Chapter Twenty-Nine: Bảo

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE BẢO

The weather is dreary and gray, but it bodes well for tonight, my mom proclaims. It means rain is coming—the perfect excuse for bánh xèo.

At home in our kitchen, my mom woke up early to prep. I shuffle into the kitchen in my sweats, trying to compute what my eyes are seeing. On every surface available—the table, the counters, the top of our rice cooker—sit metal food buckets, each holding the food items that would go in each batch of bánh xèo: shrimp, pork belly, bean sprouts, and more. I see another batter that’s not as yellow; it might be the desserts she’s trying out, something that resembles a crepe, ready for fixings of strawberry, Nutella, and banana.

Mẹ comes in from outside, raincoat on, her pj’s underneath. She shakes out her wet hair. From her morning shower or from outside, I’m not sure. Behind her on the outside stove, whatever’s inside the pan sizzles and pops.

“Need help?”

“No touching,” Mẹ answers tersely. She tries to clean but all she’s really doing is moving from one bucket to the next. I haven’t seen her fretting like this since she found out about the Mais’ first Phở Day. And it all makes sense.

“Mẹ, are you nervous?”

“Nervous? Mẹ not nervous.”

“What’s the Vietnamese word for ‘nervous’?”

“Lo lắng, but Mẹ not lo lắng,” my mom counters. “Chết cha.” She does a double take toward the outdoor stove, cursing when she sees something I can’t. I watch from inside as she scoops the batter from the pan and dumps it onto a plate—with other failed attempts, I guess.

“Mẹ,” I say firmly once she gets back in. “What can I do?”

Mẹ sighs and glances down at her bowl half full of batter. “I’ve done a couple of batters. But something is not right. I’m about to put in another layer right now. Here, let’s use another pan. Everything else is almost cooked.”

She lets the pan sit for a few seconds over the fire before instructing me to douse it with two bottle-squirts of oil. She adds shrimp and pork belly. After waiting a couple more beats, using her chopsticks to mix the batter, she deftly pours in a thin layer and it slides into the pan with a satisfying sizzle.

“It’s tricky, getting the layer just right,” Mẹ says, adding in bean sprouts. “Too much and it won’t be crispy. Không giòn.”

“How do you know when it’s crispy?”

“The edges look as if they want to peel off.” Seconds pass and she has her spatula ready. She folds the pancake in half, the other side golden brown. I grin. If she were in Chef Lê’s kitchen, he’d probably be praising her. This is the shit, he’d say.

The bánh xèo slides off easily onto the plate that I’m holding. The rain has let up, but water from the gutter drips by my feet. I’m about to head inside again to actually get a raincoat, when I hear Mẹ speaking.

“I used to love bánh xèo as a child. During the monsoon seasons. Your uncle and I would eat this up whenever our parents made them,” she says. “We would leave the door open and watch the rain from the kitchen.”

“Cậu Cam?” The uncle who I resembled. The one who didn’t make it.

“When I cook things like this, I remember him. I’m sure he’d be surprised by how good of a cook I’ve become. He was always so critical of my skills,” she says fondly.

After a moment, realizing that’s all she’s going to say, I mention, “Everyone says your bánh xèo is the best one, you know.”

Mẹ tsks, pretending to shun the idea. “I wish people will say that to my face.” But she smiles at me, her hood covering most of her face. I know her, though; I know she likes to hear praise like this. She glances up at the sky, watching for something I can’t see. “I’m hoping the rain doesn’t make everyone stay inside. If so, both restaurants might lose, which can’t be helped. But until then, we think this deal will get a lot of customers. Even more than that restaurant.”

Later at the restaurant, Linh texts me.

how are you doing?

you spying on us?

why do you think I kissed you?

i knew it

thinking about you

I look over my shoulder. My mom’s busy cleaning up.

me too

also you’re going down tonight

oh, it’s going to be like that?

game on

---

After a few hours of prepping, service is about to begin. The line doesn’t compare to Linh’s, not at this hour, but still, there are people waiting outside the restaurant, umbrellas up. So far, no one looks upset that they’re in the rain. Ba walks down the line, handing out menus for consideration and even some samples of bánh xèo. One guy takes a bite and says, “Dude. This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Even my mom doesn’t make it this good.”

