Chapter 3 — Tomorrow's Kitchen

Ha placed eleven old menus on the table, the back side had dried oil stains forming a circle.

Khoi stood next to the kitchen, using a red pen to circle dishes with expensive ingredients. The two had agreed to cut the menu in the morning, but the first ten minutes passed just arguing over a braised scampi dish.

“Forget it,” Khoi said. “Fish prices increase, storage time is long, profits are low.”

“Customers call the most on Tuesdays.”

“Tuesday is fish market discount day.”

“So we have to keep it.”

“What if the fish isn't fresh that day?”

“Then I don't accept the goods.”

Khoi put down his pen. “Do you think we have the right to refuse ingredients when we still owe Binh thirty-eight million?”

Ha looked at him. “If the raw materials are not received, the person who pays the debt is the customer.”

The menu meeting took place in the kitchen, which was not yet open. Lan's mother sat at the head of the table, Vy placed the computer next to him, Mr. Sau was invited but brought a wrench and got up every five minutes to tighten a screw on the wall fan. Binh sat near the door, in his hand was a vegetable price list written in pencil.

Khoi wrote on the board:

FISH RICE.

MEAT CAST EGGS.

GINGER-Braised CHICKEN.

VEGETABLE SOUP BY DAY.

TOFU IN TOMATO SAUCE.

DELICIOUS PORTIONS ARE ENOUGH TO EAT.

Mixed noodles, braised meat, stir-fried vegetables, fried fish, and chicken porridge are on the waiting list.

“Those eleven dishes,” Vy said.

“Six groups of dishes, choices based on ingredients.”

“Do readers understand?”

“If you don't understand, I'll explain.”

Mr. Sau spoke from under the fan: "Hungry guests don't like to read much."

Lan's mother laughed. "Mr. Sau is right. The best menu is one where customers can see what they can eat once they see it."

Khoi crossed out the name. Lan's mother pointed at the "daily vegetable soup".

"Don't record by date. Record by season."

“Customers don't know what vegetables are available in season.”

“Guests know what they have in their bag today.”

Vy looked up while entering data. “Mom, if the price changes according to the season, the cash register must update every day.”

“So update.”

“Not everyone has time to restudy.”

“This shop has lived for twenty years thanks to people re-learning every day.”

Khoi looked at three women in the same room: his mother remembered with experience, Vy remembered with numbers, Ha remembered with words said by guests. He found himself wanting to turn all three into a single formula because the formula was the only thing he could trust.

“I need a steady menu,” he said.

Ha flipped the paper. “Stable for whom?”

“For the kitchen.”

“What's the use of a stable kitchen if customers can't eat?”

“If we change every day, we cannot control costs.”

“If we don't change, we control costs but lose people.”

Lan's mother put her hands on the table. "You're both right. So don't make the menu do just one thing."

She pulled out the menu and divided it into three parts: family dishes, market dishes and guests' dishes.

"Family dishes are what the restaurant must keep. Market dishes change according to ingredients. Guest dishes are what people suggest that we can try."

Khoi asked: "Who decides the guests' dishes?"

“Eater.”

“We can't let everyone have their own opinion.”

"Not each person. One vote per table."

Vy looked at her mother. “If we make votes, we have to synthesize them.”

“You're good at synthesizing.”

Vy bent down, not knowing if it was a compliment or an assignment.

At that moment, a phone bell rang. Khoi looked at the screen, no one called. That's an alarm to remind him to take his anti-inflammatory medicine. In an instant, he felt a faint metallic taste on his lips even though he hadn't taken any pills. He quietly turned it off machine.

Ha saw. “How long did the doctor say?”

"Don't know."

“Have you told your mother yet?”

"Not yet."

Lan's mother heard but did not ask. She just took a bottle of pepper from the drawer and placed it in the middle of the table.

“What is this?” Khoi asked.

“Ha's spice set.”

Ha immediately reached out to take it back. “No need to bring it out.”

“Why not?” Lan's mother asked.

“Because it's not the shop's recipe.”

Khoi opened the lid. Peppercorns, dried tangerine peels, fried onions, some dried chili and something light brown. He raised it to his nose. I can't smell it but I know the mixture has different levels of dryness.

“What is this set used for?”

Ha looked down at her calloused fingers. "I make it myself so that night shift customers don't get bored. They like the strong smell but don't want the dish to be too salty."

“Why does it say Khoi seasoning in the recipe book?”

Ha burst out laughing. "Because when I came back to help in the kitchen in my second year, my mother told me to write down my name so it would be easy to remember. Then I corrected the quantity and brought it with me when I went to the city."

Khoi opened the notebook he brought back from Lat Cut. On a middle page, he recognized the numbers he thought he had come up with: twenty grams of pepper, five grams of dried tangerine peel, one gram of chili.

Next to it is Ha's writing, small and italic: "Don't let the fire go too high, the tangerine peel will be bitter."

He read it again and again.

