Nashville, a city celebrated for its vibrant music scene and Southern charm, is also increasingly gaining attention for its diverse culinary landscape. But for those seeking authentic flavors, particularly when it comes to Chinese cuisine, the journey can be a flavorful, yet sometimes frustrating, adventure. My family’s experience in Nashville offers a unique perspective on the quest for genuine Chinese food in a city still discovering its global palate.
Our early years in Nashville painted a picture of limited options. In 2007, the idea of finding truly authentic Chinese food felt like chasing a mirage. For the small but passionate Chinese community, dim sum was the culinary holy grail. Whenever a new restaurant dared to whisper promises of “hargow” or “shumai,” excitement rippled through the community. Yet, time and again, these hopes were met with disappointment. I vividly recall a dim sum experience with my father where the shumai arrived with an enticing steam, only to reveal a cold, raw center upon biting in. Undercooked dumplings, twice in a row, led us to a quick retreat to the reliable familiarity of Panera Bread. Perhaps, in Nashville of that era, our expectations were simply too high.
Years later, upon returning to Nashville, I heard murmurs of a restaurant, Lucky Bamboo, lauded by the Nashville Scene as the city’s first authentic dim sum experience. My inquiry to my father upon arrival at the airport was met with a tight-lipped disapproval. “No,” was his curt and final verdict, a closed door to any further discussion. His reaction spoke volumes about the ongoing struggle for authentic Chinese Food In Nashville.
Back in 1995, when we first moved to Nashville, we quickly became acquainted with the limited circuit of Chinese restaurants. These establishments, often run by family friends, became our go-to spots for convenient weeknight meals. Hot Wok was our dependable takeout choice, where my standard order included fried rice, chicken on a stick, beef broccoli, and the obligatory, thick-skinned egg roll. Saturdays after Chinese school often led us to Golden Coast, a buffet attempting a semblance of authenticity with baos, a few dumpling varieties, and even the adventurous dish of cow stomach. For special occasions, Ming’s Chinese Buffet in Cool Springs was the destination for an all-day starvation strategy culminating in a $6 feast. I remember my mother’s stealthy maneuvers to hoard scallops and shrimp from the seafood medley, only to generously deposit them onto my plate.
For my parents, Taiwanese immigrants seeking a taste of home, these Nashville Chinese restaurants were mere approximations, a faint echo of genuine flavors. Several times a year, we embarked on a four-hour pilgrimage in our metallic blue Nissan Quest to Atlanta, a surprising oasis of Deep South Chinese food. Atlanta’s suburbs offered a treasure trove: the 99 Ranch Market, Chinese bakeries, and, most importantly, dim sum restaurants. Panda Inn on Peachtree Road was our consistent first stop, strategically timed to catch the tail end of dim sum service. Their fried taro dumplings were, and remain, a cherished memory. Following dim sum, a bakery visit was essential, stocking up on pineapple-top buns and egg tarts. Then, 99 Ranch beckoned, where we’d load up our car with dried noodles, dehydrated mushrooms, dried tofu sheets, rice bags, and all the essential Chinese groceries unavailable in Tennessee. Often, just before the long drive back, we’d squeeze in one last meal, frequently ordering soup dumplings to go.
Looking back, I now understand my parents’ seemingly extravagant spending in Atlanta. It wasn’t just about groceries; it was a transformation. My father, usually health-conscious, would indulge in soda and multiple meals within hours. My mother, normally frugal, spent freely, even allowing me to add items to the grocery cart. This Atlanta trip, along with visits to family in Taiwan, were the only times I witnessed such unreserved joy in them.
My personal relationship with Chinese food during those Nashville years was, to put it mildly, complicated. As a child, I rebelled against our home’s cuisine, perceiving it as a restrictive regime. My most epic childhood tantrum occurred at age five when a promised birthday trip to Old Country Buffet was abruptly canceled. The ensuing meltdown, complete with hysterical weeping and car roof head-banging, wasn’t about embarrassment; it was about a desperate craving for mashed potatoes.
It wasn’t hatred for Chinese food, but a fervent coveting of American food. The more ordinary, the more alluring. Lunchables, lasagna, green bean casserole – any casserole, really – held an irresistible appeal. I was particularly drawn to the processed delights of 1990s frozen foods, attempting to sneak Go-Gurts, Hot Pockets, and Jimmy Dean breakfast sandwiches into my mother’s shopping cart (always unsuccessfully). At Thanksgiving, while my mother prepared her special Chinese dishes, I took charge of the mashed potatoes, macaroni, and turkey. Even a Totino’s Pizza Roll commercial could trigger pangs of longing. White kids, it seemed, enjoyed pizza as snacks, while my dinners were consistently rice, stir-fried meat, and vegetables.
