A Side of Banh Cuon

Chapter 1

“Uncle Pig snorted at the webcam,” Did you say a doctor?”

“Um … a medical scribe, the person who takes notes for the doctor.”

“So, you’re a note-taker?”

“Yes, but I also ….”

My uncle squealed, “You spent five years at college taking notes to take more notes!”

“Well, I ….”

“What happened to medical school?”

His words sunk into my subconsciousness. Like most humans, I once had a dream. But eventually, you learn that nothing is free, and medical school comes with a price tag of $324,500.99. Bo and Ma, my immigrant parents, ran a hair salon. In the front window, a green neon sign flashed—Splendid Cuts.

Vietnamese immigrants, like my parents, often enter the beauty industry—that or selling Pho. Sure, a lifetime supply of Pho sounds good, but at least I get free haircuts. But again, nothing is free, especially haircuts. Bo made a deal—one haircut for every straight A’s on my report card. Unfortunately, I suck at biology. By Halloween, people thought I was Chewbacca.

Blinded by my bangs, I pleaded for a haircut. Bo nodded, but only under one circumstance. Bo stumbled downstairs with a stack of papers under his armpit. It was a large manuscript.

“It’s heavier than I remembered,” Bo was catching his breath.

“Your philosophy thesis?”

“No, I burned that decades ago. These are the dreams, the dreams of all your ancestors.

My eyes widen, unsure which I was more surprised by, Bo burning his life’s work or needing to read that monstrosity. Bo flicked my forehead, “Are you ready to add yours?”

Chapter 2

Have you listened to a song while you’re in love and then heartbroken? It’s different. Sure, the pitches, lyrics, and melody are all the same, but what changed is you. I was on a plane to Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, listening to “Xanh” by Ngot, a Vietnamese band. Indie music, often calm and tranquil, allows me to sort through my thoughts. I felt a gentle tap.

“Sorry to bother you, but would you like a drink? We also provide alcohol,” a female flight attendant smiled. 

“Sorry, I have a history of stomach ulcers,” I bowed politely.

“Oh, no worries, let me show you the non-alcoholic menu.”

Her mannerism was attractive. Her listening made me feel like a human with thoughts, feelings, and dreams. Perhaps I’m overthinking. It’s her job to listen. Subtle loneliness fills me as I sip my Coca-Cola.

When my family arrived at Ho Chi Minh International Airport, we were stopped by a security guard. Bo had brought fourteen automatic solar-powered garage lights, which got some suspicion. The guard’s Vietnamese accent was thick, but I could translate a word here and there. Ma began opening her purse, filled with US dollars.

I slapped her hand, “What are you doing?”

“We can pay him off.”

“No, that makes us seem like snotty rich people.”

“I’ve seen it work,” she nudged on.

“Where?”

“In K-dramas … and that one award-winning Jewish-Nazi film.”

Luckily, Uncle Pig came to help, who just happened to be the airport manager. Ma said her brother started as a janitor, mopping and sweeping his way to becoming a security guard, assistant manager, and now the big man. Although never top of his class, he was good at staying put.

In fact, he stayed in high school for an extra three years. If you’re patient enough, everyone eventually leaves, and you get the promotion. We loaded the fourteen automatic solar-powered garage lights onto the taxi. Afterward, Ma rushed over to hug Uncle Pig.

“Why are you so fat?” She slapped Uncle Pig’s belly.

“Because you keep sending us American chocolates!”

Ho Chi Minh City is a bustling ant colony, but instead of ants, there are motorbikes, lots of them. I once watched this National Geographic video of ants attacking a beetle. That’s how I imagine our four-wheel taxi, slowly ambushed by an army of metal smokers.

Chapter 3

Our taxi made its way down to Tan An, the city Bo grew up in. The streets were filled with local food vendors, red plastic chairs, and straw baskets filled with longan, durian, jackfruit, mango, and dragon fruit. Several of my uncles in Vietnam eat fruit almost religiously. Unfortunately, too much of anything is bad. Uncle Pig developed type 2 diabetes last summer.

I see type 2 diabetes quite often, especially as an ophthalmology scribe. A big word, right? If you google “ophthalmology,” you’ll get about 265,000,000 million results with stock images of lab-coated doctors examining the eyes of happy and smiling individuals.

Let me tell you a little secret, eye exams are not fun, especially dilated ones. The assistant comes in, asks about your weekend, and dilates your pupil. As your eye pupil opens, more light enters your eye. Suddenly, the world looks like Heaven, but not in a good way. The intensive light is so blinding that I once thought my bed night light was a car headlight.

I might be over-exaggerating, but Uncle Pig would agree with me. He has early-stage diabetic retinopathy and needs a dilated diabetic eye exam every 6 months. Other patients are not so lucky, getting eye injections every month. Sounds rough, but after the 2nd or 3rd one, eye injections become routine, like doing your yearly taxes or cutting an overgrown toenail.

“Ugh, looks like it’s raining again ….” Uncle Pig yelled while driving.

“Did you watch the news about the flood in Seoul?” Bo asked.

“Yeah, I did, seven missing people. Such a developed city, but a little rain, and suddenly you’re in Venice, Italy.”

