Dragon Sal and
the Hong Kong Boys
or
All Washed Up
By Noel Laflin
3-20-02
I received my most recent Social Security Benefits Summary the other day. This is the slim fold-open document which lists all of the years we have ever worked, what we made annually and approximately how much money we can look forward to receiving should we be ever be disabled, retired or dead. Not that we would receive the death benefit obviously; that would go to survivors (spouses and children), should one have any, otherwise back into the general pot for others to share in someday; if there is a someday for any of us.
Regardless of the future outcome with Social Security, what caught my eye on this summary was the first year of income of which I am on record of having earned and paid taxes to Uncle Sam. It was 1969. I made, according to my official document, sixty dollars. I was sixteen years old at the time. It was a princely sum as I recall.
Now, this summary does not list places of
employment, but one rarely forgets the first official job of one’s life. Thus, I have not forgotten the Dragon’s Den or my brief stay there, these many years later.
It all began with a lead from a tenth grade buddy.
“Como estas,
y’all?” Mrs. Whitten, our sophomore Spanish instructor with the thicker-than-molasses Alabama
accent greeted us one lazy fall day.
“Bien, grassy ass, you old deaf bat. Y tu?” the class replied as one.
“Bien, gracias, bien. Now, if y’all will turn to chapter seven in this here book, we shall proceed,” the old woman with rapidly thinning hair slowly drawled. She was really hard of hearing and had not heard a word we’d said.
It made for great fun each afternoon. One could catch up on gossip with one’s neighbor or for that matter shout an insult to someone across the room and never fear of Senora Whitten catching on. One had to be damn stupid to fail any test or quiz in this class too. If you didn’t know the answer to any question, all y’all had to do was ask out loud and someone was bound to shout it out to y’all, if they felt so inclined to help. Mrs. Whitten never heard a word.
She may have been both old and nearly deaf, but she had tenure, damn it and that meant a teaching job for life at old Anaheim High School. Consequently, I loved this class and recommended first year Spanish to all my friends.
“Hey, Laflin - you looking for some part-time work?” asked William, the guy seated directly behind me on this particularly fine autumn day. Such a random request from boy wonder, Bill, came as no surprise.
Mrs. Whitten was sound asleep, snoring at her desk. The late afternoon warmth had gotten to her, I guess. We were supposed to be working on our own, which, in this last class period of the day, translated into open conversation, spitballs flying, flirtatious innuendos bantered about and pencils being thrown into the air to see if they would catch and stick into the soft acoustic ceiling tiles above.
“Well,” I replied to William, ducking a falling pencil, “I could always use some extra cash. Mowing lawns doesn’t quite cut it anymore. Get it? Cut it?”
Dumb silence on his part. William wasn’t the sharpest pencil in the
ceiling.
“Never mind,” I sighed. “What’s your proposal?”
“Dishwashing!” he answered, all too enthusiastically. “The Dragon’s Den Restaurant, over by your house. I work there four nights a week. They’re in need of a new guy on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. I work the other nights. You interested?”
“Well, sure. I guess,” I stumbled. I really had not been looking for gainful employment, but thought to myself and finally said aloud, “What the hell?”
“Cool,” he said. Meet me there tonight, about five, and I’ll introduce you to Sal. She’s the owner. She likes me. Dragon Sal will take anyone I recommend,” he bragged, “even a dumb-ass like you, Laflin.” He hooted insanely to himself over the verbal jab.
About then I leaned slightly to the left and let a wayward spit wad hit my slow-witted friend smack dab in the forehead. His hooting quickly changed to cursing.
The final bell then rang and we all gathered up books and prepared to leave. William was wiping his brow with a shirt sleeve and muttering to himself. Senora Whitten suddenly gave a great snort and woke herself up.
“Ah, como estas y’all?” she stammered sheepishly, confused by all the commotion. She had no idea as to whether we were coming or going, so stuck to the familiar greeting which roughly translated into, “How y’all doin’?”
We didn’t stick around to give the standard reply. School was done for the day. And I had an interview to prepare for.
