Chapter 20 — Tomorrow's Kitchen

A year later, the sign in front of the restaurant added a small line under the name Bep Nha:

OPEN FORMULA — NAME CONTRIBUTOR.

Khoi stood in front of the pot of broth, holding a spoon but not quickly bringing it to his lips. In the kitchen, Ha is guiding a new group to check vegetables. Linh became the person in charge of the morning shift, still keeping the habit of putting colored tape on the handle of the ladle. Vy sat at the counter, opening the weekly report. Binh sends a delivery schedule from the processing point near the market. Phuong came to the council meeting in the afternoon.

Lan's mother grows herbs on the balcony and no longer stands at the counter all day. She still knows where older customers like to sit, but if the fan breaks, she calls Mr. Sau instead of getting the wrench herself.

Khoi tasted a spoonful.

The salty taste appears more clearly. Just a little, not evenly, but enough for him to realize it wasn't what people said. Then there was the taste of ginger, very faint, like a memory that had just passed through the door.

He put down his spoon.

“What?” Ha asked.

“I feel salty and ginger.”

Linh turned around, her eyes shining. “Are you cured?”

Khoi shook his head. "I don't know. The doctor doesn't know either."

Ha took the board. “Record level.”

Khoi laughed. “Level one out of five.”

“Can it be used to repair pots?”

"Are not."

Ha nodded and continued to guide Linh. Khoi stood looking at them, not feeling left out. A year ago, he would have considered not using his experience a loss of rights. Now he understands that professional power is not the ability to decide everything, but the ability to put opinions in the right place and accept others have the right to verify.

Kitchen Nha does not become a chain store. Man's store, after changing its name, still operates in the city. He and Nha Kitchen have a clear agreement on certain recipes with limited rights. Every quarter, he transfers a donation to the meal fund, not large but steady. Their relationship did not turn into friendship, nor was it a battle that had to be won every sentence.

Man once said that his signature on the loan application was just a confirmation of introduction, not knowing that the appendix would be so binding. Hanh could not prove that he intentionally set a trap. Home Kitchen did not turn him into a villain. They just require that all future transactions be present and read out loud before signing.

Khoi still hasn't completely forgiven. But he did not let doubt become a new management process.

The student group's "Staycation Meal" is sold regularly on the first day of the week. Seasonal soup changes each month. There are still customers who buy enough food, but it is no longer called poor food. A person can choose half rice, add vegetables, swap eggs for tofu, contribute to the fund, or just pay full price.

The meal fund is public. Some months there are many people buying the fund, some months there are few. When the fund reached the minimum level, the kitchen committee did not hide it. Some guests contributed more. Some people suggest cooking in one session to save money. Some people say they can't help. No one is forced to be kind beyond their ability.

Binh opened a small processing point with his own capital and contributions from three other households. Kitchen House buys at listed price. If the vegetables are not up to par, they pay. If second-grade vegetables can be used, the table clearly states the parts to be removed and the preparation time. Binh no longer has to borrow money to deliver to the shop, but he still keeps the old car with scratches on the side.

Vy paid off her loan and completed the unfinished semester by taking evening classes. She still keeps the old debt book in the closet, not to erase the history. Paid payments are marked with a date, not a winning green color. The unpaid balances remain There is a schedule, not a promise.

Ha has a fixed day off. She trained Linh, then trained two more people. The recipe for tangerine peel seasoning is credited to Ha, Linh and the group of workers who commented on the spiciness level. Khoi can use it, but cannot arbitrarily change the quantity without recording it.

Lan's mother sometimes still cooks old dishes her own way. When she did something different from the process, Ha did not scold her. She asked if she wanted to write down whether it was the Lan version or the Kitchen Nha version. Lan's mother answered "Lan's version", then wrote her name on the ballot.

Mr. Sau no longer repairs fans for free. The Board pays by the hour. He complained that it was faster before, but it was still fun holding a wrench. When someone new repaired the electricity, he sat next to him and told him how he could hear the sound of the motor change before it broke down.

One morning, the boy who used to only eat pumpkin returned with his mother. He was taller, carrying a briefcase shaped like a pot. He called "Stay Meal", got more vegetables and asked to change the rice to potatoes.

Khoi asked: "Do you remember the first time you ate here?"

The boy said: "I don't remember the dish. I remember my mother told the restaurant to add more rice."

Khoi understands that the memory of a meal does not always lie in the taste. Sometimes it's about someone not embarrassing you into needing a little more.

