How I Almost Died in the Chungking Mansions (Part 1)

First, let me start off this random blog post that I’m writing at exactly 4:14AM by saying I am residually faded right now from my shift at Yardbird and I got my glasses over my contact lenses just so I can see the words I’m typing. Do you ever go through your Instagram story archives when you’re bored and get lowkey emotional taking a trip down memory lane, well that’s where I’m at now. I’m gonna take you back to when I was in my early 20s, (I think it was 2018) when I didn’t get 2-day hangovers that give me existential crises and I could still change my fitted sheets without slipping my disk. This is the story of why I don’t drink in the Chungking Mansions anymore. 

It was a random weekend day and I was still running the bar at Ozu; I believe it was summer time because I’m pretty sure I wasn’t in the back of a police car in a jacket, that wouldn’t have been very ergonomic and I would have remembered the discomfort. This is called foreshadowing. So if you haven’t heard of Ozu, it was a bar on Hollywood Road in Hong Kong - I’m about to flex real heavy here - and we managed to last 7 or 8 years in a cursed location and I can say, with 100% confidence, that we were responsible for the closure of many, if not all, venues around us at the time. We was running shit. Ask about us cuz muthafuckas know. We were so lit that we ruined alcohol for people - we used to give triple gin tonics in a pint glass and only charge $108HKD and everybody was saying how they can’t drink anywhere else cuz their tolerance got built up too high. Me and Manny (our General Manager) used to take walks around the whole Central when it got boring and literally scoop familiar faces from other bars like “yo what you doin’ in this lil’ offbrand place, pull up”, while their GM watched hatefully yet helplessly, and pack the whole bitch out in an hour. We were so dope that we didn’t even have a demographic - our regulars could be the elderly bitching about how their son 34 but still won’t leave home, college kids who would pay $1500 for a gram of coke, bankers who don’t even like drinking Old Fashioneds but do it anyway because it’s part of the douchebag starter kit, gangsters who would openly sell to said college kids in front of us and tip us $500, shareholders who owned 5% but acted like they owned the whole venue, depressed moms who only drank Sauvignon Blanc, it really didn’t matter - if you were nice to us, we were nice to you. Other venues hated us and we basked in that shit like an Asian dad with three kids and all three of them were doctors. The word “Ozu” is a play on the word “O/王” in Japanese which means “king”, and the “zu” was a play on the plural form of the word, like an “s”; so basically Ozu meant the kings. And we were the kings of Hollywood Road. To this fucking day. 

Ok flexing is over. But if you ever been there, then you felt every single muthafuckin word that I just said. I said all of that just to say this - if a bar can afford to give away that much alcohol, best believe we drinking just as much to match that. LOL what ENT bill, charge that shit to the game baby. There was a point in time when both me and Manny could drink 20 - 25 shots of spirits a night just to show respect to our regulars (believe me, the amount of people we knew combined, this wasn’t hard) and still be fine and go out drinking after. We would talk shit and back that shit up like a Mack truck. We look back now and realise how dangerous that was, but then we were drinking Bacardi 151 (75.5% ABV) and mixing it with cheap Prosecco like it was nothing. Only the Bacardi wasn’t Bacardi, it was a bootleg version of it called Potter’s and it sold for $38HKD. Death is cheap, life is not.

Ok back to my story. This was just one of those days when we were up to our usual shenanigans - and by shenanigans I mean finishing at least a bottle of JD to myself before work was even over - and I don’t really remember any significant details about work. Every weekend day was more or less the same - we would get our usual wave of regulars and we’d kill our service while being siu siu faded, then we’d close up and see what’s good for the rest of the night - usually we would pull up to Frank’s and Runway (shoutout to the family) and then go somewhere in Lan Kwai. After this alcohol abuse, I would sometimes go to the late night spot to get a plate of gailan (芥籣) and pretend I was actually healthy for the day. That day was no different, but I just so happened to get a visit from two of my boys from Chungking, Frank and Robby Runner. We got a song together btw and they dope as fuck, check it out here.

