“It was always a special occasion when we went to Sizzler. We didn't have to share anything, we could eat as much as we wanted, and we never fought”
, Eater's essay series exploring essential roles played in our lives by chain restaurants—great and grim, wonderful and terrible. Here, writer and artist Cecilia Hae-Jin Lee on strangeness, familiarity, and all-you-can-eat salad bars.in the late 1970s. We left behind our friends, our family, our language, our customs and everything we knew.
We had been preparing for the trip for months, maybe years. Time is fuzzy when you're that young, and the days roll into weeks. But somehow the preparations ended, and the day itself had come. I don't remember when the important announcement was made that we were leaving, but I'm sure it must've been at dinner. Dinner was when my dad made all his important declarations. A decision was made by the adults, and then at dinner, the children were informed.
The bed experiment did not go so well for me. I was a most active sleeper. I tossed and turned and spun. Sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night to find myself upside-down, my head where my feet had been, but it had never been a problem when we slept on the floor. Sleeping in the bed, I fell off with a thud. The next morning, my mom found me safe and warm between my siblings on the floor on top of the usual thick blankets. She didn't ask me to sleep on the bed again.
My sister closed the door. I opened the door again and looked at it. When our mom came home, we asked her what it was. She said it wasInside the paper was another brick, bright yellow-orange and vacuum-sealed in plastic. We had never seen food that color before. We had never eaten anything that perfectly geometric. It sat in our fridge for days, like an unwelcome guest that never said anything. It just sat there without a word of explanation. We had staring contests every day.
After a brief nap, I left my seat to explore the plane on my own. I remember a spiral staircase that lead up to a circular opening on the top level, where there was a bar full of American adults smoking and drinking. They said something to me in English, but I couldn't understand them. Then they laughed, which was worse. They were probably telling me I shouldn't be there, and I should go back down. I ran back to the safety of my family.
When we walked into the restaurant, I watched the other diners to see how to use a fork and a knife. I was twelve years old, but I never used one before; we had used only spoons and chopsticks our entire lives. We had one, singular fork in our house, which made its way from drawer to drawer, never quite finding a home in any of them.
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