Eat a Bowl of Tea. Louis Chu

at the Money Come, Lee Gong had often spoken out against early marriages and dependence upon the support of the parents. While he had expected Jung Shee to keep harping at him to search for a husband for Mei Oi from the Golden Mountain, he had paid little attention to these letters until yesterday, when he saw the young man whom he suspected was Wah Gay’s son.

      “How many years has he got?” he pursued in earnest.

      “This year he is twenty-four.”

      “A very commendable boy.”

      Wah Gay was not born yesterday. The moment Lee Gong mentioned Ben Loy he knew what his old friend had in mind. But he didn’t want Lee Gong to know that he knew. He was rather proud of his son Ben Loy. He had kept him on the straight path. Any girl would be lucky to have his son for a husband.

      “Where does your boy work?” pursued Lee Gong.

      “Ben Loy is working in Stanton, Connecticut, at the China Pagoda.”

      It was almost two o’clock now and Money Come soon had enough players to start a game of mah-jong.

      V

      The China Pagoda in Stanton had the biggest sign on Atlantic Avenue.

      Ben Loy had worked there for two years before he was inducted into the army. After his discharge from military service in 1947, he had returned to work at the China Pagoda, where his cousin, Wang Wing Sim, was manager.

      The restaurant was owned by Wang Wing Sim’s father, Wang Chuck Ting of New York, who had been president of the Wang Association for twenty consecutive years and was formerly a president of the Ping on Tong. In addition to the China Pagoda in Stanton, Mr. Wang owned the Blossoms Tea Garden at Lexington Avenue and 54th Street, the Wing Shew Herb Company on Mott Street, and the New Republic Noodle Manufacturing Company in Philadelphia. There were other businesses in which he had an interest but did not operate or control.

      Wang Chuck Ting and Ben Loy’s father, Wang Wah Gay, were born and grew up together in Sun Lung Lay village back in the old country. When Ben Loy had come to New York from his native village in 1941, when he was seventeen, his father had talked to Chuck Ting about a job for Ben Loy in his restaurant in Stanton as soon as the boy had had a year of schooling.

      “Working in a small town will be good for him,” Wah Gay had confided to Chuck Ting, who had nodded in agreement. “A big city is too full of temptations. You can never tell what will become of a young man like Ben Loy in New York.”

      For one year Ben Loy had attended P. S. 23 and lived at the Company Room on Mott Street. Then he went to work at the China Pagoda.

      Ben Loy was an only son. This fact would add to the anxiety of any Chinese father who considered it his duty to teach his son right from wrong. Moreover, Wah Gay had to do the job alone. And he was held accountable for his son’s actions to his wife, Lau Shee, ten thousand li away.

      What made the job more difficult was the fact that Wah Gay himself had not set a good example for Ben Loy to follow. The proprietor of a mah-jong shop would hardly be the type to teach the wisdom of Kung-fu-tze to the young ones. No one realized that more poignantly than Wah Gay himself. That was why he had asked Chuck Ting to give his son a job in Stanton.

      He had hinted to Ben Loy just before he left for Stanton that he should make himself scarce around the mah-jong club house. He had not said so in so many words. He had merely told him that, unless he had urgent business in Chinatown, he should stay in Stanton because the air was better out there. That was all right with Ben Loy. Although Wah Gay was an amiable man and easy to get along with, Ben Loy found it difficult to mingle socially with his father.

      In the Chinese scheme of things, father and son don’t mix. When a Chinese father and son get together, it is frequently a one-way bawling out. So Ben Loy’s philosophy was the less he saw his father, the better.

      In such a place as a mah-jong club house, where unattached men usually gathered, the discussion and the language would not be the finest. Ben Loy did not want to embarrass his father or himself. He would not visit Money Come just for the sake of dropping in.

      Day before yesterday, on his day off, Ben Loy had dropped in at the Company Room at 90 Mott Street, where the Wangs from the neighboring villages in Sunwei usually gathered on their non-working days. A few lived there. He had seen his father’s air mail letter on the wire letter rack in the Company Room and had taken the letter to his father at the club house.

      If Ben Loy had not delivered the letter to his father in the basement club house, Lee Gong might never have laid eyes on the young man. He certainly would not have been prompted to visit Stanton two days later. It was the first time he had ever set foot in Connecticut. He had not asked for the restaurant’s address from Wah Gay for fear the trip might cause embarrassment.

      Having found his way to Atlantic Avenue, he searched for some sign of a Chinese restaurant. Soon the name, China Pagoda, appeared about a block away on the top of a T-shaped sign with the word restaurant on the vertical, diffused with sunlight.

      Lee Gong’s face broke into a wide grin, like a man who had just made an important discovery. Disliking intensely the brilliant sunshine that was beating down upon the entire town of Stanton, he wasted no time in reaching the restaurant.

      The air-conditioned dining room brought a measure of relief to the visitor. Booths fanned out from the two walls, facing each other, with square white-clothed tables in the middle. Some of the booths were emptied of people but not yet of dirty dishes. A young man in a black jacket walked over from the counter near the door and greeted the newcomer with a hello.

      “It’s so hot out there I wanted to come in and cool off,” said Lee Gong. He sat down at a booth near the front of the restaurant.

      “Are you from New York?” asked the young man.

      “Yes, I came to Stanton to look for a Lao Fung,” Lee Gong lied.

      “Lao Fung? I don’t think I know of anybody by that name in Stanton.”

      “Oh, he must have moved,” said the man from New York. He picked up the menu. “Nothing important. Some eight years ago he borrowed some money from me and I thought …”

      Ben Loy came out of the kitchen carrying a tray.

      “Has that young man been working here long?” he asked, nodding toward Ben Loy, who was serving the dishes at a table along the opposite wall. “Maybe he knows Lao Fung.”

      “Who? Ben Loy? He came back from the army several months ago. He worked for us before, too.”

      Lee Gong’s hands still held the menu but he was not reading it. “I want a little something to eat,” he said. Then, changing the subject, “What is your esteemed family name?”

      “My insignificant name is Wang. Wang Wing Sim. And your esteemed name?”

      “Insignificant Lee. What is Ben Loy’s esteemed family name?” “He’s a Wang too.”

      “Your beloved cousin.”

      “Same village. Same village.” Wing Sim left for the kitchen to give Lee Gong’s order. Beef with tomatoes and one bowl of rice.

      Ben Loy crossed over and passed by Lee Gong’s table.

      “How is business, young man?” Lee Gong called out. He wondered if Ben Loy would recognize him from his brief visit to his father’s mah-jong club house.

      Ben Loy stopped abruptly and turned. Lee Gong searched the waiter’s face for a flicker of recognition. When he saw none, he felt more at ease.

      “Business is pretty good,” said Ben Loy with a trace of annoyance. He hurried into the kitchen.

      As soon as Ben Loy disappeared into the kitchen, the manager returned. “Your order will be ready in a few minutes, Mr. Lee.”

      “I just want to eat a little bit. Too early to be eating much.”

      In fact Lee Gong did not