by Loan Le
“Romeo and Juliet. Ali’s not going to shut up about us being Romeo and Juliet now.”
“We kind of are,” I say. “Our parents hate each other. Our secret meetings. This column looks like it’d even fit the time period.”
“Are you saying you’re going to poison yourself? Will I need to find a dagger somewhere?”
“And a tomb. We need to be prepared.”
She laughs, but doesn’t say anything. Just lets me hold her. Or she’s holding me. It’s all the same at this point.
From behind the curtain, I hear Chef Lê and Saffron whisper-arguing. “So should I knock, then?”
“Bry, baby, it’s a curtain. You can’t knock.”
* * *
After letting Chef Lê bear-hug us—Saffron shaking her head all the while—and tell us how he “knew it,” we talk about the column and his initial vision. He wants it to complement the red wall yet act like a statement piece—something to lure people when they come into the dining room. He hands Linh a couple of photos of his family—many of them of his mother from throughout her life. They remind me of the black-and-white photos on our wall and our family altars. When my relatives were posing for those portraits, I wonder if they knew what they’d be used for, if their sober stares were made on purpose.
Ultimately, Chef Lê says, he’s leaving other elements up to Linh but he’d like to have his family incorporated somehow.
“I have a few ideas,” Linh says, holding the photo while doing another walk around the column, taking in how much space she has to work with. She’s very much an artist at work, not some high school student playing around.
And she’s my girlfriend. Girlfriend. I beam at her, even if she’s not paying me any attention. I think about the kiss. I think about her worries. And of course, thoughts of my mom and dad seep in, threatening to taint these new feelings, but I hold on to the memory of our kiss.
Chef Lê spreads out the photos, moving them around like puzzle pieces. He’s explaining what he knows about them so that Linh can decide which ones to work with.
When we first met him, he talked about the questions he had that will never be answered. He talked about discovering parts of his past in innocuous, unexpected ways.
If I look into my family’s past, could I find an answer that would explain today?
Linh is arranging times to start on the mural and unexpectedly throws a question my way. “Are you free for the next couple of Thursdays? Chef Lê says that works for him.”
“Do you want me here too?”
“Of course I want you here.”
“Like… paint?” I gesture to my clothing. Linh’s face twists. Ah. That’s an obvious answer.
Saffron steps in smoothly. “You’re welcome to just hang around. Do homework and the like. Bry will try not to bother you too much.”
“Always trying to insult me, isn’t she?”
“Really?” I ask, ignoring Chef Lê. Linh squeezes my arm excitedly. “Sure, I can do that.”
In an irreverent move that only Chef Lê could manage, he finger-guns me. And I guess we have a deal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT LINH
The next morning, my alarm clock doesn’t wake me. No, it’s someone tickling me awake, pulling me out of pleasant dreams. I was stuck in a painting of my own, but I was happy. I could paint with my hands, no brush needed, and everything I touched took on color. I walked into a little cabin at the end of a long rainbow road, and opened the door, and I think it might have been Bảo standing with his back to me. I reached out to tap his shoulder, but a pair of hands got me from behind—
I jerk out of bed and flip the light switch on.
Evie.
“What are you doing here so early?” I exclaim, launching myself at her as she catches me, laughing. She smells like a brand-new car.
Ba was supposed to leave in an hour to drive her here. “I rented a car to drive in myself. Didn’t think Ba needed to be up this early,” she says. That explains the smell. “But here you are, sleeping in. How lazy.”
I glance at the alarm clock. Seven in the morning. “Hardly.” I push back my hair, mussed from sleep, and focus on her. She’s wearing her UC Davis sweatshirt again, the hood covering her hair. Her eyes are alive, probably hyped from the coffee she must have guzzled down during the long trip. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“I couldn’t leave you three to fend for yourselves.”
I hug her again, the strength of it surprising me and her. But she doesn’t say anything else.
