Page 51 of A Banh Mi for Two
“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 Bác Tu?n! Bác 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 com 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 on, 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 com 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 nu?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 nu?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, com 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?” Bác Tu?n asks, smiling at me now.
“Because it tastes good?” I try, unsure of what to say.
Bác 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 com 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 Bác 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,” Bác 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.