Frank is a big, Colombian dude who got one piercing, one tattoo, and never stopped after, and Robby is a slim, laidback mf with the smoothest swagger from Tanzania. Fun fact, Robby freestyled half of that verse on that song “Chungking” at my house. Another fun fact, me and Frank are so close we get into heated roast sessions where I make fun of how ugly his feet are and I only learned about this when he came over to record and I had to force him to take his shoes off. I’ve told him he’s got Playstation 2 graphics feet, I’ve told him his feet don’t fit in one-size-fits-all socks, I’ve told him when God was building his feet, he had Lego on His mind, I’ve told him that in a drive-by shooting the opps would only aim at his toes, I’ve told him that he should start an OnlyFeet, I’ve said it all. My other boy, Soto, who is a boricua from Spanish Harlem, was already there at Ozu cuz he my day one and also a regular, and we all just tambay-ing throughout the night. “Chillin” for all the non-Pinoys. All of these guys are family, it goes without saying.

I close the bar and it’s the usual chat about where to go after work and Frank suggests the Chungking Mansions. If you’re from Hong Kong and you don’t know about the Mansions, then either you’re from Discovery Bay and you walked by one time and now you brag to your friends about how hood you are, or you literally live under a rock. Like literally, like Patrick Star. For those outside of Hong Kong, the Mansions is somewhat of an infamous place. A building full of immigrants, guesthouses, restaurants (both legal and illegal) catering to ethnic minorities, shops full of secondhand phones dropped in taxis, sketchy SIM cards that let you call Philippines for free, and bootleg Adidas that has 4 stripes instead of 3. Cheap drugs cut with acetone, weapons of various stab-like nature, money exchanges with better rates than the bank, you got it all. They say that a man can go into Chungking Mansions and live there for months without ever leaving it because it’s a city of its own - and it got its infamous status from the occasional murder, stabbing, kidnapping, etc. Trust, it ain’t as dangerous as the media likes to play it, actually it’s a very harmonious place that reminds me a lot of Toronto - a bunch of immigrants with a dollar and a dream, getting along and hustling to make it out here. I fucks with it heavy and Delhi Club is one of the best spots for Indian food in the city. (Shoutout Mandeep) And if you need a haircut or a new phone, in no order, holla at my boy Hussain on the 1st floor (sorry bhai can’t find your contact). AND if you need African food and vibes hit up Paul’s Kitchen on 1/F. There’s a barbershop on 1/F too that I haven’t been to yet but some of my bros go there so best believe they versatile and will keep you fresh cuz Chungking mans do NOT play when it comes to hair, I can only imagine the roast seshs that would stem from a fucked up cut.

Now, at this point in my life, I been going to the Mansions for years, either to visit Abacha who owns a hip-hop clothing store, (who was responsible for every ethnic minority kids’ throwback jerseys and fitted hats back in the day) or to escort one of my boys who was picking up or buying cheap alcohol aka Empi. (Fun fact, don’t buy Empi at Chungking it’s cheaper in Yau Ma Tei) But I never drank there afterhours and this was like.. 2:30 in the morning already. And I thought to myself yeah I’m still not even drunk, and Lan Kwai kinda dead so why not. Both Frank and Robby are in and out of Chungking so it ain’t shit to them, and all my other friends disperse except Soto and it was also his first time. So it was the 5 of us - me, Runner, Frank, Frank’s crooked ass toes that look like they’re throwing up gang signs, and Soto. I was kinda excited because I hate clubs and I done been around the bar scene already so this shit was new to me - AND I lived in TST back in the day which meant I was a 5-minute walk away from our destination. I could crawl in 10. Shit was about to get lit. 

This was before me, Runner, and Frank shot the MV for “Chungking”, and this was before I knew some of the main players in the Mansions so I was a familiar face but I wasn’t exactly known either. The 5 of us pull up in a taxi and the vibe of the Mansions at night is different - especially since this was before COVID. For once there are no hawkers slash drug dealers openly offering you custom suits and meth at the same time. Like bro, how do you sell success and failure at the same time as a package deal? I’m kinda interested lowkey. Brown mans are the best salesman in the world, you can’t tell me shit. Anyway it was literally just a bunch of Pakistani goons on the steps smoking hash, totally ignoring and being ignored by the police car outside. But it’s whatever, we’re used to shit like that and we walk past and go inside. We go up to 1/F where I am immediately introduced to a man I’ll call Fred, who seems to be the dailo of the place; tall, friendly African man (sorry don’t remember which part of Africa he was from) with glasses who was very hospitable and it’s a bunch of the Chungking goons on plastic chairs and tables drinking everything under the sun, vibing to shit like Vybz Kartel and Shatta Wale. And everything is dirt cheap - I think it was $100 HKD for 20 Heinekens and I made decent tips that night so I said fuck it and bought mad rounds for everybody. The shit was LIT. I was having so much fun I said fuck Lan Kwai I’m pullin’ up here every time. I’m meeting some of these new guys and the connection is crazy - started talking about mutual friends in HK, about how some of ‘em having relatives back in Toronto, some of them even remembered me from when I was a kid when Abacha had his store in Mirador Mansions. I’m eating jollof rice off Frank’s plate while his feet are living its best life, Runner is just coolin’ being the cool Tanzanian mf that he is, Soto doing his Harlem thing and his accent is thicker than Cam’Ron at this point fully playing the NY card (love you bro), it’s vibes to the power of 100. What could go wrong?

