Little Pepper Is a Salve for the Soul
I distinctly remember sitting in Mr. Estelle’s 6th grade English class waiting for my mom to bring the vocabulary textbook I’d forgotten at home on September 11, 2001. I can still see her ashen face, glazed eyes holding back tears, as she consulted quietly with my teacher about the news she’d just heard on the radio.
Just one month before, I’d visited New York City with my family for the first time, and completely fell in love with its energy, lights, and bustle. There were so many people speaking different languages. You could be anyone here. I knew in my soul it was where I’d live one day, working in one of those tall buildings.
I came home and made my first AOL instant messenger account (my screenname was NYCsubwaychick). In our photos from the trip, I’m standing by myself on the Staten Island Ferry—braids, round glasses, overalls, and a faded blue Winnie the Pooh t-shirt—a smile bright as the sun. The Twin Towers stand tall behind me, my welcoming committee.
A boy named Mason kept talking loudly throughout the day about how this meant war. I thought he was being ridiculous. I called him from our landline that night and spoke quietly into the receiver, “You don’t really think we’ll go to war, do you?”
I was jetlagged on November 7, 2016, having just flown back from a trip to Berlin. I spent the day before the presidential election with my partner, loopily lollygagging along from sauna to sauna at College Point’s bizarre Spa Castle (featured in our winter issue) until nightfall. When we emerged, it was brisk, but not so cold that I felt uncomfortable in my running tights and sweatshirt. We walked arm-in-arm, huddled close, and happy to be reunited after my week away.
As our day of leisure came to a close, we decided to fit a red-letter meal into our trip to the northwesternmost corner of Queens. We tucked away inside the Pete Wells-approved Little Pepper on College Point Boulevard, not far from their former Flushing location.
My partner pulled up an old email from a friend with choice recommendations for the Szechuan spot, and we ordered exactly as instructed: shredded potato with pickled cabbage (tender-crisp julienned potatoes served at room temperature), pork with the crust of cooked rice in a savory sauce with floppy, translucent brown mushrooms (my personal favorite), and Dan Dan noodles—refulgent with Szechuan peppercorn emulsion—all served family style.
I drank the entire pot of green tea on our table; its warmth comforting after an extended period of personal turmoil. The meal felt like a restart; a homecoming and return to joy. It felt like I’d been away longer than a week, and in some ways I had. Determined not to lose one minute, I savored it all, every detail - down to his everyman's leather wallet, worn and affixed with an orange "PAID" sticker- the meal a welcome home treat for the pining little pepper beside him.
We noted two servers watching a Chinese news channel outside the kitchen. One of the commentators said something, and they doubled over laughing, perhaps in disbelief. Whether it was politics or pundits speaking absurdities, it tickled them greatly.
We observed with relish, taking in every detail of the experience together: the lightheartedness of the waitstaff, the slight tingling sensation from the spicy Dan Dan noodles, and our surprise that it delighted me in spite of my embarrassingly low threshold for heat.
We counted ourselves lucky to experience authentic Szechuan food, its tradition and culture preserved by owners Cheng Ying Wu and Gui Ping Huang. America is built on places like these, where people of all shades and dialects can come together without fear, and share a meal, a laugh, a smile (even if like us, you don’t speak the language and have to giggle and point at the menu’s pictures to place your order).
We knew we were fortunate to be able to rent a car for an adventure to this stretch of Queens that exists 20 minutes or so from the nearest train stop. We drove back to Brooklyn with bellies and hearts full - with treasured leftovers to spare.
Listen to Abby’s Little Pepper Playlist
The next day I ate last night’s crusted rice and pork for brunch while I worked from home. I took a midday break to walk down to the elementary school on my block- its walls painted with a mural that felt particularly poignant that day, entitled “The Stories Around Us.” It depicts schoolchildren with names like Mahmmoud, Khadidiatou and Nefertari, brown-skinned and beautiful, alongside rainbow-colored caterpillars and trees with faces, flowers blooming, and tall leaves growing amongst high-rises in the sky. The story reads, “I come from United States, Earth, Brooklyn...I come from my heart. I am from sweet jazz...I come from the smell of curry chicken, fried chicken, baked macaroni and dumplings.”
Inside, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the presidential election, the extremity of what was at stake, I cried as I cast my ballot. A volunteer hugged me as I exited, cradling me as she said, “You did good, baby. We’ll be okay.”
Fifteen years earlier, I’d thought “there’s no way we’ll go to war.” This November, as I voted in my first election, I couldn’t fathom the possibility that we’d come so far to now risk losing so much.
It was two weeks before I cooked for myself again, before I came up for air. I entered a time of grieving; not for an innocence lost, but a treaty erased, a nation marauded. That peaceful night at Little Pepper was the calm before the storm, the gentle winds before the bough broke. The day America sided with our new president-elect, my private life was upended and I was left joyless, howling. For others, the consequences and realities they continue to live with are much more dire.
I’ll never forget chewing on my pencil’s eraser in my pleated khakis during Mr. Estelle’s English class moments before hearing the news on 9/11, and I’ll never forget that last sweet meal shared at Little Pepper the night before it all came crumbling down.
