Detroit’s Chinatown and Gayborhood Felt Like Two Separate Worlds. Then They Collided

Though we were past our posted closing time of 11 p.m., the dinner was still going strong. Dad, the consummate host and waiter, dressed in his red uniform, would never kick diners out, no matter how long they took to finish that last bite.

The gathering was actually serious business. A mini crime wave had hit the Chinese restaurants in our area. Owners were being held at gunpoint and robbed of all their day’s cash. Leaders from the tong’s more established chapters around the country had been streaming into town to make sure my grandpa and his friends had things under control. The long faces of our guests suggested they had their doubts.

Close to midnight, as the old Chinese men kvetched and plotted, four young white men dressed in tight T-shirts and even tighter jeans tapped at our big glass window. Surprised to see our lights still on, their faces broke out in smiles.

Even at age 12 my gaydar was fully operational; it was pinging like a busted car alarm. Before I could even make the case to turn the men away so we could wrap up for the night without any awkward clashes, my dad opened the door and issued his signature hearty greeting: “Welcome to Chung’s!”

The new arrivals sat down and scanned our menu, but they kept leaning over and staring at the foods spinning on the lazy Susan at my grandpa’s table. My dad explained that those dishes weren’t on the menu—and as the restaurant was technically closed, the cooks would only be able to make something quick and easy. The men accepted the restrictions with grace. Our cooks whipped up a few of our most popular dishes: savory plates of shrimp fried rice and chicken chop suey. As usual, the staff made a little extra for us kids, along with plates for my grandpa and his guests.

But when my dad, the super host, went to serve the quartet, he surprised them. “It turns out we had a little extra,” he said, setting down free samples of the off-menu dishes.

Peering over from the back table, by the coatrack and high chairs, I felt super nervous. Even as an American-born Chinese kid, I didn’t like some of those pungent dishes. How would these white guys respond?

With cautious forks and spoons in hand, they looked around their party, wondering who would make the first move. The guy with the tank top and biceps who seemed to be the leader nodded before conducting a quick smell-and-taste test.

One small nibble led to another. Soon they were scarfing everything down like Jabba the Hutt.

When my dad went to clear their plates, they joked, “Where can we get these recipes?”

My dad winked. “I guess you’ll just have to come again.”

As the young men headed out, laughing, they swung by the table of old Chinese men. The gay guys prattled on about how much they liked these new and unfamiliar dishes, pointing at their favorite entrées on the table. And the old guys smiled.