Nước Chấm

My freshman year at the University of Arizona was nothing short of an adventure. Like many Asian kids, I had a packed schedule: balancing school, helping out at my parents’ restaurant, and, of course, trying to carve out my own path. My parents didn’t have much money to spare for college, so I got resourceful. I took out loans, worked for tips at the restaurant, and even started my first business—a computer-building company—to help pay for school. It was a wild, hectic time that taught me how to hustle, though not without its share of laughable moments.

Let me tell you about one such moment. First, you need to know about fish sauce. If you’re familiar, you’ll understand—it has a very distinctive smell. Some might say pungent; I’d say delicious. Growing up, my mom made a garlic-and-lime-based version that was sweet, tangy, spicy, and absolutely perfect with dishes like gỏi cuốn and bánh ướt. The version we used at the restaurant, however, was vinegar-based—different but equally fragrant. Both were essential to Vietnamese cuisine, but neither would win awards for being subtle.

One day, as part of my regular routine, I stopped by the restaurant to help during the lunch rush before biking to campus. Biking was cheaper than driving, and I loved the freedom it gave me—plus, parking at U of A was a nightmare. Everything was going smoothly. I was waiting tables, greeting customers, and bringing out orders like clockwork.

And then, disaster struck.

I had just picked up two servings of fish sauce for a table when it happened. Maybe I moved too quickly, or maybe fate just decided it was my turn for a laugh, but the next thing I knew, both servings tipped. Not onto the table, not onto the floor, but all over me. My pants were soaked in fish sauce. Not a splash—soaked. I smelled like I had been marinating in anchovy juice all morning.

I didn’t have time to go home and change. Chemistry 101 was waiting for me, and as much as I wanted to disappear into the kitchen, I grabbed my bike and headed to campus.

The lecture hall was big, thank goodness, so I sat as far from everyone else as humanly possible. Still, I knew people could smell it. At that time, Vietnamese food wasn’t as well-known, so no one had a clue what fish sauce was. To my classmates, I was probably just “that guy” who brought an inexplicable fishy aroma to class. I tried to focus on the lecture, but the embarrassment was unforgettable.

When class ended, I didn’t linger. I hopped back on my bike and made a beeline for the restaurant, where my mom, with her typical sense of humor, couldn’t help but laugh when she saw me. “Smells like you’ve been working hard,” she joked.

Now, every time I make fish sauce, I’m reminded of that moment. The garlic-and-lime recipe my mom taught me still brings back memories of home, while the vinegar-based one from the restaurant reminds me of that hilariously mortifying day.

Freshman year was full of challenges like that. Juggling school, work, and a fledgling business wasn’t easy. I had my fair share of failures, but I also had plenty of successes. Looking back, those moments shaped who I am today. It was a time of resilience, growth, and a lot of learning—about myself and, apparently, the enduring power of fish sauce.