Chapter 3 — Vegetarian Restaurant Behind the Temple Gate

Every Thursday, at ten o'clock in the morning, Mr. Lanh Van Dat appeared at the beginning of Bo De Alley, walking slowly, slightly bent over, an old conical hat tilted to one side of his head to block the sun. Yen Nhi saw his shadow from afar, through the kitchen window, and like a reflex that had been ingrained over the past two years, she immediately turned to check the pot of broth simmering on the stove, making sure it was clear and sweet enough before he entered the restaurant.

Mr. Dat is seventy years old this year and has been a widower for more than three years. He lives alone in a small house at the end of a working village, grows vegetables every day, raises a few chickens, and every Thursday he walks nearly a kilometer to An Tam Vegetarian Restaurant, just to order the exact same dish: mugwort mushroom soup.

"Lady landlady," he called out familiarly as he walked through the door step, his voice hoarse with age but still resonant, "please give me a bowl of mushroom soup as always."

"Yes, please sit and wait for me for a moment," Yen Nhi replied, her voice gentle, her hand already starting to take the straw mushrooms out of the basket to process.

Mr. Dat chose a familiar table near the window, where he could look straight at the Thien Ly flower trellis in the yard, put his conical hat on the chair next to him, then sat quietly, his eyes looking far into the sunny yard. Yen Nhi was used to that sitting position - her back was slightly hunched, her hands were placed on her thighs, her eyes seemed to be looking into a space that only he could see.

She washed each straw mushroom, cut the big ones in half, left the small ones intact, and then drained them on a bamboo basket. Next to it, a handful of fresh wormwood had just been picked from the backyard garden, with dark green leaves and a characteristic pungent smell that emanated as soon as she gently crushed a few leaves to check the freshness. This is a dish she has cooked countless times since the day she returned to take over the restaurant. The recipe has been written clearly and meticulously in the notebook left by her mother - step by step, each dose, including the small note "straw mushrooms must be picked early in the morning, while they are still wet with dew, the soup will be sweet".

While the broth was boiling on the stove, Yen Nhi glanced at Mr. Dat through the small kitchen door. Mrs. Nu, who was sitting nearby picking vegetables, saw her granddaughter's eyes and immediately lowered her voice to tell the story, even though Yen Nhi had heard this story no less than ten times.

"You know, Mrs. Dat - his wife - used to sit at that same table in the past," Mrs. Nu whispered, her hands still quickly peeling the beans. "The two of them got married when they were young, very poor, but loved each other very much. She liked straw mushroom soup the most. She said that when she was a girl, her mother used to cook it for her when the weather got cold. Eating it warmed her whole body and cured minor illnesses. After she got married, every time she felt sad or tired, she invited Mr. Dat to my mother's restaurant to eat a bowl of this soup."

"How long has it been since she passed away?" Yen Nhi asked softly, even though she knew the answer.

"It's been more than three years. Lung disease, only a few months in the hospital." Mrs. Nu sighed. "Since then, Mr. Dat comes here every Thursday to eat this bowl of soup, as a way to keep her by his side."

Yen Nhi ladled the soup into a bowl, sprinkled a little pepper, and dropped a few coriander stalks on top to enhance the flavor. The heat rises, bringing with it the pungent smell of wormwood mixed with the sweetness of straw mushrooms and carefully simmered vegetable broth. She brought the bowl of soup to the table and placed it gently in front of Mr. Dat.

"You can use hot soup to make it delicious."

Mr. Dat nodded his thanks, held his chopsticks with trembling hands, scooped a spoonful of soup and brought it to his mouth. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if enjoying not only the taste but also a memory that was flooding back. Yen Nhi stood still for a moment, observing, then quietly turned back inside, leaving him alone with his own meal.

But she didn't go far, just stood behind the counter, pretending to clean a few bowls, her eyes still occasionally glancing at the table where he sat. Mr. Dat ate slowly, spoon by spoon, sometimes stopping, looking out at the yard, his eyes that had become cloudy due to age suddenly sparkled with something wet. One time, a few months ago, he told Yen Nhi, his voice choked up, that every time he took a spoonful of this soup, he seemed to see his wife sitting across from him, smiling and saying "Today's soup is delicious", a simple saying that she often repeats after every meal.

"You cook very similarly," Mr. Dat once said to Yen Nhi, his voice trembling. "Just like your mother's recipe from before. But..." He hesitated, then just shook his head slightly, not finishing the sentence, as if there was something he felt but couldn't put into words.

