Lucky Chopsticks in West Long Beach is an underrated gem, the creation of a Chinese-Vietnamese family whose father hails from China, mom hails from Vietnam, and the daughter from the U.S. Between the three, they offer what is unquestionably Long Beach’s most valuable, quality fast-casual Chinese grub.
However, the family simply wants one thing: more people physically visiting. While take-out is doing fine, it is not rare to find the place empty with physical patrons—an outright egregious situation for a cuisine and culture so focused on large, shareable meals. Even more? Given their extraordinary prices for the quality of food received, it is doubly appalling that families aren’t lined up to have a seat in the clean, wonderfully charming Christmas-meets-Valentines decorated space.
And: they’re open until 11PM. So why is Lucky Chopsticks so damn empty?
Made for a community that needs to avoid hefty food costs, Lucky Chopsticks does it fresh at an incredible price.
Lucky Chopsticks has not been, well, quite lucky. Initially opening in 2018, it had nearly four years of building a patronage that included Fluffy himself (though Hang Bui didn’t know who he was at the time, lamenting she wasn’t able to get a selfie). Then came a forced closure mid-pandemic that left them forced to renovate and reopen in 2023.
“Since then, it’s been hard,” Hang Bui said. “We still have the same prices from three years ago—and that’s because we want people to be in the seats, enjoying themselves. Yes, we understand take-out; we do a lot of that. But we want to see families enjoying themselves in here.”
In a time where food costs seem to be rising as quickly as social tensions, Lucky Chopsticks offers incredible, incredible value. Every beef and chicken entree sits under $10 for a portion that is easily split between two. Their family menu? It starts with a platter for two for $26. And when I say “platter,” I mean it. Two eggrolls. A medium soup—easily four or five cups—of egg flower or hot’n’sour. Two medium entrees. Two sides of steamed or fried rice. The platter for four? $40.
And given everything is cooked to order—be patient; there are no steamtrays here—it puts places like LV Seafood and Chen’s to absolute shame, where many of their entrees run double the price of Lucky.
Why spaces like Lucky Chopsticks matter—in Long Beach or any American city.
Chinese restaurants have long held a special place in American working-class life, precisely because they offered one of the earliest and most accessible entry points to dining out. At the turn of the 20th century, when waves of Chinese immigrants faced discrimination, exclusion laws, and limited economic opportunity, many turned to restaurants as one of the few viable businesses they could operate. The result was the spread of inexpensive chop suey houses, noodle joints, and takeout counters across cities big and small. For working-class Americans—immigrants and non-immigrants alike—these spaces provided hearty meals at a price point they could actually afford, often cheaper than cooking at home.
By the mid-20th century, Chinese restaurants had become woven into the urban fabric, especially in lower-income neighborhoods. They filled a unique niche: food that was fast, hot, and plentiful, but also flavored with spices and techniques that felt distinct from the blandness of mainstream American fare at the time. While fine dining was reserved for the wealthy, Chinese restaurants democratized dining out. They made it possible for a factory worker, a single parent, or a group of students to gather around a table, order family-style dishes, and share in a communal experience that was both affordable and satisfying.
That history carries through today in the fast casual Chinese spaces found in working-class neighborhoods. They’re part of a century-long legacy of survival and adaptation: immigrant families making food both approachable and affordable, while communities without access to luxury goods gain a dining experience that doesn’t feel lesser, only different. These restaurants remind us that culinary culture in America was never built only in white-tablecloth dining rooms, but in the steam of noodle kitchens and the hum of takeout counters that kept everyday people fed.