LOOOOL. 

Airport Jail to 7-Day Quarantine (Part 1)

So let me start off this impulse-driven blog by saying this; I’ve always been quite a private person and the last thing I like to talk about is myself. Not tryna be “mysterious” like The Weeknd when he first dropped House of Balloons and nobody knew what he looked like because he didn’t do any interviews, but I just never liked my business being out there for these online wastemans with buttsweat stains on their office chair to chat shit about. And it’s scary to think that everything on the Internet never dies like cockroach bloodlines. But at the same time, I have always had a real passion for writing - so much so that I was offered a full-ride scholarship from York University which I turned down only to be close to my grandparents in Japan (which I don’t regret one bit). And as some of you may know, I more or less write for a living whether it’s copywriting or writing raps. AND I’m currently in a government-mandated 7-day quarantine at Best Western and what else is there to do but push-ups, overthinking, and creative writing. So yeah… welcome to my blog? LOL yuck.

I don’t really know how to preface this because it’s gonna have no format whatsoever and it’s gonna be typed like I talk; best believe I have perfect grammar and spelling skills but they may not exist here. Fuck it, I paid $160USD for this Squarespace subscription and domain so Im’a do what I want. I’m gonna drop a sick yakisoba recipe in the middle of a political rant. I’m gonna make a list of top 10 things bartenders hate and then drop a haiku. And nobody can tell me shit about it. This post is gonna be a cross between my whole ordeal getting back into Hong Kong and a hotel review on Best Western Sai Ying Pun with all the fuckery in between. I broke it up into two parts because I’m not even sure people are gonna read this and I have a 10PM with YouTube cooking tutorials later anyway.

THIS MF ALREADY LET ME OUT THE CITY. Okay let’s begin there. According to Carrie, COVID only came out to wreak havoc after 6PM which meant evening dine-in and drinking was non-existent and legitimately illegal in the city of Hong Kong. To a bartender who literally makes a living off of nights, this is equivalent to Kim Kardashian never dropping a sex tape. So despite the ridiculous flight prices, the jail that you pay for on top of your taxes aka the quarantine hotel, the stacks of paperwork necessary to file for my Japanese visa, (yes, on paper I am a total foreigner from Canada) not to mention the literal 24 hour transit time, I decided to go see my mom and grandma in Japan after 2 and a half years. After much anxiety and extortion-price printer ink wasted, I was finally let out the city and I safely made it to Japan and I had a tearful, movie-like reunion with my mom at the airport. Let me repeat - I WAS FINALLY LET OUT THE CITY AND I SAFELY MADE IT TO JAPAN. 

Okay, skip my Japan trip here but just know I ate a lot of コロッケ (Japanese croquettes, google it) in various flavours such as edamame, beef curry, etc., made my grandma laugh til she cried (nobody in my family is funny.. honestly between us, they won when I was born) and had double-digit panic attacks in those crowded-ass trains. I felt like a frog in the bag of frogs at the wet market in Mong Kok. Anyway yeah. 

I reach Hong Kong AFTER BEING LET OUT THE CITY ALREADY. There’s like 10 or so COVID checkpoints and I manage to get through all of them - I was paranoid I caught Omarion a second time because on the flight my throat felt a bit itchy but all good, I pass the PCR test after getting nose-fucked by a part-time meth cook in a blue hazmat suit. I’m getting to immigration to pick up my luggage that has a 24-pack of Yebisu beer in it for the kitchen staff at Yardbird because Japanese people always bring back omiyage and I take out my HKID. Lightwork baby, I’m from this city, fuck that long-ass visitors line. Tata.

