Broken rice at night

I travel a lot, from the South to the North, of course, I don’t see anywhere with broken rice at night like in Ho Chi Minh City. Broken rice is a lot, everywhere, but only sells in the morning, who eats broken rice at night!

How to eat at night? Why swallow? How can you sleep with an indigestible food that is invincible. Broken rice must be cooked dry, even really dry, for the rice grains to come apart, and then there is a clump of fat, onion fat, ribs, eggs, skin… all indigestible things. Why are you still eating broken rice at night? Ask too much! Who is free to learn to answer those questions. Saigon people do not have the habit of asking questions. Ask a lot, get hungry! Time to run more rides, try to work one more shift, try to get this job done, maybe you can get an extra plate of rice. Try to finish painting the wall, sweep more roads or clean up a yard, earn a few dozen more and buy more shirts and notebooks for small stomachs. But the workers who work hard a day, day and night, there is no way to eat and drink, after eating a plate of rice, they do not run home when they are hungry. And the broken rice at night is delicious. Eating with anything is delicious, even eating rice is not as delicious! A plate of steamed white rice, drizzled with onion fat, sprinkled with chili fish sauce, and added a piece of sour food is delicious. If you add a slightly fried omelet, poke the yolk with a fork to break it, melt it into the rice, mix it with a spoon on that golden, viscous place filled with fish sauce, then there would be no better dish in the world. . Or there is a lump of ketchup with ketchup, take out a spoon and mix it with rice. As for ribs, skin, and cha, they are “classic” already. The great move “sampling rice” has made the name of Saigon broken rice. But the right ribs are fat ribs, grilled slightly, the fat melts down onto the embers, the smoke and fire cover a whole road, the sniffles of passersby are a unique “marketing” trick. People who work at night come home from work on an empty stomach, passing through that fragrant smoke, few can resist. There are all kinds of people coming in to eat, but everyone seems to be working hard to make a living, taking night as day. So the plate of broken rice for them, like a reward, is meager, but it is the joy of a whole day of work. Once for a long time, I also sat down to eat at a broken rice restaurant in District 8. The shop was small, shabby, sold on the sidewalk, and closed on the eaves of a shop selling building materials, so it was closed at night. That day it was raining, I saw in the corner of the shop there was a hand pretending to be brothers and sisters, a rough appearance was sitting taciturnly eating. His gesture was spiteful, holding a spoon and slamming it on the plate of rice as if he was sulking, hating everyone around. An old woman selling lottery tickets entered the shop to shelter from the rain, shivering but still enlisted to invite a few guys to dress politely like an office worker, probably just got home from drinking, sitting at the next table, buying and supporting some lottery tickets. but you keep shaking your head. “Dm…! The old lady comes here and I buy it for you”, the whole shop turned to look at the brothers and sisters’ hands but then quickly turned away, avoiding his knife-like glare. “Sit down here and see, Damn… there are some lottery tickets that are expensive to stand and beg. But she ate a plate of rice and then I bought a dozen sheets.” “Hey shop, get her a plate of rice and patties, dammit! I don’t know if I can chew!?”. The old lady hummed and mumbled to say thank you. “If I meet her sons, they will beat me to death..! Damn, I’m so old now, I still have to go look for rice!” Oh my God! I’ve never heard anyone swear so cute. Of course, I enjoy hearing swearing. Late night wind, pouring cold rain water continuously into the shop, but I can hear it warm, warm my stomach, I don’t know if it’s because of the plate of rice, the steam from the stove or because of the swearing!? And tonight, also a rainy Saigon night, there was a person who felt hungry for broken rice at night, not because he was hungry. But because I remember the time when I came back to Nga Bay at night to eat dinner. Remember the poor neighborhood, remember the swearing, remember the friends from elementary school, middle school used to be a kid together. Remember the time when the rice was not enough, the shirt was not warm enough. And remember her classmate, taking a break from selling rice at night to help her mother to get married on the other side of a strange wharf. “Eat a full meal and then go home, try to study well, don’t be poor like my family, suffering and humiliating.” Saigon, rainy night in June.