Chapter 7 — Tomorrow's Kitchen

The first recorder made a coughing sound, then a woman's voice asked: "Can I tell the truth?"

Khoi sat under the counter, next to the wooden box Lan's mother kept for many years. The cabinet had been open since morning, but it was only in the afternoon that he had the courage to press the button. Outside, Ha is checking vegetables, Vy is calling the bank, and Lan's mother is counting change. No one came to stop him from listening.

The female voice on the tape belonged to someone Khoi did not know. She said the soup that day was a bit salty, but she still brought her daughter because the restaurant let her sit for a long time without ordering more. After a while, she told me her husband had just lost his job, the rent was due, and the girl needed to eat before going to extra school.

Lan's mother in the tape asked: "Do you want us to record it?"

"No. I just want to say that next time the restaurant doesn't give her too many onions."

The tape stopped at the sound of a chair being pulled.

Khoi looked at the small machine. The box contained more than a hundred files, numbered in pencil. His mother used to write down the name of the dish, the date, and sometimes just the word "old customer". The first files have distorted sound, with the sound of fans or market carts interfering. The speaker is never asked if they want to be part of the bar's story. They were only asked a simple question: "Is there anything that needs fixing today?"

File number seventeen is an older man's voice. He said the fish had a lot of bones, but asked the restaurant not to change the fish because fish was cheaper than meat. File number twenty-one is the voice of a young girl complaining about hard rice. File number twenty-two has Lan's mother laughing because a boy asked why the soup was scooped out more than the rice.

Khoi recognized that laugh. When he was a child, his mother laughed like that in the old kitchen, where the corrugated iron roof was so low that he had to bow his head.

File number thirty-six stopped him in his tracks. Ha's voice rang out, younger than now.

“This dish is not yours alone,” Ha said on the tape.

Another voice, perhaps Lan's mother, replied: "I know."

“So why does the menu still have the Lan family recipe?”

“Because customers need a name that is easy to remember.”

“The worker also needs a name to remember what he did.”

Be still for a few seconds. Then Lan's mother said: "I will fix it."

There is no file later that says the menu has been fixed. Khoi took off his headphones and looked into the dark space under the counter. He heard the story about Nha Kitchen from his mother as a family story. In the videos, the shop resembles a meeting without minutes, where everyone contributes a sentence but the person holding the key is Lan's mother.

Ha bent down to look at him. “Where have you heard it?”

“File thirty-six.”

“I remember.”

“You didn't tell me.”

"I was still in high school. I just wanted to know how to make meat tender."

“Is that a mistake?”

"No. But after you left, everyone kept saying that all the good recipes were brought back by you. I'm tired of having to explain that I'm not an outsider."

Khoi turned off the phone. “Why do you still stay?”

Ha sat down on the cupboard door step. "Because someone eats what I make. Because your mother knows I need money. Because the Home Kitchen some days doesn't feel like a place of work."

“What days?”

Ha pointed to the box. “Let's continue listening.”

File number fifty-two was recorded after the flood. The sound of running water is very close. Lan's mother said the kitchen couldn't be turned on, but there were two large pots in the yard. Ha is assigning people to wash vegetables. A man's voice that Khoi guessed was Binh told him to keep the vegetables that had not been soaked in water. A boy asked if he could get more rice.

People in the gang cook for the whole area with what is still clean. They don't call it relief. They call it "today's rice cooker".

Khoi heard Lan's mother read the names of each house and language Young Vy asked how much rice was left, and Ha scolded someone for leaving a knife on the ground. No one talks about the formula. Everyone talks about which pot is for the elderly, which pot is for the children, and who needs to take home.

File number fifty-three is the day after the flood. A bank employee came to ask when the shop would reopen. Lan's mother said she didn't know, but first she had to pay the people who worked in the kitchen. The man asked where he got the money. Lan's mother smiled and said "I will think".

Khoi looked up. “Have you borrowed since then?”

Ha did not answer.

Khoi called Lan's mother. She came in from the counter, still holding a stack of change.

“Mom borrowed money after the flood?”

Lan's mother looked at the box. “Which file did you hear about?”

“File fifty-three.”

“So you know.”

“I didn't know mom used it to pay salary.”

“Mom didn't pay enough.”

“But mom used the debt book as collateral.”

Lan's mother put down the money. “I read the contract.”

“Why didn't you say it was a loan to keep people?”

"Because saying it like that sounds like a kind decision. Actually, I'm just afraid they'll all quit."

Ha said softly: "If I quit at that time, the shop won't be able to reopen."

“I know.”

“But that doesn't mean everything has to be in mom's name.”

Lan's mother turned to her. “Mom was wrong.”

Ha didn't expect her to accept it right away. She shut up.

Vy walked in, holding a stack of printer paper. "The bank sends a request for a seven-day sales statement. They do not accept customer slips."

“We have ice,” Khoi said.

Vi shook her head. “Ice is not revenue.”

“But it is history.”

“History cannot pay.”

Lan's mother replied: "I can't pay, but I can answer why I don't want to sell."

Khoi opens the remaining files. They listen together. Every file has a detail that is not on the menu. One person said the porridge was delicious because it was eaten while waiting for news that their child was going to the hospital. One person suggested reducing the spiciness because the restaurant was the only place she dared to sit alone. Another person said don't order a "special" dish if the amount is less than the regular dish.

At first, Vy listened and looked at the computer. When she reached the file with the voice of her nineteen-year-old self, her hands stopped on the keyboard.

