“Laokele” is a word in the Shanghainese dialect used to describe old gentlemen who thrive in delicacy and luxury influenced by the Western culture. Some say “laokele” came from the direct translation of the English word “old clerk”, referring to the white collars who worked at the banking district established by British colonizers in the early 1920s. Others argue that the term originated from “old carat” indicating one’s high status. My grandpa resembles many features of the “laokele.”
While most elderly men in Shanghai stand in line along the curb of narrow streets to get scallion pancakes and deep-fried dough sticks, my grandpa unremittingly travels to a cafe located under a skyscraper in Shanghai’s central business district almost every single day. The cafe is quite far away from his house, taking four metro stops and crossing one of Shanghai’s biggest crosswalks to get there.
Yet, my grandpa’s love for coffee is undeniable. It’s quite funny to see my grandpa making up clumsy and easily detectable lies at the age of 90 to cover up for his trips to the coffee shop. Whenever it rains or when the weather gets too cold, he makes sure to rush back to his room early out of the fear of getting yelled at by my mom who calls to check on him.
At the cafe, he usually orders a hot latte, but is not a fan of the looming bitterness in his drink, so adding two entire packets of brown sugar is a must. Over the years, the cafe became a regular gathering place for my grandfather and his friends. I’ve paid them a few visits, but the intensity of their conversations makes it difficult to engage. The seniors’ loud chattering overwhelms the high-pitched noise from the coffee grinder, and radiates ripples of excitement. The conversations are usually centered around how well their children are doing, particularly their wealth. While my mom has often been forcibly included in this meaningless game of comparison, my grandpa has some audacity to believe that he is a notch above the others.
This sense of pride is probably inspired by his father, who was one step ahead of others on becoming a global citizen. According to my grandpa, time and luck have always been on his dad’s side. My great-grandfather was extremely smart, skipping multiple grades when he was at school. Although he was not born into a wealthy family, a neighbor, who made a fortune working as a senior faculty for the British American Tobacco Company, noticed my great-grandfather’s intelligence. The neighbor sponsored my great-grandfather’s education at a Catholic school where he mastered the English language and developed a passion for calligraphy. These skills became essential for his work at Didi’s Enterprise, a coffee shop in the colonial concessions in Shanghai during the 1930s.
“He was the chief accountant of that coffee shop,” my grandpa said proudly. “My dad made a fortune serving under four different owners over the years.”
During my last visit to my grandpa’s house, the old man revealed bits and pieces of the legendary Didi’s Enterprise. From the nasty nicknames and gossip of the owners to the fluency of their Shanghainese, my grandpa went on and on. The ownership of the coffee shop switched back and forth between the Americans and the French — some had to sell the coffee business overnight because of gambling addictions, while others had to give up Didi’s after being drafted into the military back home. At one point Didi’s belonged to a French police officer nicknamed “hooligan” working in the French Concession.
While the ownership of the coffee shop changed like clockwork, two things at Didi’s Enterprise remained constant — its name and my great-grandfather, its loyal employee.
However, my grandpa never told me how his father found this job. Whenever I bring up this question, he avoids it by emphasizing how lucrative his dad’s job was.
“Your great-grandfather introduced slot machines to Shanghai,” he said. “We used to call those gambling machines ‘coin-eating tigers.'”
The second owner of Didi’s was an American nicknamed “bandit.” He imported the slot machines from the United States and assigned my great-grandfather, who was fluent in both Shanghainese and English, to distribute them locally. Popular dance halls, karaokes and Western diners were soon filled with the “coin-eating tiger.” People rushed to gamble their luck as the wheels spun with vibrant, flashing symbols. A few might have gotten to bask in the golden glow of their good fortune, but, according to my grandpa, the two people kissed by the god of wealth were always the “bandit” and my great-grandfather.
At one point, I thought the opulence of my great-grandfather’s legacy was unscrutinized by the eye of verification, especially when part of his story is intentionally cut off by my grandpa. However, the narrative’s discontinuity started to make sense when my mom gave me a different perspective.
After graduating from Catholic school, my great-grandfather started off as an office employee at a soap company and as a taxi telephone operator at night. When the foreign invasions intensified in the early 1930s, he depleted most of his savings and moved his family into the French Concession, a territory claimed by France where war was prohibited. Although safety was assured in the Concession, the Chinese were never treated as equals by the colonizers. I could hardly imagine the troubles my great-grandfather went through to be employed by the Westerners at Didi’s Enterprise.
The insulting aliases my great-grandfather came up for the owners of the coffee shop are reflections of the colonial trauma Shanghai had endured. They also serve as footprints of his sacrifices for his family.
I visited the original site of Didi’s Enterprise just this past week. The street is shaded by almost one hundred-year old Phoenix trees originally planted by the French. Instead of a magnificent and spacious establishment, a petit storefront named Mr. Shuang Meat Pie Coffee stands there. As I walked down the streets trying to find more traces of my great-grandfather, I became distracted by the newly planted Osmanthus trees. Their blooming flowers secrete a sweet, apricot-like scent, immersing the legends of my great-grandfather in their warmth and comfort.
This article is part of my ongoing column about my gap year. Read the first installment here and stay tuned for more!
Contact Renee Ye at rye@oxy.edu
