“Pho C&A” the lit up black-and-white sign reads. I push the door open. I’m hit with a wave of warmth that sends tingles across my previously frozen cheeks. The cozy smell of garlic, broth, and marinated meat fills my nose. I make my way to the counter to order as the woman in the kitchen waves a hand at me, indicating “gimmie a sec”.
Ana, the chef at Pho C&A, takes great pride in the fresh food she makes and even greater pride in her customers. She learned Czech to communicate with diners and make them feel more comfortable, more at home, in her family’s restaurant.
I give her a slight nod and tilt my head up to scour the glowing menu plastered to the walls. The various soups and noodles call to me – I’m very happy knowing that I can answer these calls as most places have limited options for vegetarians. But this family-run Vietnamese place, a skip and a hop from my dorm, has the holy grail: tofu. My first time here the man said, “Anything you want, we make it tofu, don’t worry”, with a reassuring smile.
It’s funny how a community that was constantly bearing the brunt of insensitive comments and sly disrespect could be so welcoming and accommodating. But then again, I guess they’re used to accommodating.
Ana accommodates, attempting to speak with me in English, creating a new home within hers just for me, given that I have a limited Czech vocabulary and a nonexistent Vietnamese one. We exchange confused glances and make hand gestures back-and-forth so I can successfully be united with my tofu pad thai.
As Ana cooks I make eye contact with the maneki neko cat repeatedly waving at me – its arm moving back-and-forth. These Japanese figurines are meant to bring luck and wealth to their owners. Money has always been a tough topic for Ana’s family, “In Vietnam, no money,” she says, her sentences fragmented. “Come here… lots of money!”. She laughs, throwing her hands in the air victoriously. I guess the ceramic cat really works; I make a mental note to consider getting one later.
But Ana’s success in the Czech Republic is attributed to one thing: perseverance. Her family opened the restaurant three years ago, mere months before the pandemic. But the clan of Pho C&A persevered, they changed their business model to takeaway only and have only taken off since then. I stand at the counter imagining the grueling difficulty of shifting to another country, not knowing the language or the people, and making a home for myself in a place where others don’t believe I truly belong.
But my sorrows for Ana are challenged by her cheerful clap of completion as she brings me my food. She smiles broadly and raises her eyebrows in farewell as I make my way to the door, waving her goodbye. I stroll back as the lit up letters get further and further away.
elasays 
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