Two weeks ago, I considered myself one of the “lucky ones.” Kopitiam, the Malaysian all-day cafe that I co-own with chef Kyo Pang, was still doing relatively well given what most small businesses, especially our neighboring mom-and-pop eateries in Chinatown had been experiencing. My romantic partner Yin Chang, actor and founder of 88 Cups of Tea, wrote about the subject in her Medium essay: “Shortly after the news started circulating about the outbreak earlier this year, Asian-owned restaurants have been one of the first small businesses to suffer destructive financial losses for months, of up to 80%, due to the resurgence of age-old racial stereotyping.” This resonated deeply for me given that a little over 10 years ago, my family’s Chinese-American restaurants in San Diego suffered detrimental losses from the stigma surrounding the SARS epidemic, leaving us with no choice but to shutter one of the businesses. The effects were long-lasting, and we never recovered the harsh financial hits. So when xenophobia spread just as quickly as COVID-19—from the accusatory glares, to the derogatory words muttered, and the blatant side-swerving and crossing of streets away from us—I felt deep-rooted feelings of deja vu. The main difference is now I’m in a place and position where I know I can make forward movement and change.

Yin and I were pulling all-nighters, brainstorming ways to counter the racism that wreaked havoc on Chinatown. Together we co-founded the Table to Table #LovingChinatown initiative. We were gunning to launch immediately, the week of March 9th. Just a day or so afterwards, the coronavirus was declared a pandemic—none of us were able to brace ourselves for the storm looming ahead. New mandates are implemented in ways I could have never imagined, with changes occurring on a daily, if not hourly, basis; challenging us to brainstorm creative ways to navigate uncharted territory.

As soon as there was news about the widespread outbreak reaching New York, I bought cases of antiviral cleaners, instructing our team to vigilantly disinfect all the restaurant surfaces every half hour for weeks. I thought that was as far as things would go. The half-capacity mandate that came next, along with the encouragement of social distancing and self-quarantine, started to rattle me, not because of the decree itself, but that it foreshadowed a darker road ahead nationwide. We weren’t quite sure what would hit us next, but after keeping a close eye on news reports from Taiwan, Italy, and Hong Kong, we had an inkling that a possible permanent closure was encroaching.

This was precisely the all-hands-on-deck moment that came out of left field for most of us, especially in the hospitality industry. I had invested my entire life savings in the expanded revival of Kopitiam after its incarnation on Canal Street was forced to close due to a rent hike. I wondered if that money would decimate over the next few weeks, or even days. Crucial think-on-your-feet decisions needed to be made in ways that would protect the health and safety of our guests and our team, and keep Kopitiam running to support our team and small business. I had to project ahead to imagine what a closure would look like: the most difficult challenge would be to keep up with rent and provide for our team. I had the responsibility of 20 peoples' livelihoods, a team of young high schoolers and college-aged kids and elderly kitchen staff who rely on their wages to pay the rent, buy groceries, survive. In our case, many of the high school teens that work with us are the sole providers for their family. The weight from the pressure is unimaginable and restaurant margins are razor-thin: many of us do not have the luxury of operating on a reserve. We had to act quickly. Yin and I stayed up all night racking our brains for ways to keep Kopitiam afloat; selling gift cards at $30 for a $50 value in hopes this “short term loan” would help Kopitiam stay afloat for the next two weeks; providing our guests dried food that would last weeks and still make a tasty and exciting addition to their pantry. Going through a mental checklist of Kopitiam’s menu and comparing which ingredients would hold best over a longer period of time, we came up with our DIY kits: the DIY Kaya Toast kits were filled with multiple servings worth of the three essential ingredients; half a loaf of milk bread, a jar of our homemade kaya jam, and butter. The Nasi Lemak kits were filled with our Ikan Bilis and House Sambal condiment jars, grains of white rice, can of coconut milk, pandan leaves and a cucumber.

While brainstorming opportunities to keep Kopitiam chugging forward, we also wanted to find new ways of maintaining the responsibilities that come with the Table to Table initiative for the community. We made a late-night run to Trader Joe’s to buy dried foods to make dinner pouches (brown rice spaghetti and tomato sauce) and breakfast pouches (banana and oatmeal) for those who were affected by closures, especially on the Chinatown and Lower East Side margins where the majority of those living here are low income, undocumented, or elderly. After posting the pouches on Instagram, we were blown away by the reactions of our friends who immediately jumped in and offered monetary help to create more of them. Through her work with her writing-related podcast, Yin donated crates of diverse books ranging from middle grade to young adult fiction. And what better way to use Kopitiam than as the physical hub for anyone needing assistance to stop by and pick up a meal pouch or a book?