A Pho Love Story

by Loan Le

  My mom raises her chin. “It’s natural for restaurants to compete against each other.”

  “Ours was not natural,” Linh’s mom interjects.

  “What did you expect? Your mother was always the better chef and she was the one to teach you how to cook. Of course I felt intimidated when you arrived on the scene.” Never in a million years did I think my mom would admit her recipe was inferior.

  “We didn’t know you were across from us when we agreed to buy the restaurant from Bác Xuân. We never meant to compete; it was a way to provide for our daughters.”

  “Who turned out brilliantly,” Linh’s aunt adds, throwing a proud look at Linh, who tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. I’m briefly distracted by the blush on her cheeks. “And it seems like your son has grown up admirably because of your hard work, too.” I scratch the back of my head as Linh playfully kicks me under the table. “We can all agree on that.”

  She softens her tone. “But isn’t always competing with each other tiring? At what point will you have won? Either of you?”

  I’m not sure if my parents have ever asked themselves that question. But I know the answer. There is no point to it. There’s no winning if all this competition has been masking a war on matters unrelated to the number of customers that come in, the number of bowls sold each day.

  By the way my mom sags into her seat, she’s probably just reached the same conclusion. Her eyes skirt over to our wall. She might be looking at her brother, having a silent conversation with him.

  “Bác Xuân… By selling the restaurant to you, I sense he was trying to get us to forgive each other.”

  “Very unsuccessful,” Linh’s mom says.

  “He was always nosy.”

  “So nosy.”

  “Ông tò mò,” Linh’s aunt says, and she turns to her sister. “Wasn’t that what our mother always called him?”

  “My parents called him much worse names.” Wait. Is my mom hiding a smile? It can’t be. I turn to Linh, who appears just as shocked by what’s unfolding now.

  “Thôi, không nói nữa,” my dad says, his bones creaking as he rolls back his hunched shoulders.

  “Mình làm gì được bây giờ?” her dad mutters in agreement.

  What can we do now?

  Our dads arrive at an agreement first and now it’s up to our mothers.

  Our parents glance down at the plates, pushing around their food, running out of words.

  Dì Vàng takes a sip and winces. “Chua quá, chị.” Too sour.

  I gulp. This is it. Everything will be derailed.

  Then, unbelievably, a full-blown smile appears on her face. “Some things really don’t change.”

  Instead, my mom sniffs in a way that tells me she’s not really mad. “Blame your mother. She never wanted to give me her recipe.”

  * * *

  Our families have a lot of catching up to do. Their reminiscences continue, pushing me and Linh out of the conversation. But it’s fine, because at least everything is out there, finally out there. Sharing one look, we rise from the table, and me and Linh head outside. We find a spot by the curb and sit down—right across from the very spot where we shared our very first laugh.

  Linh rests her head on my shoulder. “Is this a dream?”

  I laugh before dropping a kiss on her crown. “If it is, let’s stay inside it for just a little while longer.”

  “Do you think everything’s going to be okay?”

  Linh turns her head to look back at our families and says, “They can’t really forget the past, though. With one like theirs it’s too impossible. But will they be able to move forward now?” Her gaze lands on me again. “I think so.”

  I squeeze her hand in agreement.

  CHAPTER FIFTY LINH

  The Mais and the Nguyễns will never be the best of friends they once were decades ago. Too much history clouds the waters we share. But at least there are fewer words left unsaid. In a spirit of forgiveness, the Lunar New Year passed with ease.

  My mom and Bảo’s mom have taken to sharing their homestyle recipes, updating each other with each culinary treat they make at home. Sometimes they visit each other at their respective restaurants. My dad and his dad mesh well; if anyone looks closer, it would seem that they were brothers. My aunt now calls Bảo’s mom—whether she wants to hear from her or not. Bảo’s still trying to figure that out.

  I know things will be all right. Because each visit, each moment spent together, each laugh shared repairs what’s been broken, like a brush of gesso gently rejuvenating something precious from long ago.

  * * *

  I don’t think Chef Lê understood what he was getting into when he invited me and Bảo and our families to his restaurant. He apologized profusely, saying he meant to do it right after my mural was unveiled, but his son, Philippe, had gotten sick and there wasn’t enough time.

