Chapter 22 — Vegetarian Restaurant Behind the Temple Gate

In the days that followed, Bo De Alley seemed to take on a completely different rhythm of life, a rhythm of life that was both bustling and warm, as if the whole small alley was preparing together for a big wedding of the whole Ben Truc town, not a fight to keep the land. The pagoda yard resounded with the sound of saws and chisels from morning to night, interspersed with the sound of the big bell still ringing regularly every morning and afternoon as if it had never known that the deadline was approaching.

Thien Tam's mausoleum lives almost entirely in the temple yard these days. He built a row of bamboo frames along the side of the lotus pond, which was previously just wild grass, to make a temporary roof for the dining table area. His hands, which had become accustomed to measuring, sawing and cutting since his days as teacher Thien Tam repairing the shop's roof, now quickly built each column, tied each rope knot, without the slightest hesitation. Next to it, he set aside a quiet corner under the canopy of an ancient Bodhi tree, set up a small wooden table, spread a simple brown cloth, placed a few pebbles and a small incense burner on it - the mindfulness space he promised to create, where anyone can stop, sit down, breathe, or write a few lines on the wooden board standing next to it, recording the name of a deceased person, a wish, or simply a thank you.

Mr. Lanh Van Dat, even though he is seventy years old, still pedals his old bicycle every morning carrying several sacks of vegetables from the garden behind his house to contribute to the shop - gourds, squash, luffa, and a basket of straw mushrooms he planted himself under a bamboo trellis after summer. "I don't know how to do anything big," he told Yen Nhi as he put the bag of vegetables on the restaurant's porch, his voice hoarse with age but still resonant, "I only know how to grow vegetables and cook a bowl of mushroom soup for my wife to eat when she was still alive. Now I'm old, my limbs are slow, I can only help this much." He bent down, rubbed his dirty hands on his shirt, then looked up at Yen Nhi, his eyes had a quiet determination. "But you can believe that day I will be there, standing right in the front row."

Che Hoai Nam hardly left his old laptop, sitting for hours at a familiar corner of the table in the shop, typing articles, editing, sending invitations to dozens of newspaper editors, local television stations, and even a few news sites specializing in life and cuisine. He showed Yen Nhi the draft of his latest article, the title in bold: "Kindness Rice Bowl Festival — when a small vegetarian restaurant and an ancient temple choose to preserve the land with kindness." The article recounts the story of An Tam Vegetarian Restaurant, the story of Cam Thi Xuan establishing the restaurant after losing her husband, the story of regular customers such as Mr. Lanh Van Dat and Ms. On Bich Ha, interspersed with a few lines that gently mention the pressure from investors without any direct attack. "I try to write so that everyone who reads it can see the beauty first, the danger later." Che Hoai Nam explained. "People love beauty first, then they care about how it might be lost."

Uncle Nhan Duc Phong took care of the procedures - applying for an organization permit with the town government, which was not an easy task because he had to clearly explain the purpose, expected number of attendees, and security and order plan. He shuttled between the neighborhood cultural house and the committee headquarters, always carrying a folder with frayed corners in his hand. One evening, he stopped by the shop and breathed a sigh of relief to inform him that the town committee had agreed to grant the license, and also confirmed that a government representative would be present at the festival. "The Chairman of the committee also asked me if I needed to borrow more tables and chairs from the cultural house," Mr. Phong smiled, a rare smile that relaxed all the worried wrinkles on his face over the past few days. "You said you need it, it's different if you need a lot."

Ms. On Bich Ha took charge of the sweet soup, and mobilized three or four more sisters in the neighborhood to cook dozens of liters of longan lotus seed sweet soup - the dish she still cooks every time she remembers baby Bo - along with a few pots of green bean sweet soup and corn sweet soup. Every afternoon, she stopped by the shop, carrying a bundle of pre-peeled lotus seeds, sitting with Mrs. Cam Thi Nu on the porch, working and chatting, the laughter of two women - one lost her husband and lost her child, the other was about eighty-one years old, and had seen off both her daughter and son-in-law - resounding with strange relief amid stressful days.

As for Yen Nhi, in addition to general coordination and taking care of the main menu for the festival - steamed rice, braised tofu with pepper, stir-fried mixed vegetables, and the sticky rice dish that Mrs. Nu received - she still keeps a private plan in her heart that she has not told anyone but herself: the night before the festival, she will re-cook the pot of sour and chopstick soup, her mother's "signature" dish, for the last time before officially cooking it for the whole town to eat on the festival.

That night came. The shop had closed a long time ago, Mrs. Nu had gone to bed after a long day of packing sticky rice, leaving Yen Nhi alone in the kitchen, the familiar yellow filament light casting her long shadow on the wall. She put her mother's notebook on the table, opened it to the page containing the recipe for sour soup with So chopsticks, then began to lay out the ingredients in front of her: a basket of white So chopsticks flowers with their pale yellow pistils intact that she picked from the trellis behind the market this morning, a few green young okra, two ripe red tomatoes, a round of yellow pineapple with a sweet aroma, white bean sprouts, and a bowl of pickled sour tamarind, the color of cockroach wings.

