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Part 1

As a child, my father used to tell me stories of the Great Tang dynasty. Emperor Taizong, one of the greatest emperors ever, oversaw a golden age of stability, art, and Han Chinese Buddhism. All neighboring kingdoms could only bow (and pay tribute) before the greatest. But with all great dynasties, collapse is inevitable.

In my neck of the woods in South Brooklyn, we had the Fu Kee (富記) dynasty. I don’t remember when it started, but its reign was undeniable. Local Chinese barbecue restaurant 86 Fu Kee on 86th Street was the best in town. And I mean the best. This small two-story building served up the best Peking duck. The best roast pork. The best crispy pork belly. If you hung around the 86th Street Chinese community, you ate here. My dad's coworker who lived in New Jersey would make sure to get an order in before leaving state borders. Lines would flow out of Fu Kee and snake around the sidewalk, blocking other restaurants. All the other Chinese barbecue shops on 86th Street were playing for silver; if they could even stay open long enough.

But like any dynasty, it saw a decline. Your humble historian here would pinpoint it to around 2020, COVID-19 era. Like a change in the winds, the food stopped tasting good. The pork belly was no longer crispy and the duck was no longer Peking enough. Business at the legendary shop was visibly down, even for post-COVID days. With lines never leaving the front door, truly, the magic was lost. The official story from Fu Kee's owner when asked was that the old chef retired. Unofficially, word on the street was COVID-19 did the old bag in. My official story? The current chef might know the real story...

It was the summer of '24. I was out playing hooky, as usual, when I passed by Fu Kee. I hadn't eaten here in over a year. Figured I'd eat here once more, for old times' sake. Well past the lunch rush, there were no other customers, so I had a moment to look around. Inside, a familiar view met my eyes: the live seafood tanks on the left, the ready-to-cut barbecue hung on the right, the big circular family-size tables that go all the way to the back. Even the Buddhist prayer idol was still in the corner. The place really hadn't changed much, even after the COVID massacre. The cashier greeted me and I gave her my order: half a Peking duck. Beside her, a guy was on cutting duty today.

As the cutter was grabbing a duck off a hanger to cut, I looked over to the kitchen's double doors. By sheer luck, a guy who looked like the barbecue chef walked out, probably out for his lunch break. He was probably in his mid-30s, wearing a small chef's hat that hid most of his unkempt hair and a worn-out white apron stained with grease and sauce. I figured this was my chance to find out where the previous chef went.

"Excuse me, you're the barbecue chef here, aren't you?" I asked in semi-coherent Cantonese. The chef nodded. I went on, "You know where the old chef went? Used to make the food here before the pandemic."

I must have touched on a sensitive topic because the cashier stopped working the register. Even the cutter stopped cutting up my order.

The chef stepped closer to me and spoke in a heavy smoker's voice and rural dialect, "Ya wanna know where the old chef went? Come with me."

Walking up the metal stairs outside, we went together to Fu Kee's roof. The nearly empty roof was blinding, with its white plastic surface perfectly reflecting the intense sun into our eyes. We both settled right up against the streetside wall and leaned our arms over it. We had a good view up here, where the busy 86th Street traffic became toy cars and the D train platform was within parkour distance. The two of us were alone, save for the rooftop HVAC humming in the background. The chef must have been tired, seeing as he pulled out a cigarette. Before he could reach for his lighter, I offered him mine. He cracked a smile as I lit his cigarette.

I didn't want to take too much of his time and my Cantonese was already running low, so I cut to the chase. "My surname is Chen. Did you know the old chef here? I used to eat here all the time as a kid."

"I know him, I know him. My surname is Zhang," said the chef. Zhang took a puff of his cigarette and turned to face me. He explained, "The guy you're lookin' for is Old Li. And I was his apprentice."

That took me by surprise. I blurted out, "Apprentice? But your food is so different from Old Li!" That came out wrong...

