An East Asian Chef's Journey of Sizzling Woks and Silent Struggles
From Shanghai to Liverpool: An East Asian Chef’s Journey of Sizzling Woks and Silent Struggles
At 5 a.m. every weekday, Li Wei unlocks the rusted iron door of “Dragon’s Wok” on Bold Street, Liverpool. The first thing he does is kneel down to check the gas pipe—an old habit from his early days in the city, when a leak almost forced him to close his dream six months after opening. As the first ray of sunlight filters through the window, he starts chopping ginger and garlic, the sharp thock-thock sound mixing with the distant hum of the Mersey Ferry. For this 42-year-old from Shanghai, this small 400-square-foot restaurant is more than a business; it’s a bridge between his homeland and a city that once felt like a foreign planet.
The “Crazy Idea” That Started It All
Li’s journey to Liverpool began in 2016, when he quit his stable job as a sous chef at a five-star hotel in Shanghai. Tired of repeating the same menu for wealthy clients and longing to “cook food that feels like home,” he followed his wife, Mei, who had accepted a research position at the University of Liverpool. Back then, he spoke only basic English—enough to order coffee, but not to negotiate a lease or explain the difference between dumplings and gyoza to confused locals.
His first three months were a string of rejections. Landlords turned him away, skeptical of a “foreigner” running a Chinese restaurant in a neighborhood dominated by pubs and fish-and-chip shops. Once, he spent two hours waiting for a property agent, only to be told the space had been rented to a “more reliable” local business. “I’d walk along the Albert Dock at night, watching the lights reflect on the water, and wonder if I’d made a mistake,” Li recalls.
Mei encouraged him to keep going, using her university connections to find a retired British chef who offered free advice on food safety regulations. Li also enrolled in a weekly English class at a community center, where he practiced phrases like “This is Sichuan-style, a bit spicy” and “We make dumplings fresh every day.” By the end of 2017, he’d saved enough to rent a former sandwich shop on Bold Street—small, but with a window where he could display his handwritten menu in both English and Chinese.
Battles in the Kitchen: Spices, Stereotypes, and Late Nights
Opening day, February 14, 2018, was a disaster. Li had prepared 50 portions of kung pao chicken and 30 orders of dumplings, but by 3 p.m., only three customers had walked in. A couple left after taking one bite, complaining the food was “too weird.” A teenager asked if he served “sweet and sour pork like the takeaway down the road”—a dish Li had refused to put on the menu, knowing the generic version sold in most British Chinese restaurants was nothing like the home-style cooking he grew up with.
That night, Li sat alone in the empty restaurant, staring at the half-eaten plates. Mei reminded him: “Liverpool doesn’t know your food yet. You need to meet them halfway.” So he made a compromise: he added a milder version of sweet and sour pork (using fresh pineapple instead of canned) and created a “Liverpool Special”—stir-fried beef with local mushrooms and a hint of black pepper, inspired by the city’s love of hearty pub food. He also started handing out free samples outside the restaurant during lunch hours, smiling as he said, “Try it—like a hug from my mom’s kitchen.”
Slowly, the tide turned. A group of university students stumbled in one night, drawn by the smell of mapo tofu, and became regulars. A retired teacher, Mrs. Henderson, began stopping by every Friday for dumplings, telling Li, “This tastes like the food my Chinese neighbor made when I was a kid.” By the end of the first year, Li was working 16-hour days—waking up at 5 a.m. to shop for fresh ingredients at the Smithdown Road Market, cooking until 10 p.m., then cleaning the kitchen alone. He rarely took days off; even when he caught a cold, he’d wrap a scarf around his neck and keep stirring the wok.
More Than a Restaurant: A Little Piece of Home
Today, “Dragon’s Wok” is a fixture on Bold Street. The walls are lined with photos: Li with his first customers, Mei holding their newborn daughter (born in Liverpool in 2020), and a signed jersey from a local football fan who thanked Li for staying open during the COVID-19 lockdowns. During the pandemic, when most restaurants closed, Li started offering takeaway and delivery, donating 10% of his profits to the local hospital. “Liverpool helped me when I had nothing,” he says. “I wanted to give back.”
Li still struggles with some things—he gets nervous when health inspectors visit, and he still mixes up “less spicy” and “more spicy” sometimes—but he’s proud of what he’s built. His daughter, now 3, calls Liverpool “home” and loves helping him fold dumplings on weekends. Last month, Li hired his first employee: a 20-year-old Chinese student who wants to learn how to cook home-style food. “I never thought I’d be a boss,” Li laughs. “I just wanted to cook.”
On busy weekends, when the restaurant is filled with the clink of plates and the sound of customers chatting in English and Chinese, Li pauses for a moment by the window. He looks out at the bustling street—Liverpool’s red brick buildings, the street artists playing guitar, the people laughing—and thinks about how far he’s come. The wok is still hot, his hands are still calloused, but now, when he chops ginger and garlic at 5 a.m., he doesn’t just smell food—he smells home.
As he often tells Mei: “A good meal doesn’t just fill your stomach. It makes you feel like you belong.” In Liverpool, Li has made sure both he and his customers feel that way—one stir-fry at a time.