In the slushy fresh snow as I crossed the parking lot I couldn’t help but remember the little Chinese restaurant I used to visit on snow days or sick days when I was a kid. It was a tradition for my mom, Aunt Vicky, and my Grandma Tarbox to come together when it was cold or we had a cold to eat together at the little Chinese restaurant called the Mandarin Inn.
This little restaurant was located downtown and was rarely busy. As we opened the heavy wooden doors our eyes had to adjust to the dim lighting as our senses awakened to the sound of the trickling fountain and oriental music. The smell of sautéed meat and steamed vegetables filled the air.
After being seated at the table our tummies would rumble as my mother, aunt, and grandma would chatter in excitement. We were excited to have a taste of the hot mustard along with the egg drop soup, the fresh eggs rolls, and the warm crab rangoons. The hot tea served in a small metal pot seemed to flow unending into the mini china tea cups placed before us.
As the food was ordered we pleasantly awaited the main dishes. We munched on the egg rolls and sipped the warm soup. Each feeling the warmth drive out the cold day. Looking around at these women I resembled, I took in their stories and enjoyed their laughter. Over time I grew from a little girl to a teenager, and one day as we pulled up to our meeting place we discovered it was no longer open.
Time had changed our tradition as we also found ourselves changed. It has been years since I gathered with my little clan to enjoy the hot mustard over the warm dishes served with chopsticks. As I trudged through the freshly fallen snow I longed for those little snow covered meetings again.
I am now the age my mother was when she drove us to meet Aunt and Grandmother. Inspired by the memory I decide to gather my family for a little Chinese meal. I visualized the little restaurant I had passed many times, Yen Ching. Like the Mandarin Inn, it seemed to hold the special touch of the authentic experience I remembered. I suddenly notice that I was humming at the very thought of enjoying a Chinese meal on a slushy winter day. Could this little restaurant have the hot mustard I remembered so clearly? The hot mustard’s spices somehow traveled like fire all the way up my sinuses, bringing tears to my eyes. With a giggle, I invited the family to take a trip in hopes that they too could share in this strange but wonderful experience.
Pulling up to “Yen Ching” we were happy to discover there was plenty of room for us. A teenage girl seated us in a corner booth. There was no trickling fountain or cultural music, but they served us egg rolls, crab rangoons, hot egg drop soup and delicious Chinese dishes over a hot cup of oolong tea. I challenged everyone to try the hot mustard. As they grimaced I laughed like a little child at an amusement park. We finally gathered for a little meal on a snowy day as a family. Though they didn't like the hot mustard (I forgive them) it made this snow day perfect.
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