Do you like pizza?
I’ve been fond of pizza since childhood. My earliest memory of it goes back to watching the Ninja Turtles, who would often feast on pizza after defeating villains. I pretended I was one of them, celebrating each victory – be it passing a dictation, surviving an exam, triumphing in an English reading competition, or simply making it through another year of life – with pizza. It was only in university, and later as a journalist, that I realised it wasn’t just me; in Hong Kong, pizza is a staple at celebrations, akin to a modern-day longevity peach.
Perhaps my love for pizza comes from watching people gather, chatting and laughing. For me, it conjures up an image of world peace.
Of course, you might not agree. Pizza can also evoke unpleasant memories, as in this story where its connotation isn’t entirely positive. After all, people are as varied as the many types of rice – Brown, Jasmine, Basmati, Long Grain and Sushi… And so it is with pizza, in its myriad forms. Isn’t it? For instance, the pizza I speak of is pronounced “P-saa” not “Pizza”, with the stress on the latter syllable, not the former. This distinction is crucial, as stressing only the former syllable refers specifically to the Hong Kong-style pizza. In Hong Kong, pizza might symbolise happy moments, but in its birthplace, Naples, it was historically a food of poverty. Neapolitan pizza also doesn’t boast the variety we see in Hong Kong. Take, for instance, Pizza Hut’s recent Twisty Cheesy Pizza, topped with cheese sauce – such a creation would probably astonish Neapolitans. Can you picture someone pairing siu mai with ice cream, or drizzling honey over Yu Char Kway? That’s the Twisty Cheesy Pizza for Neapolitans.
But even if Yu Char Kway is honey-flavoured, it’s still Yu Char Kway, and vanilla-flavoured siu mai is still siu mai. Similarly, I believe Hong Kong-style pizza should still be recognised as pizza. Of course, there are so-called “Pizza Talibans”, who insist that only traditional pizza qualifies as true pizza. I’m okay with this viewpoint, though defining “tradition” is itself debatable. Like humanity, pizza wasn’t born from stone but had evolved over time. The term “pizza” first appeared in 997 AD. Imagine a narrow alley with tile-roofed wooden houses, where an old man with a forked beard pushes a cart along, selling soggy, misshapen round breads – those were the early versions of pizza. Five hundred years later, tomatoes, initially feared as poisonous in Europe, were added to these breads by starving, trembling hands, marking a pivotal moment in culinary history. By the end of the 19th century, Raffaele Esposito, a rosy-cheeked Italian, added cheese, tomatoes, and basil to create a tricolour resembling the Italian flag to please Queen Margherita of Savoy. Now, Margherita Pizza is well-known, while Queen Margherita, together with the “father of modern pizza”, Raffaele Esposito, have faded into the background of history.
So, will future generations hail the founder of Pizza Hut as the father of postmodern pizza? Could it be that the name “Twisty Cheesy Pizza” will fade not from memory, but into the realm of the ordinary, like no one would specifically order a pizza “with tomato and cheese”? It’s also possible that the future may not belong to Twisty Cheesy Pizza, but to Korean Kimchi Pizza, Japanese Salmon Pizza, or Chinese Peking Duck Pizza. The future is unpredictable. All we can do is flip through takeout menus with a mix of apprehension and anticipation, wondering how the choices we made might be discarded or revered by humanity in a thousand years.
So this sets the stage for our story.
The first character to step into the limelight is a man named Luk Ka Chun, whom we affectionately called Junjun at university. He was renowned in the dorms for his unflappable nature; he seemed incapable of anger. When deliberately fouled in football, he’d shrug it off as an accident. If his takeaway order of a Sausage McMuffin meal arrived without the Sausage McMuffin, he’d excuse it as an unintentional oversight. If you accuse him of pretending to be nice, he would only apologise, leaving you deflated like punctured balls.
Another hallmark of Junjun was his ability to understand all viewpoints.
“The cafeteria food today is terrible.”
He’d agree, “Indeed, it’s worse than usual!”
“That girl we just passed looks like Keira Knightley.”
“Big eyes, quite cute!”
“Why does that guy look at girls so sleazily?”
“Ah, certainly not a nice way to look at ladies!”
His personality made him popular. He could engage in various conversations, and provide a fitting response for every topic. In video games, he was a worthy adversary in Street Fighter; in movies, he had seen Reservoir Dogs before Pulp Fiction became popular. “Yes, Tarantino’s movies are indeed interesting,” he once said to me. When I mentioned my dislike for Woody Allen, he agreed, “Yes, Woody Allen’s movies can indeed be a bit boring.”