  Faced with two strong women with strong opinions on cooking, I almost expect Chef Lê to melt under their interrogation. But of course, he had his own Vietnamese mother to contend with growing up, and he easily deflects the heat. I would even say they are impressed by the kitchen workflow and some of his dishes—maybe even curious to get their hands on his recipes.

  In the dining room, I glance across the table, watching Bảo try to fend off his mother’s insistence that he needs to eat more rice. My own mother warns me to watch for bones from one of the plates of cá chiên sitting at the center of the table, even though I’ve eaten this kind of fish my entire life. Meanwhile, our respective fathers sit across from each other in companionable silence, preoccupied by their own bowls of rice.

  Bảo’s hair is still slightly wet. Seeing Chef Lê and Saffron’s son across from him, he tries to make the poor kid laugh, but Philippe is completely unamused. Once in a while, from his position on his father’s lap, he glances confusedly for help from his mother. He only smiles when Saffron mutters an endearment in French, then crawls into her arms.

  Ali had jokingly said that this was the dinner of the century, and I’m sure if I told her where I was going, she’d probably follow. Lately, she’s had this ridiculous idea that she’ll write a novel about two warring Vietnamese families whose respective son and daughter fall in love. I don’t know how she’ll do it, but I guess Ali can do anything once she puts her mind to it.

  Under the table, I feel Bảo squeeze my hand. We don’t quite hide it from our families—us dating, even though “no dating until you’re married” is a common refrain from our parents. And when I do leave the house or take a break to visit Bảo at his restaurant, my dad’s always saying, “Ah, her bạn.” Her “friend.”

  We’ll get there… like everything else.

  Our dinner finally ends and the laughter in our throats—courtesy of Chef Lê’s comedic timing—finally settles. Toothpicks are distributed and there is momentary silence as each adult digs into their teeth.

  A server sidles up to the table, setting down the bill.

  A quiet “Oh shit” slips out from Chef Lê’s lips as he remembers exactly who’s at the table and the accompanying struggle of Vietnamese families fighting over the bill. He mutters about checking on the kitchen and scurries away. Saffron and Philippe soon join him.

  “Let me get this,” my mom says first, using the tone that commands the line cooks and servers.

  A glint appears in Bảo’s mom’s eyes. “Oh no, let me.”

  “Thôi, được rồi. Please, let me.”

  Who will win?

  I jump when Bảo whispers in my left ear, “Let’s get out of here? Before they really kill each other?”

  I nod and leave the table. So focused on the bill, our parents don’t notice our departure.

  Outside, we find ourselves in an alley, a familiar meeting spot for us, I suppose.

  “Last time we were in an alley, you almost turned me away,” Bảo says.

  “Oh really?” I arch an eyebrow.

  “Are you going to turn me away again?”


  Grinning mischievously, I press him against the wall and plant a loud smack on his lips. We burst out laughing the moment we part. “Smooth.” The grin stays on his face. “Linh?”

  I sigh, content. “Hmm?”

  “You have paint in your hair again.”

  I really did try to stay clean. I shrug. “So?” I say, challenging him.

  He gives no response, a glint appearing in his eyes, and he reaches for me, pulling me to him by the loops of my jeans. His thumb caresses my cheek, and his eyes are soft.

  Now we kiss for real.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I have so many people to thank. Ba, I am thankful for your quiet love, comfort, and encouragement. I will always remember your patience as I scoured the bookshelves at the Cheshire Public Library—and later earned too many fines. Mẹ, you are the strongest person I know and I would be lost without you. I’ve grown to understand your strength and sacrifices more and more. I think my love of storytelling started with you—those nights when you’d tell stories about your childhood, squished between me and Chị An after we’d pushed our beds together.

  Ba, Mẹ, I love you, I love you, I love you. I can’t imagine not being your daughter. I don’t think either of you ever tried stopping me from reading and writing, and I am glad for that.

  An, our lives take us on different trajectories—very different, lol. Your brilliance, your strength, and your love have gotten me through so many things. You are truly my big sister. I love you, and I want the best for you. I’m glad to be your sister-in-law, Kevin, and I can’t think of a better life partner for An! I am also proud to be Calhoun’s aunt.

  Dan, you are a rare human in every way possible and I do love you.

