By Sherrie Niedermeier
It’s hard to get excited about food when your heart is 6,000 miles away. My son, Nicholas, lives in Tel Aviv, and these days, every meal comes with a side of worry. I scroll the headlines over coffee. I check WhatsApp while I sauté onions. I fall asleep with my phone on the pillow, volume turned up, just in case. Even as I write this, I keep one eye on the news, as if constant vigilance might somehow keep him safe.
I imagine there are thousands of Jewish mothers doing exactly what I’m doing right now — working and worrying, cooking and worrying, sleeping and worrying. It’s a rhythm that’s become all too familiar in this terrible time.
And yet, life insists on going on. So, when my fiancé and I decided to go out to Johnny Chan 2, I wasn’t hoping for a transformative evening — just a hot meal and maybe a little distraction. Chinese food has always been a kind of balm for me, especially when the world feels unsteady. There’s comfort in the ritual of it — the family-style platters meant to be shared, the clatter of plates and chopsticks, the familiar sauces and spices.
I think of my mother, who ordered egg foo young every single time, and of us kids squabbling over the fortune cookies. Back then, life felt predictable. I lived in a world full of love and steady rhythm. That soft place to land gave me the courage to venture out, knowing I could always return.
I believe my son feels the same. He’s made a meaningful life in the country that captured his heart when he was a child. And though he lives far away, he knows he can always come home.
For those of us still here — still watching, still worrying — life feels more tenuous. The news is immediate and consuming. The world feels smaller, and the weight of worry heavier. That’s why I returned to something grounding: traditional Chinese food. Nicholas and I used to eat it together, always followed by a trip to the bookstore.
My fiancé and I began our meal with rangoons and pot stickers — old favorites. The rangoons were perfectly crisp, their creamy centers just sweet enough, with a touch of meat that reminded me why they’ve endured. I remembered all the times Nicholas managed to eat most of mine, flashing a grin and asking if I wanted another order — as if he was doing me a favor.
Even dipping a pot sticker into the tart vinegar-soy sauce brought his voice to mind, asking for more, just so he wouldn’t have to share. Food connects us, even across oceans.
For our main dishes, my fiancé and I shared a generous spread. The beef with peppercorns was bold and smoky, the slices meltingly tender. The sauce had that signature numbing heat from Szechuan peppercorns — a slow burn that lingered in the best way. The chicken with eggplant was a standout: sweet, velvety, with a delicate crunch giving way to a creamy center.
The mei fun came last — a bowl of delicate rice noodles tossed with meat and vegetables, slicked with just enough sauce to bind everything together. It’s a dish that resists tidiness. You twirl and scoop and inevitably make a bit of a mess. I liked that. It reminded me of the truth I keep relearning: life isn’t neat. Parenting, love, war, faith — it all gets tangled.
As I sat there, savoring the meal, my mind drifted back to Israel. I wondered what Nicholas was eating for dinner. Was it falafel from a corner stand, or something he made himself in his tiny kitchen? Was he safe in a shelter? Was he scared? I’d call him as soon as I got home.
Dinner at Johnny Chan 2 didn’t take away my fears. But it softened them. It reminded me that food is more than fuel — it’s memory, connection and ritual. It feeds the part of you that’s stretched thin by worry and still hungry for joy.
Maybe that’s the secret: we keep eating, and we keep loving, even when we’re scared. Especially when we’re scared. Even when the world feels uncertain.
Dinner and a Movie:
Did you ever notice how many tv shows and movies show people eating Chinese food out of cute little cartons? That they always use chopsticks even while eating messy noodles and never drop any? In that spirit, I took my leftovers to the couch and searched for a nice rom-com to help me escape to another place and time (while still checking the phone and news constantly).
1. When Harry Met Sally
Scene: Late-night phone calls, quiet takeout moments.
Pair With: Chicken with broccoli and white rice.
Why: Simple, classic, comforting — just like their slow-burn romance.
2. Sex and the City
Scene: Chinese takeout in bed while debriefing failed love lives.
Pair With: General Tso’s chicken.
Why: A little indulgent, a little spicy, always satisfying.
3. The Proposal
Scene: Awkward bonding over takeout in Alaska.
Pair With: Egg rolls + beef with broccoli.
Why: Playful yet substantial — like the shift from fake romance to real feelings.
4. 13 Going on 30
Scene: Floor picnic with Chinese food and childhood memories.
Pair With: Orange chicken + steamed dumplings.
Why: Sweet, nostalgic, a bit innocent — with a grown-up twist.
5. Crazy Rich Asians
Scene: Family dumpling-making = love, tradition, and flirtation.
Pair With: Handmade dumplings + jasmine tea.
Why: The ultimate romantic comfort food, best shared.
6. To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before
Scene: Takeout + love letters + fake dating.
Pair With: Sesame noodles + egg drop soup.
Why: Cozy, budget-friendly, and cute — perfect for a teen rom-com vibe