“I don't remember,” he said.

“You don't need to remember everything,” Ha replied. “I need to know who I forgot.”

The kitchen is silent. Khoi put down the book.

"Sorry."

Ha did not respond immediately. She took the spice bottle and poured some into her palm. “Sorry, I haven't changed the name on the menu yet.”

“So how do you want to write it?”

“Ha and the House Kitchen.”

“What if the recipe has comments from many people?”

“Then write many people.”

Vy typed on the computer. "You can create a contributor section. But if the dish sells well, does the ownership of the recipe belong to the restaurant or the creator?"

Lan's mother looked at her daughter. "Ownership is the next thing. The right to be named is the first thing."

Khoi wrote on the board: RECIPE WITH CONTRIBUTOR'S NAME.

Man once said that the value of Bep Nha Kitchen is a family story. Khoi now sees that too few people are told that story.

In the afternoon, they open early for patrons to try the menu. No new signs, no promotions. Khoi placed two signs in front of the counter:

WHAT DOES THIS ITEM NEED TO KEEP?

WHAT NEEDS TO REPLACE THIS ITEM?

Mr. Sau finished reading and said: "Keep the fish portion just enough, replace the plate that is too small."

Ms. Huong said: "Keep the soup hot, change seats near the door because of the wind."

A worker named Phuong asked if she could change the portion from white rice to potatoes. Vy replied that if the customer informs in advance, the kitchen will try.

A student suggested having a meat-free meal on Monday, because he only gets paid on the weekend. Khoi asked if he would eat tofu if he made tofu. He said if there are vegetables and not too little.

Ha wrote everything down on the ballot. Khoi did not intervene until she gave him a piece of paper.

“What do you think?”

“Meatless meals can reduce costs.”

“I asked about the dish.”

Khoi looked at the student. “Do you want to be full or do you want something nice?”

"No first. If it's pretty, it's good."

Khoi writes "full first" on the board.

A man wearing a white shirt, never seen before at the shop, stood outside taking pictures. He asked Lan's mother if she was about to sell the shop. Lan's mother asked him who he was. He said he created content for a food delivery app and wanted to know if Bep Nha was planning to go on the platform.

Vy gave him her business card, but didn't promise anything. After he left, she said: “If I get on the app, I can get more revenue.”

“And extra fees,” Khoi speak.

“It's expensive but there are customers.”

“Customers on the app don't know our restaurant.”

“Customers in the restaurant can also leave.”

Khoi finds himself always using the word "and" like a scale: adding one thing means losing another. But the menu meeting showed him something more unpleasant. There are dishes that cannot be measured by ingredients alone. A smaller portion of rice can help people save money on their medicine. A bowl of soup without onions can make a child eat it all. A jar of spices with the maker's name on it can make a person stay in the kitchen longer.

That night, Khoi and Ha reviewed ten groups of dishes. They divided each dish into three lines: quantity, person responsible, question to ask the guest.

Braised chicken with ginger — Khoi and Ha — what level of spiciness should be kept for the elderly?

Seasonal vegetable soup — Pot and stove — how many servings of second-rate vegetables can be used without losing quality?

Enough food portions — night shift customers — do we need more starch options?

Ha looked at the list. “We don't have a price yet.”

“Vy calculated.”

“We don't have time to cook yet.”

“Tomorrow.”

“There is no one to wash and close the parts if orders increase.”

Khoi stopped writing. “We can't wait for everything to be perfect.”

"I don't ask for perfection. I ask not to call an idea a menu before knowing who will do it."

Khoi nodded. He went to the counter, took out a large piece of paper and wrote:

SEVEN DAY TRIAL.

Not a new menu. Not a promise. It's just seven days for the restaurant to ask the diner, record the answer and decide whether it's worth continuing or not.

Lan's mother looked at the paper. “What name?”

Khoi said: “House Kitchen — seven days of listening to customers.”

“Sounds a bit like a TV show.”

“So mom, give me a name.”

Lan's mother took the pen and added a line below:

"I don't know how to cook today's dish tomorrow."

Khoi read. He wanted to laugh because that sentence sounded too soft, not suitable for a debt of four hundred and eighty million. But Ha used tape to stick the board on the wall. Vy took a photo to make a spreadsheet. Mr. Sau stood under the fan and said the sign was askew.

Everyone fix it.

When the shop closed, Khoi turned on his phone. Man texted: “Seven days is enough for you to see that selling is a realistic option.”

Khoi looked at the text for a long time then replied:

“Give me seven days to see if a kitchen can live by anything other than a name.”

He sent it before changing his mind.

At the corner of the counter, the key Lan's mother gave her was still in her pocket. Khoi hasn't opened the recording cabinet yet. He wanted to listen to the people who had eaten here, but was afraid they would say something he couldn't quantify.

Tomorrow morning, the seven-day trial will begin.

And the first thing to put on the table may not be the food, but the question: who really gets to decide what the Home Kitchen will become?