I’d been so mad for the past few weeks, busy with the Gold Key submissions, my feelings for Bảo—just having so many thoughts weigh me down. I know it was selfish. I know I could have handled it all better. If Evie were in my place, she would have handled it differently for sure.
But now that I was honest with Bảo, that’s one thing off my chest. As for the other things?
“Ouch, Linh. You’re hugging me way too tightly!”
It’s rare for me to wake up before my parents, but it’s all worth it, watching Evie tiptoe into their bedroom down the hall, leaning down close and blowing air into Ba’s left ear. He lets out a snort, lurches over. His arm swings up until he realizes who’s right beside him. “Con!”
“Gì?” Mẹ says blearily. Then she’s instantly awake.
Mẹ playfully slaps my sister’s arm, scolding her for driving all night and not letting any of us know. What could have happened on the road? And she was alone! But her wide smile undercuts her rebuke; she’s happy to see Evie here. I’m reminded of past Sundays when my sister and I would sneak into their bed, crawling like toddlers until we could sandwich Mẹ and nearly knock Ba off his side. We’re older now, all grown up.
We could still knock Ba over, if we really wanted to.
* * *
After showering, I walk down to the kitchen. Mẹ makes a feast for breakfast like she’s preparing soldiers for battle: cooking eggs ốp la, cà phê sữa đá, and some leftover bánh ướt from the restaurant. They’re talking about Bảo’s restaurant, especially their plans for later tonight.
“Bánh Xèo Day,” Ba remarks. “Why didn’t we ever think of that?”
“Making bánh xèo was never my strong suit,” Mẹ says.
“Maybe you should practice,” Ba replies.
“Maybe you should,” she retorts, before turning her attention to the sauté pan, where another serving of over easy eggs is ready to be flipped. Evie and I grin at each other.
I look down, realizing that my mom had set before me a bowl of cháo gà, warm rice porridge with chicken meat, freshly chopped parsley, and a few turns of ground pepper. My mom must have made it late last night at some point. A rush of warmth washes over me, and I haven’t even taken a bite.
She settles into her seat to my left. Ba’s at my right, and Evie’s across from me. The seating that we’d had as we shared countless dinners. “Let’s hope today goes off as well as last time,” Mẹ says.
I thread my fingers through hers. I hope so too, but I also would hate that to mean that Bảo’s family somehow fails, and maybe that makes me a traitor. I brush aside the thought, focusing on my mom and the rest of my family.
“We’ll be fine.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE BẢO
The weather is dreary and gray, but it bodes well for tonight, my mom proclaims. It means rain is coming—the perfect excuse for bánh xèo.
At home in our kitchen, my mom woke up early to prep. I shuffle into the kitchen in my sweats, trying to compute what my eyes are seeing. On every surface available—the table, the counters, the top of our rice cooker—sit metal food buckets, each holding the food items that would go in each batch of bánh xèo: shrimp, pork belly, bean sprouts, and more. I see another batter that’s not as yellow; it might be the desserts she’s trying out, something that resembles a crepe, ready for fixings of strawberry, Nutella, and banana.
Mẹ comes in from outside, raincoat on, her pj’s underneath. She shakes out her wet hair. From her
morning shower or from outside, I’m not sure. Behind her on the outside stove, whatever’s inside the pan sizzles and pops.
“Need help?”
“No touching,” Mẹ answers tersely. She tries to clean but all she’s really doing is moving from one bucket to the next. I haven’t seen her fretting like this since she found out about the Mais’ first Phở Day. And it all makes sense.
“Mẹ, are you nervous?”
“Nervous? Mẹ not nervous.”
“What’s the Vietnamese word for ‘nervous’?”
“Lo lắng, but Mẹ not lo lắng,” my mom counters. “Chết cha.” She does a double take toward the outdoor stove, cursing when she sees something I can’t. I watch from inside as she scoops the batter from the pan and dumps it onto a plate—with other failed attempts, I guess.