Out of curiosity, a week later, I reversed my stance. “Woody Allen’s films are thought-provoking, while Tarantino’s style is distracting.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Hey, but you agreed with me last week about liking Tarantino and disliking Woody Allen.”
“Every coin has two faces, and every movie has its good and bad. Isn’t it?”
Junjun’s words lingered in my mind, resonating like a mantra: “Every coin has two faces, embrace life’s varied graces…” Gradually, even I began to think, “Junjun, despite his dull moments, has his interesting sides.” A shiver ran down my spine.
Junjun – at least until a year ago – was the epitome of a good person. It is no surprise that in university, Junjun was like Mickey Mouse – everyone’s favourite. With such charisma, no one doubted he would find success after graduation, a prediction that indeed came fruition.
At the other extreme was B. If I were a turtle, B was a porcupine, constantly firing in all directions. Anyone committing a minor error within ten metres of him would be instantly skewered. Leave a towel in the bathroom after showering? He’d yank it down and toss it on the floor. Forget to wash dishes after cooking? Expect a public denouncement, courtesy of B. And if you dared to smell of sweat after sports, B wouldn’t hold back his blunt disgust, “Fuck you, that stinks!” Rumour had it he had a manic disorder, and a brave soul who once suggested he seek medical help was never heard from again.
Such a person, of course, had no friends. So, it was a surprise when he and Junjun became close. Observers often likened their friendship to the battle between the finest spear and the most impenetrable shield. Speculations were rife, with bets placed on whether Junjun would eventually snap under B’s prickliness or if B would mellow under Junjun’s aura. In response to these gamblers, Junjun smiled and said, “I understand why you might find B difficult, but he has many good qualities too.”
Year 1 concluded with those betting on Junjun coming out ahead. Their relationship was so close that people teased Junjun’s girlfriend (since middle school) about losing her man to B. Together, they shared breakfasts, hit the gym, and spent nights drinking in parks, seemingly cocooned in an invisible bubble. When Junjun remarked, “B does have his interesting sides,” curiosity was piqued. “Like what?” others would ask. “His temper is quite interesting.” They would then hug him with an “I know how that feels, bro” look, advising him not to push himself too hard.
It was in Year 2 that people stopped saying Junjun was pushing himself. B managed to get his hands on a large oven, and together they spent days and nights baking pizzas in the dorm. This shared hobby silenced the critics. Perhaps it was because, post-1989, university students had no more pressing issues to engage with, no more controversies to take a stand on. Indulging in what they loved became their ultimate goal. Some devoted themselves to sex, others to hacky sack, singing every Michael Jackson song, or racing their model cars in Japan. No one judged these pursuits as childish or outlandish; even fleeting passions were acceptable. The task of a university student was simply to select any favourite ingredients, mould them into a desired shape, bake them in a hot oven, then consume and digest, incorporating them into their life’s journey. In this light, Junjun and B’s pizza-making, although unexpected, raised no eyebrows. I never gave it much thought either, until years later, I had to interview Junjun for a story. By then, I had already forgotten how those two figures bent over the oven, peering through its window at the essence of human existence. Nor could I have foreseen the fallout of their friendship that lay ahead.
The interview happened last year. At that time, I was a food journalist for a newspaper, tasked with dining and shining the shoes of various restaurants and chefs. My boss wanted me to feature young talents in the culinary world, to propagate the message that hard work leads to success. Instantly, I thought of PCC. PCC, short for Pizza, Chicken and Cheese, started in 2012 and in just five years, opened twenty-three branches across Hong Kong, snatching a significant market share. Searching online for the owner’s name, it took me a while to realise the Luk Ka Chun behind PCC was the Junjun I knew.
Through an old classmate’s Facebook friend list, I reconnected with him , and promptly received a reply: “Tinshui! Long time no see, how have you been?” It seemed that two decades had done little to change his hearty demeanour.
Three days later, I visited the PCC flagship store in Sai Wan. My photographer remarked upon seeing him, “Perfect, he’s photogenic.” Junjun, with his hair neatly slicked back, square-framed gold glasses glinting, a perfectly tailored suit, and shiny leather shoes, certainly looked the part of a successful restaurateur.
We shook hands, his grip warm and firm. “I’ve always enjoyed reading your articles,” he said, “Journalist, intriguing. Seems much more meaningful than us chefs.” I replied, “I always wonder why there’s no Nobel Prize for food journalists.” After twenty years in the food section, the only real skill I’d learned was to self-deprecate.
