For my last post, I will write about what I love most about food: eating it at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant with my family. This past Saturday, we all went to this place called Northern China Eatery, a tiny restaurant tucked away between a hair salon my mother frequents and a pawn shop on Buford Highway in Atlanta. Not a single white person was to be found--this was true regional Chinese cuisine at its most local and authentic. Families crowded around tables sprinkled haphazardly across the tiny space while we sat underneath a Budai altar, the incense sticks still smoking and recent.
Our server--a disheveled lady in a spotted apron--tossed us our menus. The food was split into several sections, ranging from "Breakfast" items to "Noodles." Indra ordered his usual: a bowl of beef noodle soup, a requisite at every Chinese restaurant worth its salt. Father called for fried pork dumplings and jajangmyun (black bean noodles). Mother had a vegetable sao bing (fried-bread-on-bread sandwich) while I wanted salted douhua and steamed pork buns. My mouth is watering just recalling that Saturday lunch. One of the plates the food came in had a reindeer design on the bottom.
In the end, we polished off every thing we ordered plus a kettle of hot tea. As we waddled out the door, I swiped a menu and the restaurant's number, determined to make a second appearance when time--and budget--allowed it.