“Mẹ,” I say firmly once she gets back in. “What can I do?”
Mẹ sighs and glances down at her bowl half full of batter. “I’ve done a couple of batters. But something is not right. I’m about to put in another layer right now. Here, let’s use another pan. Everything else is almost cooked.”
She lets the pan sit for a few seconds over the fire before instructing me to douse it with two bottle-squirts of oil. She adds shrimp and pork belly. After waiting a couple more beats, using her chopsticks to mix the batter, she deftly pours in a thin layer and it slides into the pan with a satisfying sizzle.
“It’s tricky, getting the layer just right,” Mẹ says, adding in bean sprouts. “Too much and it won’t be crispy. Không giòn.”
“How do you know when it’s crispy?”
“The edges look as if they want to peel off.” Seconds pass and she has her spatula ready. She folds the pancake in half, the other side golden brown. I grin. If she were in Chef Lê’s kitchen, he’d probably be praising her. This is the shit, he’d say.
The bánh xèo slides off easily onto the plate that I’m holding. The rain has let up, but water from the gutter drips by my feet. I’m about to head inside again to actually get a raincoat, when I hear Mẹ speaking.
“I used to love bánh xèo as a child. During the monsoon seasons. Your uncle and I would eat this up whenever our parents made them,” she says. “We would leave the door open and watch the rain from the kitchen.”
“Cậu Cam?” The uncle who I resembled. The one who didn’t make it.
“When I cook things like this, I remember him. I’m sure he’d be surprised by how good of a cook I’ve become. He was always so critical of my skills,” she says fondly.
After a moment, realizing that’s all she’s going to say, I mention, “Everyone says your bánh xèo is the best one, you know.”
Mẹ tsks, pretending to shun the idea. “I wish people will say that to my face.” But she smiles at me, her hood covering most of her face. I know her, though; I know she likes to hear praise like this. She glances up at the sky, watching for something I can’t see. “I’m hoping the rain doesn’t make everyone stay inside. If so, both restaurants might lose, which can’t be helped. But until then, we think this deal will get a lot of customers. Even more than that restaurant.”
Later at the restaurant, Linh texts me.
how are you doing?
you spying on us?
why do you think I kissed you?
i knew it
thinking about you
I look over my shoulder. My mom’s busy cleaning up.
me too
also you’re going down tonight
oh, it’s going to be like that?
game on
* * *
After a few hours of prepping, service is about to begin. The line doesn’t compare to Linh’s, not at this hour, but still, there are people waiting outside the restaurant, umbrellas up. So far, no one looks upset that they’re in the rain. Ba walks down the line, handing out menus for consideration and even some samples of bánh xèo. One guy takes a bite and says, “Dude. This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Even my mom doesn’t make it this good.”
I only saw the back of my dad’s head, so I have to imagine his reaction to being called a “dude.”
“Game on, man,” Việt says, standing right next to me as he ties his apron strings behind his back. He was here earlier with us, his parents tagging along as they dropped off a fresh batch of shrimp for tonight’s service.
In the flurry of everything, I remember that Việt doesn’t know about me and Linh yet.
“How’s the bet with Ali going?”
“No changes from last time.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary anymore.” After making sure no one’s nearby, I tell Việt everything about my visit to Linh in the art room, my note to her, and then our meetup at Chef Lê’s place and our decision to test out our relationship.
Clearly, I catch him off guard; he blinks but doesn’t say anything for a few beats. Suddenly, he’s thumping me on the back—channeling Chef Lê’s strength—congratulating me.
“And there’s no better way to test a relationship than competition.”
“Thanks for the reminder, Việt.”
“Personally, I don’t think anyone can really win. Both restaurants are doing different specials, so it’s going to draw different people. Don’t tell your mom I said this, though. She wouldn’t like it.”
“Who wouldn’t like what?” Mẹ asks, appearing behind us as she dons a pair of kitchen gloves. “Why are you talking instead of working?”
