Christmas Story Chop Suey Palace home of the Chinese turkey shirt

Christmas Story Chop Suey Palace home of the Chinese turkey shirt

The old neon sign of Christmas Story Chop Suey Palace home of the Chinese turkey shirt always hummed a comforting tune, a familiar beacon on those long, dark drives home after a late shift at the hospital. I can still picture the red and gold script, flickering a little, as if the letters were whispering secrets only the night knew. Growing up, my family would go there maybe once or twice a month, it was a special treat, a step above the usual pizza night we’d have on Fridays. The place had this distinct smell, a mix of soy sauce, fried things, and a hint of something floral – maybe the air freshener they used, or perhaps the scent of Aunt Millie’s perfume from the booth beside us last time, I don’t know.

That turkey bowling, though… I never really got the hang of it, always aiming a little too far to the left, sending the turkey spinning into the gutter, which always earned me a teasing glance from my older brother, David. He was a natural, of course, probably knocked down the pins every single time; he just had a knack for most things, unfortunately. Mom always got the sweet and sour pork, Dad loved the egg rolls, and I always, always had the General Tso’s chicken, drenched in the rich, slightly spicy sauce.

I swear, the plates always seemed to be piled high with food, overflowing with steaming rice and those perfectly fried noodles. We’d always order way too much, and then we’d end up taking home doggie bags filled with leftovers, that were somehow even tastier the next day. The booths were red vinyl, slightly worn, but comfortable, especially on those rainy evenings. I remember one time, the waitress, a woman named Mrs. Chen, who had a kind smile and spoke with a gentle cadence, brought us the wrong order. She apologized profusely, even though it was hardly a big deal, and brought the correct dishes quickly.

Those little things, the missteps, they made the place feel so real, so grounded. It wasn’t some fancy, high-end restaurant; it was a place where ordinary families could gather, share stories, and just…be. The clatter of cutlery, the low hum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter – all blended into the soundtrack of my childhood. We celebrated birthdays there, anniversaries, and even, sadly, a few quiet moments of grief, where comfort food felt like a warm embrace.

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