Goodnight Chinatown

Super Bowl is permanently closed.

No, not the football — but a restaurant in Sydney’s Chinatown precinct. Their kitchen has become another casualty of COVID-19. It’s just business. Or is it? Because it was shocking news that whipped me as hard as an angry feather duster and left me sobbing secretly in the shower. In light of all that’s been going on, I was embarrassed by my reaction. Why on earth am I crying over a restaurant?

In my mind, Super Bowl was an institution incapable of change. For as long as I can remember, its walls were dressed with noisy neon lights and menus hand-written on brightly coloured paper. Every surface from the table tops to the floors would be clothed with a subtle film of stickiness. You have to be Chinese to understand that such memories are a form of high praise. The stickier the floors, the better the food! When it comes to Chinese restaurants, this is generally true.

First-generation immigrant restaurant owners did not have the money to invest in marketing, or the time to care about aesthetics. What they cared about was filling takeaway boxes with ‘cheap’ food that was rich for the soul. Day in and day out, the immigrant workforce would stand for duty to feed their city. They studied Western preferences and learned to tweak their sweet-and-sour pork and honey chicken to satisfy foreign palettes, while holding fiercely to treasured delicacies with shameless audacity. Chicken feet anyone?

Photo: Peter Dang Pathammavong

Super Bowl’s open date remains a mystery to me but judging from its timeless shop-front and evergreen menus, my humble guess is that it has existed before the dawn of time. I remember it to be the bedrock of hearty Chinese food — a kitchen that catered for first dates and last hurrahs, for honky-style breakfasts and late-night bites. Although it has been a long time since I’ve eaten at Super Bowl, its closure was still a shock to the system. In my mind, Chinatown never closes.

Even when the rest of the city is deep in slumber, we can trust that Chinatown stays open to offer straggling pub-crawlers and hungry night-labourers a hearty, midnight feed. Chinatown is never chill. Its congested laneways is a constant flurry of organised chaos with waitresses seducing the hungry with high-gloss menus and waiters weaving in and out of human traffic with trays of steamed buns and sizzling plates. On Public Holidays when our country would flock to the beach or stay home for a ‘Barbie’ (BBQ), Chinatown would crack its whip and work even harder. Nothing — not even Christmas Day — could break the laneway’s industrious spirit to earn a simple wage.

Having grown up in a family who earned their wages in the heart of Chinatown, I grew up believing that sleep was for the privileged. Although I was born in Australia, my parents and grandparents came by boats and planes, after fleeing from soldiers through shark-infested waters. They had spent their lives running from homelessness and hunger, so much so that even when they arrived in Australia, they felt the need to keep on running. Perhaps they couldn’t fathom an existence where rest and work were simultaneously possible.

When my grandparents arrived in Australia, they spoke not with words, but with the power of their wok, sharing untold stories with secret salts and spices, and flavouring our city with fried rice and garlic prawns. Every restaurant they opened boasted courage on foreign soil, and every dish they served a labour of love and sacrifice. The truth is, we haven’t always felt welcomed in Australia, but working 365 days a year to satisfy our nation’s stomachs seemed to give Chinatown a valuable spot in society and a valid reason to stay.

Photo: Clay Banks, Unsplash

My immigrant grandparents and parents worked hard so that unlike them, I could have dreams beyond Chinatown and the words to share my story. Although empowered to see myself as an equal to other Australians, I was also taught to ignore racial slurs because I owe my freedom to the West. While I have sometimes felt that I was raised a pushover, when I reflect on my family’s trauma, I can see that a derogatory name has no power over the immigrant spirit. Why bother responding to ignorance? Sticks and stones is better than bombs and bullets.

If you have visited Sydney’s Chinatown, you will be well acquainted with its clown. Day after day, an elderly Asian man gets dressed up on stilts and twirls a hula hoop — begging for a buck. His obnoxious presence would cause fear and laughter, and the occasional mocking selfie. As a teenager, I would nervously avert my eyes whenever he waved, until one day I learned that he was a veteran of war and that his hoop represented the whole world united. Just as fear is born from ignorance, compassion is born from empathy. I don’t know the extent of his story or what his tired eyes have seen, but war and hatred is what compels Chinatown’s clown to spread a message of peace and unity.

Photo: Brooke Mitchell, Sydney Morning Herald

As COVID-19 threatens Chinatown’s future, I can’t help but grieve the loss of what our culture and cuisines once symbolised. The institutions that once busily fed our nation, have now become starved of patrons. The sweet and sour flavours that Australia once embraced has overnight, become bitter and unsavoury. Perhaps I sobbed over Super Bowl’s closure, because I’m afraid that if Chinatown crumbles, immigrants from the East will no longer be welcomed in the West. Perhaps I’m afraid that our efforts to assimilate and to contribute to Australian society will be quickly forgotten, and that being “a virus” is all that we’ll be remembered for.

And so, I am hoping that this won’t be the case for the multicultural country that my family has loved with loyalty. I am hoping that Chinatown will be remembered for its vibrant culture and upbeat spirit. I am hoping that our laneways will be remembered for its warmth and hospitality. I am hoping that “my people” will be remembered for their mouth-watering recipes, born from tragedy and courage. Finally, I am hoping that “my people” are also “your people”, and that together we can march forward to defeat a common enemy.

Photo: Khachik Simonian, Unsplash

Dear Chinatown,

I miss hearing the sound of your sizzling wok and spinning brightly coloured dishes around the Lazy Susan. I miss snacking on bags of prawn crackers, feasting through 12 course banquets, and giggling at your menus littered with endearing mistranslations. I miss seeing your faithful presence — that no matter the time or day, your flashing neon lights would shine brightly with a wink and smile.

I will miss warming my stomach with century egg congee from Super Bowl, and it really does hurt that I never got to say goodbye, but deep down, I know that the heart of Chinatown will never stop beating. Your strength was born from tragedy and your fighting spirit forged from fire. I see the day beyond the dust and that when this all settles, the lanterns will be lit, the laneways breathed back to life, and the kitchens reopened by the battle cry of immigrants past. Chinatown will rebuild — perhaps with cleaner floors and more attention to aesthetics — and on that day, I will tell myself to not take your open doors for granted.

Goodnight Chinatown, I’ll see you in the morning.

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