When I was a kid, Chinese food was Chop Suey, served warm and fresh from a can. I remember dodging lots of water chestnuts in an effort to uncover tiny shreds of meat that justified use of the word “chicken” on the label. The best part of the whole meal was the topping of “noodles” which were not actually noodles at all, but tiny strips of crunchy pastry. Years later, my grandmother would introduce me to another, even tastier, use for Chinese noodles. After melting equal parts of chocolate and butterscotch chips in a double-boiler, she stirred in a package of noodles and dropped the mess by heaping spoonfuls on waxed paper. The finished product was called a “haystack” which quickly became a mainstay of childhood Christmases…but I digress.
While in college, my friends and I discovered this great little place in a strip-mall where four or five of us would meet for lunch. The “special” was a combination plate which offered a choice of two entrees, rice, soup, and eggroll. Everyone ordered something different and we shared. The price was reasonable, and there was so much food that we easily got by on just one meal a day.
As the mother of growing boys during the 1990’s, I welcomed the advent of the Chinese buffet. Not only could my sons eat until they were full for one low price, but the proprietors played to their audience by almost always filling a tray or two with traditional American favorites, such as pizza or french fries.
Saturdays usually began with a weekly visit to a local flea market that spanned an entire city block. My friend Hallie usually accompanied us and, fortunately, she too enjoyed Chinese food. After stowing our finds in the trunk of my car, we headed all the way across town for China Star Buffet. I’m sure it comes as no surprise to hear that this was the highlight of the trip for the kids.
The place was cavernous in more ways than one, as muted lighting camouflaged stains on the garishly colored, indoor-outdoor carpeting padding the seating area. My children’s behinds never even grazed the top of the tattered, vinyl-covered booth before heading for the brightly-lit, tiled buffet area at a controlled gallop. A row of six stainless steel buffet tables reflected light from exposed bulbs. in a manner that I suppose was meant to compliment the colorful display of food. The kids always made for the pizza first, before attacking the pan of beer-battered chicken, meant to be covered with sticky sweet-and-sour sauce. The last two buffets featured piles of freshly cut fruit and a full salad bar. My children’s feet never touched the tiles surrounding them.
Hallie and I also worked together, and often lunched at a more upscale establishment featuring an awning supported by four huge, gilded columns sprouting from the backs of statuesque lions. The food at Peking was considerably better than that enjoyed at China Star Buffet, which sat just around the corner. I’m sure it was this proximity that provoked Peking to install a lunch buffet. Theirs, however, was much smaller and featured only the food Americans think of as Chinese which one would never actually find in a restaurant in China. There was not a slice of pizza in sight.
When my oldest son, Josh, decided he liked his girlfriend enough to introduce her to his parents he requested we meet at Hong Kong Buffet; China Star Buffet being out of the question, as I had by now returned to Atlanta. Hong Kong Buffet had, apparently, purchased carpeting from the same manufacturer as China Star Buffet, and it was interesting to finally see what it looked like under sufficient lighting to confirm that it was indeed possible to remove stains made by toddlers flinging foods soaked in red sauces.
Josh’s girlfriend, Heather, and I returned to our assigned booth at the same time with similar looking plates of which the largest portion was covered by a gooey, cheesy, crab concoction. Well, I say crab. In truth, the chef had made no effort to hide the tell-tale, dye-reddened edges of faux crab he had sautéed with onions and butter, before swaddling the mix in an unnamed, but sinfully delicious, white cheese sauce. We shoveled the greasy mess into our mouths simultaneously, groaned at the same time, and shared a smile.
Shane and Roger, carrying platefuls of saucy meats and pastry encased cheese, soon joined us. Several mouthfuls later, we realized that Josh was missing. Scanning the stainless steel maze of buffets, I found him standing amidst a group of large African-American women holding empty plates while looking hungrily towards the swinging door that led to the kitchen; or as I thought of it at the time, Mecca. I could see the resolve on my son’s face as he tightened his grip on a single, thick, white, ceramic plate while staring into an empty, steaming bin where crab-legs used to be. He was first in line, and he would not be moved.
A swath of yellow light assaulted the colorful carpeting as the kitchen door swung wide, revealing a small, dark-haired woman of oriental descent who bent one knee just as the door began to arc back in her direction. The door stopped, and she gave it a little kick before entering the dining room. carrying a steaming metal dish in the direction of the buffets. Several of the women surrounding my son began to stir; their plates balanced precariously on multi-colored talons above their carefully coiffed, swiveling heads. Joshua’s eyes remained trained on the steaming hole before him.
The dark-haired serving girl cut her eyes in the direction of the milling crowd surrounding the space where crab-legs used to be, and shooting an apologetic smile in their direction, made for an adjacent buffet. Several of the women leaned in her direction, as though fearful she had taken a wrong turn, or planned a covert dump in a different pan. As she began to scoop greasy, green onion fronds mixed with bits of beef through the steam, they settled back into position, training their eyes once again on the nautically-inspired steel door.
Several minutes later, as I wiped oily remnants of crab casserole from the corners of my mouth with a napkin that definitely wasn’t cloth but wasn’t exactly paper, Josh returned to the table, slightly out of breath.
“Here…”, he growled, shoving a plated mound of steaming, orange crab legs between two sweating glasses of sweet tea. Before we could thank him, he was gone again.
I turned to see him pull a plate from the buffet and hand it to a large, blonde woman sporting a Dallas Cowboy’s jersey. Grabbing another, he meandered through the buffet maze, stopping occasionally to spoon food onto his plate. When he returned, several of his precious crab legs had been reduced to orange-colored shards.
Sighing heavily, Josh sunk into the booth beside his girlfriend and in the same motion lifted a bundle of swaddled cutlery.
Leaning in her direction he stage whispered, “Watch that door!”, motioning with his fork towards the swinging door to Mecca. “I’ll have to get up there fast if we’re going to get anymore.”
*******
Sometimes even twelve-year-old boys are needy. Take last weekend…
It wasn’t anything he said. He went about his normal routine, but something in his demeanor told me Shane needed one-on-one time; the kind you find under an immense, sparkling chandelier in a Chinese buffet. This one was called Asia Buffet and featured hand-rolled sushi and made-to-order stir fry.
“Hey?” I called out from the next room.
Shane gathered his limbs, which he had sprawled across a recliner while watching a football game.
“Yeah?”
“You hungry?”
The question warranted standing, as he answered. “Yeah!”
“Chinese buffet?”
“Cool! Let me get my shoes!”
And, I realized then that many of my family’s most pleasant memories come with eggroll.
Are We There Yet? 