The proprietress of the Dragon’s Den, Sal, was titanic. A large Caucasian woman, Sal, dwarfed the petite Asian waitress flitting about the establishment, delivering hot plates to waiting tables of customers. I could hear her broken English as she spoke to a couple at a table closest to where I stood in the waiting area. She soon scampered back through the restaurant, some hot plates still in hand, before disappearing beyond the swinging door which, I presumed, led into the kitchen. I could hear a barrage of banging cutlery and high-pitched Cantonese shouted about - aimed toward unseen cooks before the door fully swung shut.
Sal finally looked up from the paperwork she’d been shuffling atop the hostess’ lectern, sensing trouble. Heavily made up, Sal wore enough rouge and eyeliner to outfit three smaller Asian faces. I believe she must have applied her color with the help of a cement trowel. She had the look of a bad, B-Western Madam, or perhaps a nasty looking, gaudy drag queen; take your pick. She finally gave a quick glance my way, having now just noticed my arrival, judged me unimportant and waded off, like a ponderous supertanker lying low in the water, to the table, which had just sent back the food with the little waitress.
“Hello,” I heard her croon to the young couple now moving nervously in their seats at the table in question. “I am both the owner and manager here at the Dragon’s Den. Was there anything wrong with your order?” she inquired sweetly.
“Ah, well,” the young man stammered, “there appeared to be what looked like a ‘bite’ taken from our egg foo young. I could swear there were teeth imprints under that watery brown sauce.”
“And the fried rice looked awful,” chirped the woman. “It seemed like it was either cooked too long or reheated or something. There appeared to be some shrimp tails - minus the shrimp - as well. It wasn’t appetizing,” she finished, wiping her mouth, distastefully with a napkin.
“Well, I am so sorry for any misrepresentation or appearance of our food,” Sal purred. “We take great pride in our authentic Cantonese cuisine. Our cooks choose the freshest of ingredients for each dish, carefully and individually prepared for every party. If you would excuse me a moment, I shall consult with our chefs. I am certain that there is a silly, if not plausible explanation for all of this. I’ll be right back,” she whispered. And with that, the great ship turned and set sail for the swinging kitchen door.
Sal was no sooner out of sight than the young couple looked at one another and in unison quickly rose from the table, shaking their heads and muttering as they quietly left the restaurant.
I could hear a commotion coming from the kitchen, in both Chinese and English. Pots and pans were being slammed about. A metal trash can lid clanged into place. I inched closer, in order to hear better.
I was beginning to take to the place already. It had a certain chaos, to which I could relate. It was reminding me of school somewhat. No wonder William liked working here.
A moment later Sal appeared, patting her hair back in place and mopping beads of perspiration from her forehead. She eyed the recently vacated table and sighed. It was about then that she finally took notice of me.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, kid,” she panted. “Are you here for that take out order?” Sal ruffled through some papers on the rostrum.
“No, ma'am. I am here about a dishwasher's job. William said that you had an opening.”
She looked momentarily distracted, if not down right confused, as she was still glancing at the empty table where the young couple had been sitting until just minutes ago. Sal finally looked back my way and shook her great head slightly, clearing the cobwebs, as if trying to comprehend what I had just said.
“Oh, right! Dishwasher,” she finally acknowledged. “William, the dumb one in the back. OK, OK, I’m with you now, kid. I do need someone a few nights a week to fill in for some other no good slacker that quit on me last week, the son of a bitch! It’s four hours a shift and pays minimum wage.”
“Ah, how much is minimum wage?” I inquired. Lawn mowing had neither a minimum nor a maximum. Mostly no maximum, as I look back on it.
“The
US Government, in its infinite wisdom, tells me that I have to pay you a
minimum of a buck fifteen an hour,” she said.
“Seems like a hell-of-a-lot for scraping crap off of plates and what
have ya, but that’s the law. When can
you start, kid?”
“Is tomorrow all right?” I ventured.
“Fine, fine, that’ll work. Get here early and I’ll show you around. Business is a little brisk at the moment; don’t really have time to chat, much less show ya the ropes,” she said, glancing around at the scant crowd. “And I have some business to attend to with the boys in the kitchen. See ya tomorrow, kid.” With that she turned tail and headed off toward the swinging door.