I only saw the back of my dad’s head, so I have to imagine his reaction to being called a “dude.”

“Game on, man,” Việt says, standing right next to me as he ties his apron strings behind his back. He was here earlier with us, his parents tagging along as they dropped off a fresh batch of shrimp for tonight’s service.

In the flurry of everything, I remember that Việt doesn’t know about me and Linh yet.

“How’s the bet with Ali going?”

“No changes from last time.”

“I don’t think it’s necessary anymore.” After making sure no one’s nearby, I tell Việt everything about my visit to Linh in the art room, my note to her, and then our meetup at Chef Lê’s place and our decision to test out our relationship.

Clearly, I catch him off guard; he blinks but doesn’t say anything for a few beats. Suddenly, he’s thumping me on the back—channeling Chef Lê’s strength—congratulating me.

“And there’s no better way to test a relationship than competition.”

“Thanks for the reminder, Việt.”

“Personally, I don’t think anyone can really win. Both restaurants are doing different specials, so it’s going to draw different people. Don’t tell your mom I said this, though. She wouldn’t like it.”

“Who wouldn’t like what?” Mẹ asks, appearing behind us as she dons a pair of kitchen gloves. “Why are you talking instead of working?”

“Nothing, we’re just wondering if anyone’s ever going to make bánh xèo the way you do. What if the other restaurant tries to copy us?” Việt answers, so sweetly that Mẹ might see through him.

Mẹ doesn’t even bat an eyelash as she says, “They’re no good at making bánh xèo.”

“You’ve had theirs before or something?” I ask, surprised that she would know how it tasted. Or at least it sounds like it. She used to call their other foods bland, especially the phở, and I always thought it was an assumption on her part. A way to mock them.

Mẹ waves her hand. “I just know it.”

“Oh.” Her quick answer bothers me, though. It’s more of a feeling than anything. But there isn’t time to think about it more, because Ba is shouting for us to get into formation up front and seat everyone he’s about to let in.

---

The deal started out as a combination special—phở plus a free mini pancake. It was going fine until the first ticket for one complete order of bánh xèo emerges, and then another, and then another. Soon enough, we find tables ordering only pancakes and not phở.

The customers are mostly Việt, with a few stragglers who probably spotted a flyer at a Vietnamese market.

One woman—strikingly blond—with a hint of some European accent asks me to describe bánh xèo to her. She’s in charge of ordering for her family of five who look the most out of place in the restaurant—and I’m guessing Bolsa in general.

“Have you ever had a crepe?”

“Yes.”

“Well this is kind of a like a crepe, except it’s mostly savory. Think about the crispiest thing you’ve ever eaten. Got it?” The customer nods, looking like she’s hanging on to my every word. I feel suddenly powerful, and I go with this feeling.

“You’re sitting outside under a storefront’s umbrella. It’s raining, but not pouring, and you can smell soil, gasoline from a motorbike just passing through. Someone places this bright yellow pancake in front of you. It has turmeric, juicy pork belly, soft prawns, and crunchy bean sprouts tucked inside, and you drizzle salty and spicy fish sauce all over it. One bite… and you’re gone.”

The customer blinks twice and sits back. “You sold me. One for everyone at the table.”

“You won’t regret it.”

Back in the kitchen, I hand over my slip to Mẹ, who does a double take. “Five?”

“Five,” I repeat with a wide grin.

“Did you tell them we put gold in it or something?” she mutters. I catch a hint of a smile as she turns back toward the kitchen line to bark an order.

---

Over the years, my parents have had to deal with various levels of nasty customers. Abhorrent. Unconscionable. Sometimes, the criticism comes from other Vietnamese people. The broth’s too bland or the egg rolls haven’t been cooked enough or the nước mắm doesn’t have enough lime. Mẹ’s quick to have a word with them, her voice turning firm when she’s speaking in her language. By the end, they always agree to disagree about the recipes.

“Every Vietnamese person is different. Our family may be different according to region.”

But some customers are on a different level. Like today.

Around four in the afternoon, Việt comes up to me by the service window looking, for once, concerned.

“What’s up with you?”

“Dude, it’s ridiculous. Some guy’s saying we haven’t given him enough egg rolls.”

“How many did he order?”

“One side.”

“And we gave him two?” At Việt’s nod, I ask, “So what’s the deal?”

