You know it. As soon as you open the door, a tinkling chime announcing your presence, you know it. Even if it’s your first time stepping foot over this entrance, you know it. Because, in a way, this is your thousandth visit. Your bones recognize it before your eyes do, relaxing in reunion. Because, in a way, this is your home. You grew up here, or in some iteration of here, an alternate universe blip. You could comfortably navigate this building blindfolded, although you’ve never been here before. If you could, you’d bottle the scent of this place and wear it as perfume, so with every breath you could be transported back here. You’re inside a Chinese restaurant.
As you enter the building, a warm, amber glow washes over you. Red paper lanterns hang from the mahogany ceiling rafters, swaying softly despite the absence of wind, even though it’s April and Chinese New Year was two months ago. These lanterns never come down, leaving this place trapped in some constant, liminal space of holiday cheer. Yellowing newspaper clippings are tacked onto the wall in black frames, with a review from 2014 raving about this place having the best new cuisine. There’s a row of plaques proudly stating that it’s been voted the best Chinese restaurant by your town’s local newspaper, but they taper off at some year, as if this place has left excellence in the rearview, perpetually past its “golden age”.
Tucked into the corner of the restaurant, right next to the door, is an empty bar. Dozens of bottles of different colors catch the light in a liquid rainbow. Today, it is eerily silent, housing only a Chinese auntie with crows feet tight around her eyes polishing glasses until they gleam, but you know tomorrow it’ll be packed. Middle-aged white fathers will be out in force, wearing dirty blue jeans and sweat-stained t-shirts. They’ll crash over each other trying to obtain seats for Sunday Night Football. With each ice cold glass of beer, they’ll grow ruddy in the face, wiping their necks with the back of their hands. The restaurant will slowly come alive, raucous and teeming with energy. Voices swell to a cacophony as the men clamber to talk over each other, belly-laughing at every joke. They throw down crumpled dollar bills as bets on the game and call for another round and a plate of fried rice. Suddenly, the announcers on the TV will begin shouting with excitement, and the whole room will go quiet, trembling with anticipation. Some boy on the screen, maybe a rookie, maybe a veteran, goes flying across the field, never hesitating until he crashes into the end zone. For one moment, there is an almost mythical silence among the group, as they inhale with one collective pair of lungs, before exploding into sound, the building trembling with cheers. It doesn’t matter which team scored the touchdown, because the excitement itself is worth celebration. The bartender breaks out into a smirk, and you notice that she pours a little extra into each cup, “on the house 呀.” This cycle, one you have witnessed with awe since you clutched your tiny palm in your mother’s hand as she first led you through, repeats over and over like clockwork each week. It feels like a fly preserved in amber; while the rest of the world keeps moving at breakneck pace, this moment stays eternal, a scene trapped, then rewound, on the tape of these thin, white walls.
As you tear your eyes away from the bar, your gaze catches on the reception desk. Guava candies and lollipops sit in a clear glass try. The candies, wrapped in gleaming foil, shine like jewels in the lamplight, your own personal treasure trove. As a child, you would grab fistfulls and shove them into your coat pocket, trying to hide from your mom. You knew you’d be scolded for your thievery; she’d yank them out of your sweaty palms and deposit them into her handbag, so they could be enjoyed later as dessert rather than your intended appetizer. All of the sudden, you’re jolted out of your reminiscing. “几位？” how many, the hostess asks. “一位,” stumbles clumsily out of your mouth, unfamiliar to your tongue. Normally it would be 四or at least 两. Still, you are not here alone. Your mom is here, your dad, your best friend, some family friend you’ve only met once, all of them silently trail behind you. They exist here in fragments, like ghosts tethered to one old mortal haunt, framed in red lantern haze. The hostess nods, grabbing a menu and leading you to a corner booth with plush cushions that sag from years of guests.
As you sit down at the table, your eyes scan for the familiarity of the restaurant that colored your childhood. There are subtle differences, echoes of it here and there; the plastic flowers placed at your table, somehow looking wilted, are daisies, not roses, and your chopsticks are made of a dark wood, instead of the cheap pairs you would break apart that splintered in your hands. As you crack open the menu, a thick booklet with each sheet of paper encased in plastic, your eyes are accosted with characters you don’t know. The pages are stuffed, margins non-existent, and your head begins to swim from the overstimulation. When you used to come “here”, your parents would order without even glancing at the menu, so rehearsed they are in this dance. The dishes would come out one by one on steaming plates. Thin slivers of ground pork stir fried with bamboo shoots, delicate fish fillet steaming in a porcelain bowl, drowning in crimson chili oil and sichuan peppercorns. And your favorite, 牛肉面, thick chunks of beef and slippery noodles laying pristine in an umami rich broth, viridian green bok choy peeping through like the sun breaking up clouds on the warmest spring day.
When you finally order, it’s based solely off of muscle memory, your mouth forming phrases that you don’t even know how to translate, hoping said dishes are on the menu. Of course, they are, and you can feel the relief tremoring through you. You still have it, you can still walk into a Chinese restaurant and come out with a meal sans English. As you heap spoonfuls onto your plate, you observe your fellow diners. In one corner sits a grandma and grandpa with matching white manes, sharing a heaping platter of chow mein. They’ve probably been coming here for over a decade, have seen the tablecloths fray over the years, creamy white threads turning tan. In a booth not dissimilar to yours, a young couple tries with no success to reign in their giggling children. Their daughter could be your childhood photos come to life, jet black hair scrunched into pigtails, two front teeth missing. Next to her, her brother has his knees tucked up towards his chest, upon which is propped an Ipad, scrolling through prank Youtube videos.
There’s a startling realization for you then; this is their original. Maybe, one day, they will do the exact same thing you are doing today, and seek refuge in the restaurant of your youth. Nothing but an imitation, but somehow, it’ll evoke the exact same feeling as this place did for them.
They’ll return to this exact moment, when they were together, stuck in this fragile safe haven of identity.
Quietly, you finish off your meal, picking up the last individual granules of rice, wiping the corner of your mouth with a cloth napkin. Once again, you see your life reflected in the contour lines of this building. As you polished off your plate, the owner of the restaurant should’ve come over. A middle-aged woman wearing a floral blouse, she excitedly greets your parents. They call her “big sister”, 大姐, and reassure her that the food is delicious. Just as the lull of their chatter begins to make your eyelids fall, she turns toward you and ruffles your hair.
“Aiya,” she professes, “the kids grow taller every day.” You beam at the recognition, and your parents laugh in agreement. That’s not happening here, but it did happen here, not to you, but someone somehow you all the same.
As you exit the building to the dim lights of the parking lot, a chilly breeze nipping at your face, you give it one more long look. Through the window, a thousand scenes are played at once, colors flashing forward on a film strip. This is the only place where you can rewind time, or rather swim through it, as your entire life can be captured through the moments here. With a sigh, you turn away, its mythical glow fading slowly behind you. But, you’re not going home. You don’t have to go home, because you’ll already be home, right here, as long as you’re in a Chinese restaurant.
Chloe Zhang is a writer and high school junior from New Hampshire. Her work has been recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists and Writers and the Juniper Institute for Young Writers. When she isn’t writing, you can often find her baking with music blasting, curled up in her bed with a good book, or, regrettably, doomscrolling.