Page 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

VIVI

I’m perched on a blue plastic stool just outside the dorm, listening to the noise of the city: motorbike horns blaring, people haggling at the shops, friends chattering as they walk by. I have a cà phê s ? a and a pile of schoolbooks to my left on the plastic table and a plate of g ? i cu ? n from Bà Hai on my lap. It’s funny how quickly I’ve gotten used to living in Sài Gòn. These plastic stools will always remind me of my time here, and of Lan, because of all the street food dates we’ve gone on. The tall fan from the dormitory hums loudly through the window, trying its best to oscillate the heat away but alas, failing.

I’m distracted, and instead of doing my homework, I’m staring at the spread in front of me on the plastic table under the sun—all the photos of Mom in Vi ? t Nam. There’s the photo of Mom and her family in front of Ch ? B ? n Thành, another of Mom in jeans and a T-shirt with street food stalls in the background, and various images of Mom in different spots throughout Sài Gòn. Mom before a towering cathedral. Mom in front of kites. Mom outside of an amphitheater. Mom on a xích l?.

All this time, I’ve been retracing her life in Vi ? t Nam, matching her footsteps to mine without even knowing. The closer I examine the photos, the more I see my own face looking right back at me. It’s weird, thinking about Mom around my own age living in this city, just like I’m doing now. Our lives intertwining a generation later.

“Hey!” Lan hovers in front of our plastic table outside the dormitory, two sugarcane pouches in her hand. “Ready to go?” she says breathlessly, sweat on her neck. She looks radiant.

“Yeah.” I lace my hand through hers. It’s so natural now. This, us .

“You’re looking at those photos again?”

“I keep hoping… that I can find something to lead us closer to where my family is from these pictures. What about this cathedral?”

Lan chews on her lips, and I know from the way her brows scrunch that she doesn’t know, either. “I’m sorry, Vivi.”

“But,” she continues, “Bà Ngan said B á c Tu ? n from the restaurant knows your family. Let’s see what he has to say. If he doesn’t know, then I promise you, Vivi, I’ll do anything to find them for you.”

My heart lurches at her declaration, and all the sadness wilts, replaced by a soaring kind of feeling that’s more than like , and I know that Lan means more than just a crush. More than a girl I trade kisses with.

We drive under the towering hoa ph ?? ng trees, their bright red blossoms littering the sidewalk. We pass by a high school, students mingling at the gate. Some are wearing white áo dàis while others are in white button-ups and navy pants. My mind imagines a life where Lan and I are classmates, riding our bikes to school together, pressing hoa ph ?? ng petals into pages together.

Petals dance around us, and I extend my hand to grab a fluttering hoa ph ?? ng and tuck the blossom behind Lan’s ear.

“What’s this for?”

I peck her cheek, immediately seeing how flushed she is. “It’s a thank-you.”

We hop off the motorbike and walk by the bustling street food vendors just outside the high school’s gates. Motorbikes are speeding through the street, some carrying tons of mangoes, flowers, and rice sacks on the back seats. We cross the street to a tall building divided into concrete grids, where each square has its own personality: warm fairy lights strung through the windows, blue and neon coffee signs, plants growing over the weather-stained gray slabs between units. Each square looks like a portal to another world.

“Come on!” Lan grabs my hand this time, my heart and legs racing to catch up with her.

Excitement buzzes through me as I gape at the building and at how Lan expertly guides us through the crowd, but as we approach the c ? m t ? m restaurant, the same anxiety from Ch ? B ? n Thành creeps up my spine.

What if this uncle doesn’t know? What if this is our dead-end road?

Or, what if he does, and it turns out my family is in this city, and I can actually meet them? What then? How do I go from there? Where do Mom and I go from there? What will become of our relationship?

“Are you okay?” Lan snaps me from my thoughts, the same worried face she showed at Ch ? B ? n Thành. It strikes me how observant she is, and how well she knows me.

I inhale deeply, willing the anxiety to subside. “I’m as good as I can be. You said the c ? m t ? m here is the best, right?”

“The best you can get in Sài Gòn.”

I nod. “At least good food will comfort me.”