Chef Zhang's smile disappeared as he looked back to the street. After another puff of his cigarette, he sighed and got defensive, "Look, I know my barbecue's not as good as Old Li. Ya think I don't know that? Everyone’s been saying that behind my back for years! Fu Kee’s in shambles, kid! And I don’t know how to fix it! Old Li left before I learned everything. Been tryin’ to make a name for myself here, and nobody cares!" Zhang faced me again, this time with regret in his eyes, and whimpered, "You have any clue how hard that is?"

I struggled mightily to cobble together the Cantonese to comfort him. I was about to open my mouth when Chef Zhang suddenly dropped his cigarette. Putting it out with his shoe, he was facing the staircase we came in from. As I turned to the staircase, I saw them.

Three unrefined hooligans,
Emerged from the rickety metal staircase.
The first one bald,
With a Tank Top and cargo shorts.
Without repellent,
Mosquitos flocked to his exposed portly midriff.
The second one lanky with a cheap navy blue Suit.
A bold choice in the summer heat,
Broadcast by armpits visibly sweaty.
The third one wore an AND1 Hoodie.
On his phone,
He’d rather play Candy Crush
Than play third wheel.
What this gang of three wanted,
I did not know.

Part 2 (Some violence)

With their footsteps clanking against the metal, the roof turned cold as the three gentlemen approached. I was frozen in place, for they had blocked my exit path. But not Chef Zhang. He straightened his back and loosened his shoulders as he met the three in the middle of the roof. The One in the Cheap Suit must not have stood more than a foot from Zhang, with his two lackeys surrounding the chef. Zhang stood undeterred, like a British Royal Guard.

Suit cut the silence, speaking in a dialect even more rural than Zhang’s. My eyes widened when I realized this was some advanced Chinese. Confused with words, tones, and slang I never knew existed, the only things I figured out were the money demands that Suit threatened at Zhang and some swear words hurled. While I was scratching my head trying to keep up, Zhang didn’t show any signs of weakness. He snickered confidently, looked Suit straight in the eyes, and came back with swears of his own. Neither of the two heavy smokers backed down, and the confrontation escalated to pushing and shoving. The gist that I caught from Zhang was that the restaurant wasn’t going to cough up the cash but Suit said, “You have no choice”.

Zhang was getting tired of this and sighed, shaking his head. He might have been the bravest man alive or the stupidest because he shoved Tank Top and Hoodie aside and joined me back at the streetside wall. Honestly, I was amused by how he was handling the situation. The chef’s bravado continued as he leaned his arms over the wall, looking over 86th Street again. Suit was visibly livid at being ignored. He stomped forward, about to grab Zhang’s shoulder. “Where ya think yer goin’?” Suit hissed. Big mistake.

Before Suit could lay a finger on the chef, Zhang pulled out a scratched-up meat cleaver with a wooden handle from under his dirty apron. In one great motion, he spun around and transferred all of his momentum into a heavy diagonal slice across Suit’s chest. With the cleaver cutting through the blue suit and breaking skin, Sliced Suit recoiled backward in pain and landed on his bottom. Even Hoodie put away his phone. Pointing at us, Sliced Suit shrieked to his lackeys, “Get ‘em!” Those words I understood, and I immediately unfroze as Zhang charged at Tank Top and Hoodie. Following behind the chef, I thought to myself, I’m not gonna let him have all the fun.

Tank Top met Zhang’s bull charge with a rush of his own before throwing a left straight jab at the chef. He might have tried to disarm the chef’s right hand, but Zhang quickly ducked under the punch, and with a sleight of hand, he switched his cleaver over to the left hand and took a cruel downward diagonal swing at Tank Top. Surprisingly for his weight, Tank Top backstepped in time to dodge the swing. Hoping to retaliate while Zhang’s cleaver was low to the ground, Tank Top winded up his right leg for a counterclockwise roundhouse kick. 

