The Kitchen(ˈkiCHən) Network(ˈnetˌwərk)

The Kitchen(ˈkiCHən) Network(ˈnetˌwərk)

America’s(əˈmerikə) underground Chinese restaurant(ˈrest(ə)rənt,ˈrestəˌränt,ˈresˌtränt) workers.

By Lauren Hilgers

In a strip(strip) mall(môl) on a rural(ˈro͝orəl) stretch(streCH) of Maryland’s(ˈmerələnd) Indian(ˈindēən) Head Highway, a gaudy(ˈgôdē) red façade(fəˈsäd) shaped like a pagoda(pəˈgōdə) distinguishes(disˈtiNGgwiSH) a Chinese restaurant from a line of bland storefronts(ˈstôrˌfrənt): a nail(nāl) salon(saˈlôN,səˈlän), a liquor(ˈlikər) store, and a laundromat(e). On a mild(mīld) Friday(-dē,ˈfrīdā) morning this July(jo͝oˈlī), two customers walked into the dimly(dim) lit(lit) dining(dīn) room. It was half an hour before the lunch(lənCH) service began, and, aside from a few fish swimming listlessly(ˈlis(t)lis) in a tank(taNGk), the room was deserted(dəˈzərtid).

In the back, steam(stēm) was just starting to rise(rīz) from pots(pät) of soup(so͞op); two cooks were chopping(CHäp) ginger(ˈjinjər) at a frenzied(ˈfrenzēd) pace. Most of the lunch crowd(kroud) comes in for the buffet(bəˈfā,ˈbəfit), and it was nowhere near ready. “Customers are here already!” the restaurant’s owner, a wiry(ˈwī(ə)rē) Chinese(-ˈnēs,CHīˈnēz) man in his fifties(ˈfiftē), barked. He dropped a heavy(ˈhevē) container onto the metal(ˈmetl) counter with a crash(kraSH). “How can you possibly(ˈpäsəblē) be moving this slowly?”

The senior(ˈsēnyər) cook, a lanky(ˈlaNGkē) twenty-nine-year-old who goes by Rain(rān), had been working in Maryland for almost two months. He stood silently(ˈsīlənt) frying(frī) noodles in a wok(wäk), his loose(lo͞os) bangs(baNG) tucked(tək) into a trucker(ˈtrəkər) hat with the band name Linkin Park written across the brow(brou). “You’re too slow!” the boss yelled(yel) at the other cook, who had arrived only a few days earlier. Rain stayed focussed on the buffet dishes. He was weighing(wā) the possibility of getting a cigarette(ˈsigəˌret,ˌsigəˈret) break(brāk) soon. There was no sense(sens) in getting into trouble defending(diˈfend) a co-worker he hardly knew.

Rain was born in a village(ˈvilij) in rural China(ˈCHīnə). He had left his family, walked through a desert(diˈzərt,dəˈzərt,ˈdezərt), and gone tens of thousands of dollars into debt(det) to reach the United States. From Manhattan(manˈhatn,mən-), he had taken a late-night Chinatown bus, which stopped at freeway off-ramps(ramp) to discharge other restaurant workers, whose bosses picked them up and took them to strip malls along Interstate(ˈintərˌstāt) 95. He was in his fourth year of restaurant work and felt a growing pride(prīd) in his fried(frīd) noodles and sautéed(sôˈtā,sō-) shrimp(SHrimp).

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2014/10/13/cookas-tale