The Dragon’s Den was all of a three-minute walk back to my house. On that brief stroll it dawned on me that I had not gotten to see William or be instructed on the workings of a commercial dishwasher. All in good time, I thought, all in good time. I guess anybody could learn to operate one.
I arrived the next day, as instructed, a little before five and found Sal just where I’d left her the night before. A few customers were already seated and the little Asian waitress was scurrying about in her usual manner.
Upon seeing me, Sal reached under the hostess’ stand and threw an apron my way.
“Put it on, kid,” she hollered, “and I’ll give you the lowdown around here. Chop, chop. Let’s go! Time is money, ya know.”
I struggled with the strings behind my back, trying to get the thing tied as Sal slowly navigated us toward the kitchen. Before we got to the swinging door, however, she made a slow right turn. I followed, at a safe distance.
“OK, kid, aside from the scraping, rinsing, washing and drying in the back, as well as the dumping of the trash, you’ll also be responsible for keeping this area well stocked with clean plates, platters, tea cups, glasses, etc. You won’t be busing any of the tables, that’s Lilly’s job. Lilly’s the waitress,” Sal said.
Just then, the kitchen door swung open and Lilly reappeared, hands and arms full of hot plates and a steaming teapot, heading for the family of five waiting in a corner booth.
“That’s Lilly,” Sal nodded to the petite waitress. “She’s also my interpreter for the boys in the back. They don’t speak a whole lot of English. Neither does Lilly, for that matter, but she gets by, and she knows the menu, so we’re set.”
Lilly’s quick and skillful arranging of the steaming platters on the table was a fine example of efficiency in motion, I thought.
“Since we’re back here,” Sal paused, “I just wanted to warn you about the cookies.”
“Cookies?” I asked, a tad confused.
“Yeah, cookies. These things right here.” She was pointing to a large pink box filled with fragrant almond cookies sitting next to the beer cooler. She grabbed one and shoved it whole, into her garishly made up mouth.
“Now,” the muffled mouthful mumbled, “I know it will be tempting to swipe one or two of these when you’re back here stocking things,” she croaked, spitting almond dust my way, “but don’t even think about it,” Sal threatened. “They’re too expensive to be wasted on the help.” She palmed one more as she did an about face, forcing me to back out of the tight area.
“You can have any broken ones we find. Or, you can have any left overs from the bussed tables, whole or otherwise, before you scrape the plates in the garbage. Touch these good ones though, and I’ll break your arm.” She tossed the second almond cookie into her wide mouth and pulverized it with a smile.
“Excuse me, Sal,” I ventured, still struggling with the damn apron strings behind me. “Did you say I could have the ones not eaten by the customers?”
“Right,” she swallowed. “But you may have to fight the clowns in the kitchen for them. Now, that we got that clear,” as she dusted her hands, “come on back and meet my Hong Kong Boys.
On the other side of the swinging door awaited my new tormentors.
Sal’s ‘boys’ were hardly boys.
I called the old guy Pa. He was ancient. When business was slow, which was frequent, he would lay his head on one of the wooden chopping blocks and take a nap. At any given time he might awaken with a snow pea pod or two stuck to the side of his face.
Over the course of the month that I worked in the Dragon’s Den, scraping and rinsing crud off of dirty plates, I would sometime fantasize about grabbing the heavy, sharp cleaver lying next to the old man’s dosing head and just doing him in. It would be justified payback, I reasoned, for all the times he had tapped me on the shoulder, with dirty chopsticks, which, he had just fetched from the trash, and tell me for the hundredth time: “No throw way, No! No, no throw way! Washeee, washee!” He would then toss the dirty pair of wooden eating utensils into the large metal sink, turn his back on me, muttering some Cantonese curse, no doubt, and slink back to the chopping block for another nap. When safely asleep once more, I would throw the disposable chopsticks away, again. Pa just never got it, however.
