Short story: A morning without breakfast

I like to eat porridge for breakfast. He, on the other hand, prefers sticky rice.

Both preferences have their own issues, which food researchers often call regional cuisine. For example, pho originated in the North. During its journey to the South, the soft, fresh rice noodles changed to dried noodles, and the beef, minced on a cutting board, was added to the pho in various ways: rare, tendon, brisket, flank… and later, chicken pho, ostrich pho, braised beef pho, snakehead fish pho… and so on. But the story of pho has nothing to do with whether you like sticky rice or I like porridge.

Lost in conversation about food, he suddenly realized that if they both liked eating pho for breakfast, they would have met sooner, saving themselves a lot of trouble in life. Because this city has many pho restaurants, but only a few are truly good. And those who truly enjoy pho prefer a good restaurant, not one that uses excessive MSG and sugar in its broth. Perhaps on busy days, people sharing a table for breakfast would coincidentally find themselves sitting at the same table. And surely, with her beauty and gentle nature, he would insist on paying for their pho. She would say, "Wow, you're such a fool for girls!" He would reply, "A fool for girls? Who says so? I'm more of a fool for you!"

But we didn't eat pho together. I ate plain rice porridge with all sorts of toppings at a porridge stall near the market, a stall that's probably been in business for as long as I am. Back then, when the market was small, the porridge vendor sold her porridge from a steaming pot of plain rice porridge tucked away by the roadside. Now, the porridge stall has a brand name: "Mrs. Mũm's Plain Rice Porridge." Perhaps our ancestors named their children spontaneously, so the porridge vendor has a different name from all the beautiful names people give their children now: Dung, Loan, Tuyết, Ngọc, Bích, Hằng, Thúy…

Okay, let's stop talking about porridge for now. I eat sticky rice because I've eaten it since I was a child. Eating is simply a habit in human life. That's why chefs have to prepare all kinds of food that can be found in this world to serve everyone. Life now is not like my parents' time. My mother said that back then, we bought goods with ration coupons, and if we had a good piece of meat or a kilogram of fresh fish, the whole family would have a feast, unlike now: "You guys go to restaurants, think you have money, order all sorts of dishes, and then waste food. It's so wasteful."

My mother sold sticky rice to support her children's education. Every morning, her stall sold all kinds of sticky rice, prepared by her late-night cooking. Her stall offered peanut sticky rice, mung bean sticky rice, gac fruit sticky rice, corn sticky rice, mixed sticky rice, mixed sticky rice with shredded chicken, and more… My goodness, even her sticky rice menu was incredibly diverse. Every afternoon, my brother and I would go to the seaside road during the season when the Terminalia catappa trees sprouted young leaves, picking leaves for my mother to wrap the sticky rice. If the Terminalia catappa leaf season ended, she would wrap the sticky rice in banana leaves. My mother said that wrapping sticky rice in Terminalia catappa or banana leaves kept it warm longer, making it taste better. She was right, because I grew up eating the sticky rice she cooked, kept warm in banana or Terminalia catappa leaves. And even now, I still have the habit of stopping at the street corner on my way to work, where the woman selling sticky rice sets up her stall with two bamboo baskets in front of the electronics store before it opens. I buy a packet of sticky rice wrapped in leaves, take it to the coffee shop, eat the sticky rice, and drink coffee. There are many places in the city that sell sticky rice, some even from pushcarts with very appealing presentation, but he doesn't buy sticky rice from those places because they wrap it in paper lined with plastic. Sometimes modern life changes things. As for him, he still prefers sticky rice wrapped in leaves.

She said, "Do you know the song?"The second love letter"No?", he looked at me: "Why?". I sang softly:Sometimes, walking down a long, deserted road, I ask myself, "Where are we going?" If I hadn't gone towards you that day, if we hadn't met, what would we be like now?She asserted, "It's not for nothing that you had a flat tire, it's not for nothing that it rained, it's not for nothing that I stopped at that particular spot to eat porridge at that time. And it's not for nothing that the restaurant only had one empty seat next to me."

It was a sudden morning shower on the street. Oh, why don't researchers try calculating the number of love affairs that have occurred during rainy days? Rain, some say, is truly hateful, because it hinders the way home, because it wets your clothes.

