Chapter Three: San Francisco

Gan Guoyang devoured half a roast chicken, a bowl of wontons, two servings of noodles, three shrimp dumplings, four char siu buns, and drank five small cups of lemon tea in one sitting before wiping his mouth with a hint of satisfaction and letting out a burp.

“Dad, it seems your cooking skills have improved again.”

Gan Youwei, seeing his son’s hearty appetite, finally relaxed completely. Being able to eat well meant his health wasn’t seriously compromised.

“It’s not that Dad’s cooking has improved—it’s just that you’re hungry. Want some more?”

“No, not really. I can’t eat too much. Besides, this is the restaurant’s food sold for money; eating too much isn’t right…”

At that moment, their uncle, Gan Youtang, stepped in through the door, sighed deeply, and said, “Eat up, eat up. Guoyang, have some more. If you can’t finish it, it’ll just spoil in the kitchen anyway. Look at this place—right in the middle of the day, not a single customer. This restaurant has only been open six months, and business is this bad already. You, Youwei, I’m really sorry for pulling you all the way from the mainland and dragging you into this mess.”

Gan Youwei quickly waved his hand, “I wanted to come here myself. Besides, when you invited me, you didn’t sugarcoat it—you said the restaurant was struggling and needed a skilled cook. I have the skills and thought I could turn things around, but who knew…”

“Who knew these American hillbillies can’t appreciate good food! They’re used to Chinatown’s cheap stir-fry scraps and don’t want to spend on quality dishes, no matter how good the ingredients or craftsmanship are. They only like that junk from Chinatown! Damn it!” Gan Youtang snapped.

The two brothers exchanged worried glances, both fretting over the desolate business and the hefty monthly rent.

Gan Bingguang and his son Gan Youtang had worked in America for over a decade—the elder man as head chef in various Chinatown restaurants, the younger managing the establishments.

They had saved some money and dreamed of ending their working-for-others days to become owners, running their own restaurant.

Through acquaintances, they leased a storefront near the bustling entrance of Tenderloin District, renovated it, and opened six months ago with high hopes.

The previous owner of the space was a Cantonese man from Chinatown named Chen Yaoming, who had hyped up the location as prime real estate with good feng shui—the most prosperous area in Tenderloin, teeming with residents, tourists, and white-collar workers, guaranteeing business success.

Five years’ rent would pay off in just one year, with pure profit after that.

But once open, they realized that while the area was indeed lively with residents, tourists, and office workers, it was also heavily populated by homeless people, hippies, and petty criminals who gathered in groups during meal times and evenings, lingering around the restaurant.

These folks couldn’t afford the pricier dishes or drinks, always ordering cheap fried rice and tea, sitting for hours, occupying tables and scaring off potential customers who wanted a proper meal.

They couldn’t be shooed away, nor cultivated into regular paying customers—they were barely willing to pay for their food.

Gan’s restaurant targeted the urban middle class. Gan Bingguang, a seasoned head chef, aimed to open a classy Chinese restaurant in San Francisco, to overturn the stereotype of Chinese food in America as low-end fast meals and cheap stir-fry scraps, and to promote the profound richness of Chinese cuisine.

But the presence of so many homeless, hippies, and drug-addicted groups made middle-class patrons too wary to dine there.

Despite Gan Bingguang’s persistence, rooted in the Chinese virtue of enduring hardship and the belief that hard work would eventually be rewarded, and his insistence on a mid-to-high-end approach without cutting corners on ingredients or quality—

He believed good wine needs no bush and that perseverance would one day build a solid reputation.

Thanks to this, the restaurant’s delivery service was doing relatively well, providing some income to offset losses.

Yet breaking even, let alone turning a profit, was a distant dream; delivery was just a supplement and couldn’t even cover the rent.

The restaurant soon became financially unsustainable, the kitchen’s workload severely insufficient, and cooks left due to unpaid wages. Only the old man himself could step in.

Kitchen work was physically demanding. Though experienced, Gan Bingguang was aging; his son Gan Youtang lacked the talent for cooking, and suitable local chefs were hard to recruit—no one wanted to join a failing business.

