu has really pulled the stops out. Anything you want can be found here:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Roast Meat Series, Congee and Noodles Series, Rice-in-a-Plate Series, Casserole Series, Soup-in-a-Pot Series, Shallow-Fry Dishes Series, Shajiang Marinated Chicken Series, Flour Rolls Series, Chaozhou Late-Night Series, Doll Noodles Series, Sweet Soup Series, Vietnam Noodles-in-Soup Series, Japanese Ramen Series, Singapore-Malaysia-Indonesia Coconut Curry Series, Spaghetti and Penne Series,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Russian Series—Shredded Beef Rice, Creamy Chicken Rice, Bortsch;

 

 

 

Western Dishes Series— Deep-fried Chicken Legs, Baked Pork Chop Rice, Portuguese Chicken Rice, Cream Soup, Fruit Salad;

 

 

 

Western Snacks Series—Pineapple Bread with Butter Egg Tart French Toast Sausage and Egg French Fries Hamburger Hot Dog Sandwich Tea Coffee Tea-and-Coffee;

 

 

 

Chef’s Sincere Recommendation New Dishes Series—Thai Pork Neck, American Baby Chicken, Special Recipe Pizza with Golden-Silver Salted Eggs and Dried Salted Fish.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Globalization here in my Kamdu. Kamdu kitchen really Can Do. In other words, it’s simply a freak. Totally chaotic. Wrong in the head. Insane. I take my hat off to Kamdu.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But the English translation on the menu is somewhat presentable—although sometimes it gets totally carried away; like Shredded Beef Rice becomes Beef Stroganoff, Mutton Tenderloin Casserole becomes Mutton Goulash, French Toast becomes Toast A La Francaise. Give in now? The most outstanding is that Wonton is not called Wonton. It’s called Chinese Ravioli.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I suddenly realize white-haired Mulder, tattooed Hairy Brown, long-time customer Master Chun—all three have their eyes pinned on me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I practice it with myself, “Hey white-haired Mulder white-haired Mulder, I just say hi to Miss Cash. I haven’t offended you, have I?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

White-haired Mulder unexpectedly walks towards me. To warn me? Or Fight?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m figuring out how to get out through the door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

White-haired Mulder hands a photocopy to me. I don’t take a look and don’t take it, “I don’t read Chinese”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

White-haired Mulder: “Sign up Campaign for saving Kamdu Tea Restaurant”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You know Ah Du is bankrupt. Kamdu has to be closed. You’re a long-time customer. We want you to take part in the Save Kamdu Committee. You don’t want Kamdu to end up like this.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ado is bankrupt? Kamdu has to end up like this?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t know, and don’t want to know.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

White-haired Mulder’s gonna make sure I know.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It turned out that Ado used the money from his wife’s family and all the savings of Ho Sau-man—so Miss Cash is called Ho Sau-man—to buy the shop for Kamdu in installments in ‘94. Then the price of real estate boomed; Ado was itching to grab the opportunity, and re-mortgaged the shop with Ho Sau-man behind his wife’s back, to get money for speculating on property. He’d even gone as far as luxury mansions. His total wealth skyrocketed. Ado strongly believed that he was a superman, but in the blink of an eye he became a person of super negative equity. For these few years all three in his family, the concubine and the wife and all, worked hard day and night. They sold the property, stopped the mortgage, and kept firmly to their own business. But their effort did not get them enough to pay the mortgage of the shop. No wonder Ado’s wife and Miss Cash Ho Sau-man faced Ado with gloomy faces every day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When white-haired Mulder speaks, my mind’s on something else:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Will Miss Cash leave?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“If it ends up like this, all those one-way winks I’ve made these days’ll be in vain. It’s fruitless this time.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I don’t wanna go home and eat Doll noodles.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I have to see Miss Cash every night!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I can’t live without Kamdu!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“No Can Do!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Tung Chee-wah! Give me back my Kamdu!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I realize that Miss Cash is looking at white-haired Mulder and me from a distance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

White-haired Mulder says: Ah Du’s wife divorces with Ah Du to keep her family’s own money. Ah Du applies for bankruptcy. Kamdu’s shop and license will be confiscated by the bank. The shop will be closed soon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Soon afterwards everybody’s there to have the first frequent customers meeting. By then I know:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

White-haired Mulder was the founder of Hong Kong Fool Around Association, then he entered a Christian Girl’s School to teach.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

White-haired Mulder: “ I taught Ho Sau-man. She was my student.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Master Chun, full name Chun Tin-chi, pen name Wong Bin, Ah Foot, Taipan Siu, nickname Idiot. He’s specialized in using quick-wit to sell ideas, engaging in movie promotion, and plotting. A few classic translations of X-rated adult movies like “When Peaches Ripen”, “Lay here Lay there Lay Till Night”, and “Home-Made Love” are from the hands of Master Chun—a real contributor to Hong Kong culture.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tattooed Hairy Brown is actually called Harry Brown. In fact he’s the god of food in Kamdu, a culinary genius from the grass-roots. Besides his best dish, roast meat, he is also expert in copying delicious dishes from around the world. He turns expensive dishes into cheap ones, repackaging them for Hong Kong tastes, adding a bit of sugar, adding a bit of oil, to make them taste better. He responds quickly, and he knows how to Do. Waiters all listen to Hairy Brown, so he can ignore manners, occupying customer’s seats with a couldn’t-care-less attitude puffing on a cigarette and playing video games with no one to control him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Besides White-haired Mulder, Master Chun, Hairy Brown, those who attend are:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Doctor Clee Man-ter, who operates a pediatric clinic round the street corner. Everybody follows Hairy Brown in calling Doctor Clee Doctor Clement Terrific.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A guy in a suit, looking very depressed. He introduces himself as Mr. Leung. Actually his full name is Leung Kam-chung, possessing a Finance Diploma from Macau University. He was once a stockbroker at New China-Hong Kong Securities. Having lost a fortune playing the stock market, these two years he’s been unemployed curing his depression at home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beauty Ruby, a road block for direct sales who’s good at pulling in the punters. She’s specialized in credit cards, mobile phones and long-distance divert calls.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Big Wah, sole provider of valet parking services in Victoria (and former Xanadu), a member of Yau Tsim Mong People’s Armed Force.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And Gweilo—me. Thank you all so much for affirming that I’m a gweilo.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the first meeting there was a frequent customer who was a mainlander. He was an assistant professor in one of the universities in the city, doing literature and culture. He understood Cantonese but couldn’t speak it. He didn’t come the second time. Maybe he’s not used to the vulgarity and the lack of culture in Hong Kong people’s meetings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

White-haired Mulder suggests that frequent customers should have a sit-in protest against the impounding of the shop.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I could only bring into play the true qualities of a legal executiv