“He doesn’t believe me, thinks we’re scamming him. He wants to speak to the manager.” I hesitate then. That would be my mom. It’s fine for my mom to berate Vietnamese customers—somehow she manages to win them over by cracking a joke or two, then she gives them an extra side of something. But in English, she’s different. I can see it in her face when she struggles to find the right word, the right retort. It’s one of her biggest insecurities. Then she loses her cool, getting angry mostly at herself.

I search the room and find the trouble immediately. His face is sunburned and he has his sunglasses on top of his head. His hair’s all spiked up. While he waits for attention, he leans back, arms crossed, fingers tapping away his impatience. It looks like he’s with his wife or girlfriend and their kids. The woman’s leaning in, whispering something, but he just stares straight ahead, jaw clenched. I wonder how the kids must be feeling.

Mẹ makes her way from the front desk to the table—and steps back when the man rises slowly. He towers over her in a way that reminds me that my mom’s actually under five feet. It’s always her voice and manner that make her seem taller than she is.

“Shit. I have a bad feeling about this.” Việt and I get closer to the table.

“—if you’re dissatisfied with the taste of it, we will happily make another order for you.”

“Jared,” the woman next to him whispers. “Let’s just have our meal. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, Beth.” He looks down at my mom. “I wanna know why you’re scamming us.”

“A scam?” Mẹ asks.

“What, that word not clicking for you? Do you even know English?”

“What the fuck, man,” Việt whispers to me.

“Mister,” Mẹ starts over, regulating her voice. She speaks slowly, but clearly, “We always serve two egg rolls for each order. Look around at the other tables.”

She gestures to other tables, where customers have stopped eating or are trying not to look interested in the drama. The man can’t help but look around too, and he lets his arms fall loose. From my place, I breathe out. There. It’s just a misunderstanding. He’s going to apologize soon, and then everything will go okay.

But that doesn’t happen.

“This place is shit. Shitty food. Shitty owners who can’t even speak fucking English.” His voice is booming and if the customers weren’t listening before, they’re listening now. “I’m not paying for this,” Jared declares.

“What—” My mom’s sputtering now, shocked by his declaration. As am I.

Before another word can be said, the guy forcefully pushes his chair in and barks at his children to get up too, which they do, eyes on the ground. Embarrassed, maybe. I would be. The little girl looks close to tears, even. “Hey,” I jump in. “That’s not cool, man. You already ate, like, everything.” Which is true. The phở, the bánh xèo—save for the side order of egg rolls—are all cleared. But my protest goes unheard. Beth scrabbles for her purse hanging on her chair and almost hesitates to follow Jared. Mouth opening, then closing, she finally heads toward the door.

I’m the first to move. “What the hell!” I try moving past my mom, planning on calling the police on them, or something that would make them pay, but Mẹ quickly catches me by the wrist.

“Con, it’s not worth it.”

I’m shaking with anger. “But—”

“We have to get back to work.” Mẹ gives me a hard look. “There are other customers to take care of. This family won’t make a difference.” To the remaining customers, she turns and smiles diplomatically. “Please, return to your meals. Sorry for the disturbance.” She repeats it in Vietnamese.

My mom saves her complaints about Jared and his family for the kitchen. I’m sure this has happened before but it was the first time I’d seen it in person. I grew up here, living around people who looked like me. We belonged to the same temple, our parents knew each other. I didn’t expect to see someone from the outside look so sure of themselves as they spouted hate.

I lean forward, elbows on a prep table, and say, “Do you think that guy’s going to come back?”

“No, I won’t let him.”

“Shouldn’t you report him?”

“There’s many men like him. Are we going to report all of them?”

“Yeah, but…” I trail off; I don’t have a real solution. I guess I just don’t like the feeling of some guy treating my parents—and other owners in the area—like this. It was more painful than hearing the waiter at photastic ask my dad to repeat himself. This guy basically attacked them. “I don’t know, it just seems wrong.”

“We are not new to this,” Ba says shortly. “We have lived in other places before Little Saigon. There are much worse people.”

“He won’t come back, con. Đồ quỷ.” Somehow she makes swear words sound like a natural part of our language.

“He’s an asshole,” I agree. Now she scolds me for using a bad word, but I press on.

“Let’s get back to work.”