Near where I live, there’s a middling Chinese restaurant called Chef Chu’s. I’ve been to Chinese restaurants hundreds of times, but in spite of its proximity, I’ve gone to Chu’s maybe once. It’s the kind of place where white people eat and struggle with how to use chopsticks. Unless the menu is rife with misspellings and I’m the only white boy in there, I’m not that interested, because I know the food will be overpriced and inauthentic.
The reason I bring this up is because the little boy who grew up at that restaurant, John Chu, went on to become a famous director by way of the smash hit Crazy Rich Asians. It’s the kind of cultural marker which turns my stomach, because it’s a movie that gawks and gasps and gyrates over the insane wealth of a small slice of Singapore elite.