In the afternoon, the kitchen council meets to decide whether to open another communal kitchen day or not. Revenue increased, but Ha said staff was not enough. Vy said the fund could pay for a new case if the decoration fee was reduced. Phuong said customers need weekends. Binh said the weekend supply fluctuates.

Khoi did not draw any conclusions. He asked each person to write down the conditions.

Ha: there is someone in charge, there are days off, don't use new shifts to try untested dishes.

Vy: have a three-month budget, don't use the meal fund to pay operating salaries if it hasn't been made public.

Binh: has a delivery schedule and limited quantity.

Phuong: there is a pre-registration table to know needs.

Lan's mother: there's no meeting one day.

They laugh. Ultimately, the council decided to try an extra day every four weeks, without committing to a long-term opening.

Khoi recorded it on the calendar. Tomorrow there will be a new kitchen testing the recipe, but no one calls that a certain future.

In the evening, he told Ha about taste. He admitted that every time he felt a little bit, he was afraid that the next day it would go away. Ha said that fear can be written down, but he can't let it make him go back to working alone.

“What if one day I could taste it fully?” Ha asked.

“I will still ask.”

“What if one day you disappear completely?”

Khoi looked at the kitchen. "I can still do the process, listen to customers, train people and know when to stop. But I won't claim to know the taste."

Ha nodded. “Okay then.”

Lan's mother called from the counter: "You two, don't talk like you're about to break up."

Khoi laughed. “We were talking about soup.”

“Soup doesn't need philosophy.”

“Mom said that because she hasn't read the board yet.”

Lan's mother picked up a towel and threw it at him.

At night, Khoi stayed behind and closed the kitchen door. He turned off each gas stove, checked the refrigerator, signed the form book, and looked at the debt and fund table. Before locking the door, he took out a small memory card from the drawer. It was a copy of the audio files, including the first file he recorded himself about the day he lost his sense of taste.

He turned on the phone.

“One year later,” his voice said. "Home Kitchen is still open. I'm not completely cured. The loan hasn't disappeared, but it's scheduled. The recipe is no longer in one person's notebook. If anyone listens to this file looking for a comeback story, they will probably be disappointed."

Khoi stopped and looked at the pot of cooled broth less.

"I am not the same as before. No one is the same as before. Mom is no longer standing in the kitchen all day. Ha is no longer a kitchen assistant. Vy is no longer keeping debt in her mind. Binh is no longer delivering by promise. I am no longer the person who can decide everything with a spoon."

He heard the outside door shaking in the wind.

"But maybe tomorrow isn't where things get better. Tomorrow is when those who today have made it clear what they need, get together again in a way that leaves someone less alone."

Khoi turned off the phone. You didn't delete the file.

At the counter, Lan's mother left a bowl of soup for the person on duty in the morning. Ha wrote on the lid: "If you need more sourness, just say so, don't season the whole pot yourself." Linh signed the recipient's name. Vy put the receipt next to it. Phuong has registered a spot for tomorrow. Binh sent a text message: "Vegetables will arrive at six o'clock, two separate cups."

Khoi opened the kitchen door for the next shift.

In addition to the sign, the market road is still full of cars, calls, bargaining, and days when there is not enough money. Home Kitchen cannot solve everything. The shop only maintains a room with a few tables, a pot of soup, a debt book and a group of people trying to do their part.

Khoi put the spoon next to the pot. You don't need to promise that you'll taste it all tomorrow.

You just need to remember that when you don't know, you have to ask.

And when someone answers, the kitchen must have a place for that answer to stay.

The next morning, the group of students arrived earlier than scheduled. They brought with them a box of sweet potatoes, two notebooks and an incomplete recipe. Mai said she wanted to try a new dish for her roommate, but didn't want to name it first.

Ha said: "Good. Cook and listen to people eat."

Linh divides preliminary processing areas. Vy gave the expense slip. Phuong asked the group how many pieces they wanted to sell and who would be in charge if the item was returned. Khoi stood at the next table, not holding a spoon. He observed how new people came across the same questions that it took the Chef twenty years to ask.

A young person asked: "What if my dish is not chosen?"

Phuong replied: "Not being selected doesn't mean you can't make it. Maybe the price isn't right, the process isn't right, or people don't need it today."

That friend recorded it. No one told me to stubbornly protect the formula.

The pot of potatoes is steamed and mashed with tofu and vegetables. The first batch was dry. Khoi saw it, but didn't say anything. Ha asked the group to try it. Mai said she needed more water, another person said adding water would make the dish difficult to can. Vy suggested dividing into two versions and clearly stating how to use them. The group decided to only sell on-site on the first day.

