A Patron to Remember

Vietnamese waitresses remember me. But just as the PuMan takes notice of me because of my frown when I can't get the words out fast enough, Sharon can't let go of my barking antics of fourth grade, and [insert third droll example to make this 'balanced good writing'], they remember me for all the wrong reasons.

For the second time in as many weeks, my parents, their friends, and myself went to the place we affectionately refer to as 'the Vientnamese noodle place' for lunch. Sat at the same sized table not quite big enough for a party of five, facing the same lunch-hour crowd. We had the exact same appetizers and pretty much the same food. I remembered to add 'no cilantros' this time to my usual order of 'iced coffee and #19 with meatballs' (aka what will definitely make my last meal menu should I ever kill someone and get caught). We're no Dustin Hoffmans but you would go back to the exact same restaurant and endure the cramped spaces with your parents and their friends all over again if it meant savoring that divine combination. One thing was different though. Today, all the waitresses carefully doted on us, delivering everything delicately and gingerly clearing away all the dishes as soon as we were finished. Because they finally wanted to reward our years of loyalty with prompt service? No. As one explained, "we don't want you to spill iced coffee all over yourself again." "Oh hey, they remembered!" My parents cheered. Yeah, I remember, too. Every time someone opened the door last week, the breeze would come in and a few more of my nerve endings would die.

On the calendars the waitresses gave us:

Mother: Hey! They took these from Super 88 [the chain of Chinese supermarkets in Boston.] It says 88 right on the calendars.

Mother's Much Brighter Friend: I think it's because this restaurant is called Pho 88.

Mother: Is that why you always refer to this place as 88? I always thought you were just confused.

(For the record, we've been going to Pho 88 on and off for about ten years.)