glenfay
glenfay
The Zenkitchen Story
Because of my disqualification from entering the Zen monastery, I went to work in the kitchen, the zenkitchen. This is my story, "The Zenkitchen Story." Not in a monk's robe but in blue jeans and tennis shoes and a tee shirt, and, of course, an apron, I washed dishes in the kitchen at the monastery. It was hard work and I was not paid very much, but I gained so much knowledge, which was much more valuable than any paycheck.
The bodhisattvas who patrolled the sitting studio with sticks fascinated me the most about the Zen monastery. These Zen masters, they/them, walked around with sticks watching over the sitting sisters and brothers, sometimes striking them to wake them up, sometimes to nudge them along their way to knowledge. Seemingly, they appeared from nowhere. At all other times, for safety reasons the front door to the street was locked with a fire escape exit only. But before the sessions began, I would prop open the door. As if on queue, they would arrive. As the sisters and brothers sat facing the screens, these Zen masters with the sticks were not only present to guide those sitting in their quest for knowledge but also to safeguard them. For those who had left the studio, and their bodies, behind, they were undaunted by the blows of the sticks . . . and protected.
Amidst the urban L.A. neighborhood, the traffic, booming car stereos, sirens, even gunshots, occasionally, the Zen monastery was not what you might think of as a place of peace and knowledge. Located in an old mostly abandoned single level building of shops, "2102" (Maple), posted over the front door as the only identification, formerly was a tiny bar and grill. The physical bar was still in place, behind which was an assortment of aquariums I helped maintain as part of my job. The zenkitchen retained the setup prep station and fry station, both in top working condition, but replaced the grill with a dual wok range. Because of the licensure, the public health department occasionally inspected, always scoring a spotless rating.
The Chef Chongan, for whom I worked, was native Chinese. The head of the Zen monastery, he was the kindest and most generous human being I have ever known. He and his wife, also Chinese, resided in a small apartment next door. Their students were mostly American although many also came from China on visas. The students were lost in their sitting and studies, although always friendly to me at meals while I served them, certainly not like customers at a regular restaurant. I never really got to know any of them. The students stayed as guests usually for about a month at a time.
Adjacent on either side of the main room of the remodeled restaurant were the sleeping quarters. On the SE side was the brothers' dormitory, accessible from the main room. The other side was for the sisters. The sisters' entrance was outside the building off a narrow alley behind the kitchen. I know they had their own bath facilities while the brothers shared the old restaurant bathroom with a makeshift shower. I never entered the sisters' dorm, and even though the brothers' was accessible from the main room, it was off limits to me as well and I never went in there either. Both sides were also formerly old shops in the building incorporated by the Zen monastery. The only other occupant of the old building was a small grocery on the SE corner of the building.
What was my disqualification? I simply could not afford it. You would never know it to look at these students in their simple robes, much less to look at the exterior of the Zen monastery with its boarded windows and scrawled graffiti, but the wealth was substantial.