The interview, however, was a misstep. Because he was an acquaintance, I hadn’t thought it through: Interviewing someone like him was akin to a suicide mission. “I know you’ve been into pizza since our university days, right?” I asked. “Yes,” he replied. “Why did you get interested in it?” “Because it’s interesting.” “But why pizza? Aren’t other cuisines interesting too?” “Other cuisines are interesting, but so is pizza.” “Then why did you choose to focus on pizza?” “Because I like eating pizza.” “Do you mean to say you prefer pizza over other cuisines?” “Other cuisines are good, but pizza is also nice.” It was an endless loop, with nothing of substance.
“Google Map has comments saying PCC’s pizza is too greasy, tasty but not healthy. What’s your take on that?”
“I understand. Indeed, some people don’t like greasy pizza, but others don’t mind.”
After enduring thirty minutes, the waiter brought out the latest dishes. A triangular pizza named “Crunchy Tri-Corner” with bacon, green peppers, and triangular cheese crackers, and another called “Sausage and Egg Pizza”, pizza with a McMuffin taste. There were also a variety of appetisers and pasta. After the photoshoot and tasting, in my view, none were noteworthy, the only item scoring above 50 being the buffalo chicken wings.
“The specialty of PCC is the innovative pizzas. How do you develop these ideas?”
“We believe in innovating pizzas while also respecting tradition.”
Bullshit spoken, photos taken, I glanced at my watch; it was 8 PM. I planned to leave, but Junjun invited me to stay for a drink. I declined, saying I wanted to go home and play video games. To my surprise, instead of agreeing to the merits of gaming, he produced a bottle of Glenfiddich 50-year-old.
“Video games or this, what’s your pick?” he asked.
The restaurant was a whirl of activity, with waiters darting between tables, clearly understaffed and overwhelmed. Amidst the chaos, we sat at a round wooden table, drinks in hand. The background music, some unfamiliar k-pop tune, seemed out of place. “We just play whatever the radio suggests. It’s updated weekly.” He explained.
Naturally, our conversation veered towards old classmates. He wondered why he never saw me at the myriad weddings over the years. I shrugged, admitting that I either wasn’t invited or chose not to attend. I then turned the topic to his personal life, nodding towards the shiny silver ring on his finger. He said he’d been married for six years to his girlfriend from middle school. I guessed he had two kids, a boy and a girl, and spent Sundays on family outings.
His expression soured. “Hearing you describe it, even I find it comically typical.”
“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
He responded with that well-rehearsed smile he had since birth. I ignored it and sipped my drink.
“May I ask you a sincere question?” he said.
“I never said you weren’t sincere.”
“Do you… have you always disliked me?”
“What made you think that?”
“I felt you always deliberately kept your distance in university. We weren’t close, but it bothered me for a while. Eventually, I thought, ‘Well, you can’t make the whole world like you.’”
I stroked my beard. “While there are parts I don’t like, I also see many good qualities.”
“Exactly,” he nodded. “Isn’t that a fair assessment? No one is entirely disagreeable, nor is anyone flawless.”
“There are fair aspects, and unfair ones too.”
He narrowed his eyes, and sighed.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “You see, such a statement is as good as saying nothing. It’s like saying ‘penalty kicks either score or miss.’ Everyone knows everything has different aspects. But I’m talking to you, not to everyone. I want to hear what you think, not universal truths.”
“I think that everything in life indeed has various facets. No single aspect can fully define the whole. I honestly believe that.”
“Even so, you must have your own perspective, right? Everyone is biassed in some way; after all, you only have one pair of eyes and see things from one viewpoint.”
“My perspective…”
“Like why you chose to make pizza but not curry or fried rice?”
“Is that truly ‘my’ perspective? Sometimes I ask myself if that’s not actually B’s perspective.”
B. A name locked away in the storeroom of my memory.
“How’s he doing now?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he paused. “Speaking of perspectives, you’ve actually turned yours into a career.”
“I don’t feel like going into detail, but if you really think being a food journalist is that impressive, fine.”
“I was referring to your fiction. You’ve always written, haven’t you?”
“You’ve read them?”
“No, just heard about them at a wedding. Can’t recall whose, but everyone said you were amazing.”
“Thanks. If one day no one buys your pizzas, I’ll also say you’re amazing.”
Junjun leaned forward, his fingers rubbing together. “May I ask, how do you differentiate between material for news and for fiction?”
