She strides in as if she owns the place, eagle eyes scanning the large dining hall. She doesn’t bother stopping at the front desk. As it is, people surge behind Ma as she scythes a path through the throng of families waiting for their tables, and I would’ve lost her if I wasn’t keeping a death grip on her arm as if I’m all of three years old. Or at least until the dim sum rush died down, sometime around 2 p.m. If I’m the one leading the way, I’d be squeaking, “Excuse me-oh, sorry, Ah Yi-um, could I just-I have a reservation-” My voice would never be heard above the din, and we’d be stuck outside the restaurant forever. Ma grew up in Jakarta’s Chinatown, a place heaving with people, and she knows how to make her way through a crowd. It’s not that I’m being nice-I mean, I am, but I’m also being sensible. Noise spills out, a cacophony of Mandarin and Cantonese, and I step aside so Ma can walk inside before me. I take a deep breath before pushing open the swing doors.
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