The Best Bánh Mì
I used to say it the way people recite weather. The best bánh mì in the city came from a stall with no name - just a woman under a fluorescent tube on a side street near my old school.
Every night during the months before the entrance exam for a selective high school, I left class at 9:30 and stopped there. I don't remember tasting it, not really. I knew it was good the way you know a hallway light works - not because you noticed it, but because the dark would have told you if it hadn't. Class ended, my legs were already moving toward the stall before I'd decided to go, and I ate walking, one hand still holding my bag strap, because if I slowed down I'd be late.
I was afraid, most nights, of coming home having failed something I couldn't take back, of watching my parents rearrange their faces around it. Some nights I stood outside our door a few seconds longer than I needed to. I kept walking the same route every night, as if it could keep the outcome the same too. A few days in, I realized she'd stopped asking what I wanted. She just reached for the eggs before I'd said a word. A classmate asked once if she could come with me. I said the stall was hard to find, which wasn't true - I just didn't want anyone watching me choose the same order every night, as if repetition could make the outcome safe. I never brought her, or anyone.
I passed. The visits stopped without a decision.
Years later I went back expecting the old certainty to return with the first bite. The stall looked the same. The light still flickered once. Waiting, I noticed what was actually in it - egg, pickled carrot, cold cuts, chili oil - a combination I'd never separated out before. She looked up before I'd said anything and asked if I'd gotten into the school I wanted. I hadn't told her which school, or that I was even applying. She'd just remembered a girl who ran in every night, then stopped. I said yes, I got in, and she smiled like it was hers too. I told her the sandwich tasted exactly the same. It didn't, really. I let it stand - she'd already looked so pleased.
In a group project the following fall, our teacher asked what would most improve our survey's response rate. I said "shorter questions" before she'd finished asking - I'd already decided that on the walk over. She repeated the question, slower, and I realized it wasn't the one I'd answered.
Months later, coding 126 shopping-cart responses for a different project, I did it again, except this time I caught myself mid-label. I'd typed "lost interest" next to the first dozen rows until something about the timestamps made me stop - people abandoning carts at 2 a.m., in clusters, days apart. I went back and actually read them. Shipping cost. Waiting for a discount. Uncertainty about the purchase, mostly, worded a dozen different ways that weren't "lost interest" at all. I rewrote the labels before I touched another row. The products hadn't changed. I had just been wrong about them, quickly and confidently, in a way that would have looked fine in a summary table.
I go back to the stall sometimes. I don't know if it was ever the best bánh mì in the city. She still reaches for the eggs before I speak - she's watched me order the same thing enough times that she doesn't have to guess. I still answer first, more often than I'd like. Lately, I notice before I do.
I used to say it the way people recite weather. The best bánh mì in the city came from a stall with no name - just a woman under a fluorescent tube on a side street near my old school.
Every night during the months before the entrance exam for a selective high school, I left class at 9:30 and stopped there. I don't remember tasting it, not really. I knew it was good the way you know a hallway light works - not because you noticed it, but because the dark would have told you if it hadn't. Class ended, my legs were already moving toward the stall before I'd decided to go, and I ate walking, one hand still holding my bag strap, because if I slowed down I'd be late.
I was afraid, most nights, of coming home having failed something I couldn't take back, of watching my parents rearrange their faces around it. Some nights I stood outside our door a few seconds longer than I needed to. I kept walking the same route every night, as if it could keep the outcome the same too. A few days in, I realized she'd stopped asking what I wanted. She just reached for the eggs before I'd said a word. A classmate asked once if she could come with me. I said the stall was hard to find, which wasn't true - I just didn't want anyone watching me choose the same order every night, as if repetition could make the outcome safe. I never brought her, or anyone.
I passed. The visits stopped without a decision.
Years later I went back expecting the old certainty to return with the first bite. The stall looked the same. The light still flickered once. Waiting, I noticed what was actually in it - egg, pickled carrot, cold cuts, chili oil - a combination I'd never separated out before. She looked up before I'd said anything and asked if I'd gotten into the school I wanted. I hadn't told her which school, or that I was even applying. She'd just remembered a girl who ran in every night, then stopped. I said yes, I got in, and she smiled like it was hers too. I told her the sandwich tasted exactly the same. It didn't, really. I let it stand - she'd already looked so pleased.
In a group project the following fall, our teacher asked what would most improve our survey's response rate. I said "shorter questions" before she'd finished asking - I'd already decided that on the walk over. She repeated the question, slower, and I realized it wasn't the one I'd answered.
Months later, coding 126 shopping-cart responses for a different project, I did it again, except this time I caught myself mid-label. I'd typed "lost interest" next to the first dozen rows until something about the timestamps made me stop - people abandoning carts at 2 a.m., in clusters, days apart. I went back and actually read them. Shipping cost. Waiting for a discount. Uncertainty about the purchase, mostly, worded a dozen different ways that weren't "lost interest" at all. I rewrote the labels before I touched another row. The products hadn't changed. I had just been wrong about them, quickly and confidently, in a way that would have looked fine in a summary table.
I go back to the stall sometimes. I don't know if it was ever the best bánh mì in the city. She still reaches for the eggs before I speak - she's watched me order the same thing enough times that she doesn't have to guess. I still answer first, more often than I'd like. Lately, I notice before I do.
