Grace Chen, the proprietor of the Ovaltine Cafe at Hastings and Main in Vancouver, B.C., on Oct. 1.Jimmy Jeong/The Globe and Mail
One recent afternoon, a pair of tough-looking guys with hoodies and tattoos marched into Grace Chen’s venerable diner on Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside. “Mama, we came for the chicken,” said the bigger of the two, taking a seat in a booth and ordering the half-chicken special.
Ms. Chen smiled her famous smile, her eyes narrowing in pleasure. As proprietor of the Ovaltine Cafe, founded in 1942, she accepts all comers: weathered homeless people, lonely seniors, runaway teens, harried social workers, even drug dealers (they leave great tips, she confides with a whisper).
Under her direction, the Ovaltine has become a sanctuary for the people of the Downtown Eastside, its pink neon sign shining through the gloom like a harbour light. Ms. Chen is there to greet them with a hot meal and a kind word. Everyone knows her as Grace. Many simply call her “mom.”
But a question mark hangs over this rare enterprise. After 10 years in charge, Ms. Chen, 64, is struggling to keep the business alive. COVID-19 forced her to put up a “closed” sign. Then, last year, a back-alley fire made the cafe go dark again, this time for six months.
The pipes in the ceiling burst a few weeks back, flooding the floor. Business is slow. The judges, lawyers and clerks who used to walk over from the provincial courthouse for lunch or coffee have stopped coming. Some veteran customers are getting too old to visit. Even the high-tipping dealers are abandoning her.
Under Ms. Chen's direction, the Ovaltine has become a sanctuary for the people of the Downtown Eastside.Jimmy Jeong/The Globe and Mail
Ms. Chen’s white-haired mother used to lend her money and give her a hand with cutting up potatoes and washing dishes. She died last year. Ms. Chen’s daughter, who co-owns the place, has taken a government job, though she still helps out.
The cost of everything has gone up, up, up. The place where Ms. Chen gets the eggs for her famous $10 breakfast just hiked the price of a box by a dollar. Can she keep the doors open and the neon sign on?
If not, something precious will be lost. The Ovaltine is one of the Downtown Eastside’s most enduring institutions. Its worn booths, linoleum tables and extra-long lunch counter with round, upholstered stools make it a classic, the kind of place where Sam Spade might have met a suspicious wife over hot black coffee.
Generations of locals have passed through. Stella Lavallee, 85, has been coming in for more than 50 years, drawn by the blueberry pancakes and the company. She is so tight with Ms. Chen that they sometimes play Pokemon GO together online.
Paul Clegg, 71, a former logger and fast-food worker, was a daily customer for years, always ordering the eggs benedict. He doesn’t visit as often now. He says the neighbourhood has gone downhill – “it’s like somebody dug a grave and threw all the people in” – but he still drops by to see Ms. Chen.
“When she hasn’t seen somebody for a week or two, she goes up and gives them a hug,” he says. “You can talk to her about anything.”
One woman shows up every day in hopes of catching a glimpse of her son, who is living on the streets. Every so often he stops by and says a brief hello, only to fade away again.
Another mother comes to look for her high-school-aged daughter, who went missing last year. No luck so far.
The Downtown Eastside is one of Canada’s poorest districts, ground zero for the country’s three-headed crisis of homelessness, drug overdoses and mental illness.
Once, Ms. Chen had to call 911 when a guy came through the door dripping blood from a stab wound. Another time, she had to subdue an unruly customer herself. She grins as she shows how she pinned him against the wall “like in a movie.”
Everyone is expected to behave. When she caught a young man in the back alley with his pants hanging down to his knees, she told him, “Hey, I don’t need to see that.” He pulled up his pants.
After 10 years in charge, Ms. Chen, 64, is struggling to keep the business alive.Jimmy Jeong/The Globe and Mail
Some locals try to take advantage of her hospitality, using drugs in the bathroom or asking her for money. Though she won’t cough up for nothing, she sometimes gives them a little work cleaning the bathroom or mopping the floor.
Her policy, she says in her halting English, putting her hand to her chest, is: “Just show them heart.” Though they may look broken and scary, who knows what made them that way? As she puts it, “They all have stories.”
Some customers try to repay her kindness. One regular offered her $8,000 from his savings after Ms. Chen complained about a big meat bill. She told him she would manage. When she had the fire last year, supporters raised $20,000 for repairs.
Though Ms. Chen is well past the age when most women retire in her native China, she wants to stay open as long as she can. “That’s my life,” she says. “I love it.” But she doesn’t own the space. The building’s owner could sell at any time.
Only a few of the varnished booths were full when the two tough guys walked in for their chicken dinner. The long lunch counter was closed. Bits of the ceiling were missing because of the flood.
Outside on the slick sidewalk, a young-looking guy in dirty sweats was passed out against a storefront. A passerby nudged him with his foot to make sure he was breathing.
Ms. Chen shakes her head. “If we shut down,” she says, “all these people, where will they go?”