C ? m T ? m Thiên Th ? o is tightly packed with guests, and more students our age trickle in, colorful backpacks with matching key chains on their shoulders as they trade laughs and food without a care in the world. There’s something so intimate about a group of friends eating together that I can’t take my eyes off them, and I find myself wishing for the same life: to live in a city where I have deep roots, to have street food so abundant I’ll never run out of options, and to do everything that’s Vietnamese. How would my life have turned out if Mom or Dad had never left this country? How would I have grown up?

Would I still have met Lan?

“So.” Lan returns from the front counter, placing matching c ? m t ? m plates on our table. The broken rice is plated neatly next to sides of a pork chop, a sunny-side-up egg, a steamed omelet next to tomatoes, cucumbers, and garnished with pickled radish and carrots. “Bác Tu ? n will be out soon. His daughter told us to eat first.”

I stare at the plates, my mouth watering. “This place is family owned?”

She nods. “A lot of restaurants and street food businesses are family owned and family operated. They usually employ relatives’ siblings, cousins, or kids.”

“That’s cool. It’s like a tradition.”

Lan visibly squirms at my comment. “I guess so.”

Did I say something wrong? Is it not cool to have a family business, something so special to you and your family?

“How did Bánh Mì 98 start?”

“It’s been passed down through my family for generations. It was my dad’s world—that stall meant everything to him. He loved making food, but he loved meeting people even more. You should have seen it years ago, when there’d be a line stretching for almost two kilometers and everyone knew his name. Then my mom and I took over when he passed.”

Lan’s eyes sparkle as they always do when she talks about her dad. Usually, the sparkle would be followed by a sadness sweeping across her face—but not this time, as if the memory no longer hurts her as it did when we first met.

“Do you want to… do that for the rest of your life? Take care of the bánh mì stall?”

She squirms again. “I don’t know. But like you said, it’s family tradition—right?”

“That doesn’t mean you have to run the bánh mì stall for the rest of your life. Family tradition or not, you should do what you want.”

She inhales deeply, her voice almost shaking. “It’s a lot more complicated than that. Bánh Mì 98 has been my grandparents’ parents’ business passed down to Ba. How could I ever just let it go? The bánh mì stall is bigger than just me, it’s a Phan family treasure.”

I want to tell Lan that there’s nothing more important than her and her happiness, and that she should live her life how she wants—not tied down by any burdens or family expectations. But before I can, a man in his fifties makes a beeline toward our table, knocking over a guest and their chair in the process, before enveloping Lan in a tight hug.

“Bé Lan! How are you? I haven’t seen you in so long!”

She hugs him back, a wide grin matching his. “Chào B á c Tu ? n! B á c have to stop calling me bé. I’m not a kid anymore.”

“Tch.” He pretends to be offended. “You will always be our little girl. Have you been well? And your mom?”

I steal a glance at Lan, preparing to comfort her—or do anything—because I know how difficult that question is for her; how does she do it, smile for people when it’s still so hard living with grief?

Lan, as expected, keeps her smile and bows again, thanking the uncle for his caring questions. “I’ve been good, Bác. Very good, actually. This is Vivi, and we’ve been exploring Sài Gòn together because she’s a study abroad student. I wanted to show her your c ? m t ? m, she just can’t leave without trying it at least once.” Lan expertly sneaks in a compliment. Even I recognize that strategy: Pamper up the Vietnamese adults with compliments before asking them the real, important question.

“Vivi! Welcome to Vi ? t Nam,” Bác Tu ? n says warmly. “I hope you’re enjoying your stay here. Bé Lan knows everything about Sài Gòn.”

I nod enthusiastically, excitement coursing through me. It’s nice, being welcomed by other Vietnamese people. “C ? m ? n, Bác. Lan is really the best.”

Her cheeks turn pink at my comment.

“Now, is the food that bad that you both haven’t eaten any?”

Oh. Right. We were so caught up in our conversation that the c ? m t ? m turned room-temperature warm, and the ice in our water cups already melted.

“Xin l ? i, Bác,” Lan apologizes, and I repeat after her, even including a bow.

“Con ah, I’m just teasing, but eat—you both look so skinny!”

