20 Minutes at Chef Chu's

It was 1990, I arrived in America on August 20th, didn't know how to drive, spoke British English that I learned in school. My mom was working as a research assistant at Stanford, and got me my first job there through some friends of hers. I started working exactly a week after I landed, as a temp clerk in the Public Affairs office in Hoover Institution. Less than four months later, on December 10th, I drove my mom to San Francisco International Airport to pick up my brother. After five years of separation my family finally reunited. My dad had filed for divorce the previous year. The pressing concern was to find a job for my brother. My mom's contract was ending in couple of months, and there was no way we could afford our apartment on my $7 an hour clerk's wage. My brother didn't know how to drive and didn't speak much English, but he's always been a foodie, so a Chinese restaurant (preferably nearby) became the best choice. One Friday night in January, a friend of mine from college came through town and took me out to dinner at Chef Chu's in Los Altos, couple miles from where we lived. On the way out, I spotted the owner, Lawrence Chu. Me being young and cute, all dressed up, high heels, full make up, long hair hanging down my back (think the image when my beloved first met me), so I asked Mr. Chu if he'd consider hiring me. He took one look, said, “Sure, I’ll let you work the front desk.”, and asked me to come back Saturday evening to start training. "Oh by the way, don't need to dress up on your first day, we start new people in the kitchen." Next day I showed up, in jeans, with my brother in tow -- I never intended to work there myself, merely a way to get him into the place. I was taken to the kitchen, where a middle aged woman showed me to a pile of fried chicken pieces. "4 in a bag, like this" into little wax paper bags, and put them in a tray. Easy enough, I started stuffing the bags, 1, 2, 3, 4, line them up in the tray, 1, 2, 3, 4. Half way through the pile of chicken, the woman showed up again, "don't line up, like this" -- she threw pieces of chicken in a bag, and pushed the bags into a big pile. As soon as the last piece of chicken was in a bag, I ran and found my brother, "hey, looks like you are working here, see you at home!" My brother went on to become a chef in the valley Chinese restaurant scene, worked in a few half way decent places, including China Stix in Santa Clara; and no one ever bothered to pay me the 20 minutes of work.