Being bachelors, Joe—my boss—would regularly take me out for late-night supper. Calgary, being a sleepy town, only had one place serving food at that hour: Chinatown. The only restaurant open until 4 a.m. was the Golden Inn. Joe, a real estate mogul worth hundreds of millions, was renowned for his drinking. I couldn’t understand why the first thing he always asked for was pots of “foaming tea”. Along with the ancient, cracked, discoloured china teapot came two matching, tiny cups. On our first night out, he offered me one. I couldn’t understand why the tea was cold—perhaps a house tradition. The tea was topped with foam. I drank it anyway and nearly sprayed it all over Joe. The “foaming tea” was beer. In those days, no Chinese restaurant held a licence to serve alcohol. “Foaming tea” was strictly reserved for certain habitués of the establishment.
How does a boring, cross-eyed accountant become friends with a swashbuckling, all-in-on-property-gambles kind of man?
The previous summer, I’d been invited to a barbecue at Joe’s summer cottage on Chestermere Lake. I didn’t own a car. Joe and his girlfriend “Diamond Lil” gave me a lift. Lil was also renowned—not for real estate, but as a chain-smoker and chronic gambler. When we arrived at the deck overlooking the lake, she asked, “Schlemiel, do you play backgammon? Let me show you.” She wouldn’t let me budge from the picnic table. She was a real Catch-22. If she won, she’d play through the night, fortified with spliffs. If she lost, she’d play into the next day until she’d won her money back. Despite winning over $500 from me that day, Lil continued to insist I was the better player.
That $500 became my entrée to more important sessions with Joe in the office. Daily, at ten in the morning, I was summoned from my back, windowless office in the penthouse suite of Dorchester Tower to Joe’s office. There, he sat among his cronies and partners—Joe had 83 joint ventures running at once—playing backgammon. The sessions would last until noon, when they’d all vanish for lunch and I’d return to my accounting.
Normally, I was never privy to the deals Joe made, often scribbled on the backs of envelopes. I’d spend weeks or months compiling information and chasing legal documents of intent. No longer.
During our morning sessions, we played the chouette or captain forms of backgammon, which involved up to six players. As they sipped Glenfiddich and smoked Cohibas (I remained a teetotaller and non-smoker), the boys would talk shop—Calgary’s booming, ever-gazumping property market. The partners would discuss all their deals and the progress of each project. The maximum anyone could lose in a day was $10. Like the advert: backgammon bet—$10. Information gained—priceless.
When I married, Laura gave birth to two sons within twenty-one months of each other. I instilled in the boys a love for every board game I could, including backgammon and mahjong, hoping it would gain them entry the way it had for me.
One winter, we spent Christmas in New York. Late one afternoon, we stumbled into Chinatown. Having eaten nothing since early morning, and doing our best to dodge the bitter, relentless wind, we escaped into the Chinese Fortune Restaurant.
A powerful aroma of strong vinegar and burnt garlic hit us. The room was no bigger than a cubbyhole. Each small, round table was overcrowded with chairs. A waiter in a stained, yellowing white apron ushered us to a table already half-occupied by other diners. A serving hatch linked the smoky, steaming-hot kitchen to the customers.
I could barely wedge myself into my seat without nudging my neighbour. Our Chinese dining companions spoke in shrill Cantonese, eyeing us. The constant clatter of plates—sounding as though being flung to the floor—competed with the loud screeching between the waiter, who kept nipping outside to smoke, and his petulant customers.
The waiter dumped a battered, cracked ancient teapot and four tiny chipped china cups. I peered inside. No foam. No menu either—just Chinese characters scrawled on a whiteboard, presumably listing that day’s dishes. Each item was priced at $10. The waiter didn’t speak a word of English. Choosing food was like playing the lottery.
Minutes later our food arrived. A plate of tripe and bok choy in garlic sauce, which Laura devoured. The boys gobbled up sizzling rice with all kinds of meat and vegetables, while I contentedly savoured sweet eggplant stuffed with large prawns.
In one corner, several elderly Chinese men were playing mahjong. As soon as he’d gobbled down his food, Chris asked if he could join them. Alex leapt out of his chair to follow. I had no choice but to dash after them, trying to stop them disturbing the players.
As I rose from the table, Laura poured out some tea and beckoned me back. Forced to sit, I watched with trepidation as the boys were welcomed into the game.
