A Pho Love Story

by Loan Le

  “We can always turn around,” I say.

  “No,” Ba says firmly and calmly, pushing a menu to me and Mẹ. “This is competition.”

  “Barely!” my mom protests.

  He overrides her. “Let’s see why that customer is talking to you about this place.”

  We fall silent when the waiter—John, because of course—returns again. He asks if we’re ready to order and Ba actually pulls out a list of menu items and reads them off.

  See: research.

  When the confusion dawns on John’s face, my stomach drops.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Can you repeat that?” John looks to me, like I’m expected to translate for Ba. I look away from him, wanting to prolong his misery. We get this a lot when we go out to non-Vietnamese places—and maybe this is why we don’t go out often. Obviously, my dad’s accent gives him away. He wasn’t born here like me. But even though I understand him perfectly, sometimes he gets nervous—but doesn’t want to say so—and he speaks quickly. When I was a kid—bowl-cut me, let’s just say—it was embarrassing. Maybe it was the look others gave him, or the visible discomfort in my parents.

  Now I’m just annoyed by people like John.

  Ba clears his throat, sits up straighter in his seat. “Coffee. For the three of us.” He slows his words as he relays the rest.

  “Oh, yes, sorry.” The red in the waiter’s ears—now he’s embarrassed—fades while he jots down the order.

  The time waiting for our food consists of my mom and dad’s airing their complaints against the place. Seems like we’re the only Vietnamese family here. The lights are too bright. They gave us “organic” cà phê sữa đá that was already served in a glass with ice. Real Vietnamese restaurants make the customers do their own work. The only concession is good-looking waiters—one, as my mom points out, resembles a K-pop star.

  Then the food comes. Turns out, even a kid who didn’t grow up in a restaurant could tell this wasn’t any legit Vietnamese restaurant. General atmosphere aside, the kitchen was only doing a poor imitation of the Việt food I recognize. The cơm chiên doesn’t have Chinese sausage—what kind of fried rice dish is this? Other crimes include oversalting the phở and not crisping up the fish enough.

  “Dở ẹc!” my mother says, a look of disgust on her face as she sorts through the mushy fish. She’d already removed the bones and they slid off suspiciously cleanly. If it were really done well, the bones would refuse to come off, and you’d have no choice but to use a hand and chopstick pair to remove them.

  “No doubt, this restaurant will close within a few months,” Ba finally says, pushing away his unfinished plate. I repeat: unfinished.

  Linh’s text about our first assignment comes to mind. I ask my parents if I could duck out of my shift early next week. And then the interrogation happens.

  “Why?”

  “I have a newspaper assignment.”

  “Newspaper? When?”

  “Just this year. I’m writing food reviews.”

  “You?” my parents ask, simultaneously stunned and incredulous.

  “Yes,” I answer exasperatedly. “It’s something I started doing.”

  “You are writing about food?” Ba asks for confirmation.

  “He does eat like Ba,” Mẹ mutters, still staring at me. “But why?”

  Because Linh’s going to do it too. Not the best answer to give. “Because it’s something to do. I thought you’d be more excited that I’m doing, you know, something.” Using my chopsticks, I stuff a bite of white rice in my mouth, trying to act casual. Too ngảo. Mushy.

  “Writing… You never said you liked it,” my mom says.

  “Just because I never talked about it doesn’t mean I didn’t like it.”

  “You did like reading dictionaries as a kid,” Ba concedes. Turning to my mom, his tone shifts to a joking one. “Maybe he’s seeing his girlfriend.”

  Mẹ catches on, her preoccupation flying away. “Ha! Like that would happen.”

  “Funny, guys. Funny. Girls like me!” I decide to play along. “There’s at least one girl in each class who likes me. Kelly Tran. Fiona Su. Cindy Jackson.” The idea of these girls liking me sends my parents laughing. Even I’m joining in. Me and Kelly, the girl who despises me for avoiding VSA duties like the plague?

