Adorned in an apron with pink flowers, a short elderly woman was selling pork buns from a cart. She wore a cap on her head, her hair tied into a messy ponytail, and swiftly moved her hands around her cart as she prepared a tin of pork buns for a customer. Her humble cart was tucked away on the street’s edge, attracting locals, tourists, and the occasional passersby—enough to form a line that stretched around the block—, though the distinction did not matter when it came to the lady. From where I stood, I could tell she wasn’t proficient in English. What she lacked in language, she made up for in heart. She gave the warmest smile to every one of her customers, even the ones who left without saying a word, though I suppose those interactions were wholesome in their own way. It was clear from her conversations she knew a fair share of her customers, and the ones she didn’t recognize, she made an effort to know. It was this personal connection she attempted that made the interactions so loving.
After watching the line only grow, I decided to join and grab a bun for myself. The first bite felt like a comforting hug. The savory taste of the pork inside balanced out the sweetness of the bun. The pork, though hot, was flavorful and fulfilling. Eating it felt nostalgic for a home I never had. Growing up in New York City, I was given the privilege of being surrounded by a diverse pot of multiple cultures but denied the authenticity of their roots; Foreign land makes it difficult to remake dishes that are true to their core because it lacks the environment needed. Nevertheless, the manifestation of each culture’s heart remains. My encounter with the lady was as precious as I thought it would be: she greeted me with a smile and asked me questions about my day and school. She smiled at my comments and cheered me on when I mentioned my enrollment into NYU. Though my fluency in Mandarin was poor, the lady continued to converse with me as if there were no language barrier. Although the long line had cut our small talk short, I still relished those few seconds as they resembled a loving conversation with a trusted guardian.
The Best Pork Buns In New York
During my visit to Chinatown, I observed a number of other things: workers nodding at other workers, local shoppers selectively sifting through vegetables while making small talk with employees, and guardians walking their children to school. However, it was that small cart that stuck with me days after. One would think popular restaurants and legendary bubble tea stores would be the eye-catching sights, but for me, it was the small cart parked on the side of the street—it felt representative of the culture in Chinatown and that of Asians.
It is often misconstrued that Asian families do not love each other because people do not look closely enough. Most see a lack of “I love you” and assume we don’t love. What most do not care to see is the little things we do to convey our love. Grandparents cook warm dishes like 滷肉飯 (pork rice bowl), 牛肉麵 (beef noodles), and 酸辣汤 (hot and sour soup). These dishes feel like the embodiment of “made with love.” Seeing this woman’s desire to nurture amid the harsh rapidness of New York City mirrors Asian culture. Despite how cold and distant people can appear, love persists—even if in its many varying forms.
The woman’s energy reciprocated how many Asian families love—not verbally, but through their actions: Parents ensuring their children are full and fed and grandparents cutting fruit for others. I’ve noticed Asian parents ask about school, as the woman did with me, because they want their children to build a comfortable life—one they can afford to make mistakes in. I think it takes courage to raise future generations with values that may not align with the traditional way of parenting but will rather benefit later on. Although the lady did not tell me she cared for me, a stranger, her hopes for my education, her delicate movements, and her carefully made pork buns said enough. Her unspoken, consistent care for others while serving food was her, and many Asian households, way of loving.
Correspondingly, I think that’s the essence of Chinatown. It’s these carts that offer you parental love; it’s tired employees checking in on each other, even if that constitutes shouting across the street; it’s questions about education that lead to success; it’s the grandmas fighting to get the best head of cabbage for their grandchildren. It’s a town built of hard-working, humble people, people who feed the souls of others. The people of Chinatown may be unable to verbalize their gratitude and support, but they make it clear through other love languages.
One such love language is the food itself. The whole idea of Chinatown is to nurture people’s souls with homely meals. The woman worked intensely to provide for her family but kept her prices at a low $2 for four buns, thoughtful of those also working day and night to provide necessities for their families. Like the pork buns, the food is made deliberately with care to satisfy taste buds, fulfill stomachs, and leave people feeling a little lighter, a little happier (even if they physically gained a pound). Food nourishes the soul. Thus, Chinatown works to recharge well-being. That’s how Chinatown loves: through the comfort of food and the silent support of strangers.
It’s also where people can be reminded of their homes. Culture can easily be lost in a chaotic city like New York. Chinatown treasures being Asian. We see this in its silent love language and abundance of cultural items. It’s likely the commodities you find in Chinatown will not be found in a store like Trader Joe’s. People of Asian descent shop in Chinatown because it’s where we can find the stuff that makes up our roots. One can purchase eyelash curlers made specifically for an Asian eye or rediscover those fun food-shaped erasers one may have used as a child. It’s also home to my beloved Asian skincare products that help my skin instead of destroy it, as well as my favorite childhood treats I thought I could only find in Taiwan. While I may not shop here for those items that frequently anymore, it is comforting to know there is a community that understands my experiences and has built a place to, in some way, commemorate them.
That tiny cart encapsulates the heart of Chinatown. The lady worked to nurture and care for others in her own way. I did not know her, but I immediately felt her aura of love. Chinatown encourages community; it allows for deep bonds to be forged within everyday ordinary moments, defining the rhythm of human connections in life. This inclusivity captures Chinatown’s community essence as it extends its sense of belonging to all through its collective passion for food. Love shines through Chinatown’s desire to provide in its different forms, even if it’s not visible on the surface. We love like no other. From the way people love—yes, that includes trading “I love you” for “Have you eaten?”—to what one can find, Chinatown is an extension of Asian cultural heritage, a second home of some sort. Perhaps that is why I am attracted to Chinatown; because it’s where I can feel connected with an ocean of strangers and feel their love permeate through the atmosphere and into my soul.
Generasian 
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