Unfortunately for Tank Top, the chef was a little faster. Zhang just needed a fast, weak kick to Tank Top’s left calf to knock the top-heavy man down to his knees. With that, the chef had a clean shot for a swift horizontal swing with his cleaver. Tank Top leaned back with what little balance he had left to avoid the swing, but he couldn’t avoid it entirely. The cleaver grazed his right cheek, causing Tank Top to topple over in sharp pain, face first. Chef Zhang was about to double back his cleaver for another go, but relented upon seeing his opponent was down for the count. Suit, who had taken refuge at a faraway corner, could only watch from the sidelines.

While Zhang was showing off, I couldn’t afford to pay much attention to his moves. Hoodie wasted no time after getting his marching orders and threw his entire body into a sprint towards me. I thought we were about to clash in between, but Hoodie faked me out. He threw both of his legs out into a sliding kick, catching me off guard. With the split second I had, I could only dolphin dive over him for safety. My technique was sloppy and my landing became a belly flop. I crashed into the ground, coughing on impact. I used my hands to regain some of my footing in an equally clumsy fashion, just in time to respond to Hoodie’s next move. He must have sensed my inexperience. By the time I about-faced from our joust, Hoodie was already up and gunning to knock me over again. His right leg was angled but low to the ground, blurring as it struck my left calf.

My whole left leg gave away and I was almost going to lose balance once more. Almost. Frustrated and desperate to not taste the roof flooring again, I lunged both of my arms out and grabbed Hoodie’s head before my body tipped over completely. I pulled his head downward and close to my chest. Using my right leg and Hoodie’s head for balance, I drove my left knee into his face. My angle was a little off, hitting Hoodie’s cheek instead of his nose, but it would have to do. He didn’t have a chance to block with his arms and I was able to squeeze in another knee. 

This time, it was Hoodie’s turn to be frustrated. He burst his arms upward and outward, managing to knock my hands off his head. His head returned upright, revealing bruises left from my attacks. We were both winded and running purely on adrenaline. I saw the roof’s HVAC unit was only two yards or so behind Hoodie, who was disoriented for just a second. Working with the only opening I had, I lowered my head and my stance and rammed into him again with my arms in front to guard. I don’t think Hoodie caught on to what I was doing because he stood his ground instead of dodging me. I grabbed his torso and started to push him closer to the HVAC unit. I could feel Hoodie resisting with every fiber in his body. As his sneakers scraped along the floor from my pushing, Hoodie began to hammer down on my back with a fist. My body began to waver from the blows, but I continued to propel him towards the metal HVAC box.

Finally managing to get Hoodie into position, I activated every muscle in my body and gave him one last burst of acceleration toward the humming metal box. The top edge of the HVAC unit lined up exactly with the back of Hoodie’s head, delivering a pinpoint blow on my behalf. He yelled out in grave pain, inadvertently spitting onto the top of my head. I acted quickly after impact, letting go of his torso and gripping his head by the jaw.

With the most ferocity I have ever had in years, I lifted Hoodie’s head slightly and smashed it into the HVAC’s fan grille. The quality of this particular unit wasn’t spectacular because the grille broke on impact, leaving the basketball-sized fan exposed. Hoodie started squirming with his head and limbs in addition to his pained yelling, but we were past the point of no return. I plunged his head into the outer rim of the fan, which was spinning at summertime speed. The blades gave Hoodie a free monk’s haircut, even taking a little extra off the scalp. The fan broke off immediately, saving Hoodie from additional shavings. He let out a wounded hyena’s yip before he and the HVAC unit both stopped moving. Exhausted, I just sat up against the broken metal box. I didn’t bother taking him out of that mess.

Part 3

Chef Zhang was wiping his cleaver on his apron when I finally caught my breath. I lifted myself up and placed my hand on my back to massage it from the beating it took. Didn’t work. The chef looked away from his handiwork and walked toward me, unphased by the incident that just unfolded. This man was unscathed. He looked over at Hoodie, stuck headfirst in the HVAC unit, and chuckled, “Not bad, Mr. Chen.”

