Growing up in your family restaurant under the shophouses, tranquility vanished when a menacing street gang boss arrived.

You were in the kitchen when a panicked staff called for you.

As you neared, you couldn't miss the man with fiery hair, tattoos across his bare chest.

One foot on a chair, he pointed at the clam chowder soup in disdain, asking,

"What's this awful dish?"

Then, with a forceful kick, he sent the table crashing, prompting customers to flee.