#cravencigs

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I am about to get FUCKED UP on this coffee.

The cracks in the floor are filled with white cigarette ash. Some guy just rolled up on a pink mountain bike blastin Vietnamese folk-country. The coffee is strong. I am at Chez Rose, a coffee drinkin, imported Viet cigarette smokin, majong tile slammin, laughter filled cafe in my hometown of Westminster, CA.

This is actually my first time, in 24 years of life, in ~6 years of coffee drinkin, cigarette smokin adulthood, that I have ever been here. Usually, I would go sit outside Phuoc Loc Tho (Asian Garden Mall, not a direct translation), or Lee's Sandwiches or any of the thousand boba shops within walking distance for my ca phe sua da&cigarette but today, my curiosity pulls me, I dare to step outside of my bounds and into theirs.

I've always believed this place to be "out of my league" as in I, being a woman, being young, being westernized, am culturally, socially, hierarchally barred from patronizing this (woman owned!) establishment. I walk by to scope the scene, it's not as packed as usual and there are tables away from the chaos. Who knows how many unwritten laws I am breaking but despite all the opposing labels and identities I may carry, I am still Vietnamese and you know what that means? On top of honor and pride and filial piety, it means not giving a fuck. We are guerilla warriors and that applies to this little girl who wants to play with the big boys. These cultural truths we (as a people) preach and live by are overdue to backfire. Joke's on you, Asian patriarchs of the past! I muster up the last bit of  feminist courage inspired by years of being seen and not heard and strut in the front door, steady stepped and head high, (RIOT GRRRLS cheering me on in the bleachers of my mind)

I order "mot li ca phe sua da" in fluent Vietnamese. Elders I encounter on the street (knowing the language or not, I cannot help but be a social butterfly), always comment on how "ran"- fluent- my tongue is. This always makes me glow with that red&yellow pride. The barista woman asks me more or less milk? I say less, I like the strong bitters and I want her and other patrons to know I can handle coffee like them- a dark glass is a badge of honor. She takes my money and tells me have a seat, she'll bring it out when it's ready. I pick a table respectfully out of the way, I'm sure my presence itself is distraction enough, I don't need center stage. Co Rose comes out with 2 glasses- 1 coffee and 1 iced tea (this is standard at most sit-down Viet cafes) The first glass is half full of the darkest ca phe sua I've ever seen. She asks me to taste it, I take a sip and DAMN, I am about to get fucked up. I nod my head and lie, this is perfect. I'm afraid if I ask for more milk, I'll come off as some little girl who can't hang. I roll a cigarette, which always attracts unwarranted attention wherever I am, and stir/muddle my coffee. There's a specific technique to this and I do it proudly, like a veteran (of coffee and this culture war.) I smoke and write as the ice melts to dilute the coffee. I prepare mentally to receive and integrate this caffeine and lose all my sleep tonight.

A few hand rolled cigarettes later and shiikes, this is still strong as fuck. The coffee starts kickin in and I am immersed in the bellowing laughter, the perpetual smoke, the slamming ma jong tiles, the loud outbursts. I am hoping for a distraction to slow my coffee intake and here he is- a man dressed in saffron robes and a shaved head approaches me. He greets me with a bow and offers a Buddhist prayer bracelet, and a card that reads "Work Smoothly, Lifetime of Peace." In gentle, broken Vietnamese (he sounds/looks Chinese), he conveys that he is raising money to build a temple. Usually, I do not give money to anyone/anything as I believe money is easily corruptible and time/work are more valuable but I give in and give him 4 dollars, not enough to really corrupt anything anyway. As he moves on, I slide on the bracelet- it still sits next to my jade bangle- and revel in the thought- where else does a monk approach you but in Little Saigon?

Now sufficiently high on coffee and refreshed by the gift of giving, I am maybe more comfortable than I should be and start interacting with my environment. I jump into a passing conversation, joking that I'll hold onto this man cigarettes as he gets food. He reprimands me for giving money to a fake monk (what??? how was I supposed to know?!) but still gives me his pack of Cravens and asks me what kind of banh mi I want.

When they come back, chu Huy hands me a sandwich and he and Co Mai pull up two chairs. He's bold, friendly, talkative and immediately jumps into heavy some conversation- "So what do you believe? Are you da phat/Buddhist?" He starts lecturing about religion, speaking some new truths, or at least wiping the dust off some forgotten ones. Co Mai makes the sign of the buddha (a half hand lotus) over her heart and takes  a drag of her cigarette.

We sit and talk, not talk, eat, drink coffee, play games, let our days unravel into and around each other's. We bask in coffee and cigarettes and the white noise of Little Saigon and it is pure glory.

My father calls and asks me to pick up the car. I get another coffee for his friend/our mechanic and gather my books, tobacco, strewn about comfortably. My companions greet me as a niece, hope to see me soon, and offer me a Viet-English dictionary (to match/combat the Spanish-English dictionary I have in my arms?) next time we meet.