Page 24 of A Banh Mi for Two
“Yes.” I roll my eyes. “I know basic American phrases.”
She laughs, her dimples making an appearance again. “Just making sure.”
Café 1975 always looks like a scene from Studio Ghibli. A quaint coffee shop tucked between modern buildings with its rusty blue and patterned-grille doors. I often found myself here after school. The afternoon sun invites itself into the space, rays the color of brewed tea. Vinyls line the wall and the record table plays a remastered ABBA album.
“Whoa, I feel like I’m inside a Hayao Miyazaki film,” Vivi says, her mouth hanging.
“Right? It’s so—”
“Whimsical,” she finishes before bolting to the cash register.
Café 1975 was my little secret—well, not so much a secret since it is on a busy street, but it’s not something I ever posted about. Or told anyone about—even Tri?t. When I was still blogging, it was hard to find somewhere just for myself. Somewhere I didn’t feel pressure to write a blog post about. The last time I was here was Ba’s first day of remembrance—ngày gi?, or his death anniversary, when it clicked that he was never going to come back, and that the mango tree and orchids and our small garden would never feel his presence again. I sat in the farthest corner and pretended to look at their menu, my only friends the vinyls, ABBA, and old books. I couldn’t even cry.
Now I’m back, and I brought someone. But Vivi’s presence doesn’t bother me. She makes the place look brighter.
“Why the blazer and trousers?”
I blink. “Oh. Right. You’ve only seen me in my usual black shirt and jeans at the bánh mì stall. It’s kind of stupid, but I’m trying to convince myself that wearing nice clothes will make me more productive. It’s not working too well, though.”
She shrugs, grinning. “I think you look nice.”
We’re seated by the hoa phu?ng tree just outside the café. Its red petals dance around us before falling onto the concrete. Vivi settles in a wicker chair and plays with the fallen petals. She tucks a flower behind her ear, making my eyes wander to her cheeks—flushed, like mine.
Clearing my throat, I grab another petal from the ground and press it between the pages of my book. “Here. Vietnamese people like to press these flowers and turn them into bookmarks.”
She immediately plucks more petals from the ground before promptly squashing them inside her book. “That’s so cool! Now I can keep these with me forever.”
“All my books have hoa phu?ng in them.” Ba would always grab a handful for me off the schoolyard when he’d pick me up. Look, this flower has a skirt, he would joke. I swallow the rising grief in my throat and, instead, try to inhale the egg coffee’s smell.
She twirls the blossoms between her fingers. “What kind of books do you like?”
Ba’s books, and my own, haven’t been touched since his passing. I almost wanted to throw them out. But instead of telling Vivi that I don’t read anymore, I decide to just pretend; it’s easier than explaining all the whys.
“I love stories that I can lose myself in. To escape reality and be whisked away to another world. Stories that make me root for the characters and make me feel like I’m part of something bigger than myself.”
She sighs dreamily, her round eyes sparkling at the sky. “Isn’t that the best part about books? The limitless things you can imagine in your head. All the places you could be.”
I focus on stirring my coffee, allowing the words I’ve long repressed to come out.
“I loved books because of my dad. I never even planned for A Bánh Mì for Two to happen, or to have this many followers. I needed to write a story for a class about anything, so I chose to do it about street food and asked my dad to help me. He agreed and it became our little project. For the first two years, we wrote silly things together, not caring about anyone’s opinion on the blog. Then he passed, and I kept writing, but this past year… I’ve been struggling with writer’s block.”
I’m not sure why I’m recounting my most vulnerable memories to someone I’ve just met, but Vivi should have all the details she can get about the blog to help. And it feels easy, less lonely, to talk to her. Maybe it’s because I don’t know her, and she doesn’t know me.
“I’m sorry about your dad.”
The same words everyone keeps telling me. What are they sorry for? What’s Vivi sorry for? She wasn’t there. We’re just two lives colliding, dominoes cascading into place. And now I’m participating in a project with a stranger, with fleeting hope in my chest that somehow we’ll win. That I can overcome this writer’s block, and that Má will say, I’m proud.
She continues before I can speak. “I can feel the heart behind your words. How A Bánh Mì for Two is more than just a blog, and how much it means to you.”
Unlike other people, she doesn’t linger in her pity for me. She just… moves on. She doesn’t pry into how I’m feeling or how I’m doing. It feels nice. Like I don’t need to cut myself open and show her all the emotions stored within me.
Instead of wanting to shrink under the weight of her gaze, I feel myself basking in it, almost wanting more.
“I read the blog posts ‘Recipes for a Big Dinner’ and ‘Places to Eat with a Huge Family’ and daydreamed about being in Sài Gòn, sharing meals with my mom and dad. I’m sure, wherever your dad is, that he would be proud to know you’re entering this contest.”
Would he?
“Thank you.” My chest feels light, and I smile back at her. It’s impressive she can recite my blog posts back to me.
