The Fall of the House of Edsel

An elegy, upon the sad occasion of the closing of Sam Wo restaurant, for its most famous employee (with apologies to Edgar Allan Poe).

During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone through a singularly dreary tract of Grant Avenue; and I found myself, as the shades of evening drew on, gazing for the first time upon the frightening visage of Edsel Ford Fong.

I know not how it was — but, with the first glimpse of his leering face, a sense of absolute hilarity pervaded my spirit. I say absolute; for the feeling was undiminished by any of that disgust with which one usually contemplates insufferable waiters, be they pompous French gravy-bearers or attitudinous, be-pony-tailed SOMA waitrons.

I looked upon the man before me — upon his chow mein-spattered apron, and his demented eyes — upon the walls, covered with curious runic inscriptions — upon the ancient dumbwaiter, whose pulley he would periodically jerk with a strength that was more than human — upon the cowering patrons, several of whom were hastily setting Edsel’s tables, clearing off Edsel’s dishes, and serving Edsel’s food — with an utter elevation of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the happiness of one who has discovered a permanent, maniacal source of amusement.

That was 20 years ago, and Edsel Ford Fong is long gone. But his legend lives on. The waiters at Caffe Sport may hector and vaunt, the PC dominatrixes of Berkeley may censor their patrons’ reading material, a thousand embittered aesthetes may sulk and posture in radicchio-ridden dives from Folsom to Fairbanks — no matter. Compared to The Master, they are amateurs and lightweights all. Edsel Ford Fong was, and will always be, the Rudest Waiter in the World. In the Pantheon of Obnoxious Help, he has the tower room.

Edsel Ford held forth on the second floor of Sam Wo, an absurdly narrow, three-story jook joint on Washington Street in the heart of Chinatown. For generations of starving students, Sam Wo has served up rice porridge, chow fun and various other starchy delights at ridiculously low prices.

But for those who ventured into Edsel’s domain, as I did an embarrassing number of times over the years, those cheap plates of food came seasoned with the bitter sauce of ritual abuse.

Edsel — the provenance of his ludicrous name is uncertain — had an angular face, a crewcut, and an implacable desire to humiliate his customers. No sooner would a group sit down than he would throw down a load of silverware and cups and instruct them to “Set table.” If the mood struck him, he would force them to set other tables as well: I once ate an entire meal while he screamed at a hapless woman to “Clear tables, Dolores! Dolores, serve tea!” He wandered about like Ahab pacing his quarterdeck, a terrible gleam in his eye and a scary totem-pole-bear smile on his lips. After belittling his customers’ menu selections, he would force them to write their orders down on pieces of paper. For dessert, he demanded kisses from women (most of them, possibly in a state of shock, complied). And woe betide anyone who didn’t tip: He once chased my cousin all the way into the street, screaming insults at him at the top of his lungs.

Above all, Edsel was an artist of rudeness. Any hack can ignore you, make a show of phony bonhomie as the bill approaches. But Edsel penetrated your innermost soul, and sneered at what he found there.

One evening I was eating in his realm. I was feeling cool in a leather jacket. Edsel had not abused me that night; in fact, he had seemed positively deferential. I smugly told myself that I had Edsel firmly under control now. I was too hip; hell, I was a Wo veteran. He respected me. Casually, I lit a Camel. Elegantly, I stretched my legs. Stylishly, I eyed an attractive woman descending the staircase. When you’re debonair, I told myself as I pretentiously exhaled, you’re debonair.

Suddenly Edsel’s leering face appeared in front of me. His expression was knowing, lascivious, and utterly contemptuous. “You see that good thing too, don’t you, ‘sir’?” he hissed with an evil smile. I cowered back, but he pushed his face even closer, his wild, staring eyes X-raying my pathetic libido. “You don’t miss a trick — do you, ‘SIR’?”

Ever since then, I have found therapy superfluous: Edsel had told me everything about myself I needed to know. Not bad for $1.90.

True! — Nervous — very, very dreadfully nervous he made us all, we Edsel aficions; but why will you say that we were mad? Call us masochists, but we miss his temple guardian-like smile, his weird staccato commands in rhyme (“Be specific — like Pacific Ocean!!”), his invincible chutzpah. If there is a noodle house purgatory, we know that Edsel will be there, forever denying his ghostly customers fortune cookies. In a city now desperately short of them, he was a true original.

This piece originally appeared in the May 2, 1993 issue of the San Francisco Examiner’s Image Magazine, where I was a senior editor. In a feeble attempt to capitalize on Edsel’s notoriety, some years ago the San Francisco Giants’ Oracle Park featured a Chinese food concession called Edsel Ford Fong’s. Unlike the real thing, it had terrible food and no Edsel, and soon went the way of the automobile after whom Mr. Fong was named.