  I’d like to thank my extended family as well because when I was really young, we lived or were always together. Now we’re scattered across America and Vietnam. I don’t take their struggles, unseen and unsaid, lightly: Dì Chín, Anh Bé, Chị Ty, Chị Quỳnh, Anh Sơn, Chị Như, Chị Nhi, Bon Bon, Tin Tin, Gigi, Anh Thông, Ben, Lilly, Eric, Ý Vy, Chị Huyền, Anh Thiện, Jasmine. Dì 10 Lớn, Cậu Đức, Chị By, Anh Hoàng, David, Noah, Sam, and Hannah. Even though we’ve only seen each other a handful of times, I want to send love to the West Coast fam (it’s definitely been more than seven years), and to my family in Vietnam.

  Jen Ung, this book literally wouldn’t have existed without you. I admire you as an editor and I admire you for being my editor. Thank you for bearing with my lateness, for your insightful notes, for your enthusiasm. I have learned so much from you; you are beloved. Jim McCarthy, you’re such an astounding agent, and I’m forever thankful for the support you’ve shown me from the very beginning. You’re the best in the business. To the publishing team behind me, thank you: Mara Anastas, Liesa Abrams, Laura Eckes, Elizabeth Mims, Sara Berko, Brenna Franzitta, Mandy Veloso, Kathleen Smith, Caitlin Sweeny, Lisa Quach, Savannah Breckenridge, Nicole Russo, Lauren Carr, Jenny Lu, Lauren Hoffman, Anna Jarzab, Christina Pecorale, Victor Iannone, Emily Hutton, Michelle Leo, and Stephanie Voros.

  I don’t think I have enough space to thank everyone in my life, and I’m actually afraid of forgetting people. Please don’t be offended if you’re not here. Some may know their impact and some may not (surprise!), but I wanted to thank you regardless because you’ve enriched my life as a person, as a writer, and as an editor: Ali Famigletti—not the Ali in this book—I’m glad to have found a soul sister in you. From the moment we bonded over Fringe, from that snowy day in Fairfield, I knew we’d be friends for a long time. Eric Lynch, Spencer Colpitts, and Clara de Frutos—Look at us! We are all so different from each other, and we’ve done a lot of growing up. I love you. Love and hugs to the Tran family, Mariah Stovall (Beans!), Stephanie Jimenez (Beans!), Luigi DiMeglio, Melissa Bendixen, Lara Jones, Melanie Igelias Pérez, Wendolyne Sabrozo, Chelcee Johns, my Atria colleagues, Fiora Elbers-Tibbitts, Sean deLone, Nick Ciani, Daniella Wexler, Rakesh Satyal, Jhanteigh Kupihea, Amar Doel, Lindsay Sagnette, Libby McGuire, Dr. Tommy Xie, Gretchen and Jeff Messer, Kelly and Stephen Barry, Rebecca Faith Heyman, Bryan Crandall, Caitlyn Cardetti, Steve Breslin, and BTS (sorry, I had to).

  Thank you to The Hastings—my MFA “sisters”: Ellyn Gelman, Stacey Holmes, Sam Keller, Kerry McKay, Alix Purcell, Sam Sullivan, and Jessica Tumio. I’m eternally grateful to the Fairfield University English Department and the Fairfield MFA faculty who taught there during my time: Elizabeth Hastings, Hollis Seamon, Eugenia Kim, Al Davis, Rachel Basch, Karen Osborn, Sonya Huber, Elizabeth Hastings, Carol Ann Davis, Baron Wormser, Susan Darraj Maddaj, Michael White, and Bill Patrick.

  Friends and teachers from Cheshire: I think you know who you are. We may not be in each other’s lives anymore, but I see you and I’m proud of you. Ms. Yamamoto, you left the world as I was writing this manuscript. I was imagining the day I visited CHS and dropped off a copy in your office—the same office where our class, even after we were done, shared more Occasional Papers and proudly hung up our college acceptances. I just want to thank you for inspiring me, for being so kind to many, many, many people.

  Thank you,

  Loan

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo courtesy of author

  Loan Le holds an MFA degree in fiction from Fairfield University, where she also earned her bachelor’s degree. A Pushcart Prize–nominated writer, Loan has had her short stories appear in CRAFT Literary, Mud Season Review, and Angel City Review. Loan works in book publishing and lives in Manhattan. A Phở Love Story is her first novel. Visit her website at writerloanle.com and find her on Twitter @loanloan.

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