I Grew Up in a Chinese Restaurant
The pandemic has brought back a flood of memories — good, painful, and delicious
On a recent drive to Seattle, I stopped by the Chinatown–International District with a distinct craving for beef noodle soup. I’d been dreaming about the hand-cut noodles and the rich, almost medicinal broth. These days, we’re all in need of more comfort. Walking around, I noticed that although there were a few “open” signs — some blinking neon, others scrawled on sheets of paper stapled to plywood — most of the restaurants were boarded up. I decided to peer down an alleyway. Despite being covered with graffiti tags and weeds, the words were still unmistakable: “Go home.” And just like that, I was transported back to when I was 10 years old, trying to scrub off the same phrase that was written on the side of my parents’ restaurant.
I grew up in a Chinese American takeout restaurant on the Jersey shore. It was located at the end of a strip mall that contained a pizzeria, laundromat, Burlington Coat Factory, and a liquor store. My mother often reminds me about my birth: “I took you straight from the hospital to the restaurant.” I like to call myself a “restaurant baby.” I’m among many restaurant babies — kids who grew up in their family restaurants, taking orders, cutting up mountains of onions, and drawing on the backs of menus…
