As I began my walk home from East Harlem, I felt a sudden, fierce craving for Chinese food. These cravings aren't rare occurrences, and I believe they are partially fueled by the cheap and easy availability of Chinese takeout in New York. However, lately I find the craving especially potent when I yearn for some kind of comfort food, and as I am not a native of the Orient (sorry, I know that term is politically incorrect) that feels sort of odd. Upon further contemplation, though, I realized it is perfectly logical that I should gravitate toward saucy rice dishes when I want something homey and familiar.
I'm sure the Chinese takeout I frequent most regularly (I think it is calling Jin Xiao) is far from authentic cuisine, but I don't think authentic cuisine would be as comforting.
When I was in grade school, my dad started work as a server at a restaurant called China Lily. Naturally, we used to go there ALL THE TIME. We got in the habit of calling Sweet & Sour Chicken "Chinese Chicken Nuggets." Later we would joke that my sister was weaned on egg drop soup. My dad worked there for 6 years. My mom also would pick up some weekend shifts. Often they both worked Fridays and Saturdays, and when we were too young to be trusted at home alone, our parents would tote my brother, sister and I, and we would stay in a small apartment above the restaurant where the cooks lived. I remember watching the Star Wars trilogy in that dank apartment. Eventually, my parents allowed me to be the steward of my siblings and left me alone to watch over them at home while they worked the weekend.
I remember on one occasion where I was allowed to look after my brother and sister, they tied me to a desk with tape.
But when my parents would return home after that weekend shift their uniforms (light blue button-up shirts and khaki pants) carried a strong stench of Chinese food.
After those six years, my dad decided to return to the profession he'd been trained for in college and became a middle school math teacher. There was a famine of Chinese food in my life until I was a high school student and my parents unpredictably enough decided to open up their own Chinese restaurant. (At this point one should note, that as far as we can trace, we carry no hint of Asian ancestry). We were reunited with an unlimited supply of Americanized Chinese food, and you can bet that we consumed fried rice, chow mein, curried noodles, beef and broccoli, black pepper chicken, salt and pepper chicken, kung pao, and shanghai noodles like there was no tomorrow. But, the time of our Chinese restaurant was short-lived. Even though our Chinese dishes could be ordered with pizza and both would be delivered to your door in the Payson suburbs, business never took off. (Once one of my classmates mentioned how peculiar it was that the only Chinese restaurant in the town--at the time--was owned by white people).
As I reflect on all this, it doesn't seem peculiar that Chinese food should be what I crave after a long day when thoughts, questions and insecurities occupy my mind.
In reflecting on all of this, I also have immense respect for my parents and all that they've done in their lives. What sort of crazy people open a Chinese restaurant when they are not Chinese? My parents are bold and brave people, that is for sure.
For now, I will just shovel this food into my mouth and let it eradicate my hunger and all of my unanswered questions--just for a moment.
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