Growing up in a Chinese restaurant, I had two homes. In many ways, my second home, the restaurant, resembled a real house: it had a kitchen, a dining room, bedrooms, and a front yard—that is, if booths are beds and if parking lots count as grassy lawns. Memories also fill this home: eating fried rice here stopped my crying when I moved to Mississippi; bus #11 dropped me off here from kindergarten onwards; celebrating Lunar New Year here taught me about Chinese culture and traditions. Five places in particular truly made this home. Or as TikTok would say, “five places in New China Restaurant that just make sense.” Let me walk you through them.
欢迎光临, welcome. First stop, the entrance.
1. The Entrance
With just a neon OPEN sign hanging beside the door, the entrance is unassuming. Prior to the pandemic, a little more than 200 people would walk through the door each day and, about 45 minutes later, walk out. Most people gave little thought to the entrance, but to me, it was a physical separation between Petal, Mississippi and my family. Outside, I was Danny, who spoke English and said “yes ma’am” and “yes sir.” Inside, I was Wei Tian, who spoke a dialect of Chinese and only spoke English to customers. But more importantly, the entrance was also a window into my world, both physically and metaphorically. When I say window, I mean an (almost) literal window; the door and surrounding panes were completely made of glass. Walking in and out, 200 people a day have watched me grow up. There's something vulnerable about growing up in public. But something special, too. Regulars have followed my adventures, and I theirs.
2. The Kitchen
Right after the entrance, you’ll see what made New China Restaurant a restaurant: the kitchen. It leaves little to be desired, with woks on woks on woks and a walk-in cooler that provides refuge on hot, humid summer days. I’ll have to admit that I’ve never been the best cook though—just ask my fire alarm or any of my roommates. In fact, one of my first times cooking at the restaurant involved the phrase “don’t pour water into grease,” (luckily I started no fires) a veryemphatic one at that. After this setback, I didn't try to learn how to cook again, which my parents seemed content with, almost too content. But things changed the summer before college when I realized that 1,000 miles would soon separate me from my parents' cooking. That summer, I finally took my second shot in the kitchen, and I learned some of my parents' best recipes, including eggplant with garlic sauce, tomato egg, and short ribs.
3. The Front Counter
Stepping back out into the dining room, we’ll pass the front counter, where I spent the majority of the time working. The question I got asked the most was “aren’t you a little young to be working?” As a nine-year-old who could barely see over the counter, I agreed. Over the years, the questions became less about my age and more about our lives. In a small town of 10,000, it was easy to follow along to customers' stories, from engagements to pregnancies to graduations, and my family listened intently as they beamed with pride. All the while, customers closely tracked my sister, brother, and my progress through school and congratulated my mom when she became a U.S. citizen. But it wasn't just milestones; offhand stories and advice on girls were common. I don't remember every story, but I do remember the emotions and warmth they have evoked since childhood.
4. The Table
In the restaurant, tables are identified by a letter, A-D, and a number, 1-6. My favorite was the one closest to the front counter, A1. I sat here after school every day doing homework as I kept an eye on the counter. I laid my head down on the cold surface here after playing outside. Most of all, it was a place of gathering. On weeknights, my siblings and I ate dinner at home while my parents worked, and other meals depended on the number of customers in the restaurant. On Fridays and Saturdays, though, my family always ate together, no matter how busy or how late. For me, A1 meant consistency and family cohesion.
5. The Dessert Bar
Last but not least, the dessert bar is just a few steps away from A1, right beside the ice cream machine. The dessert bar itself was never meaningful to me, but I grew to find significance in the desserts themselves. Unlike our other buffet lines—where there were typical dishes you’d find in a Chinese restaurant like General Tso’s Chicken, Crab Rangoons, and Lo Mein—the dessert bar included both Chinese and American desserts. We had Chinese pastries alongside brownies and five-spice peanuts with chocolate chip cookies. Not only did we have soy and duck sauce, but we also had ketchup. For me, the dessert bar was a physical representation of my Chinese identity fusing with my American identity.
Looking back, I’ve grown up in New China, but more so, I’ve grown up because of New China. My parents' long shifts meant that I had to learn how to be independent. On the nights after band competitions and concerts, I found ways to safely get home; at open houses, I met with my teachers and collected forms by myself. These five places won't follow me in the future, but the comfort, curiosity, and autonomy they have evoked since childhood will.
After dessert, 45 minutes have usually passed. Customers walk past A1 and the front counter and through the glass door, ready to come back the next week.