On the first of every month, excluding holidays, both American and Chinese holidays, a new "class" would be brought in by van. The sisters would be brought in the first load, and so in the second, the brothers. (One good thing about my job was I never worked on either an American or Chinese holiday. Never on Sunday either.) It was rather comical because the van was a beat up old Chevy with no seats in the back. I would have laughed to see the sisters and brothers scrambling out of the back of the van if I was not so busy.
Chongan would be cooking the welcome feast. His wife would be laying out cakes and setting up for the welcome tea. I would be busily preparing the ingredients for another one of Chongan's masterful meals. The guests would be filing past him and me in the kitchen because everyone was brought in the back door. With Chongan concentrating on his wok, in his white cook's shirt and cap, and his grey ponytail hanging out the back, I think most of the students did not recognize him at first. Not until they were all seated would he don his kimono and present and introduce himself and his wife.
"Welcome to zenkitchen. I am pleased to meet you and to introduce my wife Chrysanthemum. She has lain out the cakes for you today, and is preparing the welcome tea. Please eat and be welcome."
Like clockwork, Chu Hua (Chrysanthemum) brings in the tea, serving while her husband mingles and the guests acquaint themselves with each other a little bit. Next I begin serving the meal.
If the guests came here for a weight loss plan it was in vain because Chongan's cooking was anything except low cal. But to be sure, he never touched meat. Chongan served plenty of vegetables, but never meat. Because, he says, he was "at peace with all beings," unable to bring any harm to any animals of our earth. Sometimes there was milk in the zenkitchen, usually for a tea late at night, because it was "a gift from the sacred animal." Nor was there any alcohol, it was strictly forbidden.
My job was to help Chongan in the zenkitchen, wash dishes, and mop the floor. Did I mention I was not paid much? Seeking knowledge, I trekked to California solely for the opportunity of working in the kitchen with Chongan, due to my disqualification from entering the Zen monastery. Mainly being given a small room in the back to live in, which was the office of the former bar and grill. Just big enough for a futon to sleep on, an old desk and chair and a dresser for what few belongings I brought along. A true treasure remained, a built-in fm stereo and turntable with a collection of California rock, apparently left behind by the former owner. For hours after work, I would listen to the records and, seemingly unbeknownst to Chongan, drink grape wine and smoke cigarettes and hang out with Carlos, the driver of the van.