Just a boy and his father on their first epic buffet journey.

​Thirteen-year-old Leo, armed with a LG flip phone and a bottomless teenage stomach, knew this wasn't just dinner; it was a 2003 economic venture. Forget castles made of fried rice; he was here for the single most important, bank-breaking item his dad had promised: all-you-can-eat crab legs.

​When they pulled up to the low, brick building in Medina, Leo was already calculating his ROI. Inside, the noise was a comforting, humid blend of clanking tongs, sizzling woks, and the low, contented chatter of diners. The painted green dragon on the wall seemed to be giving him a knowing, entrepreneurial wink.

​"Rules haven't changed, buddy," his dad said, grabbing two white plates. "Try everything, but pace yourself."

​"Pacing is for amateurs, Dad," Leo muttered, heading straight for the back corner.

​He executed Phase One: building the base. He piled on the staples—a solid scoop of fried rice, three spring rolls (perfectly straight, just as he remembered), and a mountain of orange chicken. This was the foundation; the structure that would support the main event.

​Then, he saw it: the special refrigerated steam table, shrouded in steam and flanked by stainless steel containers of melted butter. The All-You-Can-Eat Crab Legs station.

​The other patrons—mostly grown men with determined eyes—were already circling. This wasn't a casual selection; this was a quick-strike operation. Leo used his long arms to grab a full pair of tongs, feeling the satisfying weight of the frozen-then-steamed crustaceans. He piled a snowdrift of crimson legs onto his plate, the white porcelain disappearing completely under the bounty.

​He settled into the booth, his hands immediately sticky, the sound of cracking shells mixing with the generic pop music playing over the speakers. The crab legs were salty, sweet, and perfectly messy. This was the real Great Wall of Noodles, except it was a mountain range of marine life.

​His dad leaned back, impressed. "That is an aggressive first plate, son. Are you sure you saved room for the dessert bar?"

​Leo paused, wiping butter off his chin with a napkin. "I didn't save room, Dad. I'm making room." He glanced at the mountain of legs, then back at the painted dragon, which now definitely looked like it was giving him a thumbs-up.

​He finished his work and, stuffed but victorious, cracked open his fortune cookie.

​Leo grinned, tucking the fortune next to his phone the fortune said "Kindness brings happiness". The Dragon Buffet wasn't just a restaurant; it was a place where a 13-year-old could feel like a titan of industry, ready for the glorious dessert bar.

I have a confession. The boy was not named Leo.  The boy was a Leo by nature. That boy was me.  Let's give others the opportunity to remember events like this with their families.