I stifle back a laugh, but Bác Tu ? n’s comment reminds me of Mom. Growing up among Vietnamese people in Little Saigon, I’ve learned they express love and care through two questions: Have you eaten? And, why are you so skinny? Mom always says that to be happy, you must be full.

Taking a bite, I dip the grilled pork into the sweet and sour n ?? c m ? m and pair it with a spoonful of cucumbers and rice. The charred taste of the grilled pork combined with the sweetness of the n ?? c m ? m and the coolness of the cucumbers hum in unison inside my mouth. “Is this rice… really broken?”

Lan bursts out laughing at my, quite frankly, stupid question. But hey, c ? m t ? m means “broken rice,” and no one has ever told me why.

“Yes, Vivi. The rice grains are really fragmented,” she says.

“But do you both know why we only use broken rice grains?” B á c Tu ? n asks, smiling at me now.

“Because it tastes good?” I try, unsure of what to say.

B á c Tu ? n laughs. “That is true. But the story is, during times when things were so bad and people only had broken rice to eat and whole grain rice was a luxury, we created something filling out of poverty. Now the food is a popular Vietnamese cultural dish.”

“Wow. That’s a fascinating origin story.” The plate I’m eating from feels oddly important. This very plate of c ? m t ? m embodies hope and survival—and it makes me think of Mom and her family, too. Whether or not they had enough food to eat, if they ate broken rice grains, and the continuous question of what their lives were like. It’s strange, to be eating the dish they probably ate to survive years later as a tourist in my family’s home country.

I can see Lan nodding next to me, her eyes bright as she keenly listens to B á c Tu ? n. It’s no wonder that Lan’s so passionate about Vietnamese food and its stories when everyone in her life is the same.

“Not just this dish, either,” B á c Tu ? n continues. “Vietnamese food is so important to our history. Did you know that out of ten million people that live in Sài Gòn, about one million get their livelihood from selling street food?”

Lan and I both shake our heads. “I didn’t. But that makes sense, street food is everywhere in this city,” she says.

I nod. From what I’ve learned, street food is the soul of Sài Gòn.

“But enough about food—I could go on and on all day.” B á c Tu ? n turns to me. “Con, you look like you have an important question to ask me.”

I’m almost caught off guard by his bluntness, almost, until I remember that’s just how Vietnamese people are. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush. I hand him the photograph of Mom’s family in front of Ch ? B ? n Thành, the question I’ve tossed and turned all night over slipping out of my mouth. “Do you… know who these people are?”

“Of course,” he says right away. “I went to high school with Hoa and Hi ? n. We didn’t know each other well, but I should have more photos of them.”

My mind races with the information revealed to me: Hoa, Mom’s name, and Hi ? n, my aunt’s name. Flower and Gentleness. One step closer to my family’s life in Vi ? t Nam.

B á c Tu ? n rummages through the back of the restaurant and returns with a photo album, smoothing out an old photograph of a group of students in front of a section of Sài Gòn unfamiliar to me.

“This was during our field trip to B ? n Nghé, the Old French Quarter in District One.”

My eyes zero in on the non-Vietnamese architecture in the background. “The buildings, did you say that they’re French?”

B á c Tu ? n nods. “That’s the Opera House and the City Hall, both built in the style of French colonial architecture.”

I remember what I had learned from A Bánh Mì for Two before coming to Sài Gòn: French imperialism in Vietnam.

As if reading my mind, Lan jumps in. “Even after independence, traces of imperialism remain. Not only the French, but also the Americans and the Japanese, too.”

“Like ph ? and bánh mì,” I say aloud. “From the architecture to food… the cultural influences are everywhere.”

“Yes, but,” B á c Tu ? n says, “it’s more than cultural influences. Vietnamese people are strong. We fought for freedom, and even if these influences linger, we’ve made them ours. We invented ph ? from pot-au-feu and bánh mì from baguettes. These buildings are now a part of Sài Gòn. There’s so much history within this city.”

“I know.” I nod. “Being in this city makes me feel small but in a good way. Like my life is so tiny compared to the bigness of Sài Gòn and all of its history.”

