Page 2 of A Banh Mi for Two
My blog exists on both Instagram and its own website, but I put the website on hiatus along with the longer blog posts last year. Now all people get are pretty food photos in a curated feed paired with short captions. Maybe that’s all I’m meant to do, move on from the long think pieces and rants I used to write, and just focus on the aesthetics. I wonder if people would care if I start featuring the work that I do as a bánh mì seller on the blog—how would they react? It’s not that I’m ashamed of being a street food seller, it’s just… what if they think I’m uncool?
How silly.
Sighing, I scroll through the comments on my Instagram, and for every nice one, another question about my blogging hiatus follows. “This writer’s block and the pressure from my readers aren’t helping. I don’t know if I could ever write something that they’ll like again. What if they hate my next blog post? Tear it apart?”
His gaze flickers to my laptop screen. “But why did you stop posting your food think pieces? You know that whatever you write, people will still read it. It’s been months.”
A couple months seem so short compared to everything else, but too much has changed. And I hate change.
“I got too busy.” I shrug. “Speaking of which, we should head back.”
He sighs, nodding and still not getting up. “Your mom will be fine. There’s fifteen minutes left, I could play another game and you could let some more ideas stew. How does that sound?”
“No.” The stall needs me—it’s our family business—and it’s what good daughters are supposed to do, especially if their mother is a widow.
“Worth a shot.” He shrugs and tells me to go first. I protest and insist on splitting the bill, but Tri?t shoos me out the door anyway.
The bustling city greets me as I pass through the glass doors, and at once, Sài Gòn overwhelms my senses. The noise of the streets. The rich, decadent smells of ph? and coffee. Humidity on my tongue. A light breeze down my back. The not-so-shy sun on my cheeks. People’s voices from every direction, some haggling with shopkeepers and some gossiping about their in-laws. I don’t see any familiar faces—I often don’t—and I feel relieved. I can exist here in Sài Gòn, be just another part of this city.
But sometimes, I think about other cities. Are people lonely in Paris? Do they see faces they recognize on the subways in New York?
I scroll through my Instagram once again, analyzing every engagement. Every like and every comment—good or bad.
The flan here is THE BEST. Thank you, ch?!
Best bánh xèo in Sài Gòn for sure.
Then there are the international comments.
Wishing I could visit!!!!!
Vi?t Nam is SO pretty!!!
I like each positive comment, replying Thank you! and Thanks for reading! under every single one. But sometimes I wonder if that’s enough. What if one day I stop posting about food altogether? Or declare that I can’t write anymore?
Will people even care? Or am I just colors and pixels on a screen, something people scroll past during their day? Flicking away a sesame seed on the screen, I’m about to close my phone when a notification chimes through. The username brings a smile to my face.
Evermore13: Love this post so much that I keep coming back to it! I miss your blogs, please write more soon.
Thank you, I type back to the one person who never fails to comment on all my posts—multiple times, too. Please write more soon: I zero in on those words. Maybe they’re disappointed in me. They must be.
Running a street food stand is hard work. The only constant is yourself and the food you sell. My followers flock to every local business I showcase on Instagram, so even if my website is on hiatus, I still owe something to this community as a fellow street food seller. These aesthetic photos are more than my platform and followers. They’ve somehow helped the aunties and uncles out in the sun, allowing them to make a living.
Another notification pops up on my screen.
Evermore13: Putting this on your radar! Not just saying this because you’re literally my favorite blogger, but I really think you could win.
My chest feels light at the words favorite blogger. Do I deserve that? I click on the link, which leads me to a site about a journalism contest. Chewing on my lips, I close the page and go to my website. I stare at my last post, written months ago: “Best Places to Hang Out After School.” I remember perching around a plastic table surface, surrounded by friends, and suddenly, on this busy Sài Gòn street, loneliness hits me. Most of my classmates have left, pursuing passions and new lives all over the world while I’m… here. Just here.
An ache pounds at the base of my neck and I knead at it, accidentally plucking two strands of one black and one white hair in the process. It’s not like I didn’t want to leave. I had big dreams, too, once. But when death and grief change your life, then dreams become just that—dreams. Má can’t tend the stall alone. This is a family business, and family means we do this together.
“Excuse me? Xin chào?” A gruff voice tugs at my attention, but also because the owner butchered the pronunciation.
“Hello, do you need help?” I take in the couple in front of me, two white tourists, each with their passport in one hand and suitcase in the other. They’re wearing Patagonia sweatshirts—insanity in this heat—while carrying Herschel duffel bags at their sides.
Stunned, probably at my English, they motion me toward their phone, tapping furiously at a restaurant name. My heart flutters. They’re on my Instagram. “Where. Is. This. Restaurant?” The man enunciates every word, dragging his vowels while his partner nods excitedly. My eyes almost roll out of their sockets.
“Cross the bridge after this street and turn right once you see a huge red pagoda.” The actual directions are a lot more complicated than that, especially because the restaurant is tucked into an alleyway. But I’m sure they’ll figure it out. There’s a huge sign by the bridge.
