Speaker 1: This is not a knock to any of my teachers, but the most important things I've learned weren't taught to me in a classroom. They were taught to me in a restaurant dining room and the kitchen and the cashier's station.

When I was three years old, my parents opened a restaurant in the small town of Weatherford, Texas, ­the first Asian restaurant in the whole county. My dad, an immigrant from Thailand, saw it as an incredible business opportunity. He was right: loyal customers kept our little family restaurant open for nearly 40 years.

When I was a kid, I never gave much thought to what it meant to grow up in that environment, ­it was just my everyday life. If you had asked me then what the best part of spending so much time at the restaurant was, I would have said it was the endless flow of fountain drinks and free spring rolls.

But now I realize that I learned some big, important lessons about people and about life. And now, ­like a crispy, hot spring roll passed from fryer to plate, ­I pass these lessons on to you.

The way to a person's heart is through their tummy.

Our busiest shift of the week was Sunday lunch. Almost the whole town of Weatherford went to church on Sunday mornings, and then they would show up at our door as soon as the services were over. We'd often have a line that stretched out onto the sidewalk.

Most of the people who lived in our town attended Christian churches. And then they came to eat food prepared for them by people who were mostly Buddhists. When we first opened, we called ourselves a Chinese restaurant because at that time in 1983, people there weren't familiar with Thai food. Over the years, we gradually introduced more and more Thai cuisine to the menu. And we also introduced more and more people to Thailand and our culture. Some of our customers even took trips to visit Thailand. Sometimes they met up with our family who lived over there. So many connections were made between Thailand and Texas: two places that are on opposite sides of the globe from each other. And it all started with food.

Food is simple and primal. It is unifying. I wish people in this world had more chances to share food with each other. How can you be angry when you're chowing down on a dish of garlic chicken? How can you judge someone when you're sharing a plate of dumplings with them?

I'm not going to say something silly, like the solution to world peace is to have political leaders take their meetings at family restaurants. But maybe it wouldn't hurt? Maybe they would pass better laws if they also passed each other the shrimp fried rice? And maybe they would also realize that everyone, everywhere deserves to eat good, wholesome food in a safe place. Maybe they would realize that it's not so hard to take care of each other.

Food is love. Food is peace.

And if you don't believe me, let's eat some mango and sticky rice together. You'll come around.

Give the ducks their due.

Mmm, duck. Tender, with a crispy skin, and drizzled in a sweet, spicy sauce.

Sorry. Where was I?

There is a well-­known metaphor that says a good restaurant is like a swimming duck: on the surface everything looks calm and smooth, but underneath, the duck is furiously paddling its little feet to keep moving across the water. This was a pretty accurate description of our restaurant. When customers came in, we wanted them to feel like they could leave their troubles at the door and let us take care of them. Their table would be clean when they sat down. The food would be hot and tasty. Their iced tea glass would be refilled before they could even ask.

Serenity. Air-­conditioning. Smooth instrumental pop hits playing on the stereo.

Back in the kitchen, it was a whole other story: crowded, hot, and noisy.

Cooks slinging sizzling food in the woks, rice cookers filling the room with jasmine-­scented steam, waiters shouting that they needed that order of pad kra pao five minutes ago.

"Two century noodles, one with chicken. One with no bean sprouts."

"Where's table nine's appetizers?"

Staff in the back stuffing wontons, crates of dirty dishes being washed, and the clean ones being carted back out to the dining room. Go, go, go!

Seeing what happened behind the scenes was one thing I loved most about growing up in the restaurant. It was like knowing a secret no one else did.