When forced to be awake and actually be of some help, he moved with all the speed of Chinese molasses. This drove the other cook crazy. I referred to him as Hop Sing, in honor of the Chinese cook on the TV show, Bonanza.
Whereas the character on television was likable, in a stereotypically nineteen sixties way, my Hop Sing was not.
He was a mean little cuss who loved to tell me: “Takee out trash,” six times a night, whether the trash needed dumping or not.
His reason, as I soon discovered, for sending me outside to the big dumpster so often, was to get me out of the way while he searched through the dirty dishes Lilly had just bussed, for food that he deemed worthy of saving, eating or instantly reheating in the huge wok.
“Teeth imprints,” were the words I had overheard the young man say to Sal on my initial interview night. And something about a ‘bite.’
Whereas Pa only had two teeth in his entire head, Hop Sing had more than enough to leave tell tale impressions behind. I guess he had forgotten to shave off that portion of egg foo young on the night in question, before throwing the piece back on the fire and covering it with brown oyster sauce. Sal probably chewed on him, no doubt, for being so dumb as to not better cover his tracks. Well, that was my deduction anyway, once I stumbled on the Dragon’s Den recycling plan. ‘Waste not, want not,’ must have been the mantra there. It worked something like this:
Hop Sing would yell, “Hey, No,” (I found “No” to be as close as they could come to pronouncing my name) “you boy, Takee trash. Takee trash now, No. Go, go, go!” And off I would be shooed.
Out I would go with the near-empty container through the back door. There I would turn the corner, wait and peer back in, unseen by Hop Sing or the sleeping Pa. Sure enough, as soon as I was gone, or so the younger cook thought, a-scavenging he would go. Platters of half eaten steamed rice went back into the cooker and any decent amount of fried rice found its way back into the wok. Good portions of sweet and sour pork were pulled aside as were egg rolls, won tons, untouched portions of hot and sour sauce as well as the aforementioned, leftover almond cookies Sal was right on about that one. I would have to fight those guys, if I was so inclined to have those cookies. Whole ones too, damn it!
Well, it gave me pause for thought. How many times had my family, friends or I eaten here over the years? I did not want to think about that, suddenly.
Maybe an anonymous call to the health department might be the prudent thing to do. I would have to think about that one. After all, I was an employee here myself and an investigation might somehow reveal how I had failed to add any detergent to the huge dish washing machine during the first two weeks of my working there.
Not that this was my fault, really. I mean, it was only by accident that I discovered the slight oversight when I came in to relieve William early one night.
I had come in the back door, off the alley and was about to announce myself to my classmate when I saw that he was adding two cups of some kind of white powder to the machine, before turning on the wash cycle.
“Wow,” I thought to myself, “Soap. And I always thought it had some kind of automatic soap dispenser built into the dang thing. Hum. Well, what do you know?”
So, after that, I too started to add detergent to each batch.
I wondered if a health department investigation would somehow uncover that small detail.
Best to keep these infractions to myself, I thought. I would just try to be more vigilant about what Hop Sing threw into the wok. That, and I had better warn family and friends to never step foot within or call for delivery, ever again from this establishment. Thank God, my mother fed me at home each night before I reported for work.
Well, all of this was cluttering up my brain something fierce one Friday night. For once the place was hopping and the dirty dishes were coming in fast and furious. Lilly would go out with hot food (new or used) and come back with more dirty plates and cups. What I was in need of was a distraction of some sort.
I took a stack of clean plates out front to stock next to the beer cooler. As usual, I grabbed three or four almond cookies and stuffed them in both my apron and pants pockets. I had probably eaten over a hundred since the start of my employment. My arm was still intact. Dragon Sal just hadn’t caught me as yet. And I don’t think she kept accurate counts herself, as she was the biggest cookie monster of all.
It was after I had gone back into the kitchen and ducked into the linen room alcove to munch down some of my stolen goods that sudden inspiration for my much-needed distraction took hold. For, as I gobbled the cookies, I could hear the faintest of music coming from this little room. Now, I don’t know why I had never heard or paid attention to it before, but sure enough, there it was. The source of the music was coming from a small radio sitting atop the highest shelf. It was playing some sort of easy going stuff, what parents listened to, I thought. It was really tinny in sound and playing very low, too. Why hadn’t I ever noticed this before? The constant noise of the dish washing machine masked it, I deduced.