Now if you’re from HK you have two options; you can use the sick likkle automated gate ting where you slide your ID card in, scan your fingerprint then be let out into baggage claim. Back when tourism was still rampant, we used to flex on all the foreigners with that and give them a real cocky look like, “Oh, your prehistoric city doesn’t have this does it?” then skrt past their long line on some 007 shit. Or you can hand over your ID card to the immigration mans who always has a fresh fade for some reason. My ID card is cracked because one time at my friend Radha’s birthday my Filipino youngin’ Sypaul was doing mad backflips and all of us got so hyped that I threw my wallet and it did siu siu damage to my cards but that’s another story. So I go up to the counter and hand him my ID. 

He processes it and everything is fine and I’m thinking about the traffic fuckery that I’m about to experience because it’s 5:00PM, just in time for rush hour traffic at the Cross Harbour Tunnel (the cheapest tunnel to cross the harbour in Hong Kong). Then he makes a face like this mf just saw y=mx+b printed on my ID card. I still don’t think nothing of it though, because despite my hand tattoos, at the end of the day, I like cats and I cried in Toy Story 3 and I don’t have shit to be worried about. I mean what’s more wholesome than fighting all odds just go to see your mom and grandma right?

Now this mf with an unnecessarily fresh fade keeps looking at my ID like it has the Pythagorean Theorem printed on it and starts writing on a green piece of paper. Now, I got anxiety so I’m thinking, shit…. am I about to get arrested for parallel importing the beer? Is that even a thing? What do I tell my friends if I go down for such a weak ass charge? I’m praying that the immigration team likes Japanese beer at this point because as much as I love the kitchen staff at Yardbird, I’m not about to go to war with these immigration officers and they somehow plant a brick of heroin in my fannypack. I don’t even own a fannypack. 

Minutes feel like hours and he making mad phone calls like he in the trader’s office in The Wolf of Wall Street. Several other unnecessarily fresh faded mfs come by and from the bits of Canto that I do understand, there is definitely a problem and it ain’t the fact that all of ‘em parted their hair in the same spot If you Google “cut from the same cloth”, these mfs gonna show up somewhere on page 11. I get pulled out of line, right in front of these adorable Japanese babies who I kept waving to on the flight; now all those waves were for nothing because their parents DEFINITELY think I’m a hand-tattooed criminal if they didn’t already. I could almost hear them whisper “I knew he was Yakuza, must be chinpira though since he got his hands tattooed.” I’m sat right where people enter baggage claim so literally all the babies that were on the plane have to see me sitting there next to a new immigration officer, looking mad shiesty like “look child, stay in school or you’ll end up like him.” SMH way to fit a stereotype. I had a scholarship to every school in Toronto ho.

This new immigration officer is looking at my ID like it’s losing Mark Six numbers and finally I get escorted past a bunch of gates into an area that I never been before in the airport and now I’m in some customs office. I’m pretty sure this is where they bring mules who just got busted with liquidised meth in Grey Goose bottles and here I am, my amateur ass still thinking I’m getting busted for a 24-pack of beer. Now this new immigration officer is looking at my ID like it’s got his taxes written on them and he’s definitely getting overcharged. I’m sat next to a photocopier and this new mf - no fade tho - is printing mad documents - MY documents - but won’t tell me what the fuck is going on. I mean, if you’re gonna photocopy a man’s visage several times I think it’s right to tell him what for. I’m here for an hour and I’m actually chillin’ though; I don’t have shit to be worried about and yay I’m ducking the rush hour. 

Then the police show up. And you know how they walk; like there’s an explosion behind them on a movie set and the director told them “Ayo, walk like a badmon, still”. 3 of them, and I’m gonna name them - Ed, Edd, and Eddy. Nah I’m playing, that’s too confusing without visual aids so I’ll call them Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Hermione is a dude btw. NOW I’m shook because the sight of police gives me PTSD (more on that, one day maybe) and the room ain’t big and I’m claustrophobic. Harry asks me in Cantonese if I know why I’m here and I said, honestly, no, not really, and then he says “You’re wanted.” NOW I know exactly what he’s talking about.