Khoi realized it was a small but complete decision: there were problems, there were choices, there were consequences and there was a signatory.

On the porch, Lan's mother was talking to an old customer. The customer said the restaurant now has too many tables, every dish has a person's name on it. Lan's mother smiled and said the name to help workers know that their efforts were not forgotten, and customers did not need to remember everything.

“Do you remember the restaurant's first dish?” the guest asked.

“Remember who eats first.”

Khoi heard it and thought of the recording box. A year ago I thought saving the guest voice meant saving the recipe. Now he understands that memory is only meaningful when used to question the present, not to force the present to be like the past.

At noon, today's broth has a clearer salty taste. Khoi can taste it. Ha still asked Mr. Sau to confirm, then asked three more guests of three ages. The results are not exactly the same. One person said medium, one person wanted light, the other person said medium Dad asked for more chili.

Khoi was not disappointed. Returning taste does not turn the world into a single answer.

In the afternoon, the doctor called to ask about his condition. Khoi said some days he can feel the smell, some days he doesn't. The doctor told him to continue monitoring, not to arbitrarily change the medicine and not to consider feeling a little bit as a sure sign of recovery.

He wrote down the instructions in the notebook. Ha walked by and asked if I needed another pound. Khoi said no, he is responsible for this part.

Lan's mother called everyone back before closing time. She brought out a new wooden box, smaller than the old recording box.

“I want to record meetings,” she said. "Do not record the guest's voice without asking. Only record the decision and the person responsible."

Vy asked: "Who keeps the box?"

Lan's mother gave the key to Phuong. “Not mom.”

Phuong accepted, a bit confused. “What if I lose it?”

"Report immediately. Don't hide."

Khoi looked at his mother. A year ago, she kept the key because she thought keeping the shop meant keeping everything close to her. Now she gives away the key to let others know that the kitchen does not depend on one person's memory.

When the last customer left, the group of students left behind a sample of potatoes. No one calls it tomorrow's dish. They write down the date of the test, the name of the person who did it, the expected price, and questions to ask next time.

Khoi took a small spoon. He felt the taste was fleshy and slightly sweet, but still not enough to make a conclusion. He gave the spoon to Ha.

“What do you think?”

Ha tasted. “Needs a little more salt, but not for everyone.”

Khoi wrote: "Dish for groups of guests, try again."

Outside the door, the sign light turned on. The words "Open Recipe" shine brightly under the restaurant's name, not sparkling like Man's sign, but clearly visible from the top of the market.

Khoi locked the kitchen. He didn't feel a single big moment. There is no miracle, no promise that people will never quarrel. There were only the sound of the cabinet door closing, the sound of running water, the sound of Vy calling out what to pay tomorrow, the sound of Binh announcing that the vegetables would arrive early and the voice of Ha reminding Linh not to leave the knife on the ground.

Those sounds were enough for him to know that tomorrow had taken shape.

A good kitchen does not guarantee that the eaters are always happy, the workers always agree, or the owner never gets into debt. It just creates a way for mistakes to be seen sooner, efforts to be called by their proper name, and the vulnerable don't have to ask a single person's permission to have a meal.

Khoi stood by the door, looking at the menu board. Under the "Stay Meal" dish, there is a line recording the names of the student group, the worker group and the guests who gave comments. Below the soup, the supplier's name changes seasonally. Under the meal fund, there is no recipient's name.

He remembers the boy's question from last year: why is soup scooped out more filling than rice.

That day, he thought the answer was because his mother loved people.

Now he thinks the answer is more complete: because a kitchen has decided that portions don't have to be the same to be fair.

Khoi turned off the light last. On the table in the storage room, the new notebook was open on the first page. Phuong wrote:

"Tomorrow there will be an unknown dish. The maker will sign. The eater will say. If it doesn't work, we'll fix it."

Khoi read, then placed next to his own line:

“If it cannot be fixed immediately, state clearly why.”

He closed the book.

Tomorrow's Kitchen is not as rich as a chain store. It is also not as intact as Lan's mother's memory. But it lives on signature recipes, clearly marked sums of money, people who have the right to say the dish isn't right, and people who accept to listen before defending themselves.

Khoi opened the kitchen door for the next shift.

Tomorrow there will be new dishes, new people and a taste you may not know yet.

But this time, he knew he didn't need to know alone.