We don’t talk about the sister who left Vietnam in 1975 on a boat headed for a refugee camp, never to reappear on the other side. Together with their respective families, my dad and his little sister were the last relatives sponsored for immigration to America. In 1998, she brought over my dad and another aunt, their youngest sister. She worked over the following years to petition for my grandparents, then, slowly, the rest of her siblings. In 1974, the year before Saigon fell, she left Vietnam with her husband. We came to the country by way of my dad’s oldest sister, the aunt I consider to be our matriarch. My family settled in Glendale when I was 4 and Kenny still hadn’t been born, and a part of me has always wondered how our lives might have been different if we had moved to Chinatown after arriving in America.
#Lifeboat food how to#
We went once a month with our metal cart in tow, and since no one in the family knew how to drive (no one does still), the 20-minute trip turned into an hourlong journey from our corner of the San Fernando Valley toward Downtown Los Angeles, where Chinatown awaited us with more familiar grocery stores and food stands. The Dollar Menu was a tradition most Sundays, especially when our supply of Vietnamese ingredients was low and we were still planning our next bus trip to Chinatown. We never ordered sodas at McDonald’s, because according to my parents, why spend more when the 99 Cents Only Store sold 2-liter bottles for less? Plus, McDonald’s didn’t serve our favorite, orange Crush. My mom and brother were less picky, eating both without complaints. By the end of our McDonald’s meals, there was always a small mound of pickles in front of him. My dad’s favorite was the cheeseburger, though he scraped off each pickle slice before taking a bite. Peeling apart the damp wrapper revealed a toasted bun, lightly peppered chicken, shredded lettuce, and mayo - a combination that still tugs at my appetite today. I went for the McChickens, preferring breaded chicken breast to shrunken beef patty. With Kenny beside me, our leftover change in his pockets, we walked back to our apartment, accompanied by the jingling of coins and the sun setting over Los Angeles.Īt home, our family of four gathered around the coffee table as I unpacked the sandwiches one at a time. I had the honor of carrying our food home, its warmth spreading over my arms and chest as I hugged it against my body. Having confirmed the correct number of sandwiches, I placed each one back into the bag and we left. I counted while Kenny asked for more ketchup packets. “Make sure they don’t forget any,” my dad’s voice rang in my ears. Moments later, when the cashier returned with a large paper bag, I thanked him and brought it over to a table to count each item. Kenny and I watched as the workers assembled our meal, layering each ingredient with robotic precision. He eyed the two of us, a middle-school kid clutching a few $5 bills and her little tag-along with a bowl cut. “Eight McChicken sandwiches and six cheeseburgers, please,” I said to the cashier as Kenny hovered behind me. It unfurled into infinity behind the cashiers, offering McThis and McThat, but I was trained to focus only on the Dollar Menu, where I could find our trusted McChicken sandwiches and cheeseburgers, minus the Extra Value Meal upsells. I learned early on not to be overwhelmed by the menu in all its backlit glory. Usually filled with old men playing chess or teenagers crowded around Nintendo Game Boys, our McDonald’s was never empty.
Walk a handful of blocks east and you’ll hit KFC, Jack In The Box, Carl’s Jr., Domino’s, and Pizza Hut. We lived - and still live - in Glendale’s food swamp, where the inundation of fast food was too tempting to pass up. Situated at one of the busiest intersections in our town of Glendale, California, McDonald’s was sometimes more of a community space than it was a food source. When I see it today, I’m hit at once with nostalgia and remorse. I was so taken by the neon all over Los Angeles, but especially by the neon of McDonald’s. Nothing had been that bright in my family’s district in Saigon. Before the Burger King across the street became a Chase Bank, the red-and-gold glow of McDonald’s was rivaled only by Burger King’s towering red, yellow, and blue sign. I could smell it before we even reached the doors: hot oil and well-done meat mixed with ball-pit musk, back when McDonald’s PlayPlace was in its heyday. At 13, I carried the $15 my dad handed me while my brother Kenny, then 7, held onto a torn piece of lined paper with our order: eight McChicken sandwiches, six cheeseburgers, and - don’t forget! - a few handfuls of ketchup packets. Our family went so often that my parents eventually allowed us to walk there and back by ourselves. The first place we were allowed to go to alone was the McDonald’s around the corner.
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