We parked near a narrow alley, water pouring down the walkway. Three houses down stood a silhouette of figures waving to us. One of the figures ran towards us. I couldn’t believe it; it was her.

Chapter 4

I met her five years ago when life seemed simpler. Our fathers were childhood friends, attended university together, and even shared the same birthmark on their necks. Of course, Ma believed this was a sign, taking it upon herself to arrange a marriage.

Barely nineteen with rose lips, a thin waist, and a soft-spoken appearance, she probably had hundreds of prospective men. I had just turned twenty—still needing a fake ID to purchase beer for parties. For health reasons, I avoid drinking as much as possible. Yet, I wanted to grab a drink with her.

“You want to grab a McFlurry?” she smiled. 

“Sure,” I replied, starting to feel jet lagged. I couldn’t tell whether my shirt was drenched by rain or sweat.

She was twenty-four now. I was twenty-five, yet time seemed to have stayed still since our first encounter. I held an umbrella over her head, doing my best to keep her dry. She smelled good, a sweet familiar fragrant.

“I’m sorry about your grandmother,” she put her hand on my shoulder.

“She lived a good life,” I made a face, unsure if I had told a lie.

Grandma lived through a war and gave birth to nine children—one died stepping on a land mine. Their farmland was burned by soldiers, forcing her to evacuate her family to the capital. But when Saigon fell, her husband was imprisoned, forcing Grandma to support her family by weaving baskets and mats.

Upon her husband’s release, they immigrated to America, only allowed to bring half of their children. Luckily, Bo met the requirements. A decade later, I was born an American citizen. Although Grandma helped raise me, I never understood her, nor did she with me. She died last week, now waiting to be cremated.

We arrived in front of large double golden arches—McDonald’s. Inside was playing a familiar tune, “Xanh” by Ngot. As the girl ordered two McFlurries, I found seats near the window. Outside, an elderly couple kissed in the rain, perhaps celebrating their 50th anniversary.

A large sapphire diamond wrapped around the woman’s finger. It must have weighed at least nine grams, the weight of twelve small peanuts. I wondered if she ever felt tired wearing it; surely your finger must be sore if you glued that many peanuts to it.

The girl had returned with two trays, “McFlurries with a side of fries, your favorite.”

I dipped a french fry into my McFlurry, stirring it around, “Actually, it’s a side of Banh Cuon.”

“No way, you told me McDonald’s!”

“It used to be, but that was a while back.” 

Five years to be exact. Long enough for your eyebrows to come back after shaving them. Long enough for me to graduate. Long enough for a global pandemic to destroy my social life. I was a different person, and so was she.

Chapter 5

I stared at her, wondering if it was the same girl from five years ago. Her eyes, blue and dilated, resembled two pools filled with thoughts, feelings, and dreams. Yet, I stood from afar all these years, observing from a distance. I continued to stare blankly, now even unsure of her name.

“Have you started medical school? You said your dream was to be a doctor, right?” She asked.

I choked on a McFlurry-covered french fry. “I’m alright … um … maybe I was just blindly in love with the idea,” I popped a few fries in my mouth, glancing at the elderly couple outside.

“So, you don’t want to be a doctor?”

“Not sure. It’s not glamorous like everyone thinks it is. There are days when you come home yelled at by patients, drowning in documents, and wondering if you developed a mental health disorder yourself.”

“Not as glamorous? You mean like marriage.” She smirked.

“I suppose,” I chuckled. 

We wiped our table, returned the food trays, and strolled down Ho Chi Minh Square, a popular tourist area. The girl kept a fixed gaze ahead—a street food cart. She grabbed my hand, pulling me through a large sea of people. A smell emanated from afar. A jazz band in the background was playing Duke Ellington’s “In a Sentimental Mood,” creating a tranquil vibe.

The food cart hung a cardboard sign, painted on it were the words: Banh Cuon. A man, probably the owner, was busy chopping scallions, cucumbers, and mint leaves. He then rushed over with a cloth, wiping down two plastic chairs and a table, gesturing for us to sit down. Before we could order, a plate of Banh Cuon was already laid in front of us.

After a careful examination, I took a bite. My tongue was experiencing a beautifully orchestrated symphony: strings of sweetness from the chili fish sauce, beats of savoriness from the smoky wood ear mushrooms, and a tiny note of tanginess from the splash of lemon.

Opening my eyes, the girl in front of me disappeared. Instead, an elderly woman sat before me. Her eyelids sagged, hair withered and grey. It was Grandma. I choked, gasping for air. She rushed over, smacking the back of my head. A piece of pork flew out of my mouth.

A tear fell down my cheek, “Grandma, I’m sorry ….”

“For what, my dear?” She asked in Vietnamese.

“We lived together twenty years, yet I never asked about your life. I don’t even know your name … I skipped Vietnamese classes. I was selfish, wanted to play with my friends, but now I regret it ….”

She replied, “My child, you did know me. You listened. Maybe not with your ears, but you always felt it down here—your heart.”

I wiped my tears. Grandma disappeared and left in her seat was the girl. She was now leaning at the edge of her chair, “Are you alright?”

“I talked to Grandma.”

Her eyes widened, “What did she say?”

I sniffled and smiled, “She gave me her name."