Eight years ago, I sat on my brother’s feather-covered couch, flipping through a pile of takeout menus. No, he didn’t have a bird; he just owned an overly stuffed down feather couch that he got off the street — because this is San Francisco. That couch was now my bed, this city my home.
After moving from upstate New York, I found myself in a new city with no friends. In times of boredom or loneliness, I turn to food, and this situation was no different.
From visiting my brother in the past, I was familiar with Chinese food favorite Big Lantern. I dug around for the menu and rejoiced to find the restaurant still existed. I called in an order and spent the night shoveling syrupy golden morsels.
A month later, I got my own place in the Richmond. I swapped the down couch for a down coat. On one particularly lonely night, when I could stomach only so much Dateline, I turned to an old friend.
“Big Lantern. Can I help you?”
“Will you deliver to my address at 14th Ave. and Fulton?”
“14th Avenue?”
The man said “avenue” like it was a colony on the moon, though he was only 3.4 miles away. He put me on hold for two minutes and came back with the verdict.
“You buy $40, we deliver.”
I still owed my landlord half my deposit, so I thanked him, hung up, and did some Yelping. An hour later, I was devouring one of the finest delicacies I’ve ever had the pleasure to consume: the famous crispy sesame chicken from Nan King Road Bistro.
If you’re reading this story without ever having tried it, I can only hope that you have a similar dish that makes you salivate buckets when you recall the taste. I think back on just a few loves in my life, and those honey-soaked slivers of crusted heaven still often cross my mind.
After our introduction, Nan King and I developed a borderline-obsessive relationship. It was mainly one-sided: They, of course, were just running a business, and I was becoming a gluttonous fiend.
When I started dating an actual human, he luckily replaced the loneliness that often fueled my takeout habit. The problem was that he loved food even more than I did and enabled my addiction. Our relationship thrived on an unbalanced diet of fat, carbohydrates, and sesame seeds.
Three years later, we moved in together across the park in the Sunset. The apartment was bigger, beautifully renovated, and, best of all, only a 20-minute walk to Nan King.
Our relationship thrived on an unbalanced diet of fat, carbohydrates, and sesame seeds.
When we started eating in the restaurant, we claimed a table as our usual spot and developed a relationship with the waitstaff. Though we never exchanged names, the servers always treated us like friends dropping by for dinner, welcoming us into their wonderfully quirky dining room that featured splashy concrete walls, warm-glowing light fixtures, and a palm tree or two.
There, we celebrated new jobs, anniversaries, and lazy nights when we couldn’t imagine cooking. My boyfriend often strayed and ordered the Mongolian beef. I stayed faithful to the dish that beckoned like a sweet-and-spicy siren song.
Eventually, our relationship (between my boyfriend and me, that is) turned sour, and through the uncomfortably long move-out process, Nan King provided a familiar escape from the burdens of the breakup. I’d grab the brown paper bag and retreat to my separate bedroom to self-medicate with sugary meat. I ultimately kept our apartment, which carried some dark memories — but at least it was in Nan King’s delivery zone.
I eventually started dating someone new, and by the third date, it was time to introduce him to my vice. I felt wary, given the restaurant’s connection to my ex. We’d spent so many occasions there that it felt like I was serving up his leftovers. Was it best to start fresh? A new restaurant, even a new dish? Maybe if it were a dime-a-dozen coffee shop, but the love that grows with a good Chinese restaurant should never be taken for granted.
My favorite waitress saw me return with my new beau and seated us on the opposite end of the restaurant from my old spot. It was oddly comforting, like she knew I needed the change.
She smiled and opened her notepad mainly as a formality.
“Sesame chicken?”
Her question sounded a lot like a statement.
My date and I shared a heaping order, stabbing our chopsticks into the gooey pile and scooping up every crispy bit. We used the rice like a sponge and slurped up the last drops of the sauce, leaving a nearly clean plate.
When we finished, he lounged back in his seat with a satiated exhale.
“That was amazing.”
I grinned. Forget introducing him to my friends — he’d passed the real test.
We’d replay this date countless times until we decided it was time to move on from the avenues. We found an apartment in North Beach, and on our final day in the Sunset, there was no question where we’d have our last meal.
In a haze of nostalgia, we struck up a conversation with the normally reserved waitress.
“We had our third date here, you know!” my boyfriend informed the woman, who at this point felt like a member of the family. I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment.
Her face lit like we’d flipped a switch.
“Oh yeah, you’ve come here a long time!”
“It’s this sesame chicken! It’s just so good,” I said.
She nodded with a humble smile while she filled our water glasses.
Moving to North Beach opened up new go-to foods for us: pizza, freshly baked focaccia, and creamy cannolis. Sure, the Italian fare was great, but we were also just blocks from Chinatown. We could now frequent restaurants boasting hundred-year histories and try the dim sum I’d only read about in travel blogs.
The love that grows with a good Chinese restaurant should never be taken for granted.
But after living at the new place for only a few months, I had an inevitable craving for that sweet, sweet chicken.
“It’s so far away. Let’s just go somewhere on Stockton,” my boyfriend would lament as his stomach grumbled. I couldn’t blame him. His relationship with Nan King was greener than mine.
“Let’s just see if they’ll deliver — you never know,” I suggested as I frantically pulled up Grubhub and clicked on our last Nan King takeout order.
I’d never be able to taste that crispy sesame chicken again — one of the few constants during my eight years in a city where absolutely nothing remains unchanged.
Oddly, it refreshed back to the homepage. Chalking it up to a technical glitch, I went straight to the restaurant’s website. The site was still intact, but a message read that they were not accepting delivery orders at this time.
I started to sweat.
There, in red banner at the top of the Yelp page, was the final nail in the coffin: Yelpers report this location has closed.
“No!” I shouted, letting it sink in. I felt a pang of guilt. Maybe if we just stayed at the old apartment and kept going, they’d still be open, I thought lamely. I felt sad picturing the staff closing up shop. I felt horrible over the fact that I’d never be able to taste that crispy sesame chicken again — one of the few constants during my eight years in a city where absolutely nothing remains unchanged.
Whether it’s a go-to food, that couple you really meshed with, or the bar with $2 Tecates, you can’t count on it sticking around in the Bay Area.
My experience is one shared by many San Franciscans: finding comfort in something in this city, only to wake up the next day and realize it’s gone. It could be a baker who saves you the last croissant or a Muni driver who waits an extra few seconds while you’re hauling it up a hill. Whether it’s a go-to food, that couple you really meshed with, or the bar with $2 Tecates, you can’t count on it sticking around in the Bay Area.
I heard recently that a hot pot restaurant opened in the former Nan King Road Bistro space. I’m not sure of the ownership or if familiar faces will be there, but I don’t think I could bring myself to go back. All I can hope is that it becomes someone else’s sesame chicken.