“There’s no real distinction. It’s like eating – you don’t eat one spoon for your heartbeat and the next for tomorrow’s run. It doesn’t work that way.”
“But… do you do interviews for fiction?”
“Rarely. I don’t want to set any false expectations for the interviewees.”
He turned his head slightly, lost in thought. If the photographer were still here, it would have made a perfect shot.
After a moment, he said, “If I tell you a story without any expectations, can you turn it into a fiction?”
“It depends on the story. If it’s ‘somewhat interesting but also dull,’ probably not. It wouldn’t just fail as a fiction; it would barely suffice for a food column.”
“I just thought a newspaper article should be comprehensive… but fiction is different. Some bias is inevitable, right?”
“Why do you want me to write a fiction?”
“I think by seeing it through someone else’s eyes, I might understand the matter better.”
“So that’s why the Glenfiddich.”
“Em, if it bores you… just consider it as catching up with an old friend, even if you don’t really see me as one.”
“These buffalo chicken wings, I want a large plate of them.”
Junjun looked up, and the restaurant manager immediately approached with a servile smile. “Mr. Luk, what can I do for you?”
“Stephen, can we have five portions of these?”
“Buffalo chicken wings, rich in flavour, perfect with whisky.”
As the manager left, Junjun took a deep breath and began to recount his story with B.
“Back then, everyone asked how long I could tolerate B. I always replied, ‘No, I’m not tolerating him. I appreciate him.’ They asked what I appreciated, and I said his temper. They just laughed. I insisted, ‘No, I’m serious,’ and they laughed even louder.”
“Of course, I understood why everyone disliked him. His temper was indeed difficult to handle, but as I said, every flaw can be a strength from another perspective. Even after everything that’s happened, I still think his temper is a strength. In a way, I envy him.”
“Because I lack temper. I’ve pondered this for many years: why do people get angry? It often comes down to intolerance: When someone or something operates differently from what you believe, it leads to dissatisfaction. That was B. He got angry about so many things because he had a firm paradigm of how the world should work. This paradigm fascinated me. I kept asking myself, ‘What is my paradigm?’ But I found none. It made me feel inferior around him. I felt like nothing.”
“So, I wanted to learn from him. That’s how we became friends. Though everyone thought I was taking care of him, our relationship was more like master and apprentice. Of course, he never intentionally taught me anything, but his actions and words were my lessons.”
“It was also because of him that I started making pizza. The dormitory people saw us making pizza, probably in Year 2 after he brought the oven to the dorm, but actually, in Year 1, he was already a pizza expert. He called himself a ‘pizzaiolo’. Just like baristas make coffee, a pizzaiolo makes pizza.”
“He started studying pizza in Grade 10. Not just ‘learning to make’ but literally ‘studying.’ To him, pizza was more than a hobby; it was his dream. I once asked him why he was so passionate about pizza. Sometimes he’d say, ‘Because it’s interesting,’ other times, ‘Because it’s not just food, but a part of human culture,’ or ‘Isn’t it amazing that this food is globally accepted?’ And on bad days, he’d snap, ‘None of your damn business.’”
“I started learning to make pizza at his place in the second semester of Year 1. Of course, I had no reason to be interested in pizza. I wasn’t Italian anyway; why bother with pizza? But like his temper and worldview, his obsession with pizza drew me in. I too wanted to be passionate about something. I thought if I centred my life around this, I could gradually build my paradigm and wouldn’t be zero anymore.”
“B was always willing to teach me. He had little interest in most topics, but when it came to pizza, he could talk endlessly. Low-temperature fermentation for the dough; high temperature for the oven… He had amassed so much knowledge. At school, we talked about pizza; at his house, we made pizza; when dining out, we ate pizza and discussed its preparation.”
“He was a true pizza genius. Just by looking and tasting, he could identify the ingredients and deduce the cooking process. How much salt or water added, if it was baked half a minute too long or fifteen seconds too short – he knew it all. While I relied on measuring cups and scales, he gauged everything by hand. His specialty was the Margherita. One bite, and you’d never forget it. I’ve tried dozens of famous Margherita in Naples on business trips, but none matched his level. I wouldn’t be surprised if his Margherita had won a world championship; in fact, the title might not even be worthy of him.”
“He never taught me his Margherita recipe. He shared every other recipe and technique, but not that one. I was curious, but considering how much he had taught me, I felt I had no right to request more.”
