Page 20 of A Banh Mi for Two
My face burns. “I do have friends. You.”
He cringes. “My point exactly. She’s American, huh? You could use some international friends. Ask for her opinion on… food?”
“Not a chance.”
But he does have a point. She obviously has been to more places than I ever have if she’s here. Maybe I can ask about other cities, food, and cultures for the blog contest. “Ugh, the blog contest,” I mutter to myself.
“What contest?” he asks.
Right, I haven’t told anyone. “Someone sent me a submission call the other day. The Southeast Asia Travel Magazine is asking for pieces about the Most Beautiful City in the World. Winner takes home a lot of money.”
“Sweet.” He whistles. “Do it. You’ll win.”
I glare at him. “How are you so confident?”
“Are you kidding? You’re a good writer and you have passion. I’ve never seen someone light up so much talking about food before.”
But what can passion buy us? Even if I enter the competition, I probably won’t win. “I’ll think about it.” Part of me had already made peace with not entering, but then I’d think about how happy Má would be if I won. She could rest, not feel bad about buying medicine for herself, and she’d be proud of me. If I win, then maybe writing can be a serious business for me—for us—and maybe then we wouldn’t need the bánh mì stall anymore. Má wouldn’t be out in the heat, wouldn’t be massaging the aches in her joints.
Still, who would we be as a family without Bánh Mì 98? This stall was Ba’s, and everyone else’s that came before me. I can’t just give up on it.
“You might want to stop thinking so hard and scrunching your eyebrows because the American girl looks like she really wants to talk to you,” he whispers, just in time for me to see that she’s literally in front of us.
Here we go again. I make sure my face is as neutral as possible with only a slight smile at the corner of my lips.
Bracing myself, I say the line I’ll probably repeat the most in this life: “What can I get for you?”
“Hey,” she says, practically vibrating. “Can I have two bánh mì th?t nu?ng?”
“Got that, Tri?t?” I clear my throat, not sure what to say. Should I make small talk? Tell her I forgive her and the whole notebook thing was so stupid anyway? No, I shouldn’t bring it up again. I’d look like I’ve been spending too much time thinking about it—thinking about her. But my heart won’t stop pounding, and though I want to look anywhere else, my eyes won’t stop flickering to her face. It’s like I’m almost forgetting we’re in the middle of a busy city, and it’s not just us but also her and her friend next to her—who’s too busy taking photos of the bánh mì lined perfectly in the bánh mì cart.
He nods and gives me a thumbs-up. It usually only takes minutes to prepare an order, but time moves too slow today.
The girl is looking everywhere but my eyes—my entire face, actually—and keeps fidgeting with her hands. But I’m doing the same, just picking at my own cuticles. Maybe I should just wait this out, what’s the point of making friends, anyway. I’m here to do one thing: to sell food, and she’s a customer. Just another person in Sài Gòn who will soon leave.
“Hot today,” she says. “R?t nóng.”
My usual annoyance about tourists flip-flopping between English and Vietnamese fades the moment my eyes meet hers again. Those big round eyes. “D?. Coi ch?ng nha, nóng l?m dó.”
She brightens immediately at my Vietnamese, her voice squeaky. “Thank you! I’ll make sure to be careful. The sun is so much hotter here.”
“You switched back to English,” I say, finding her clumsiness somehow endearing. “But I’m surprised you understood me.”
Her smile widens. “I’m not that confident in my speaking abilities. But I can listen just fine—”
A customer cuts in front of her before promptly shoving cash in my face, tenfold of the listed price on the bánh mì cart. I mentally roll my eyes, another tourist. “Hey, can I get a bánh mì with no meat? Oh, actually, do you have Impossible meat? And no soy sauce. What’s the pickle thing?” He starts firing rapid English at me, and what the fuck does “impossible meat” even mean?
“Dude. I’m waiting on my order,” the girl speaks back. A smile tugs at my lips. I guess she’s not all that squeaky.
“Perfect! You already ordered. She can take mine right away,” he says before turning back to me. “Is this enough money? I don’t know how currency conversion works. Too much math.”
I roll my eyes, really roll them. Calculators and the internet exist for a reason.
“There’s a line,” she retorts before I can say anything. Even Tri?t stops bagging her order to watch. We always had to deal with ridiculous customers ourselves, and though this happens on the daily, no one ever bothered to step in. And why would they? This is Sài Gòn, and we’re just a tiny part of it. “You can’t just cut like that. It’s rude.”
“Listen here, young lady. I have things to do, so I’d really appreciate it if the little girl can take my order and then I can get out of your way. Then we’d all be happy!”
My face twitches and I lightly slap my wrist before nasty words slip out of me. I should just let it go—there’s no use in fighting something so stupid. I’ll take his order and get this over with.