  Later, I won’t be able to explain why I said what I said next. Maybe it’s a slip of the tongue, or because it’s a notion even more ridiculous than Kelly, Fiona, or Cindy having a crush on me. Right after Cindy, Linh’s name slips through my lips.

  A dark expression crosses my mom’s face, like clouds engulfing the sun. “Linh Mai?”

  There’s a dangerous tone in her question, and I immediately retreat. “Just kidding. I’ve never talked to her in my life.”

  “Good.”

  “I mean, she’s, like, really weird. Like, really, really weird. No one likes her at school,” I say. “And she smells!”

  Acting: not my career path. My parents continue glaring at me stonily, the playful mood from before gone. “Seriously, I’m not seeing anyone. I really am on assignment for the newspaper.”

  This causes my mother to lean back, shoulders relaxing.

  A different waiter has come back—mixed, Vietnamese and white, maybe. Her grin falters when she notices my mom’s fury.

  “Can I get you anything else, cô?”

  My mom softens her expression, musters a smile. Maybe she’s consoled in seeing another Vietnamese person in the room. “Yes, we’re ready.” She cracks open the menu again. “Let’s try the dessert.”

  * * *

  All the guys here have perfect hair.

  That’s my first observation as I walk into the restaurant that Ali had assigned us. The host disarms me with his bright smile as he greets me in Japanese. Average height, he’s still made tiny by the large wooden desk that he stands behind. The divider’s just low enough to let me see the waiters walking around, their polished hair—many of them with the hair of a Silicon Valley guy post-startup phase. Many immaculate man-buns, which the host also has. I’d look ridiculous if I tried wearing my hair like that.

  Linh hasn’t arrived yet, and in various hand gestures, I let the host know that I’ll wait for a few seconds. Looking up: stalactites—thin wooden structures jutting down from the ceiling, painted to mimic the top parts of northern Japanese hemlocks. Somewhere in my research about this place, I remember seeing that the chef is from Kyushu, specifically Fukuoka. Maybe this art was inspired by his home. I sneak my notepad from my back jeans pocket—Ali forced it on me, saying it’d make me look more “legit.”

  I turn to the mirrors functioning as walls. Strands of hair still stick out no matter how much gel I use. I’m so preoccupied that I don’t notice Linh sneaking up on me.

  She arches an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

  “Um… hair,” I manage to articulate.

  Her mouth moves like she’s fighting words back. Or a smile. “It looks fine.”

  We let the host know that we’re from La Quinta, and as Ali promised, the restaurant was expecting us. Ken, the host, leads us past the dividers. While the waiting room transports you to a different height, the main dining room brings you back to the ground, literally. The floor takes on the cool colors of a modern city; the walls, the outlines of high-rise buildings, adorned and labeled with the sleekness of kanji. Japanese pop music brings an intimate, personal vibe that calms me immediately. It reminds me of seeing out the last customers for the day, of the feeling right before I throw myself into bed.

  The other diners are mostly Asian—a good sign—and aged young. We don’t recognize anyone, which makes sense since it’s a city away. We get seated, and I sneak a look at Linh smiling and nodding at the waitress who swooped in. Linh asks about the artwork, sparking life into the waitress’s eyes. Maybe she’s an artist, too. I take down parts of the conversation: her uncle’s the chef and yes, he wanted the restaurant decor to be an homage to his home island.

  “We were just fi
xated on the idea that art can say so much about family history.”

  “I totally understand! I’m working on something similar.”

  I make a note to ask about that. When the waitress leaves, though, we’re alone, forced to look at each other, and suddenly my ability to speak has retreated somewhere else. Our time at the boba shop might as well have been a dream. I resist the urge to straighten the bottle of soy sauce between us, just to do something.

  “You’ve been taking notes already?” Linh nods at the notepad next to me. “I brought mine, too.”

  From her small backpack, she pulls out her sketchbook that I saw in the boba shop. I watch her hands, faint paint still on her fingers. A trademark. Linh notices, glancing down, and tries to hide it. “Sorry, I was trying to fit in some painting time before and probably should have washed it off better.”