Lan’s looking at me across the table, her gaze sending a tingling feeling throughout my body. “Because of Vivi, I’m learning how special this city is,” she says, her eyes not leaving mine.

I clear my throat and turn to B á c Tu ? n. “Are these the students from your high school in the photograph?”

B á c Tu ? n nods and points to the two girls in the back smiling with perfect teeth, both pointing to something out of frame. “That’s Hoa and Hi ? n. They’re only a year apart, but they were best friends. They also had the biggest opinions in class, Hoa especially—she was known as the feisty girl. Pick on Hi ? n? Hoa will beat you up.”

I chew on my lip—is that really Mom? Mom who never really says much? What changed? How weird it is to be looking at my aunt through a photograph, a moment captured long before I was born, and to hear about her life from a stranger. I wonder if Aunt Hi ? n still talks to Mom, if she knows about me.

“How do you know Hoa and Hi ? n?” Bác Tu ? n asks, and I swallow.

I’m not ready to tell him, or anyone except Lan, about my mom and her story. “Someone I know is looking for Hi ? n,” I say instead. “Do you… know where she might be now?”

Bác Tu ? n looks at me, and I can see understanding passing through his face. Maybe he notices my cheekbones or my nose—whatever similar features I share with the women in the photo. “Last I heard, they live in District 2. Hoa and Hi ? n’s mom used to sell bánh bao in Th ? Thiêm. If you ask around there, I’m sure someone will know.”

If there’s one thing I know for sure about Mom, it’s that bánh bao is her comfort food. Bad day at work? She’ll sit through Little Saigon traffic congestion for a dozen bánh bao from her favorite bakery. Me leaving for “Singapore”? She’ll stuff my bag with bánh bao for the flight. Now the food that’s always been a part of my life seems way more important than it had ever been. It means something to Mom, and I wonder if it’s because she misses Sài Gòn.

“But,” Lan starts, her voice seemingly unsure, and my chest lurches. “There are so many bánh bao stalls in Th ? Thiêm. We don’t even know if that one stall is still there.”

“It’s not.” Bác nods solemnly before massaging his temple in thought. “But I do remember a cathedral being by their home.”

“The cathedral from the photograph.” My heart beats faster. I could see it now, the route to Mom’s childhood home—to my answers—just waiting for me in Distict 2.

“If you ask the people around the cathedral, they should know of Hoa and Hi ? n.”

“C ? m ? n, Bác,” I say, a heavy weight in my chest. Every time we make progress and I learn more, the less I know how to feel. I’ll go to Th ? ?? c City and find my family, and then… what?

“Hey.” Lan nudges me and points to the left corner of the restaurant, where students are flocking to one another with pens and Post-it notes in their hands, scribbling something onto the sticky notes. “Why don’t we go over there?”

We excuse ourselves from Bác Tu ? n and thank him for everything. I keep bowing, and Bác keeps insisting the food is on the house. I finally take in the rest of the restaurant, my eyes observing every nook and cranny. Yellow wallpaper brightens the small space. An oval bamboo light fixture glows warmly from the ceiling. Paintings of Vi ? t Nam hang on the walls, some of H ? i An and others of Hà N ? i—places I’ve always wanted to visit. Finally, one little corner is decorated with paper flowers, lanterns, and an explosion of colorful sticky notes.

A tiny chalkboard reads Question of the Day: Where is your favorite place to eat?

Other people posted their favorite restaurants and street food stalls, and as my eyes glide over each answer on the wall, something important stares back at me.

“Lan! Some of these answers thank A Bánh Mì for Two for helping them find their favorite places!” I say excitedly, keeping my voice hushed in case she doesn’t want people to know.

At first, she doesn’t say anything and just continues staring at the wall, awe on her face. “Tell me I’m not dreaming. That this is real. People actually wrote down A Bánh Mì for Two ?”

“It’s real,” I say, and reach for a sticky note myself. “I would write the same thing, but I already know what I want to put on the wall.”

“What are you writing down?”

I show her my sticky note: My favorite place to eat is anywhere with you.

She smiles. “That’s funny, because I’m about to write the same thing.”