To the east of the Bronx lay the largest Chinatown in the area. More than two hundred Chinese restaurants had been operating there for over a century, and wherever Chinese people gathered, the place was almost always awake through the night. Every restaurant here stayed open until the early hours.
It had to be said that businesspeople who managed to make something of themselves in a foreign land all had a little of that money-or-death mentality.
Even though the Bronx was in complete chaos now, with protesters and watchful police intermingled, not a single Chinese restaurant had closed. They were even providing takeout for both the demonstrators and the police.
On the streets where the protests were taking place, one could often see Chinese kitchen assistants in white kung fu shirts carrying large bags of boxed meals. After delivering food to the protesters, they would run over to the police.
Most officers paid no attention to Chinese people. They knew that most Asians were obedient, had extremely low crime rates, were not good with firearms, and were unlikely to cause trouble. So even when they saw them coming over from the protesters' side, the police did not care. They even had time to joke with their colleagues.
New York was sweltering in summer. Standing under the sun for ten minutes was enough to leave someone drenched in sweat. The officers had opened their car trunks and held them over their heads for shade, clutching meal boxes as they awkwardly fumbled with spoons or chopsticks.
"Hey, young man, yeah, you. Seriously, can't you get me a fork? How am I supposed to pick up these damn noodles with two little sticks?" An elderly officer with graying hair held a square noodle box, looking thoroughly flustered.
His younger colleague burst out laughing