Interviewing People Who Don’t Want to Be Interviewed

One of the aspects I enjoy most about nonfiction writing is interviewing people from all walks of life. Each person offers a different perspective—not only on a particular subject, but often on life itself. A great interview can redirect a story or even offer ideas for new ones.

(10 Interviewing Tips for Journalists.)

In my 25 years as a freelance writer, I’ve had the pleasure of interviewing a wide range of people, mostly in the culinary arts, entertainment, and business worlds. Some folks are natural storytellers, and my interviews feel more like conversations that flow steadily and easily. Others feel nervous about being interviewed, or their attention is pulled in a multitude of directions, so it’s my job to make them feel at ease while gathering salient quotes.

But I hadn’t encountered anyone who didn’t think they had anything valuable to say. Not until Peter.

Peter Huey was in his 90s when I interviewed him in 2017. He had immigrated to the U.S. in 1950 from Hong Kong. Along with his nephew, Peter owned and operated Won Kow, the oldest restaurant in Chicago’s Chinatown at the time (it has since closed).

I had interviewed other business owners and community leaders throughout Chinatown for my story on Won Kow, but my interviews with Peter Huey, I hoped, would be the centerpiece. I called him at the restaurant, where he still worked every day, to schedule our first in-person chat. After I offered some possible dates and times, there was a pause on the phone.

“You don’t think you can find anybody better than me, huh?”

I was stunned. Anybody better? In my mind, Peter was indeed a valuable historian. The Chinese-American Museum of Chicago even expressed interest in archiving my interviews with him. Peter had started as a server at Won Kow in 1950 and was still there, nearly 70 years later. No! I wanted to shout. There isn’t anyone better!

I assured him, as best I could, that his experiences were vital to the restaurant’s history, and he reluctantly agreed to meet me at Won Kow the following week.

Our first interview was awkward. Peter deflected every single question about his past, his family, his staff, or his life in China. I have spent over a decade of my life interviewing restaurateurs for features and guidebooks. Most are grateful for the press and are generous with their time. I’ve only had one restaurateur refuse an interview, out of hundreds. I have learned to navigate language and cultural barriers, and maneuver around the harried restaurant life. I am always respectful of their time and try to get in and out as quickly as possible.

Peter was gracious but guarded, and looked nervously around the restaurant while we were talking, as though guilty of something. The wide cultural gap between us felt insurmountable. I was able to get some vital information, but not much detail, so we scheduled a follow-up.

At the next interview, Peter showed up with a Won Kow menu he had found in the building’s basement. It was dated 1928.

“Can you use this in your book?” he asked brightly. I took this as a sign he was becoming more comfortable and persisted with my questions. He still dodged and ducked, but we were headed in the right direction. I asked for another chat the following week.

On our third interview, Peter handed over an entire file of recipe cards he had found in Won Kow’s bar when he bought the building with his brother in 1970. These were original, handwritten recipes for some of the first tiki drinks in Chicago—maybe in America. I took a few photos with my cell, gave the box back to him, urging him to keep it in a safe place, and got my publisher to request written permission to reprint a couple in the book. But I still wasn’t making much progress in getting him to talk about his life, his family, or the history of the neighborhood. I could barely get him to talk about the menu and where he sourced the ingredients, or how his customer base had evolved over the years. He just couldn’t fathom why he was interesting. I felt stuck.

Around the same time, I was taking a course at the Chicago History Museum to discuss Studs Terkel’s book, The Good War. Our teacher was Peter Alter, Director of the Studs Terkel Center for Oral History, so I knew we were in capable hands as we tackled this epic work.

At the end of our first class, which I had taken for fun, Alter assigned homework—an interview with a veteran. I eagerly dove into the assignment, which was well within my comfort zone. I wound up interviewing my niece, and walked away with what I felt was a compelling and fascinating account of her military service during the Iraqi War.

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I had hardly glanced at the resources Alter handed out to help us with this assignment—excerpts from Doing Oral History, by Donald A. Ritchie, and Oral History for Texans, by Thomas L. Charlton.

At our next class, Alter reviewed the Charlton handout. Most of it, on interviewing techniques, was Journalism 101 to me: how to use closed questions, open-ended questions, and a balance of both when interviewing subjects. But one interviewing technique, the use of seven different “probes,” caught my attention. Per Charlton, these are “questions and statements that probe what has been said.” Probes are used to persuade a respondent to “reach back in memory for additional, more specific information.”1

I had been using some of the seven probes on instinct. But the “silent probe” was particularly intriguing. In a nutshell, interviewers using this technique remain silent after a respondent answers a question. This silence sometimes allows the respondent the opportunity to ponder the question more fully, and may continue to talk, unsolicited. I decided to give it a try at what I hoped was my final interview with Peter Huey.

The next time I saw him, we sat at our usual table at Won Kow, in between lunch and dinner service, Peter with his mug of tea, me with a glass of ice water, my cell phone recording audio between us.

I once again asked him more about his history as a restaurateur in Chicago. I sipped at my water and let silence hang in the air after he offered his usual, brief answer. As we sat, I became more acutely aware of the sounds around me; employees were clearing dishes from tables nearby, and the overhead music played ‘80s hits. After about a 30-second pause, Peter started talking spontaneously with a story of his past, instead of his usual stiff answer. I felt a surge of elation.

I tried it again, asking him how Chinatown had evolved in the nearly 70 years he had lived there. Again, he gave a short answer, then elaborated after my silence. Over and over, I let these silent probes do their work, and our conversation continued for over an hour. Though Peter still looked nervously around him from time to time, his body relaxed in the chair. He crossed his legs, leaned back, and folded his arms, sometimes getting lost in his thoughts. He smiled more. I had to stop the recording to save the file and start a new one several times, since I’ve learned—the hard way—to break up long interviews with several recordings in case one file gets damaged or deleted.

Peter wasn’t offering anything I considered juicy or scandalous. It was fairly standard information about anyone’s history. But I respected the fact that it was probably the most personal information he’d ever given to someone outside his community. I considered it an honor.

I thanked Peter for his time, then gathered up my belongings and prepared to leave, somewhat exhausted by our long talk. It was a late winter afternoon and would soon be dark; I wanted to get home before Chicago rush hour traffic hit. Ever the gentleman, Peter stood up, ready to walk me out. I wish I could end this story on that victorious note.

“You aren’t going to use any of that, are you?”

My heart fell into my shoes. I stared hard at the floor, trying to avoid expressing the frustration that flooded my body. Peter looked scared, nervous. He had signed a release that gave me permission to use the images and interviews I gathered. I had every right to use them in my book.

But I didn’t. It became abundantly clear to me that he was conflicted about sharing what I felt were somewhat mundane details about his life. I agreed to only use our earlier interviews, before our breakthrough that long afternoon, out of respect for someone who was in unchartered waters.

I felt deflated as I filed our conversation under “personal.” At least I had grown as a writer by learning to use silent probes for more spontaneous, interesting interviews. I’d have to write my story on Won Kow without what I felt were more interesting details about Peter’s life and Chinatown’s history, and accept the day for what it was—an afternoon with someone whose comfort zone only extended to the dry facts. Someone who revealed himself as a storyteller, if only for a couple of hours, if only for my ears.

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1. Charlton, Thomas L. 1985. Oral History for Texans, Second Edition. Austin, TX: Texas Historical Commission.

Author’s Note: Peter Huey passed away in 2022, after several decades as a restaurateur.