A Vietnamese Shop In Paris

I spent half my summer in Paris with NYU’s Creative Writing Program. Many of those days were spent alone. There was no other company I found more solace in than my own. None of these days, however, slipped by without a place that screamed human beauty. There are so many I could write about—Ola’s cafe, for example, where there works a server that enjoys the same books as I do, or Berthe’s Boulangerie with a cold and rude manager, who I think could use some compassion in her life, but then I think of how she probably doesn’t care and how great that is for her, or even the Seine river, where boats of tourists just like me wave ecstatically simply because they are happy and excited and happy. 

I recognize that all these places stem from a basis of human interaction. Despite the joy I feel when revisiting those places, there is one in particular that stands out to me the most: a small Vietnamese restaurant hidden away from the city center and desolate inside, because this experience, more than any other, represented to me how sometimes humanity—the unity, the culture, the species—is just about being seen.  

Two other Vietnamese restaurants sit next to and across this one. Neither serves an overwhelming number of people. The restaurant I am writing about is small and is accompanied by two parties. I pop my head through the door and then immediately pull it back as I am hit with the uncertainty of what language to speak. I nervously chuckle as the first lady I see bathers a jumble of French to me. She nods and points to a table. I bow my head and sit. 

The interior is classic Asian: red and gold wallpaper, mirrors cover the walls, and the table closest to the cashier is littered with papers, candy—these are given out to customers—pens, pitchers of water, and someone’s half-drunk tea. I notice how the tables have rubber neon green dining mats. Although the outside seats other customers, the inside is empty, and I find myself sitting with the two ladies who manage the store. 

We trip over language barriers until she asks the question crawling around my mind: “Can you speak Mandarin?” We find a common ground there, one that sets the foundation of our exchange.

 I ordered a shrimp bò bún; pork bo bun being my usual, but I wanted shrimp that day. Shrimp, which is my mother’s usual. I point at the dish’s picture on the menu, a hole in my Chinese vocabulary that she understands. We laugh, and I thank her profusely. She brings me a complimentary appetizer, explaining that it is Bamba, a peanut-butter flavored puff, and a sore sight to my peanut allergy. She apologizes when I share this with her, and I thank her profusely. 

When my bò bún arrives, we chat for a bit, and I learn that all three workers are from different areas, none of which are in Vietnam. My Mandarin regrettably still sits at beginner, so when she told me of the three areas, I could only discern China. She told me to eat first, and we could chat after. 

Later, I learn that the other lady has a son. He lives in China and is married, but never comes to visit his mother. She explains to me how she doesn’t love or hate Paris but is rather just accustomed to it. She tells me how dangerous Paris is. My responses were basic, part agreement, part surprise. Having finally found the younger outlet for her life lessons, she continues with an unconscious eagerness, the next thought already forming its breath in her mouth before the prior has even been released. She tells me of her many friends who live warily. She tells me why. She tells me of the time when someone pushed her on the street and grabbed her purse, but she mistakenly held on and was dragged across the burning concrete, leaving scars on her arms and legs. She never recovered her purse. 

“Just let them take it,” she said, waving it away. Both ladies tell me to be careful because we are Asian, and it is convenient to place us as easy targets. But it is exactly times like this when I am glad to be Asian. There is something heartwarming about finding another Mandarin-speaking individual in such a non-Mandarin-speaking area and sharing a moment of understanding. Maybe it’s because these two were flowing with maternal protection, or possibly because it’s just nice to be seen without explanation.