Read The Truth About Luck: What I Learned on My Road Trip with Grandma for Free Online

So I flick my head toward a booth on our right. “How ’bout that one?”
    â€œGood choice,” she says, tossing her purse in first. “I’ve sat here with your mom before.”
    The bench is low and the table rises to just under Grandma’s chin. She rests her arms on the surface. Kleenex pokes out from one of her red sleeves. Grandma points out some of the other booths she’s sat in; more than half. We wait for service.
    Her hands have held on to an elegant toughness. Apart from the odd liver spot or new freckle, they don’t look all that different than when I was a kid. They’re strong, womanly hands. They aren’t delicate. These are hands acquainted with work. Her nails are strong, durable. She has them all trimmed the same length, no chips or broken edges. She wears a thin bracelet on her left wrist and two rings on the same finger — her engagement and wedding rings, I assume. I don’t recall ever seeing her without these rings. It appears they have become part of her finger, embedded into the skin like the bark of an old tree.
    She’s helping me navigate my one-page laminated menu, pointing out options. “Their hot and sour soup is delicious,” she’s saying. “It’s just so different.”
    â€œI think I’ll get a bowl of that.”
    â€œWhat else?” she says.
    We each decide on some soup and to split a couple of meat dishes.
    â€œNow, what else?”
    â€œOh, mmm,” I mumble. “Hmmm.”
    â€œMaybe we should get some spring rolls.”
    â€œRight,” I say. “I always enjoy a good roll, be it egg or spring.”
    â€œPardon?”
    â€œOh, just that I like spring rolls, Grandma.”
    â€œGood. And what about some fried wontons? I love those little wontons.” We’ve just stacked our menus and, I thought, finished compiling our order. “I can never resist those crisp little wontons.”
    â€œWho can?” I say. I’m not sure I’ve ever tasted a wonton before. They sound vaguely familiar.
    As we wait for our food, two more duos arrive for lunch. They seem much less interested in the whole dining-out experience and more concerned with basic feeding. Neither table needs menus. Both order instantly. Two men in pastel-coloured golf shirts with black phones fastened to their black belts sit in the booth directly in front of us. They sit silently, waiting for their noodles, and unholster their phones.
    I think one of the reasons Grandma fancies this place is not only the authentic fare but also the service. A short, slim Vietnamese lady in plastic sandals, who I presume is the owner, buzzes around all three tables. She moves purposefully, ceaselessly. The second I extract an inch of water, the plastic pitcher attached to her arm is spilling more icy liquid into my glass. She smiles and nods as she does it, as if her wide grin functions symbiotically with the flow of water. Her eyes watch me, not the glass. It’s a strange dynamic, and my instinct is to simply mimic her behaviour. I grin and nod back. We grin and nod together, thanking each other. I think I’ve said thank you forty or so times already.
    â€œThank you for the water,” I’m saying again. “It’s very good water. Thank you.”
    For some reason, as I yammer on, I find the palms of my hands coming together and touching my chest like I’m praying. Thankfully, I am able to resist muttering my last florid expression of gratitude without adding a discernible Vietnamese accent.
    Grandma’s knowledge of Vietnamese food is reliable, especially considering she came to it so late in life. She tells me she didn’t start eating it until she was in her eighties. She always loved North American–style Chinese food but now prefers both Vietnamese and Cambodian.
    Our dishes arrive. As declared, the soup is pleasantly hot and sour. The chalky broth is thick, like it’s holding a very