In despair, Gan Bingguang suddenly recalled a nephew from their ancestral village across the ocean, Gan Youwei, who inherited the family recipes from the late patriarch and was regarded as a master of Gan family cuisine.

If he could persuade him to come to America and join as a partner and chef, there might be a glimmer of hope.

With nothing to lose, Gan Bingguang eventually contacted Gan Youwei thousands of miles away. After a long-distance call, Gan Youwei surprisingly agreed, saying he would bring his son to cross the ocean and assist at the Gan family restaurant.

It was the height of the Sino-American honeymoon period. Under the 1965 Immigration Act and agreements following the establishment of diplomatic relations, 40,000 Chinese immigrants were allowed to enter the U.S. annually, split evenly between mainland China and Taiwan, greatly easing immigration restrictions.

With Gan Bingguang and his son’s help, Gan Youwei and his son Gan Guoyang arrived safely in San Francisco and began their new life.

Gan Bingguang worried that his nephew might have lost his skills after years away, unable to cook authentic Gan family dishes, but upon seeing him cook a full meal himself, even Gan Bingguang, a veteran chef, gave him a thumbs-up—his culinary skills were impeccable.

But good cooking skills alone were useless. In 1979, the U.S. economy stalled; California plunged into a deep economic crisis. Cities like Los Angeles, Sacramento, San Francisco, and Oakland suffered severe recessions.

In 1980, Reagan took office and implemented economic reforms, but they had no immediate effect. By 1981, the U.S. economy had entered a stagflation quagmire, with unemployment soaring to 8%, and the Dow Jones plummeting from 2,600 points in 1965 to 800 and still falling.

Major cities hollowed out as new immigrants and middle-class families moved to suburban satellite towns. San Francisco’s tourism industry also suffered a heavy blow.

Homeless people, criminals, and addicts roamed the streets in droves, making survival in the restaurant industry increasingly harsh.

This was beyond any chef’s ability to fix. No matter how extraordinary Gan Youwei’s skills were, with no customers or business from those who did come, the restaurant’s decline was irreversible.

A group of gay men in black fishnet stockings and tight miniskirts, wearing colorful wigs, pushed open the door and entered, sitting down and beckoning Gan Youtang over, loudly ordering a basket of potstickers.

Gan Youtang rolled his eyes and shook his head, muttering curses under his breath. These “queens” always came in groups of three to five, ate just a little like chicks pecking at grain, and then lingered, chatting and playing cards after finishing their food.

When you tried to shoo them away, they’d act coy and bat their eyes—it was unbearable and there was nothing to be done.

They chattered away, quickly lit cigarettes, and Gan Youtang had no choice but to serve them. Meanwhile, Gan Youwei rose to prepare the potstickers in the kitchen.

Just then, Gan Guohui came downstairs from the upper floor carrying a basketball. He told Gan Youtang he was going to play ball and was about to leave.

Gan Guoyang hurriedly called out to stop him, “Hey, Guohui, going to play ball? Take me with you!”

Guohui replied, “Guoyang, you just recovered from being sick—are you up for it? Besides, didn’t you say you don’t like basketball?”

“Who said I don’t like it? With my height, it’d be a waste not to play. I just wasn’t used to it before.”

“Heh heh, I knew it. With your build, not playing basketball would be such a waste. Come on, let’s go together. The restaurant’s slow anyway. You can help me teach that punk Chen Xing a lesson.”

As Guoyang passed by the group of “singing and dancing” types, one of them pinched his arm playfully, another removed the Bohemian flower wreath from their own head and placed it on his.

They giggled and laughed, throwing flirtatious glances at him, making Guoyang’s skin crawl with goosebumps.

Watching these eccentric people, a song from the movie Forrest Gump suddenly came to his mind—“San Francisco”:

If you’re going to San Francisco,
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.
If you’re going to San Francisco,
You’re gonna meet some gentle people there.
For those who come to San Francisco,
Summertime will be a love-in there...

He touched the flower wreath on his head, didn’t take it off or throw it away, but smiled instead, wore it as he left the restaurant with Gan Guohui.

The “singing and dancing” crowd smoked quietly, watching silently as Forrest Gump’s silhouette disappeared into the distance.