“I don't remember this file.”

In the tape, Vy told Lan's mother: "I don't want to stand at the counter anymore. Customers owe me money, I have to ask, but they ask every time. If I don't give them money, they won't eat. If I give them money, I won't be able to pay for the goods."

Lan's mother asked: "Do you want to rest?"

“I want the shop to have rules.”

“So I write.”

Vy turned away. “Did Mom tell you?”

Lan's mother nodded. “Mom told me to write, but she didn't follow through.”

“Mom always says it so people don't feel sad.”

"Maybe."

Khoi looked at his sister. Vy tried to turn the shop into a system because she didn't want each bill to become an emotional negotiation. While Lan's mother kept the shop open by opening the door to the needy, Vy kept it by worrying that one day everything would collapse.

They heard the last file with images in the old camcorder. A young male voice rang out. That was Khoi, at the age of seventeen, he had just learned how to fry fish.

“Mom, why did you give Mr. Sau more fish?”

Lan's mother replied: "He fixes fans for the shop."

“But that doesn't count.”

“Not everything is recorded in the book.”

"If we don't write it down, how will we know who owes who?"

"Know to pay. Not know to demand."

Khoi heard his voice arguing: "If everyone was like that, the shop wouldn't be able to survive."

Lan's mother smiled: "Then try living."

The tape stops. In the storage room, the present silently responded to the words of the past.

Khoi took the debt book and placed it next to the recording box. On one side is the name, amount, appointment date. On one side is the voice, the food, the situation. He used to think these two things were opposites: the debt book was a burden, the tape was a memory. But both are ways the shop records a person who has walked through the door.

Vy said: "I can't bring up the customer's private life to ask for favor from the bank."

“No one said they would broadcast it publicly.”

"Min can use it. He just needs a few good paragraphs to combine into a brand story."

Khoi remembers the file saying there was a boy asking for more rice. If that image goes online, it will make people emotional. But the boy may be grown up now, and I wonder if his family wants to be recognized.

Ha said: "Ice must be asked by the owner if used."

Lan's mother nodded. "From now on, don't use other people's voices to prove that the restaurant is kind."

Khoi took a pen and wrote on a piece of paper:

RECORDING BOX — DO NOT USE WITHOUT PERMISSION.

Vy asked: "So what is it used for?"

Khoi thought about the tasting session. “Used to remember who you are asking.”

That night, Man came to the restaurant. He wore a beige jacket, without an assistant. Man used to be the only person in Lat Cut who knew that Khoi did not sleep before tasting sessions. He is also the one who said Khoi has the ability to create a brand from scratch.

“I heard you did the tryout,” Man said.

“Heard from whom?”

“This town is small.”

Man looked at the sign, "The chef couldn't taste enough." He did not show pity. “Are you really hanging that sentence?”

"Real."

“Are guests afraid?”

"Some people will be afraid. Some people want to know what the shop does to control it."

Man did not argue. He took a proposal from his briefcase and placed it on the table. "I bought the brand, but there are conditions. You work as the kitchen director for the system, your mother quits, Ha gets to keep it if she signs the contract. Binh's debt is paid in one go."

Ha stood at the kitchen door, listening clearly.

“What about the restaurant?” Khoi asked.

“Can be converted into the first store.”

"Maybe?"

“I have not promised to keep the current model.”

“What about the name of the House Kitchen?”

"Keep the name. Standardize the dishes. Open five more locations."

“Ha's recipe?”

"Using rights belong to the system. She is listed as a developer."

Ha smiled faintly. “A developer sounds better than a kitchen assistant, but is still someone who signs for others to use.”

Man looked at her. “You will have a good salary.”

“I want the right to say this should not be sold.”

“The process will handle it.”

“The process doesn't know when the vegetables are sour.”

Man turned to Khoi. "You see? You're turning a clear opportunity into an argument about things that can't be expanded."

Khoi looked at the amount table. Man's offer was enough to pay off the debt, enough to fix the computer, enough so that her mother wouldn't have to wake up at four o'clock. It looks like a door with a light on.

“I need to read,” Khoi said.

“Seven days.”

Man stood up. Before leaving, he whispered: "Don't confuse recognition with ownership. People can be registered and still not be able to make decisions."

That sentence made Khoi uncomfortable because it was true for both Man and him.

After Man left the shop, Ha asked: "Are you going to sell?"

"I don't know yet."

“If you sell, I want you to tell me the truth before signing.”

“I will say.”

“No. You have to ask me if I want to come along.”

Khoi looked at her. "Okay."

Ha nodded, then returned to the kitchen.

In the storage room, the recording box was still open. Khoi took a blank file and placed the recorder on the table. He pressed the red button.

“Day four,” he said. "Kitchen Nha is trying a new menu. The person recording is Khoi. I can't fully taste it. I don't know if the restaurant can survive. But from today, every decision must clearly state who spoke and who do and who bears the consequences.”

He stopped, not knowing what else to say.

Finally, he said: “If anyone listens to this file after a year, please don't use it to say we know how to do it. Right now, we're just trying not to pretend we know.”

Khoi turned off the phone.

Outside the counter, Lan's mother locked the door earlier than usual. A truck passed by, causing the glass to vibrate. In the box, old voices lie next to new files, no one knows which words will need to be heard again tomorrow.

And at the end of the proposal Man left behind, there was a small clause that Vy would discover the next morning: the right to decide on dish names, recipes and brand stories would belong to the buyer, regardless of the contributor.