She moves fast but lightly, like a breeze carrying the scent of lemongrass and diesel. Lan is twenty-two, a waitress at a tourist stop café along a dusty bend near the Mekong River, somewhere between Vĩnh Long and nowhere in particular. The café has plastic chairs, fly-swatters tied to ceiling fans, and laminated menus with English in faded blue ink:
“Fried rice – 40,000 VND. Mekong Fish – Market price. Cold coconut – 25,000.”
Lan’s name tag is crooked. Her ponytail, perfect. She wears a yellow blouse tucked into black jeans, dust on her sandals, a flower pin on her chest that belonged to her mother. She carries trays like a dancer—balancing bowls of phở, cans of 333 beer, and the occasional fried elephant-ear fish served upright like a trophy. The tourists come in waves: Germans with sunburns, Australians asking for chili sauce, Americans trying out “Cảm ơn” with clumsy smiles. She nods, smiles, answers in half-English, half-grace.
“You want fish, yes?” “This one spicy. Okay for you?” “Toilet is behind the papaya tree.”
She’s cheerful. Efficient. But always watching—one eye on the cook who often forgets orders, another on the Australian couple arguing over the bill, another on the old man who tips in US coins she can’t use but keeps anyway.
Behind the counter, a transistor radio hums bad pop songs. Behind that: a kitchen of aluminum pots, a barefoot uncle chopping morning glory stems, and a bamboo fence trying to hold back the sun. Lan’s break is five minutes long. She drinks sweet iced coffee standing up, watching motorbikes blur by. She used to dream of Saigon. Fashion school. Owning a nail salon. Then her father got sick, and the dreams were folded away like unused silk. Now she works six days a week. Sundays off—if it doesn’t rain and the cook shows up sober. But still, she hums to herself. Paints her nails pale pink. Practices Korean pop songs in secret. Smiles at the boy from the coconut stall when he walks by. Sends a little extra rice to the table with the tired-looking mom.
She lives in a small house with two younger sisters and a cranky grandmother who sells lottery tickets. At night, she massages her feet and prays without asking for too much. Just enough. Tomorrow, she’ll wear a different blouse. Same smile. Same trays. Same river wind brushing her face.
And table six will order the fish again. And Lan will nod.
“Very good choice. Crispy. Mekong style.”