“In Year 2, for convenience, we moved the oven to the dorm. That’s why you saw us making pizza day and night. Those were truly happy times. I felt my long-sought paradigm was finally taking shape. And he seemed to enjoy having a fellow enthusiast around – at least, that’s what I liked to believe.”
“However, as my understanding of pizza deepened, I inevitably started to form my own ideas. I found myself intrigued by novel experiments: What would it taste like with fried chicken, squid, pumpkin, or honeydew? Remember the Lunar New Year pizza from PCC two years ago? Adding siu mai and beef with mangosteen as toppings – some said it captured Hong Kong’s flavour, others disagreed. Taste is subjective, but the objective fact was that it went viral on Facebook and boosted our business. That was my idea.”
“But B didn’t see it that way, for he was a pizza taliban, insisting that pizzas worldwide had strayed from the path. In his eyes, only Neapolitan was authentic. If a pizza couldn’t win solely on tomatoes, cheese, herbs, and olive oil, it was garbage to him. Even pepperoni, ham, and mushrooms were mere side dishes. Acceptable, but perfection lay in their absence.”
“When I suggested to him that pizza could have new flavours, he erupted, saying those ‘weird-tasting’ stuff weren’t real pizza but just round bread. He called me a ‘betrayer’ – and that was the kindest term he used. He had all sorts of insults: scum, devil, evil axis, historical sinner… And all I said was that new flavours in pizza might be nice.”
“However, I wasn’t angry, not even unhappy. No, I was unhappy, but it was directed at myself. I was unhappy that I wasn’t angry. After learning about pizza for so long, I thought I had finally developed my own viewpoint, yet I couldn’t even muster anger when B dismissed my ideas. If I were indifferent about this critical issue, then all the so-called paradigms stemming from it probably wouldn’t matter either. After a year of learning from him, I thought I had made progress, but it turned out I was just marking time. I still found nothing that mattered.”
“I didn’t want to see myself like that, so I decided to stand firm. I told B that I disagreed with him. I spent a lot of time researching, reading books, consulting professors in cultural studies about the evolution of pizza flavours. One professor told me that cuisine is culture, and culture is ever-changing; even cheese wasn’t originally part of pizza. I shared this with B, but he didn’t care. His response was blunt: ‘Fuck you.’ He was just convinced that pizza should have a certain perfect taste, and his greatest goal was to present that taste. Under this goal, anything I said about pizza not always being this way or potentially changing to that way simply fell on deaf ears.”
“After our disagreement, we stopped making pizza together. Without the bond of pizza, we quickly returned to our separate, unrelated lives. This made me very depressed. After holding it in for a while, I decided to compromise. I told myself that I could pretend to agree with him. My true thoughts didn’t need to change; I just had to keep them to myself.”
“I was about to apologise to him, but then something else happened. Since we couldn’t make pizza in the dorm anymore, I bought an oven for my home. Naturally, I made pizza for my parents. My mom and dad, a teacher and a lawyer, had no hobbies; their leisure time was mostly spent hunting good food. So, I thought of delighting them with homemade pizza. I made a pizza with oysters and lemon juice. They tasted and suggested that I should drop out of school and become a chef to be their cash cow. It was a joke, of course, but honestly, I also thought it tasted good.”
“Seeing them enjoy it so much made me hesitate again. Agreeing with him didn’t feel right, but neither did disagreeing, so I tried to approach him once more. This time, I aimed to get past his barrage of swear words and uncover any sound reasoning behind his fundamentalism. Eventually, I found something convincing. He said if we allow the definition of pizza to change, it will keep expanding indefinitely. Can you have a square pizza? Yes. Without tomato sauce? Yes. Without cheese? Yes. Untoasted? Yes. But what do you call a thing that is square, sauceless, cheeseless, untoasted? White bread. That way, pizza becomes a slice of white bread. Once white bread is recognised as pizza, the very concept of pizza loses its meaning.”
“I was willing to accept this point, as my goal was to be convinced by him anyway. So, I felt relieved after our discussion and told him, ‘You’re right. I promise I won’t innovate anymore.’”
“After that, we made pizza together again. From then on, he made an extra effort to bombard me with talks about the strictness of pizza, from the dimensions of the crust to the ingredients of the dough. He even said there should be laws regulating the definition of pizza. I thought it was an exaggerated joke; but later, Italy did set standards for Neapolitan pizza; very strict ones, from using type 0 or 00 flour to limiting the thickness to 3 millimetres… that’s a story for another time. What struck me during his bombardments was actually my naivety. How could I have had the audacity to lecture him about the history of pizza, like ‘how it originally had no cheese?’ He knew about it all along. The whole issue wasn’t about knowledge, but about dedication: someone who lived for pizza, dreaming about pizza, meticulously working on every detail from flour to yeast to baking time. Then suddenly, a nobody added an oyster to it. Wouldn’t that make him mad? It’s absolutely reasonable for him to be, as it essentially negates all his efforts.”
