Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.

3 Jun

June 3, 2011

Any of you guys coming to NYC?  If you are coming to the City (and to anyone who lives in Brooklyn, “the City” refers only to Manhattan- trust me, there’s history involved) the best part of the City to visit is Chinatown, and the best time to visit Chinatown is the 1970’s. So hop in your hot tub time machines and travel back with me to the era of the ABA, roller-disco, and dancing chickens.

When my Dad, Mr. Blog Sr., was young, he and his friends practically haunted Chinatown. There was not a dim sum joint or lo mein house he didn’t know. After my brother and I were born, it became our place too. At least a couple of times a month he’d take us into the City, usually well past the time Mom would have preferred us to be in bed, and we’d drive over the bridge into Chinatown.

Looking back, it was a really ballsy thing to do. Perhaps even stupid, though as a young kid I thought being up late in Chinatown was about the coolest thing in the world. Whatever you think of the crime rate in NYC today, ratchet it up a few powers of ten and you get the idea of NY in the 1970’s. And in Chinatown? Ratchet it up again and double it. Same for the garbage and filth. If you visit Chinatown today you may be struck by the horrible odor from the mountains of rotting garbage (and a lot of it is rotting fish) and you may also be struck- literally- by those same mounds of rotting garbage falling on you. Forty years ago? Worse. And remember- we were there late, after most of the tourists and decent folks had left. So there was the element of extreme danger but there was also the cool factor- we were up late, with our Dad, in Chinatown.

Even worse, Mom was waiting up for us at home and she was ready to kill all of us for being out so late. Most of the time we never even told her where we went or that would be the end for all of us. She still remembers the time that Dad took me for a ride to the airport to watch the planes take off (long before anyone had any idea of airport security) and we parked right by the fence at the end of the runway and watched. It got late (I was about eight so late probably meant around nine o’clock) and when we went to drive back the car wouldn’t start. Dad flagged someone down and we got a jump. A couple of hours later we drove back to Brooklyn and- trust me, this part really made Mom happy- we stopped for pizza before going home. Any wonder why hanging out with Dad was cool?

There was and to a lesser extent still is a mythical air about Chinatown. Unlike the rest of NYC it has not really gentrified, it hasn’t much evolved. There are shops selling strange-looking toys, stores with things you don’t recognize in the windows, restaurants with strange foods, and of course I never could speak the language so it was and still is very much like you’ve left New York. It is old and crowded. The streets are much too narrow for modern traffic, some of them meander at odd angles with odder curves. Try to park there? Don’t bother, you can’t. Chinatown has about 1/1000th of the parking spaces necessary and of the few that are there, the nearby courthouses hog most of them.

There was a mythical air about my Dad, too: He always got a parking spot in Chinatown. Always. And he knew the best places to buy illegal fireworks. As a kid, that amazed me. It was like- no, it really was- getting involved in some illicit operation. We’d pull up near the park, a guy would come over and ask us what we wanted, we’d give him the money, he’d leave and someone else would meet us at the other end of the block with a brown paper bag of fireworks. See why Chinatown was so cool for me in the 1970’s?

Chinatown was always a place of danger. My grandmother (on my mother’s side) once took the train to Manhattan for a job interview. She was teenager so this had to be the mid-1930’s. She got off in Chinatown and when she came out of the subway she found herself in the middle of a tong war. It was a total, violent, riot. Lucky for her a man saw her and took her into his shop to wait out the mayhem. So my family even has a cool Chinatown story. Who in your family has ever been in the middle of a tong war, hmm?

So Dad and brother and I had a history of going to Chinatown and we always went to the same restaurant, Hong Fat on Mott Street. Dad had been going there for decades and all the waiters knew him. No matter how crowded the little place was we never had to wait for  a table. One night we were in there and at the center table there was a loud party of about seven or eight people. I had no idea who they were. Dad looked over and said “there’s Regis Philbin.” I had no clue who he was but I looked and there was Regis. He was really playing up the celebrity bit and was beaming a big cheesy grin to everyone in the place. Dad turned back and muttered “pinhead.” So to me Regis has always been Pinhead.

Another night in Hong Fat we were seated at the table in the window. It had no view except the filthy street but on this night we were treated to a parade of people coming and going into the barbershop in the basement below. The entrance was right below our window. As long as we sat there we saw people walking down the stairs and emerging a few minutes later counting money. We learned later on that just after we left the police raided it. The barbershop was a front for the local bookie. If we stayed a little longer we would have had a great view of the raid.

