Driving into Chinatown with my dad

Every few weeks, my dad drove into Boston’s Chinatown, to refill the shelves of his store.

It was a treat to be asked to go with him, to enter a different world for an afternoon. When the streets narrowed and the pay phone booths were styled like pagodas, I knew we had arrived. 

Some of his destinations changed over the years, but we always went to Jimmy Yee’s. My dad walked in confidently, collecting items in his shopping cart, bantering with Jimmy and his wife (I forget her name!). I trailed along after him tentatively, scanning the aisles for the jelly candies with edible wrappers that my dad always treated me to. There were lobsters in a tank, animal parts in a deli case. It was damp inside, I think. 

My dad was known here, at a place I hadn’t known existed. 

Sometimes we would end the trip at China Pearl for dum sum. We’d walk up a long flight of stairs into a dining room bursting with people and carts. Camped at a table, we’d watch for a cart to come near and my dad would peek at its contents before he’d nod or pass. Usually he nodded. When we were full, we stopped peeking. What a thing. 

I’ve read that Chinatown in Boston is shrinking. I hope not too much. My dad and I had great adventures there.