“Nothing, we’re just wondering if anyone’s ever going to make bánh xèo the way you do. What if the other restaurant tries to copy us?” Việt answers, so sweetly that Mẹ might see through him.
Mẹ doesn’t even bat an eyelash as she says, “They’re no good at making bánh xèo.”
“You’ve had theirs before or something?” I ask, surprised that she would know how it tasted. Or at least it sounds like it. She used to call their other foods bland, especially the phở, and I always thought it was an assumption on her part. A way to mock them.
Mẹ waves her hand. “I just know it.”
“Oh.” Her quick answer bothers me, though. It’s more of a feeling than anything. But there isn’t time to think about it more, because Ba is shouting for us to get into formation up front and seat everyone he’s about to let in.
* * *
The deal started out as a combination special—phở plus a free mini pancake. It was going fine until the first ticket for one complete order of bánh xèo emerges, and then another, and then another. Soon enough, we find tables ordering only pancakes and not phở.
The customers are mostly Việt, with a few stragglers who probably spotted a flyer at a Vietnamese market.
One woman—strikingly blond—with a hint of some European accent asks me to describe bánh xèo to her. She’s in charge of ordering for her family of five who look the most out of place in the restaurant—and I’m guessing Bolsa in general.
“Have you ever had a crepe?”
“Yes.”
“Well this is kind of a like a crepe, except it’s mostly savory. Think about the crispiest thing you’ve ever eaten. Got it?” The customer nods, looking like she’s hanging on to my every word. I feel suddenly powerful, and I go with this feeling.
“You’re sitting outside under a storefront’s umbrella. It’s raining, but not pouring, and you can smell soil, gasoline from a motorbike just passing through. Someone places this bright yellow pancake in front of you. It has turmeric, juicy pork belly, soft prawns, and crunchy bean sprouts tucked inside, and you drizzle salty and spicy fish sauce all over it. One bite… and you’re gone.”
The customer blinks twice and sits back. “You sold me. One for everyone at the table.”
“You won’t regret it.”
Back in the kitchen, I hand over my slip to Mẹ, who does a double take. “Five?”
“Five,” I repeat with a wide grin.
“Did you tell them we put gold in it or something?” she mutters. I catch a hint of a smil
e as she turns back toward the kitchen line to bark an order.
* * *
Over the years, my parents have had to deal with various levels of nasty customers. Abhorrent. Unconscionable. Sometimes, the criticism comes from other Vietnamese people. The broth’s too bland or the egg rolls haven’t been cooked enough or the nước mắm doesn’t have enough lime. Mẹ’s quick to have a word with them, her voice turning firm when she’s speaking in her language. By the end, they always agree to disagree about the recipes.
“Every Vietnamese person is different. Our family may be different according to region.”
But some customers are on a different level. Like today.
Around four in the afternoon, Việt comes up to me by the service window looking, for once, concerned.
“What’s up with you?”
“Dude, it’s ridiculous. Some guy’s saying we haven’t given him enough egg rolls.”
“How many did he order?”
“One side.”
“And we gave him two?” At Việt’s nod, I ask, “So what’s the deal?”
“He doesn’t believe me, thinks we’re scamming him. He wants to speak to the manager.” I hesitate then. That would be my mom. It’s fine for my mom to berate Vietnamese customers—somehow she manages to win them over by cracking a joke or two, then she gives them an extra side of something. But in English, she’s different. I can see it in her face when she struggles to find the right word, the right retort. It’s one of her biggest insecurities. Then she loses her cool, getting angry mostly at herself.
I search the room and find the trouble immediately. His face is sunburned and he has his sunglasses on top of his head. His hair’s all spiked up. While he waits for attention, he leans back, arms crossed, fingers tapping away his impatience. It looks like he’s with his wife or girlfriend and their kids. The woman’s leaning in, whispering something, but he just stares straight ahead, jaw clenched. I wonder how the kids must be feeling.