Hong Fat is long gone. One night, sometime in the late 80’s, Dad and I (my brother was at a scout meeting) drove into Chinatown for dinner. We parked and walked down Mott Street to the restaurant. Strangely, we found ourselves at the end of the block. Somehow we had walked right past the restaurant. So we walked back and, strangely, found ourselves at the other end of the block right where we started. We looked around, looked at each other, and looked around again. Right next to the restaurant was a newsstand where I bought my first copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and we found that easily but Hong Fat was gone, replaced by some sort of luggage store. And not only was Hong Fat gone, it was like it never existed. The luggage store looked about twenty years old. So there we were, standing on Mott street, me never having eaten anywhere but the now-gone Hong Fat and Dad, despite knowing every store and building in the area, never having eaten anywhere else in decades. We were totally lost and bewildered.

And if you go there today, the magazine shop is gone too.

We eventually found another restaurant, and it could only happen to Dad. He one day ran into a waiter from Hong Fat who told him of a place on Bayard Street where a lot of the old staff went and that became our place. It sounds like no big deal, a coincidence, but Dad knew and ran into everybody. I was once with him when he ran into a midget who worked at Luna Park in Coney Island, and that park closed before I was born.

An unfortunate name for a restaurant, but they have good food. A lot of Hong Fat expatriates ended up there.

I was once taking some students on a school trip into Manhattan and when we went over the Manhattan Bridge I looked down at Chinatown and got a wistful feeling and a lump in my throat. I miss Chinatown but I miss Dad more. I still get there sometimes but I take the train and it isn’t the same. Well, in many ways it is, but not in any of the ways that count.

I’ve even driven in a few times and you know what? I’m pretty lucky with the parking there too. I guess some of it rubbed off on me.

25 Responses to “Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.”

  1. Mac of BIOnighT June 3, 2011 at 12:24 am #

    You often send me to bed with a smile on my face. I’m about to go to bed right now, but this time it’ll be with a little tear.
    Should you happen to be alone in your room sometime and talk to your dad, please thank him for taking me to Chinatown through you tonight.

    Like

    • bmj2k June 3, 2011 at 12:27 am #

      I thank you very much Mac. I will.

      Like

  2. Jeff June 3, 2011 at 4:24 am #

    What a great story. I really enjoyed that.

    Like

  3. Thomas Stazyk June 3, 2011 at 4:43 am #

    Great story of some great memories. I’ve been to NYC many times but never gotten to Chinatown–sounds like even now it would be worth it.

    Like

  4. bmj2k June 3, 2011 at 10:37 am #

    Thanks everyone. As I’ve said elsewhere, this is the perfect example of a story that takes on a life of its own. I was going to write a goofy blog about chickens with some small reference to myself and Chinatown but I never got even close. The first paragraph of this one really belongs to that blog and you’ll see that one on Monday with a new, more chicken-centric opening paragraph. I left the original opening here, lighthearted as it is, because I like the tone shift in the story.

    Like

  5. JRD Skinner June 3, 2011 at 12:26 pm #

    I don’t have much to add, but this is probably my favourite of your posts to date. Great stuff.

    Like

    • bmj2k June 3, 2011 at 6:16 pm #

      I really appreciate that. And thanks for the retweet and plug! I tended to write things like this in the old days, but I didn’t bring any over to this site.
      And it is a good thing I came up with the chicken idea that led to this blog, because I was struggling to write what would have been a pretty mediocre (at best) post about Brian Dunkleman. Now I am good with posts through the middle of next week and can safely bury Mr. Dunkleman in the obscurity of his own making.

      Like

  6. TexasTrailerParkTrash June 5, 2011 at 2:15 pm #

    Thank you for this sweet story. I know what you mean about feeling a lump in your throat for places from your childhood that are long gone even though you can see them perfectly in your mind’s eye just as they were.

    My parents used to take us to Olvera Street in downtown Los Angeles and to Little Tokyo. I really enjoyed that and can still recall some of the cheesy souvenir toys I would beg them to buy me.

    Like

    • bmj2k June 5, 2011 at 2:19 pm #

      Thank you. Dad used to take us to a lot of places. None of them were glamorous, but they were all fun and interesting. Saturday mornings were his time. He’d get up early and make us fried eggs and them my brother and I would hop in the car and off we’d go.

      Like

  7. Rona Zevin March 18, 2012 at 10:43 pm #

    You probably wrote this ages ago, but I was just doing a search for Hong Fat and loved reading your story because it was exactly mine too. I knew it was closed but, well, thought someone might know something. I haunted the place in the late 1960’s, when my friends and I would drive to the City (yes, exactly, from Flushing) and eat a second dinner. I went a few times in the 1970’s, having moved to Seattle so I wasn’t in NYC that often. Its written about in Richard Farina’s book Been Down So Long it Looks Like Up to Me. Met my first transvestite there; and my first (and only) Rosacrutions (not sure how to spell it) and had many other great experiences. There were a couple of kids from Harlem who were amazed I could use Chopsticks. I made the same walk up and down the block. Great piece of history.