She put a pot of broth on the stove - not bone broth like people usually cook this dish at home, but a broth made from shiitake mushrooms, white radish, and a few slices of pineapple, just like her mother's note left: "cooking vegetarian doesn't mean lacking flavor, just having to be more patient to let the sweetness appear on its own." Yen Nhi let the fire simmer, not in a hurry, standing and watching the tiny bubbles rise and melt on the surface of the pot, the scent of mushrooms and radishes mixed together, wafting up in the quiet kitchen space.

She added sour tamarind first, tasted it, frowned. The sour taste is a bit harsh, not mild. She added a little palm sugar, stirred well, and tasted again. This time the taste was milder but still lacking a vague layer of flavor, a depth that she couldn't name, even though she had cooked this dish dozens of times in the past two years, each time with the right recipe, the right dosage, and each time missing exactly that.

Yen Nhi put down the ladle and closed her eyes. She didn't try to think any more about the formula, didn't try to remember any numbers in the notebook anymore. Instead, she let her mind step back, slowly, to those long-ago afternoons when she was a child standing next to her mother in this very kitchen, just as tall as her mother's waist, watching Cam Thi Xuan stand seasoning the pot of soup, never measuring with a spoon, but by dipping her fingertips into the pot, lightly touching the tip of her tongue, then pondering for a moment, looking far away at the yard with the thien ly flower trellis, as if listening to something inside herself, not inside the pot of soup.

She opened her eyes, her trembling hands dropped a few slices of fresh red chili pepper into the pot, not because the recipe required an exact number, but because some intuition just told her that mild spicy taste would awaken all the other flavors still sleeping in the pot of broth. She added the rose petals last, just as the water boiled, gave it a gentle stir, then turned off the stove immediately, so that the flower petals could still retain their delicate crispness and not become mushy.

Yen Nhi scooped a small ladle, blew gently to cool down, then brought it to her mouth. The sour taste of tamarind blends with the deep sweetness of mushrooms and radishes, the slight spiciness passes through the tongue and then disappears, and above all, the gentle bitter taste typical of chopsticks flowers remains intact, not overwhelmed by any other spices. She stood still, the soup ladle still held between her hands, tears suddenly flowing out of her eyes uncontrollably.

That's exactly what mom's soup tastes like. Not an approximation, not an attempt at imitation, but just what it was, whole, as if twenty years had never passed, as if she were still the child standing at her mother's hip that afternoon. But what made Yen Nhi truly speechless was not the taste of the soup, but the fact that she realized that during the whole cooking session, she did not think about the festival, did not think about Sai Trong Phat, did not think about the deadline, did not think about anything other than the pot of soup in front of her, that very present moment. For the first time in many years, she cooked not out of habit, not out of fear of making mistakes, but with complete presence, just like how her mother had been present in this kitchen for a quarter of a century.

There were light footsteps outside in the yard. Thien Tam, who had just finished setting up a theater next to the temple, stopped by before leaving and saw that the kitchen light was still on so he walked in. He stopped at the door when he saw Yen Nhi standing there, her eyes still wet, her hand still holding the soup ladle.

"What's up?" he asked, his voice worried, walking quickly closer.

Yen Nhi shook her head, smiled through her tears, scooped up another small ladle and gave it to him. "Try it."

Thien Tam tasted it, was silent for a moment, then looked at her, his eyes gradually understanding. "It's exactly your taste." he said softly, no need for Yen Nhi to explain further. He had eaten this dish once, a long time ago, when Cam Thi Xuan was still alive and invited the monk and a few novice monks to eat for a small ceremony at the temple. I still remember that soup, even though it's been more than two years.

Yen Nhi burst into tears, unable to hold back anymore. The tears this time no longer carried the bitter taste of helplessness like the night of her mother's death anniversary last year, but carried a taste of relief, almost joy. Thien Tam did not say anything more, just quietly walked over, placed a warm hand on her shoulder, and left it like that for a long time, while the heat from the pot of soup was still radiating, mixed with the smell of chopsticks, the smell of ripe pineapple, the smell of old kitchen smoke, all blending into a taste of return that Yen Nhi knew she would never forget.

"Tomorrow," she said, her voice still choked, quickly wiping her tears with the back of her hand, "I will cook this pot of soup for the whole town to eat."

"Are not." Thien Tam shook his head, his voice gentle but firm. "Cook for Yen Nhi's mother first. Then cook for the town."

Yen Nhi looked up at him, then nodded, a shaky but genuine smile appearing on her tear-streaked face. That night, before turning off the stove, she scooped out a small bowl of soup, placed it on the altar in the corner of the restaurant, next to the photo of her mother smiling brightly on the opening day, lit a stick of incense, and stood there for a long time, quietly, while the midsummer moonlight still steadily scattered silver in the yard, and the chirping sound of night crickets echoed from the Thien Ly flower trellis, like a gentle background music for the first moment of healing, although not yet complete, that had truly begun.