  “No, it’s all good. It’s very… you. You know, being an artist and all that.” I see the same expression from before, like she doesn’t quite know how to read me, so I rush to add, “Anyway, yeah, I only took a few notes so far. I had to Google how to write a food review. That’s the level of confidence I have right now.”

  Linh laughs, sitting back. “Here’s a tip. I’ve learned in reading art reviews that the best reviews aren’t just about the art or whether it’s good or not. It’s also how other patrons will react to it. What meaning the art piece might have to others.”

  “Good to know.”

  “You won’t have any issue at all on the food part, though. I mean, we grew up in the business. We know good food, don’t we?”

  Her words summon into memory our first meeting—the first time we reviewed something together in a way. I crack a smile, relaxing a bit more. We take a few minutes with the menu before ordering a tempura assortment, shrimp and vegetable, to share, then ordering ramen—tonkatsu ramen for me and spicy miso ramen for Linh.

  “So,” Linh says, stitching together her fingers and leaning forward. “What kind of place is perfect for a date? Maybe it’d help to think about that as you review it.”

  Of course, to contribute to my under-qualifications—add the fact that I’ve never been on a date, either. Unless you count one lunch with a girl at Burger King during a sixth-grade field trip.

  Which I tell Linh, and she just laughs. She’d probably gone on more dates than me. Most of my classmates probably have, too. So it shocks me when she says, “I’ve never been a date either. So I guess we’re even.”

  “That’s comforting.” I pick up my pencil, tapping it against my notebook. “Dates have to be somewhere you can actually get to know someone. Like us right now.” I wish I could take the words back. Does she think that I think this is a date?

  But Linh doesn’t seem to notice, adding, “The noise level has to be just right so that it’s an actual conversation. Like, if someone is speaking quietly, you should still be able to hear that person.”

  “Dimly lit atmosphere with a noise level that’s perfect for conversations and whispers,” I say aloud as I write.

  I feel like she means it. We go back and forth with other requirements of a “perfect date”: a nice seating or standing arrangement; an activity that both people like and could talk about later. The waitress drops by with our appetizer, then disappears again.

  “Ultimately, I think both people on the date need to be comfortable, as if you could literally share everything and anything. Which is why the setting matters,” Linh says.

  Our waitress shows up again with a bowl, her fellow waiter tagging along with another bowl. I make a note about the short waiting time. I start salivating the moment the aroma wafts from my ramen—intense and smoky. It doesn’t disappoint. The first spoonful of broth coats my tongue in a silky layer, and the noodles are still firm yet give way easily under my teeth. The egg is sweet and salty, soaked in umami.

  “Remind me to thank Ali,” Linh says into her spoon. “It’s not like most other ramen, which goes overboard with the salt.”

  “Good ramen doesn’t feel like you’re drowning in a bowl of salt,” I pretend to write. “You want to trade for a second?”

  We exchange bowls, keeping our utensils. Linh pauses and blows on her broth. “Ăn đi, con,” I say, mimicking countless cousins or aunts at family gatherings who are almost always chasing an impossible toddler to feed.

  Linh’s now midbite but she laughs, then covers her mouth. “Don’t! You just made me spit!”

  “On a date, it’s important not to sit across from anyone who spits,” I add to my invisible list.

  Linh telepathically lets me know to shut up. Her ramen is pleasantly spicy, the texture of the broth similar to mine, the kind that sits comfortably on the tongue, doesn’t attack you.

  My earlier nervousness is completely gone now as we alternate the time eating, describing our food, and complaining about school and balancing working at the restaurants. She talks about how her parents set her up with an engineering student they know so she can ask questions. Which is a good idea—and I hope my parents don’t think of it. I’m fine with limiting the times I disappoint someone.

  Linh takes pictures of her ramen, and she starts with her sketch of the restaurant, outlining the most prominent parts: the walls, tables, and chairs. “For size comparison.” Her pencil seems to float above the page instead of touching it and she falls silent now, locked in her world. A world I’m finally getting a look at.

