Chushi: Chow Kit Chronicles, #4

By Leon Wing

East meets West at a New Year party.

 

New kopitiam chef Lee Law Ree or Lawrie is introduced by his employer Mrs Wong to her nephew from San Francisco, Brody, a veritable Greek god born of a union between a Chinese father and a Greek American. Their lust thrums as they set eyes on each other.

 

Lawrie desires more than just dalliance. Will his prayers to his deities be answered? Or will he have to surrender Brody to a Malaysian girl Mrs Wong attempts to matchmake him with?

• Language: English
• Publisher: WingWorldWeb
• Release date: Sep 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201412630

Leon Wing

Leon Wing's poems can be found in PoetryPoem, Readings from Readings 2, The Malaysian Poetic Chronicles, Eksentrika, Rambutan Literary, and Haikuniverse. A poem about the Syrian migration to Europe is featured in the Fixi anthology Little Basket 2017. He occasionally takes some poem apart and puts it back together, on the poetry blog puisipoesy.blogspot.com.   He has short stories published in Eksentrika, Queer Southeast Asia and the Canadian Asian literary magazine Ricepaper, and in anthologies like PJ Confidential and Remang, a collection of Malaysian ghost stories.

Book preview

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Image on cover by Rc Cf on Unsplash

About the Book

East meets West at a New Year party.

New kopitiam chef Lee Law Ree or Lawrie is introduced by his employer Mrs Wong to her nephew from San Francisco, Brody, a veritable Greek god born of a union between a Chinese father and a Greek American. Their lust thrums as they set eyes on each other. 

Lawrie desires more than just dalliance. Will his prayers to his deities be answered? Or will he have to surrender Brody to a Malaysian girl Mrs Wong attempts to matchmake him with?

Chapter 1

Lee Law Ree—or Lawrie , as most people in the room will have started calling him—keeps to himself. He balances his mug of beer against his stomach. He cares less that damp seeps through half of his new shirt, causing him to shiver. And the air condition is not helping.

After he came in, someone he didn’t know handed him the mug. He prefers a bottle; he likes holding it by the neck: The cold of the glass numbs his fingers; the beer could have been taken straight out of the fridge. But he cannot be fussy as a guest. So, grasping the mug, thankful it was still cold, he wend between his neighbors and people he has never set eyes on before, and found a corner with no pictures hanging, or no chairs or furniture to make leaning on the wall impossible.

He sips his drink and watches people chatting. Most of them are laughing, the females giggling, the men rougher and louder. It is the second day of the Chinese New Year after all. His landlady invited him, together with other tenants.

They live one floor above her kopitiam, a high class eatery, with special fusion menu. East meets west. Spaghetti instead of mee for the laksa. He is the newest addition to the staff. He arrived a couple of months ago, and works downstairs as one of the new cooks. Mrs Wong placed an advertisement in the Star after her last cook had vanished without reason. During the interview she told him nothing further than that, but later, after a few days getting used to the kitchen and the staff, he learned the man apparently was an inveterate gambler. He accumulated mounting debts, and his job did not pay well enough to keep him from trouble. Rumors were he had to get out of Kuala Lumpur when the casino thugs came calling to collect. The waiters said he vamoosed back to his hometown, up in the sticks, somewhere in the north, in Kedah.

Mrs Wong is striding towards him. She is balancing a tray of tidbits (he didn’t make them for her as her chef; she most likely bought them, as most people do these days, ready-made, shop-bought). By her heels, strolling alongside, is a young man. He looks tall. And big. And he walks with a slight roll at the heels. Like a cowboy. The cloth at his shoulders stretches every time he rolls forward. Like a rugby player. Those arms are rounded with muscles. As are the thighs, stretching the trousers. As they come close, Lawrie sees he doesn’t look Chinese. But Lawrie is sure he can detect a smidgen of it in his flattish nose. But not the eyes. As they get closer still, and the man is looking directly at him, Lawrie finds himself staring back at a pair of green eyes. He feels a burgeoning below the hand around his mug.

He turns to look at Mrs Wong when she says his name. She looks up at the tall man. This is my nephew. Brody, from San Francisco. She repeats the name of the city in Cantonese, ‘tong san’, and it translates to Sugar Mountain. She makes a face and says she regrets not joining her brother when he decided to study in the US in the 70s. Anyway, she wasn’t as clever as him. And now he has married a mat salleh (Brody grins and frowns without offense at his diminutive old aunt) and look what he made there, a big handsome young man. She adds, With a degree some more. Like father like son.

Brody demurs. ‘Not exactly like him. He had a degree in mathematics. And I merely an English degree. Still living at home with parents. How does one compete for jobs with so many English degree holders? He tries to laugh, but Lawrie is aware of a slight downturn of the lips.

Mrs Wong touches Lawrie’s shoulder and says, Our chef here, Lawrie has a diploma in catering, you know.

Lawrie grips