bean sauce were the cheapest around. They knew the place was big enough so that the wait for a table â even for four people whoâd driven in from Long Island or New Jersey â would never be longer than 10 or 15 minutes. And that was all they cared to know about the place.
Of course, Iâm a little biased about it, because my father had been a Chinatown waiter. It was fifty cents an hour and he was only allowed to keep half his tips.
He came home enough times with nothing in his pock ets but fingers blackened with ink from the racing forms. Luckily, my mother had a job sorting punch cards for Chemical Bank, and weâd survived on her pay alone. But good Chinese people donât want to merely survive â they want each successive generation to have more.
â
In front of Jade Palace, two hunger strikers, a man in his late 30s and what looked like a college girl, were sitting
on flattened cardboard boxes. They had bilingual signs in their laps. One said, âJade Palace Steals Our Tips,â in English and, âJade Palace Drinks Our Blood,â in Chinese. The other, held by the girl, said, âYour Dim Sum Dims Our Hopes,â in English and, âJade Palace Worse Than Communists,â in Chinese.
I walked by them and found three frosted glass doors at the entrance of the restaurant. I picked one and swung it open.
Two escalators went up to Jade Palace dining room. AÂ discreet elevator to the side went straight into the offices. A big, bored-looking man leaned against the closed elevator door, his eyes pointed like ICBMs at the hunger strikers outside. His bangs gave him a boyish look, but it would take two strong thumbs to make that face smile. He had on a suit tailored to accommodate his muscles without making him look too much like a monument.
âIâm here to see Mr. Gee,â I told him.
The big man tucked in his chin and grunted into a bulge in his shirt pocket. He waited a few seconds before opening the elevator with a key and stepping aside. I slipped in and rode up. The doors opened directly in front of a giant rosewood desk.
âYou see that sign out there?â exploded Willie Gee even before the doors were completely open. He was in his late 50s, had hair that swept in a helmet around his head, and wore prescription shades. He looked like an evil Roy Orbison. âTheyâre calling us communists! Theyâre calling us murderers! My father gave all people a chance to work here! I still offer a job to anyone who wants one! Now theyâre calling me this? You should take them to jail now! If they want to starve, have them die in jail, not out here! They donât deserve to die here!â
Willieâs office was adorned with photographs. Willie with Mayors Robert Wagner, John Lindsay, and Abe Beame. Hong Kong singers and movie stars with Willie. A signed Cosmos jersey from Pelé. Willie and Barbara Streisand.
A photograph of the grand reopening of Jade Palace (after the installation of some wall ornaments and fire sprinklers) featuring Willie in the middle of a chorus line of smiling, happy people. The jerk in the cop hat was me.
Willie twirled a pen in his left hand and squeezed his right hand until there were red and white stripes across his fingers. I looked around for a chair on my side of the desk, but there wasnât one.
âMr. Gee,â I said slowly, âThey have every right to protest here. They have a permit. They donât have to eat if they donât want to. Thereâs nothing illegal going on. . .â
âThey are liars! They are liars and theyâre going to hell! They can eat misery! They can eat their lies!â
âMr. G ee, if you have a problem with their signs, you can sue them in court for slander. Get your lawyer and file a claim. I canât do anything here.â
âYouâre a policeman! Youâre Chinese, too! Whose side are you on? How can you support the law when you