The stark reality of American food’s elusiveness hit me every time I opened our pantry. The absence of cheese in our refrigerator felt like a profound injustice, a denial of my American birthright. I would beg my parents for lunch money to sample the cafeteria’s enigmatic offerings: turkey stew puff pastries, corn nuggets, sausage biscuits. As I grew older, the Atlanta food pilgrimages lost their appeal, often finding me asleep in the car. Instead, I began clandestine missions to Sonic for onion rings and Texas toast hamburgers, eating in my car and driving home with windows down to dispel the lingering scent. Krystal, White Castle, a whole Crave Case devoured solo – these were my forbidden culinary adventures. Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies found refuge in my backpack, consumed box by box.
By senior year, my job at Wild Oats Natural Marketplace, a precursor to Whole Foods, provided a new food frontier. Break times were spent raiding the “damaged goods” shelf, a treasure trove of dented organic snacks and Horizon vanilla milk. Returning home, I would bypass my mother’s lovingly prepared Chinese meal cooling on the counter, heading straight to my room, the aroma of her food a constant, yet often unacknowledged, presence.
Growing up in a Chinese household in Nashville meant navigating a world of unspoken emotions and indirect communication. Love, in our family, was a game of catch played in the dark. We reached out in our own ways, but words often failed us, lost in the space between cultures. The vocabulary of emotion seemed perpetually out of reach. Inquiries about my parents’ past were met with masterful evasions. My father could stretch silence into an art form, leaving questions hanging until they dissolved into repetition or self-answered attempts. My mother deflected with rapid-fire inquiries about grades, college, my weight, or romantic entanglements.
But food became an unexpected key, unlocking memories and stories in ways words could not. The act of making and sharing food became a language more potent than any conversation, a silent dialogue when English and Mandarin fell short. Feelings were folded into dumplings, love lavished into lah mian. Shouting matches about report card Bs would dissolve into silent dinners, apologies absent, replaced only by the comforting slurping and the quiet clinking of chopsticks against porcelain.
Food remained a constant thread, weaving us together even across distances. Years after graduating and working in Southern California, a sudden, intense craving for dim sum struck. A nearby Yelp search led to a disappointing discovery. The shumai arrived cold, devoid of steam. Dry, wrinkled skins encased what seemed like miniature shrimp. Six limp dumplings on a wilting lettuce leaf for ten dollars. Chewing angrily on these defrosted disappointments, a realization dawned. I finally understood the yearning my parents carried as Taiwanese immigrants in Tennessee. Chinese food wasn’t merely a preference; it was a lifeline, a way to anchor themselves in a foreign land, to feel, simply, like themselves. It explained the Atlanta pilgrimages, the exclusive Chinese cuisine at home.
Food, in its profound way, defines culture, but for many Asian Americans, including families like mine, it becomes a core element of identity. We eat to remember, to communicate when words fail, to express love even when unspoken, to make a place like Tennessee feel a little more like home, to reclaim parts of ourselves left behind by circumstance and choice. An idiom, often heard from older Chinese Americans, perfectly encapsulates this: Chinese people carry their homes in their stomachs.
Taiwan is no longer the Taiwan my parents remember, and America may never fully feel like home. Yet, if they look closely, they can find restaurants, often tucked away in unassuming strip malls, run by immigrants who share their memories of Taiwan. These hidden gems offer steamed, fried, and boiled pieces of time and place, dough-wrapped memories waiting to be discovered. For families like mine, these are the truest forms of home available.
Years later, my parents relocated to Los Angeles. Family dinners resumed. My mother, a whirlwind cook, improvises with peanut butter in noodles and ham sushi. I’ve inherited her fast-paced cooking style, sometimes indulging in late-night chili oil bamboo shoots straight from the jar. My father, the engineer, prefers dishes of simple ingredients and bold flavors. Conversation may falter, but food always fills the gaps. The Zojirushi rice cooker always holds brown rice for my dad’s health kick. Mooncakes and Taiwanese tea sit on the counter, remnants of my mother’s increasingly frequent trips home to visit her mother. The fridge is stocked with meticulously meal-prepped salads, my father’s quest for the ultimate healthy lunch.
And sometimes, nestled in the fridge, are Taiwanese spring rolls from 99 Ranch in Rowland Heights. A 90-minute drive in LA traffic, but my mother insists they taste like those from a stand near her childhood bus stop in Hsinchu, Taiwan. One bite, and suddenly, we are all home again, no matter where “home” might be.