I wanted answers, not compliments. I asked with a stern look, “Who are they and what do they want?”, while waving my finger at the three guys we just put in the ER.

“Black society (黑社会),” Zhang answered just as sternly. A phrase that meant the Chinese criminal underworld. He revealed, “Been tryin’ to shake us down for years”. He briefly lifted his cleaver once more before he said, “Never worked.”

My eyes wandered over Tank Top’s cheek blood that stained the white roof as I started to do the math in my head. Getting their boys repeatedly diced up over a little money? Even when Fu Kee’s not doing so hot? It didn’t add up. In disbelief, I shook my head. “It’s not just about money, is it? They wanted something else,” I surmised. Zhang’s eyebrows twitched. 

Must have been on to something because Zhang began confessing, “Right. These guys… they wanted something more. Something worth more than money—”

I finished his thought, “The old chef. Old Li. They want Old Li! They want his barbecue!” Zhang just nodded. It all started to add up! I put my hands on my head, freaking out in broad afternoon daylight in the middle of a mixed-use commercial roof. When I got to my senses, I poked the elephant in the room, “So this Old Li guy. Where’s he nowadays?”

Zhang gave a short sigh before he reluctantly explained, “Old Li wanted some peace. Didn’t want to deal with these shakedowns anymore. He was just getting too old for it.” He paced a little bit around Tank Top's limp body. “And it’s not just the thugs. Old Li was getting too old to keep making the barbecue every day. He finally had some money to retire in the pandemic and no one, not even the owner, tried to stop him. Everyone wanted to give Old Li some space. He deserved it. I only visited him once, just to give him his favorite knives back,” Zhang reminisced.

“So you know where he lives?” I spat out. I was always a little slow at reading the room.

Suddenly, Zhang’s frown flipped to a small smirk. “Y’know, Old Li grinned whenever he saw kids enjoy his food. You said you ate here as a kid, right?” he started. I nodded. Zhang proposed an idea, “If you want to pay Old Li a visit, I think seeing a customer from the old days all grown up would make him a happy old geezer.” Best thing I heard all day.

I set off for the 8th Avenue area, another Chinese immigrant hub in Brooklyn. The sun was starting to set but I didn’t care. I was so close to figuring this whole thing out. The address Zhang gave brought me to a small two-story red brick house three blocks away from the ever-busy 8th Avenue. A black metal fence greeted every visitor, while every one of the six windows had its shades down. Above it all, the roof still had a satellite dish overlooking everything.

This can be anyone, I thought, as I creaked open the black metal gate. I dusted off some of the remaining dirt from my tussle at Fu Kee. There was some dried blood on my right hand from knocking Hoodie’s noggin around that I didn’t wash off completely. Wasn’t sure if it was mine or someone else’s, but it was too late for that. I thought to myself, preparing to press the doorbell, I’m about to bother a retiree for some Chinese barbecue. Ding dong. Hearing some fumbling inside the house and some footsteps getting closer, I tried to mentally prepare myself. What do I say to him? Is this guy going to understand my broken Cantonese?

The front door suddenly cracked open, interrupting my train of thought. That’s when I saw a shirtless round Chinese man in basketball shorts and flip-flops. A common sight in parks. He had a medium skin tone and was about my height. His chest had some muscle definition, like a farmer's, but it contrasted with his sizable dad belly. Grey hair in a buzzcut on his round head gave him a simple but maintainable look. With large arms and hands covered in liver spots, this guy looked like a recent recruit into the AARP.

“Hello?” the old man mumbled, squinting at my face. 

“Evening, sir. Do you go by Old Li?” I asked in my most polite tone. Painful.

“Yes, yes. Who are you?” the old man asked in a smoker’s voice, heavier than Zhang’s.

I cleared my throat. “My surname is Chen. Chef Zhang at Fu Kee sent me. I used to eat your barbecue all the time as a little kid.”

