She stood just beyond the tables, beneath strings of lanterns that bathed the sidewalk in orange and red.
An, twenty-three, lips glossed, cheeks touched with rose powder, wore jeans and a tight blouse with a small flower pin near the collar. Not traditional, not touristy—just clean, approachable, and cute in the way customers noticed.
In one hand: a laminated menu. In the other: a tired plastic smile.
“Hello, madam! You want to try local food? Very good, very cheap—come eat here, spring roll, white rose, cao lầu!”
She moved with precision. Spot the hesitant look. Step forward. Flash the menu. Tilt the head.
Laughter helped. So did compliments. Sometimes just, “Come try for me—one minute, you like!”
Some tourists kept walking. Some gave her a soft “No thank you” without eye contact.
Others followed—just long enough for her to call to the waiter inside and earn a quiet nod of credit.
She wasn’t the only one. Other girls stood under other signs. Some louder. Some shyer.
But An had rhythm, timing.
Behind her smile, her feet hurt. She’d been standing since 5 p.m.
Behind the menu, she thought of her younger brother at home, eating leftover cơm chiên.
Behind the lantern glow, she wondered if that French guy last week—who said he’d come back—ever meant it.
A group of Australian backpackers passed.
She stepped forward.
“Hi, you hungry? Best barbecue! We have beer, two-for-one—come sit!”
One of them paused. Laughed.
“Only if you eat with us.”
She smiled wider, same as always.
“Sorry, I work. But I bring you extra chili, free!”
And just like that, another table filled. Another small win.
And under the paper lanterns and noise of frying oil and clinking glasses,
An kept standing—
pretty, polite,
selling not just food,
but the promise of flavor, fun, and friendliness
in a town that asks you to smile for your supper.