Chapter Fifty: Linh

CHAPTER FIFTY LINH

The Mais and the Nguyễns will never be the best of friends they once were decades ago. Too much history clouds the waters we share. But at least there are fewer words left unsaid. In a spirit of forgiveness, the Lunar New Year passed with ease.

My mom and Bảo’s mom have taken to sharing their homestyle recipes, updating each other with each culinary treat they make at home. Sometimes they visit each other at their respective restaurants. My dad and his dad mesh well; if anyone looks closer, it would seem that they were brothers. My aunt now calls Bảo’s mom—whether she wants to hear from her or not. Bảo’s still trying to figure that out.

I know things will be all right. Because each visit, each moment spent together, each laugh shared repairs what’s been broken, like a brush of gesso gently rejuvenating something precious from long ago.

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I don’t think Chef Lê understood what he was getting into when he invited me and Bảo and our families to his restaurant. He apologized profusely, saying he meant to do it right after my mural was unveiled, but his son, Philippe, had gotten sick and there wasn’t enough time.

Faced with two strong women with strong opinions on cooking, I almost expect Chef Lê to melt under their interrogation. But of course, he had his own Vietnamese mother to contend with growing up, and he easily deflects the heat. I would even say they are impressed by the kitchen workflow and some of his dishes—maybe even curious to get their hands on his recipes.

In the dining room, I glance across the table, watching Bảo try to fend off his mother’s insistence that he needs to eat more rice. My own mother warns me to watch for bones from one of the plates of cá chiên sitting at the center of the table, even though I’ve eaten this kind of fish my entire life. Meanwhile, our respective fathers sit across from each other in companionable silence, preoccupied by their own bowls of rice.

Bảo’s hair is still slightly wet. Seeing Chef Lê and Saffron’s son across from him, he tries to make the poor kid laugh, but Philippe is completely unamused. Once in a while, from his position on his father’s lap, he glances confusedly for help from his mother. He only smiles when Saffron mutters an endearment in French, then crawls into her arms.

Ali had jokingly said that this was the dinner of the century, and I’m sure if I told her where I was going, she’d probably follow. Lately, she’s had this ridiculous idea that she’ll write a novel about two warring Vietnamese families whose respective son and daughter fall in love. I don’t know how she’ll do it, but I guess Ali can do anything once she puts her mind to it.

Under the table, I feel Bảo squeeze my hand. We don’t quite hide it from our families—us dating, even though “no dating until you’re married” is a common refrain from our parents. And when I do leave the house or take a break to visit Bảo at his restaurant, my dad’s always saying, “Ah, her bạn.” Her “friend.”

We’ll get there… like everything else.

Our dinner finally ends and the laughter in our throats—courtesy of Chef Lê’s comedic timing—finally settles. Toothpicks are distributed and there is momentary silence as each adult digs into their teeth.

A server sidles up to the table, setting down the bill.

A quiet “Oh shit” slips out from Chef Lê’s lips as he remembers exactly who’s at the table and the accompanying struggle of Vietnamese families fighting over the bill. He mutters about checking on the kitchen and scurries away. Saffron and Philippe soon join him.

“Let me get this,” my mom says first, using the tone that commands the line cooks and servers.

A glint appears in Bảo’s mom’s eyes. “Oh no, let me.”

“Thôi, được rồi. Please, let me.”

Who will win?

I jump when Bảo whispers in my left ear, “Let’s get out of here? Before they really kill each other?”

I nod and leave the table. So focused on the bill, our parents don’t notice our departure.

Outside, we find ourselves in an alley, a familiar meeting spot for us, I suppose.

“Last time we were in an alley, you almost turned me away,” Bảo says.

“Oh really?” I arch an eyebrow.

“Are you going to turn me away again?”

Grinning mischievously, I press him against the wall and plant a loud smack on his lips. We burst out laughing the moment we part. “Smooth.” The grin stays on his face. “Linh?”

I sigh, content. “Hmm?”

“You have paint in your hair again.”

I really did try to stay clean. I shrug. “So?” I say, challenging him.

He gives no response, a glint appearing in his eyes, and he reaches for me, pulling me to him by the loops of my jeans. His thumb caresses my cheek, and his eyes are soft.

Now we kiss for real.