The rain really did block the way home. The woman selling sticky rice took the day off. I heard she had to take her son to the university entrance exam. Oh, a street vendor selling sticky rice taking her son to the university entrance exam is fascinating news that journalists could easily exploit for an article. But I'm not a journalist, so I couldn't exploit the story of the woman taking the day off to take her son to the exam; instead, I thought about how her son probably eats her sticky rice every day.

The woman selling sticky rice wasn't selling sticky rice. He suddenly remembered he had to buy some roses to give to the girls at the office on March 8th. Just as he pulled out of the flower stall, a nail punctured his tire, causing it to go flat. He had to push the bike a short distance before finding a repair shop. The feeling of finding a good repair shop after a flat tire was exhilarating.

He saw the porridge stall right next door, but he didn't see her. Well, eating porridge while waiting for the tire to be fixed, waiting for the persistent rain to stop, was a sensible solution.

- Give me a bowl of salty anchovy porridge.

He called out angrily. And at that moment, he saw her eyes glancing over from the person sitting next to him. For some reason, he gave her the bouquet of flowers he had just bought.

That day, he told me, "I bought these flowers to give to the first girl I meet on March 8th." Oh, what a perfect excuse.

They say that a woman who wants to seduce a man must dress beautifully and fashionably, know how to use the right cosmetics, speak gently, and understand what the man is thinking. In short, don't act naive and try to show you're smarter than him. As for you, I don't know if you apply those methods. I only know that I met you at a porridge shop, and you won my heart at that busy porridge shop. But because you didn't like sticky rice, I started eating porridge instead.

One day, the woman selling sticky rice asked him, "It's been a long time since I've seen you buy sticky rice." He smiled and replied, "I've switched to eating porridge lately." The woman stared at him intently, probably very surprised. Oh, how she understood matters of love!

She said, "I'm not beautiful." He replied, "You're not beautiful at all." She frowned, "Everyone says I'm beautiful, that I'm cute, but you don't? Why?" He laughed, "They're flattering you, because you have something much better." She looked bewildered, "What do I have that...?" He told her to close her eyes. As soon as she closed them, he kissed her lips. And whispered, "Because only I know that your lips are as sweet as rock candy."

***

In the past, he liked to eat sticky rice in the morning, while she preferred porridge. But now, he no longer likes sticky rice; instead, he follows her to eat porridge. Because if he ate sticky rice, he wouldn't have an excuse to sit with her at the early morning stall. Because the face of his beloved in the morning, sitting next to a steaming pot of porridge, is the most beautiful face. Because the way she eats porridge is so adorable.

She then told me about her mother. When she was little, life was difficult for the family, and her mother had four children. So, instead of giving her children money to go out for breakfast, her mother would wake up early in the morning to cook porridge.

She described her mother's porridge: "Every day, Mom cooks a different kind of porridge. That's why we love eating her porridge. Sometimes she makes mung bean porridge with sugar, other times sweet potato porridge, porridge with braised meat, porridge with salty fish, porridge with salted duck eggs. Sometimes she makes fish porridge... in short, there are so many kinds of porridge, it's too many to list."

Oh my God, ever since I was little, all I've thought about is that porridge for the sick. I remember reading Nam Cao's *Chí ​​Phèo*, when Thị Nở brought him a bowl of onion porridge: "He took the bowl and put it to his mouth. Oh my God, how fragrant the porridge was! Just the steam wafting into his nose was enough to make him feel relieved. He took a sip and realized that: Those who never eat onion porridge in their lives don't know how delicious it is. But why did it take him until now to taste the flavor of porridge?" It's funny how talking about eating porridge reminds me of that bowl of onion porridge that has become a part of literary history.

I prepared everything yesterday afternoon. This morning, I'm going on a multi-day field trip with my company. I told them, "Take care of yourself at home." I left early, probably before sunrise.

He wheeled his motorbike out of the house. He circled past the porridge shop. The place where the two of them used to sit every morning was still empty. He considered stopping in, but then sped off. He was afraid the seat would be deserted.

This morning, and all mornings without you, I won't eat breakfast.