“I thought the issue was resolved, that I had put down the heavy stone in my heart, but our continued pizza-making only lasted two months. I realised a bigger problem – I had lost interest in pizza. On reflection, the reason was simple: I could no longer pursue the flavours I wanted, so I lost interest in practice and experimentation. It’s like forcing a painter who wants to paint cats to paint dogs instead; they would lack enthusiasm, even if you convince them ‘it’s still an animal.’ I should have seen this coming. So, I stopped making pizza with B. We occasionally met, and he still talked about pizza, but I was no longer interested. He invited me to new pizza places, and when he asked my opinion on the taste, I couldn’t answer.”
“Gradually, I lost contact with B. He was never one to reach out to friends, so he didn’t contact me either. Eventually, I lost this friend. It was sad, but unavoidable. I tried.”
“Making pizza his way no longer had meaning for me, so coming full circle, I started to innovate again.”
“Actually, it wasn’t exactly back to square one. This experience led me to my first true passion. I genuinely wanted to create a pizza that people would find innovative, even historically significant. I’m not sure how clear this ideal is or if it’s strong enough to support my paradigm, but I sincerely want to pursue it. This is the first time I’ve felt this way. So, I’m thankful to B, even though he probably hates me to death.”
“I decided to give this matter a complete ending. I buried myself in my oven work, covered in flour, all in to perfect my oyster pizza invention. I used a sprayer for the lemon juice to evenly distribute the sourness. I chose lighter flavoured tomatoes and cheese to complement the fresh texture. Sea salt was essential. I carefully studied the baking time. The ideal method was to add the oysters just ten seconds before the pizza was done, to preserve their freshness.”
“After much hard work, I solemnly presented my creation to B. I remember we were in the dorm hallway. He took the pizza and threw it on the ground. I had prepared what to say: ‘If you don’t accept new flavours, you’ll never progress.’ I expected him to retort, maybe even hit me, but he just laughed. That laugh made him look like a devil. He pointed at the pizza squashed under his foot, with tomato sauce and oysters oozing out from the sides, looking like a piece of human flesh.”
“I asked why he was laughing, and he countered, ‘Aren’t you angry?’ I said I wasn’t, as I was mentally prepared for whatever he did.”
“He said, ‘The body doesn’t lie. If you’re not angry, it means you don’t care.’ He told me I was a handicapped person, that making pizza couldn’t save me, and one day I would realise that my life had been wasted, and by then, I would find myself with nothing.”
Junjun went to the restroom. By that time, we had nearly finished the Glenfiddich, mostly him drinking; I only had four glasses. His urgent need to pee was understandable.
I called over the manager and asked him to turn off the annoying background music. He hesitated, as it wasn’t closing time yet, and a third of the customers were still there. I said it was Junjun’s request, and he immediately went to turn it off. After all, Junjun wouldn’t get angry. ‘Although claiming it was my instruction isn’t right, listening to annoying music for two hours must be hard.’ That’s what he would probably say, I thought.
When he came back, he asked me, ‘What do you think B meant by his words?’
“That you would find your life was wasted?”
“Yes.”
“I think his prediction is quite accurate.”
“You really think so?”
“Yes, I really do.”
“Do you think I can be saved?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why am I like this?”
I still shook my head. “Maybe it’s a kind of fortunate outcome of the times.”
“Fortunate?”
“Yes, fortunate.”
“Why fortunate?”
“Isn’t it fortunate to have lived a blank life? Many people are troubled by a life filled with dark marks.”
“You have your point.”
Here we go again, I thought.
“But I still -“
I interrupted him. “For once, find someone, find something, to be unreasonably, contemptibly, thoroughly angry.”
He shook his head.
“A year ago, I met B again,” he said.
“That was the last time we spoke at university. After that, he moved the oven back home and rarely appeared in the dorm. I continued with my life: dating, playing, studying, and researching pizza. I let my friends, girlfriend, and family taste my creations, and everyone praised them. Many people said to me, ‘Open a pizza shop! You’ll be successful.’ But I wanted to gather more experience first. Not in making pizza, but in business management. After all, I had plenty of experience in pizza-making, but not in running a business. I joined a large food corporation and worked my way up from a management trainee to a regional manager, overseeing all branches in Asia. Until five years ago, when I left to start my own business, PCC.”