  Watching Linh’s thoughts play across her face is… interesting. I remember how she looked that night, distress rippling across her face, the indecision as her eyes flitted between me and the restaurant.

  For years, my parents’ issues with her family were a separate, weird thing that I’d accepted, one of their many oddities—like their near-worship of lottery numbers, their insistence with each wrong number that they were just about to give that number. Or Mẹ’s tendency to use me or my dad to get a double-tasting of samples at the supermarket.

  “How can your parents not want you to be an artist?”

  I don’t mean to disrupt her, but it pulls her out of her head.

  “I guess it doesn’t feel stable to them. My parents aren’t really about making tons of money. It’s about making just enough to sustain themselves. They didn’t have that when they came over, so they wanted it for me.”

  “They escaped too?”

  “They escaped,” she confirms. “By boat.”

  I spoon some of my remaining broth, watching the surface ripple. All my life, I thought it was normal that my mom and dad had left by sea. They’d known each other growing up and left in the same boat owned by the second cousin of a mutual friend. Their connection to this boat owner might have been loose, but they were past caring. Trustworthiness during this time was a messy ideal anyway. They just had to leave. But after hearing conversations from my mom’s friends, conversations with other Việt kids at school, families came another way: through sponsorship, through marriage.

  But I feel like it does say something about the type of people my parents are—Linh’s parents, too—to put trust in the unknowable sea, in the people who navigated the boats to the ultimate destination. Survivors.

  “So you don’t tell your parents about wanting to be an artist because they don’t see it as a viable career.”

  Linh nods. “That’s why I have to keep it a secret. Some secrets are good. They can be helpful.”

  “Still, it’s hard to keep a secret.”

  “You’re keeping a secret. You haven’t exactly told your parents that you’re working with me on this newspaper assignment.”

  It’s not the same thing, but I can’t figure out how to say it.

  “Me and my art—I’m not really lying. I’m downplaying it,” Linh continues. She fiddles with the end of a chopstick, not looking at me now. Somehow I feel as if I’ve stepped over an invisible line. “Okay, I guess it’s hiding. But it’s necessary!” She directs the last line at me, suddenly insistent. “First of all, you’re a guy, so you probably get away with a lo
t of things.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but I remember a cousin at a gathering complaining that her brother had a later curfew because he was a guy. “Okay, I see that.”

  “But my parents are pretty much insistent that I do anything but be an artist. To do this, I have to lie. There’s no other way, really,” Linh says, defensiveness seeping in at the edges. “I’m not usually a liar.”

  “I’m not calling you a—I’m just saying.”

  It’s my fault things went a little sour. Linh’s now avoiding further conversation by zoning in on her sketchbook. “It’s fine.”

  Later, our goodbye is less hopeful than our last one the night we had boba.

  This isn’t a date, so why does it feel like I messed everything up?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN LINH

  It’s not that I didn’t know I was liar. But to hear someone else agree with that? It’s piercing. Especially coming from Bảo, because as much as I dislike the label, I know he’s right. Lying to maintain stability. Lying to make sure my parents aren’t worrying about me or nagging me because they already have to do that as parents. In a way, isn’t this saving my parents from grief? He’s doing it, too. That’s the only reason why we’re able to do this whole food beat.

  But it’s never going to stop if you go on like this, says a voice unusually like Bảo’s.

  I yell in frustration, glad to have the house to myself for an hour. My parents are still at the restaurant. My sketch from earlier tonight is beside me, nearly done. I just have to add more depth perception. I run my hand across its rough texture.

  Bảo can’t know the pressure. From what I can tell, his parents aren’t forcing him to be something—they just want him to find his path, which he said he couldn’t see, but observing him tonight, writing seems to come naturally to him.

  I force down the sudden spike of jealousy; his parents are clearly different from mine.

  It felt normal in the beginning. If other people were looking in, we probably seemed like two high school students on a real date. When I’m with Ali, I can talk about a lot of things, but she can’t understand being raised the way me and Evie were. We grew up differently.