The Real Le Anh Food Truck
poem by Khánh-Anh Lêphoto by Jonathan Coveney
The lights flutter gently,
as though moths were caught among the bulbs.
The woman stir-frying, sautéing inside
the toaster of a foodcart seems familiar.
Her cheeks dimple sharply,
her eyes lost in the creases of her smile.
“Were you born in Viêt Nam?”
“Oh no,” I bow gently, proud of my Huê accent.
She could be my aunt.
I’ve been feeling comfortfoodsick lately.
No more pizza, pasta, and questionable meats.
I long for rice untainted by butter and parsley,
clouds of ginger chicken dumplings,
jade spears of winter melon in broth.
“Here’s your thit heo kho.”
She places the warm container in my mittened hands.
Impatient, I tease my appetite and open the lid
for swirls of star anise to overwhelm my nose, fogging my glasses.
Marbled pork slick from fat, mahogany eggs simmered in soy.
“Thank you so much, thit heo kho này ngon quá quên duòng vê.”
It’s so delicious, I’ll forget the way home.