“After fifteen years in the food industry, I had a crystal-clear idea of how to run a restaurant. You can’t just let the food speak for itself. Taste isn’t just about chemicals interacting with taste buds. Taste is a feeling, and feeling is a psychological response. It involves many aspects: the presentation of the food, the material of the utensils, the atmosphere of the restaurant, customers’ expectations before the meal, and their memories afterwards. To put it plainly, it’s more important that customers think and remember your pizza is good rather than the pizza itself being good. That’s what brand name is all about. Especially considering that for Hong Kong people, pizza is not a main course but a party food. The more your brand embodies a party vibe, the more likely people are to feel it and choose to patronise.”
“So, I invested a lot in marketing: distributing flyers, buying ads, building the brand. It worked; and it wasn’t long before I was overwhelmingly busy. By the time we opened the third branch, I no longer had time to cook. I could only occasionally find a day to train the chefs to ensure they could produce the PCC flavour. Around the eighth branch, I didn’t even have time to meet the chefs; recruitment and training were handed over to HR. They smartly hired a writer to turn my recipes and insights into a manual for internal use, one for each chef. There’s also an R&D department responsible for developing new dishes. After all, innovation is PCC’s core value. I didn’t limit their scope to just pizza, so they also work on drinks, fries, chicken wings, etc. First as limited-time offers, if they don’t do well, they’re removed; if they’re successful, they’re added to the permanent menu. So, the manual is continuously growing. I don’t even know how thick it is now.”
“Sometimes, when I visit the branches and see all sorts of strange but interesting pizzas being served, I still think of B. I’m sure he’s never tried PCC. How could he? Yet, PCC exists because of him. I hold no grudges against him, only immense respect. Even now. If he came to see me, I’d tell all my staff, ‘Look, this man is the father of PCC.’”
“I never thought I’d see him again. A year ago, I went to a tailor shop in Shau Kei Wan to get my new suit pants altered. A friend recommended this shop, located in a small, dilapidated mall. It was one of those places with beige tiles, where most shops are permanently closed, and a few old men and domestic helpers hang around for the air conditioning.”
“There, I smelled a familiar scent. Following the aroma, I found a pizza shop named Pizzaiolo.”
“The shop was dingy, resembling those fast-food joints selling fries and burgers in narrow alleys of Tsim Sha Tsui. Half the space was the kitchen, and the front was a counter. Sitting at the counter was a young woman, probably a university student, not looking like she was working. Her hair was a messy clump, and she wore large fluorescent green sunglasses that covered half of her face. She knew there was a customer but didn’t look up, just fiddling with her phone.”
“I asked the girl, ‘Is the boss here?’ She replied indifferently, ‘What for?’ I asked again, ‘Is your boss named B?’ She glanced at me, then turned and shouted, ‘Debt collector.’ That’s when I saw B, his hands covered in flour, emerging from the kitchen. He still had that half-asleep, scruffy look with his eyes seemingly holding a grudge against the world. Seeing it was me, he widened his eyes and emotionlessly said, ‘Why is it you?’ Not knowing what else to say, I just replied, ‘It’s me.’ He asked, ‘What debt? Do I owe you money?’ I clarified, ‘No, I didn’t say anything about debt.’ B looked at the girl. She said, ‘I thought he was a debt collector.’ She then asked me, ‘So who are you?’ I replied, ‘I’m an old friend of B and a pizza chef.’ B interjected, ‘He’s not a pizza chef; he’s the big boss of PCC.’ The girl took her sunglasses off, looking at me with wide eyes, ‘Wow, a rich guy,’ and even asked if I wanted a mistress. B told her to go clean the kitchen. She ignored him, suggesting, ‘You’re anyway broke and can’t pay the rent, why not let him invest?’ Then she was tossed into the kitchen.”
“Facing B suddenly, I had no idea what to say. The silence was unbearable, so I resorted to some trivial talk, ‘Still making pizza, huh?’ He retorted, ‘I know you haven’t made any for a long time.’ He said he was busy. Not wanting to leave just yet, I impulsively asked for a Margherita. He replied, ‘That won’t suit your taste; mine doesn’t have cheesy crusts or oysters, just tomatoes and cheese.’ I insisted that was exactly what I wanted. He turned back into the kitchen without another word, shouting, ‘Yan, take the money!’ So I learned the girl’s name was Yan.”