Well, a little rock and roll was in order I thought, as I reached up and turned the dial. Got to turn the volume up too, so I could hear the darn music over all the noise in the kitchen, as well. So up the volume went, to an enjoyable level for me. Oh, that was so much better, I thought, as the rollicking voice of Mick Jagger came flowing out of my small sanctuary.
Within seconds, the kitchen’s swinging door came crashing open. Dragon Sal nearly broke the damn thing down. She had a look of absolute terror on her face as she pushed me aside and crammed her large frame into the small alcove. She reached up and yanked the radio off the shelf, pulling its cord out of the electrical socket - all in one swift movement.
Lilly was right behind her, hands clasped over both ears, tears streaming down her face, shouting something incomprehensible in Chinese. Her voice was rather high pitched and strained.
Through the open swinging kitchen door I could spot movement afloat within the crowded restaurant. Everyone was running for the front entrance, hands over their ears too.
What the hell was going on I wondered?
“You idiot!” Sal bellowed. “Just what in God’s name were you thinking by playing with this radio?” Boy, was she worked up, I thought.
“I . . . I wanted to hear some music, Sal,” I stammered. “Just changed the station and turned it up a bit was all,” I said weakly.
“This is the transmitter you dumb-ass! We control the volume out THERE, not in HERE. You just blasted out every last customer,” she shouted. Flaring nostrils were about to flame. I expected smoke, shortly.
“Oh, sorry. Didn’t know,” I said. “So, they didn’t care for the Stones, huh?”
“Not at eighty decibels! Do you realize just how much business you drove away with this stupid blunder of yours, you moron?” Sal raged. Her green eyes were becoming mere slits.
By now Lilly was translating the entire ugly episode to Pa and Hop Sing. They both started to hoot hysterically and point at both my general direction and that of the small radio which Sal still clutched in her shaking, meaty hands. They pantomimed patrons running out the front door, hands over ears, grimacing wildly, while alternately slapping each other on the back with howls of laughter.
All things considered, I thought it best to now submit a verbal resignation. Pondering this, I removed my apron. A lone almond cookie fell from the pocket and broke in half, at Sal’s feet.
The dragon lady's expression took on an even more murderous look than before, if you could believe that.
“And you’ve been thieving the good cookies, too!” she blasted.
“Sal, Lilly, Pa and Hop Sing,” I said, backing slowly for the rear door, “I believe it’s time we part company. I quit.”
“You can’t quit, you numb skull! YOU ARE FIRED!” she screamed. Smoke billowed.
“Either way is OK by me,” I said, having reached the door.
“And I’m docking, from what little pay check you had coming, the cost of all the good cookies I suspect you have stolen, kid,” Sal said, a bitter grin creeping across her reptilian face.
“Then I guess the health department won’t mind checking up on any anonymous calls they get concerning some of the strange culinary practices of this establishment, either,” I challenged.
This seemed to have the desired effect - it was like pouring cold dishwater on the flames, I thought.
“OK, kid.” Sal surrendered. “The full check will be in the mail.” Her fire was spent.
“Dragon Lady, she all washee up!” Pa cried. Sal stared at the old cook, dumbfounded.
“Truce, everyone. Fair’s fair,” I offered. “Sal, you got to tell Hop Sing here to cool it on the food scavenging. And get the old man a decent pillow. That chopping block cannot be comfortable.” Pa grinned with both good teeth.
With that, I pulled one last, unbroken cookie out of my pants pocket, took a bite and waved good-bye. I was going to miss Pa.
The next day in Spanish class, I told William about the cool radio in the small alcove, off the kitchen.
“Just find a good station and crank that sucker up,” I told him.
“Thanks, Laflin. Some good rock and roll would help,” he replied. “Now, aren’t you glad I helped you land this great job?”
“Yes, William,” I said. “And this radio tip is just my small way of paying you back. By the way ... care for a cookie?”