    Like

    • bmj2k March 18, 2012 at 10:51 pm #

      Thank you so much. I’ve come to find out that Hong Fat has a place in the memories of many people. I was listening to a talk show within the last couple of years and it came up on the show. I really miss that restaurant.

      Like

  8. Kevin June 9, 2012 at 9:17 pm #

    I have a lot of fond memories of Hong Fat on Mott street. In fact, my Aunt owned the restaurant. If you’ve ever seen a fat 12 year old working the cash register on a Saturday night, that was probably me. I’m happy that you also have good memories of the restaurant. We were all sad to see it go.

    Like

    • bmj2k June 10, 2012 at 12:14 am #

      Thanks Kevin. I miss that place a lot and I know that others do too.

      Like

    • JO CALABRETTA January 22, 2015 at 11:35 am #

      The first time I went to Hong Fat was in 1956. I worked on Canal St. & Broadway. We (about 10 of us) used to go to Chinatown on Fri. night after work. We discovered Hong Fat one night, and became HUGE FANS. After we ate, I used to order food to go…mostly spare ribs with black bean sauce to bring home. Incredibly delicious. I lived in Brooklyn. Many times, on a Sat. night, I would call in an order to be picked up. I would drive into the city (Chinatown) and pick up about 4 orders. We would have a feast. I now live in Florida. I was talking to a friend of mine (also in Florida) about great food. We were shocked to learn that we both used to go to Hong Fat. I would love to find a place here that makes the same great food. I don’t think I will. I’m trying to get the recipe for the spareribs with black bean sauce the way Hong Fat used to make it. Any suggestions?

      Like

  9. Saarah September 9, 2012 at 8:17 am #

    Reminiscing…………………………… Good stuff !

    Like

  10. Dave Collins December 25, 2012 at 12:52 pm #

    Whenever my great friend and I went to Chinatown, we always ate at Hong Fat’s! This article brought back alot of great memories!

    Like

    • bmj2k December 25, 2012 at 1:07 pm #

      Thanks Dave. It has been a lot of years but Hong Fat is still missed.

      Like

  11. Scxott March 21, 2013 at 12:17 pm #

    Great Story. I used to go with my friends to Hong Fat all hours of the night. Wee also knew most of the waiters. My friend Rob had gone there one night (or early morning) and John Lennon and Yoko Ono were there. I missed that one. Do you remember the address of Hong Fat?

    Like

    • bmj2k March 21, 2013 at 12:42 pm #

      That would have been amazing to see John and Yoko. Just by a total coincidence, my brother was in a very well known Japanese restaurant earlier this week and saw Yoko too.

      As for the address, I only recall Mott Street but I may have something with its address laying around somewhere. I’ll check. Thanks for the story.

      Like

  12. markpine April 30, 2013 at 10:55 am #

    When I was a student at Columbia in the mid-1960s, Hong Fat was THE place to go eat Chinese food, especially on weekends. It was easy to get to on the subway, it got us away from the campus, and it was cheap! Now and then, like when there was a long wait at Hong Fat’s my classmates and I would try other restaurants, but for us, no other was as satisfactory.

    Like

    • bmj2k April 30, 2013 at 1:38 pm #

      A few years back I was listening to a local call-in radio show and what did someone call into talk about? Hong Fat. New York lost a legend when it shut down.

      Like

  13. Rich May 20, 2013 at 7:07 pm #

    I have the same feelings about Hong Fat . And the same thing happened with the waiter seeing him at wo hop and also at 69 on bayard street with one dollar bills as wall paper .Hong fat had the best dumplings steamed or fried !

    Like

    • Jeffrey R. Ingber June 16, 2018 at 10:49 pm #

      The restaurant in question here is Hong Wah. This took place in the 1960’s.

      ales of Old Chinatown (II)

      Not long ago, I watched a production of Ionesco’s play, ‘The Bald Soprano’ on Youtube. This is a classic example of the ‘Theater of the Absurd’. Here are a few characteristic lines taken from the opening scene.

      [Mr & Mrs Smith are discussing the death of Bobby Watson]:

      MR. SMITH: He was the handsomest corpse in Great Britain. He didn’t look his age. Poor Bobby, he’d been dead for four years and he was still warm. A veritable living corpse. And how cheerful he was!

