In large letters, the sign still advertises “Chinese Food— Szechwan Star,” but the building is deserted. No lights shine from within and the parking lot is overgrown with weeds.
“I can’t believe it’s closed.” I am shocked. So is my husband. He turns off the ignition and we sit in the empty parking lot. Deflated and depressed.
We had planned to celebrate our wedding anniversary by going to this long-standing favorite restaurant, which also had special meaning since we frequently dined here with Dick’s mother who has since passed away. We had thought it would be a nice nostalgic venture back into our old stomping grounds of south Minneapolis.
So much for reminiscence.
“Now what do we do?” I am flummoxed, hungry and no longer familiar enough with the area to think of another “special” place to eat.
Everything has changed.
I should not have been surprised. As we had driven into south Minneapolis, things were noticeably different from our last visit.
First, there was the new 35W bridge. Very nice. Wider and more solid, I hoped. But as we moved deeper into the city, subtly and surely the ambiance changed. Traffic thickened— really thickened—and we were carried along in a swirling river of vehicles that simply didn’t end. The old Crosstown freeway interchanges were different and less confusing but nonetheless different, and as we turned onto 66th street, the numbers of pedestrians filling sidewalks increased. We forged on into this churn of congestion.
It was so unlike the city in which I’d grown up. It wasn’t even remotely the same as only five years ago when I’d last visited.
We continued to forge ahead; anxious to reach the restaurant, which now seemed would be our only consolation in this brave new world called south Minneapolis. On a side street, we suddenly found ourselves on a “roundabout.” This circular traffic control system replaces stoplights and is popular in the UK and France, but what was one doing on a south Minneapolis side street with two of its outlets leading to commercial business parking lots? It didn’t make sense, but gamely, we moved onward and maneuvered through this labyrinth created from a former straight and simple street.
Finally, in this sea of newness, through the trees we had spotted the familiar sign of our favorite restaurant. But after all this, our final destination, “The Szechwan Star,” is closed. My familiar city no longer exists. I am in a new place.
Dejected, we silently drove in the direction of our hotel and the northern suburbs, deciding to find a restaurant in that area.
I watch as downtown Minneapolis’s IDS Tower and the fringes of the University of Minnesota pass by my window and decide not to dwell on the changes. I don’t like them but I don’t have to go back. Out with the old. In with the new.
We are in luck. As we cruise along, we spot an old-fashioned eating spot called the Countryside Family Restaurant and we pull into the parking lot with anticipation.
It does not fail us.
The restaurant is quiet and cozy, busy but no lines and the food is simple and fantastic. It’s quaint with a simple décor and a large plate glass window at the rear that looks onto a treefilled green lawn.
At the end of the meal, I bite into my banana cream pie and think that there is nothing wrong with “new.”
Just don’t get rid of the old.
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