Immediately, Old Li’s face brightened up and a big smile stretched across his face. He spoke in a rural dialect, but I understood most of it. “Ah, Zhang sent you! Come in! Sit down!” He motioned with his hand to enter and I obliged. As I took off my shoes, Old Li turned around. What I saw, demanded my attention.

Wide, sturdy backside,
Adorned with a peculiar tattoo.
A rooster poised.
Once-gleaming red comb,
Now a waning moon.
Bushy blue-green tail,
A feather for every impact.

Captivated by the ink, I almost tripped on the steps in Li’s doorway. His living room was deceptively modern for a retiree, with a well-kept black faux leather couch and chair pointed at a TV bigger than the one I have. Old Li invited me to sit on the chair, which I accepted. He sat on the couch and poured me a cup of tea on the glass coffee table between us. His positive demeanor continued. Old Li’s voice boomed, “I never thought a young man like you would visit me, Mr. Chen! That Zhang, I tell ya! Always had these ideas! How is Fu Kee nowadays? Y’know, I haven’t been in myself since I retired!”

It’s not every day I meet a guy this age with more energy than me. But I had to break the bad news to him. I took a sip of tea and explained slowly, “Mr. Li, Fu Kee hasn’t been the same since you left. The customers aren’t coming in and the food hasn’t been the same. Especially the barbecue. It’s nowhere as good as what you used to make.”

And just like that, Old Li’s smile flattened out. “Zhang? He didn’t—”

I had to interrupt. “Zhang never finished learning your recipes. You left before he finished.”

The energy seemed like it escaped Old Li’s body. His voice turned gravely and smokey again, “Mr. Chen. Look at how old I am. I can’t keep making barbecue forever.” He tugged at some loose gross skin on his forearm. “I’m expecting grandkids soon! I’m not going back. I can’t.” The former chef got up from the couch, clearly locking up on me.

I stood up too, not letting him bail on the subject. My voice went lower and confrontational, “I know the other reason you left. You got tired of beating back the shakedowns.” Lifting my right hand into view, Old Li glimpsed at the small streak of dried blood. I said, “Zhang introduced me to them.”

Old Li defended his decision, “Then you know why I left, Mr. Chen.” He walked away from the couch and into his kitchen. Following behind him, I caught another look at his back tattoo, this time against the backdrop of a small prayer shrine in the corner. Not unlike the one I have at home, it was a simple red enclosure housing an idol of the Bodhisattva Guanyin, a deity of compassion and mercy. Directly in front, was a small incense pot with a few sticks already burnt out.

Old Li grabbed six fresh sticks of incense. For the second time that day, I offered my lighter. Handing me three of the sticks to hold, we both bowed three times. Wanting to get back to our conversation, I did my three faster than his.

As Old Li stuck the sticks into the pots, I tried to appeal to reason. “I know you don’t want to go back to Fu Kee, but this is bigger than you. Think about your grandkids. Don’t you want them to taste what good, authentic barbecue is like?” The burning incense started to hit our nasal cavities. Old Li’s back was still facing me, so I pushed harder, “What about all the other kids out there? They’ll never get to taste good barbecue.” Li still didn’t budge, so I put in my final words, “You don’t need to stay at Fu Kee forever. Just finish teaching Zhang your recipes. That’s it.”

Must have struck a chord, or maybe a nerve, because I saw Old Li clench his fist from behind. He turned around to face me. With eyebrows furrowed, he stuck his face right in front of mine, giving me a clear view of his conflicted brown eyes. The gravel and smoke returned to his voice once more and he hissed, “Ya think it's that easy, huh? That I go back n’ everything’s fixed?” Old Li flexed his liver-spotted arms and slowly raised his fists at me. “If ya want me back in the kitchen...,” he snarled, digging his heels into his flip-flops. “Yer gonna have to drag me back!”

So this is how it has to be. I lowered myself into a fighting stance once more and put my fists up. With my right-hand bloodstain in view again, Old Li growled, “I taught Zhang more than barbecue, y’know!”