      MRS. SMITH: Poor Bobby.

      MR. SMITH: Which poor Bobby do you mean?

      MRS. SMITH: It is his wife that I mean. She is called Bobby too, Bobby Watson. Since they both had the same name, you could never tell one from the other when you saw them together. It was only after his death that you could really tell which was which. And there are still people today who confuse her with the deceased and offer their condolences to him. Do you know her?

      *Now this is certainly quite funny – and it gets funnier as yet a few additional Bobby Watsons come into play as the scene continues. However, I would not trade the absurdity quotient in this scene, high as it is, for the even higher absurdity quotiant regarding an experience that I had in Chinatown many years ago. It was in a restaurant called Hong Wah, one of many in Chinatown, specializing in characteristically greasy, inexpensive – but highly valued and delicious dishes. In fact this is the very restaurant I was seeking in the memorable 2:00 am Mott Street procession mentioned in a previous post (SEE ’Tales of Old Chinatown I’).

      I was sitting at a table, enjoying a typically greasy but delicious Cantonese noodle dish when something caught my attention. Much to my astonishment, I observed what appeared to be an argument going on between one of the waiters and a diner. The diner appeared to be of college age and he was accompanied by a young woman. The argument soon became quite vociferous and rancorous. The issue in question appeared to be in regard to an order of duck lo mein. My attention was fraught indeed, not merely because of the extraordinary and unprecedented sight of witnessing an argument in a Chinatown restaurant, but because the argument seemed to be about an order of duck lo mein. This was a dish I myself had eaten on many occasions, and without any arguments I might add. After listening for a few moments, I concluded that here was a spectacle that would remain memorable for many years to come. The dialog proceeded roughly along the following lines:

      Diner: ‘I’m sorry but I don’t believe that the ratio of duck to noodle content observable on this plate warrants the sort of price that you apparently expect me to pay.’

      Waiter: ‘What you say? What you mean? What? What…?

      Diner: ‘After all, one observes the merest occasional and fleeting presence of shreds which I suppose may or may not have come from a duck.’

      Waiter: ‘What? What? This duck lo mein, duck lo mein.’

      Diner: ‘I simply refuse to accept this dish. Furthermore—‘

      Waiter: ‘You not gonna pay? Not gonna pay for the duck lo mein? You not gonna pay?’

      Diner: ‘No. I certainly will not.’

      Whereupon the waiter, having meticulously informed his superior about the proceedings (I assume meticulously as the dialogue was expressed in a torrent of Chinese), then proceeded to take the extraordinary and, I imagine, quite historic step of locking the door of the restaurant. Presumably the diner was regarded as a ‘flight risk.’ One might question the nature of the risk as the dish in question came in at the cost of $1.25.

      The restaurant was, as we would now say, ‘locked down.’ I don’t remember what we said back in the medieval days of the 1960s. Probably what we said then was: ‘Jesus, they just locked the f***ing restaurant.’ More was to come.

      Naturally, when a crime is sufficiently heinous to induce the locking of a door in order to prevent the criminal from fleeing, the next appropriate step would be to call the police. A policeman arrived in due course. He appeared to have been sent by central casting agency, perhaps of the 1930s or ’40s vintage. He was a burly, Irish looking individual. However, uncharicteriscally, he was not filled with swagger and bravado. Just the reverse in fact. He looked quite unhappy as he walked into the restaurant, perhaps correctly sensing that nothing good was going to come out this; his unhappiness was to increase.

      As my dinner was finished and happily, an armed policeman present, the door was unlocked and patrons were free to exit. As I payed the bill, I observed the following unforgettable tableau:

      One waiter, apparently frothing at the mouth with rage (’… is a duck lo mein, a duck lo mein’); a patron, still carefully trying to parse out the merits of his case (‘clearly, whether or not you calculate the purported duck in ounces or grams, if you will – and I do mean ‘purported’ duck in it’s unacceptable ratio to noodle content… ‘); and one policeman, looking more and more unhappy, scratching his head in a classic Screwball Comedy mode.

      I would have been willing to spend alot more than $1.25 for the privilege of being part of this memorable dining experience.

      Like

  14. Tina Sokol October 25, 2018 at 2:40 pm #

    Hong Fats — Wow, we would go there after a long night working and drinking. It really was a go to place in China Town back in the late 60.s early 70’s. Not expensive, tolerant of us “hippies”. Great memories — thank you.

    Liked by 1 person

    • bmj2k October 25, 2018 at 3:39 pm #

      You’re welcome. Glad you enjoyed it and it brought back some good memories.

      Like

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