Page 11 of A Banh Mi for Two
Nga laughs at us. “Americans. Just follow me.”
Cindy looks at me with alarm and I almost burst out laughing. People jaywalk in the States all the time, but this is another beast. People on motorbikes swerve by the group, blaring their horns and shouting in Vietnamese.
We all let out a collective breath once we’ve crossed.
“That wasn’t so bad?” I nudge Cindy.
She looks at me like I’ve grown another head. “You do it alone next time, then.”
“Maybe not.”
We walk over to the ?c xào vendor next to the river and pull three plastic tables together, wide and large enough to fit everyone. One by one, we sit on the tiny stools. The evening breeze teases my back and takes the humid air and sweat with it.
Nga comes back with bottles of beer, setting one in front of each person. “Listen and learn! This is how Vietnamese people nh?u. Nh?u just means drinking beer and eating food—such a fun hobby, right? And don’t say you’re under twenty-one. The law’s eighteen here, and I’m pretty sure you’re all adults, anyway.”
Mom would absolutely freak, but somehow that fact emboldens me. I bring the bottle to my lips and tip my head back. The bitter taste of the beer coats my tongue. “It’s… stale, but refreshing?”
How do Vietnamese uncles from Little Saigon drink this?
The worker comes out of the stall and drops two full plates of food in front of us. The sweet-and-sour aroma wafts around the tables, making everyone drool.
I recognize the ingredients immediately. Mom always stocks the fridge with the same Vietnamese staples. Her taste buds since Vi?t Nam remain unchanged, save for her obsession with our local pizzeria. The dishes look just like how Mom would make them. Periwinkle escargot in tamarind sauce. Sea snails in coconut milk and lemongrass. The exact meals she’d cook every Thanksgiving because we don’t like turkey.
Did she learn how to make them here? From who? Did she grow up eating with friends just like this, too? Drinking stale beer under the Sài Gòn skyline?
“Everyone!” Nga calls. “Raise your beer and let’s make a toast! Repeat after me. M?t, hai, ba, dzô!”
One, two, three, drink, what a silly phrase. We each raise our bottles and clink them against each other. “M?t, hai, ba, dzô!”
Nga beams. “To a semester of fun!”
“Wooo-hoooo!” Cindy cheers, jumping from her seat to dive into the food, knocking her beer onto my pants in the process. The pink blouse she’s been wearing since we were in California is miraculously fine.
“Shit, Cindy!” I grumble. The dampness doesn’t bother me, but it’s my favorite pair of jeans. Jeans that Mom stayed up past 5:00 a.m. to hem just because I asked her to. Cindy fusses, wiping down my clothes with spare napkins from the table.
“It’s fine.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Uh, whenever you say that, it means that it’s actually not fine.”
“I’m going for a short walk to air-dry this. You guys eat first.” So much for eating ?c xào. Mom’s is better anyway.
I walk toward the river, watching the lights from the city bounce off the water. My eyes survey the sight in front of me: families laughing, children running up and down the sidewalks, students egging one another on. I stay there for a moment, watching these strangers in a city I’ve only been in fewer than eight hours.
Another message from Mom.
Mom: How’s Singapore? Did con eat yet?
Yes. I had bánh mì, I start to type before remembering my lie. Do they even have bánh mì in Singapore? Never mind that, Mom would be asking all kinds of questions. I do a quick Google search of popular Singapore street food before settling on a lie. Wonton mee. I even attach a Google image before hitting send.
Mom: Ok. Stay safe.
So ominous. Part of me wishes I could send her photos of Sài Gòn. Talk to her about what a whirlwind my first day has been. Send photos of the food and of my friends. Tell her I know what nh?u is. I untuck the photograph of Mom in front of the cathedral from my wallet, letting the streetlight cast a glow over her face. She’s pointing at something—laughing at someone behind the camera, and my heart lurches at that wide, open-mouthed smile in the photograph. I want to know about her life here, all the little stories and moments that I never knew growing up.
She wouldn’t get it. After all, she kept all of this away from me.
I keep walking, still watching everyone that passes by me. I wonder if any of them are my family, if Mom’s sister had just passed me without knowing, and if I’ll ever meet the people in the photograph wedged between the edges of my wallet.
My right foot kicks something hard.