“That Margherita was expensive, 218 dollars, double the price of PCC’s. While waiting, I stood in the shop, looking around, trying to see B in the kitchen but couldn’t. I glanced at the menu on the counter, and as I had expected, there were only three kinds of pizza: Magherita, Marinara, and Margherita Extra. Besides that, only canned drinks. No snacks. In the twenty minutes I waited, not a single customer entered, nor did the phone ring.”
“B personally handed me the pizza. I clearly remember his look and that smile – devilish, immediately reminding me of the time he crushed the oyster pizza under his foot. For a moment, I worried he might have poisoned it, or spat or peed on it – you know, how kitchen staff sometimes do to customers they dislike. But then I reminded myself it was B who made the pizza, and I knew that couldn’t be possible.”
“After collecting the pizza, I drove straight home, completely forgetting about altering my trousers. It was around four in the afternoon, neither lunchtime nor dinnertime, but I immediately opened the pizza and ate it.”
“I knew then that B’s prophecy had come true.”
“I thought, what am I really doing? Did I just tell B I was a pizza chef? Can PCC’s offerings even be called pizza? I was so ashamed I wished I could vanish. Looking back, I felt my life was utterly meaningless. I was still zero. Money, career, wife, and kids, though it may sound reckless to say, those were just side dishes. What was my main? No main. Behind the illusion of a successful career, I had achieved nothing. I had wasted forty-two years.”
“I had wasted forty-two years. While eating the Margherita, all I could think was: what now? I thought about closing PCC, or finding someone to take over. But would my family agree? What would my staff think? No, I couldn’t let go. I even thought about kneeling before B – not joking, seriously kneeling – begging for his forgiveness, asking him to reteach me or help me completely reform PCC. But he would never agree. I thought a lot. I didn’t know what to do. I felt an emotion I had never experienced before. I dialled the number on the receipt. ‘Is this Yan?’ I asked. She replied, ‘Who’s this?’ I said I was B’s friend who had just visited. I asked if she had seen B make Margherita, and she exclaimed, ‘Yan sees everything!’ I don’t know why I said it, but I still said, ‘If you tell me how he did it, I have a branch in need of a manager.’ She stopped talking. Later, I heard her crying out, ‘Boss, your friend wants a mistress…’ I hung up.”
“I poured myself a lot of drinks. I opened my VSOP and drank straight from the bottle. I wasn’t drunk. However, when my wife and kids came home and saw me and asked what was wrong, I still yelled at them: ‘Fuck off!’ I definitely scared them, because I scared myself too. It was around 11 or 12 at night, all the restaurants had already closed, but I called the manager of the nearest branch, asking him to open the shop for me. He asked what was wrong. I just told him to open it. After he did, I asked him to leave. I made pizza by myself in the store, a lot of them, all Margheritas, none of them successful, worse than the frozen ones from supermarkets. It had been too long since I’d made one. I could have looked at the manual, but I refused to let myself read it. I started drinking whatever I found in the store. That manager was smart. He came back a few hours later, saw me lying among a pile of Margheritas and bottles, and called my secretary, who then contacted my wife. She immediately rushed over, embraced me, crying, saying we could talk about anything. I wanted to talk, but I really didn’t know what to say.”
“My wife took me home, got me showered, changed into pyjamas, and put to bed. The pizza box from B was still on the table. When I woke up, my wife asked again what was going on. I said nothing. But with a clear head, I understood that the indescribable emotion was anger. Although I wasn’t quite sure why I was angry. No one had hurt me, no one had attacked me, what was I angry about? Who was I angry with? What exactly could I not tolerate?”
“I didn’t know the answers. But I closed my eyes, experiencing the unfamiliar taste of anger, just as I would savour a Margherita. I told myself: This is the emotion you’ve been longing for all your life. I let myself feel it, so acutely that I could sense my blood rushing, the numbers on the blood pressure monitor rapidly climbing, my brain overheating like a pizza about to catch fire. I said, ‘This is anger.’ I asked myself, ‘What do I want to do now?’ I thought of something and immediately did it. Can you guess what it was?”
– What was it?
“I had my secretary contact the landlord of B’s shop. He complained that the tenant was always late on rent, but the shop was old, in a poor location, and hard to rent out, so he had no choice but to tolerate it. I asked for the price and immediately agreed to buy it.”
“Now, it’s a PCC branch.”
“Now, do you think this story is worth turning into a fiction?”