That unfinished sentence lingered in Yen Nhi's mind for weeks afterward, and today, as she stood watching him quietly eat, she remembered it again. She knew the recipe she used was exactly as in the notebook her mother left behind — the right amount of mushrooms, the right amount of wormwood, the right time to simmer the broth, and the right way to season it so that the natural sweetness of the mushrooms would not be overwhelmed by the pungent taste of the wormwood. She has cooked this dish dozens of times, each time thoroughly tasting it before bringing it out, making sure there is not a single detail wrong. Yet, there is something missing — something intangible, something that cannot be measured with spoons or spoons, that cannot be recorded with words.

She remembered the image of her mother in the past, even though the memory had faded over the years - her mother standing next to the stove, her hands stirring the pot of soup slowly, her eyes not looking at the pot but as if looking into some far away world, her lips softly moving something wordlessly. Perhaps the mother is thinking about the coming guest, thinking about their own pain, putting into each stirring movement a silent concern that no words can express. As for Yen Nhi, no matter how hard she tried, no matter how she cooked the recipe right down to the smallest detail, she still felt like she was standing outside of something — as if she was reciting a memorized prayer without fully understanding its meaning.

Mr. Dat finished eating, put down his chopsticks, used a tissue to gently blot the corner of his mouth, then sat quietly for a while, looking out into the yard, where a few white butterflies were fluttering around the Thien Ly flower trellis. Yen Nhi came out to clean up the bowl and asked softly.

"How do you feel today?"

"Delicious, very delicious," he replied, nodding. "You're a really skillful cook. It's just that..." He hesitated as always, then smiled, a sad but gentle smile. "Maybe it's because I'm old, I keep comparing this and that. Don't take it to heart."

"Just tell me," Yen Nhi said gently, sitting in the chair opposite, something she rarely did with guests, but today she felt the need to ask for clarification. "I want to learn, I want to cook properly, better."

Mr. Dat looked at her for a long moment, then sighed lightly. "Your mother in the past, every time she brought out a bowl of soup, she would sit for a few minutes, asking about my husband and I about everything - asking about our health, asking about the harvest, sometimes just sitting silently and eating with us for a while. The bowl of soup is the same in taste, but the atmosphere around it is different. Your mother has something... don't laugh at me when I say that... as if she cooked this soup not only with mushrooms and wormwood, but with her whole heart. As for you, you cook very well. correct, every bit right, but she seemed to be... in a hurry. Like she was trying to finish cooking it right, not yet let people eat it."

Mr. Dat's words were like a needle sticking straight into the place where Yen Nhi was still trying to avoid looking straight. She bowed her head, not knowing how to respond, just nodded slightly, her voice quiet. "Thank you for telling the truth."

"Don't be sad," Mr. Dat quickly said, his voice a bit guilty. "I'm old, I'm a dotard, I talk nonsense, that's all. The soup you cook is delicious, I come here every week."

Yen Nhi smiled wryly, stood up, cleaned up the bowl, and brought it to the kitchen. She stood silently by the sink for a long time, watching the water flow through the empty bowl of soup, her heart heavy with a feeling that was hard to name — not quite sadness, not quite disappointment, but more like a slow, painful realization of the gap between cooking right and cooking with all your heart.

That afternoon, after Mr. Dat returned, Yen Nhi looked through her mother's recipe notebook and turned to the page that listed mugwort mushroom soup. Mother's handwriting is slightly slanted, the ink has yellowed over time, but each line is still clearly visible. On the margin of the page, her mother wrote a small line that Yen Nhi had read before but never really paid attention to: "Cooking for Mr. and Mrs. Dat, remember to ask before scooping up the soup - people need to be listened to before they need to be full."

Yen Nhi sat silently for a long time in front of that page, her fingers lightly brushing her mother's handwriting, feeling like she was touching a remaining part of her soul. She realized that, perhaps, recipes lie not only in ingredients and seasoning, but also in things beyond the page — things her mother had learned over twenty-five years in the kitchen, and that she, no matter how talented, still had to learn from the beginning.

Outside in the yard, the afternoon sun was turning yellow, the Thien Ly flower trellis swayed gently in the wind, and the temple bell from Tinh Lien Pagoda rang again signaling the time of afternoon practice, deck... deck..., ringing long and then dissolving into the quiet space of Bo De Alley.