She didn’t come to America because she dreamed of it—she came because she had to. By 1993, Vietnam had become a place she could no longer call home. Her father had been part of the Vietnamese resistance, and for that, he was thrown into prison. The communist government was tightening its grip, and life under their rule left little room for freedom or opportunity. When the U.S. offered a relocation program for Vietnamese refugees, it was introduced as a way to start fresh in a land where life was supposed to be easier. People trusted the program, and she, like many others, followed that trust. 

At nearly 30 years old, she left everything behind—her hometown of Tây Ninh, her friends, and the community she had spent her life with. She didn’t know North Carolina, had never even heard of it, but that’s where she was placed. When she arrived in Greensboro, she had no money, no support system, and no idea how to navigate life in this new country. What she did have, though, was determination. There were no shortcuts to success—only survival.  

The early years were the hardest. The food was unfamiliar, the weather was unpredictable, and the people were different. It was nothing like home. But survival meant learning, and she refused to let the difficulties break her. 

“Qua đây phải bắt lại đầu, mà có khó càng, nhưng từ từ học hỏi.” 

Translation: "Coming here meant starting over again, which was difficult, but I patiently learned."

Piece by piece, she built a new life, learning how to live in a country that wasn’t made for her, but one where she was determined to stay.

More than 30 years have passed since she arrived in Greensboro, a place she had never heard of before she stepped foot on American soil. Unlike many Vietnamese refugees who settled in bustling cities like Houston or Orange County, she landed in a quiet town with few familiar faces and even fewer resources for the community she had left behind. At first, nothing about it felt like home. The language was foreign, the food was unfamiliar, and the streets felt too empty compared to the lively markets of Tây Ninh. She often wondered if she had made the right choice—but there was no going back.  

She has visited California, Texas, and New York, places where Vietnamese culture thrives, where the streets are lined with restaurants, bakeries, and markets that remind people of the country they left behind. But no matter how lively those places were, she never felt fully at ease in them. The fast pace of life, the constant movement, the crowded streets—they overwhelmed her. North Carolina, by contrast, felt steady. Here, the seasons changed, bringing new colors and new rhythms to the year. Spring would bloom into summer, and fall would fade into winter, a cycle she found comforting in a way Vietnam’s endless heat and rain never had been.  

In the early years, Greensboro lacked even the basics for a Vietnamese household. There were no Vietnamese grocery stores, no bustling restaurants where she could taste home in a bowl of phở. Cooking was difficult, not just because ingredients were scarce, but because she had neither the time nor the means to search for them. But over the years, the community grew. Little by little, more Vietnamese families arrived, bringing with them the need for familiar flavors, and businesses started to appear in response. Today, Greensboro may not have the vast Vietnamese enclaves of larger cities, but it has enough. Enough to cook the meals she grew up with. Enough to remind her of where she came from. Enough to make her feel like she belongs.

For more than 20 years, her restaurant wasn’t just a place to eat—it was a place where cultures met. She took pride in introducing Americans to the flavors of Vietnam, watching as hesitant first-timers became regulars who craved dishes like bánh mì, phở, chả giò, and gỏi cuốn. Some customers came in knowing exactly what they wanted, while others needed guidance, asking her what was good, what was popular, and what they should try next. She always made time to explain the dishes, sharing the stories and traditions behind them.  

For the more adventurous diners, she would prepare off-menu items, testing their willingness to embrace unfamiliar flavors. Bitter melon, for example, is a dish that even many Vietnamese people find too strong, but she enjoyed seeing the surprise on a customer’s face when they took a bite and realized they liked it. Food, she realized, had the power to break barriers. People may not have known much about Vietnam, but they were willing to experience a piece of it through a bowl of soup or a plate of fresh spring rolls.  

Now retired, she no longer serves customers, but cooking remains a central part of her life. She often prepares meals for her neighbors, treating them to dishes like bánh xèo, a crispy, turmeric-infused crepe filled with shrimp, pork, and bean sprouts. When people ask her what Vietnamese dish they should try first, she always recommends cơm thịt nướng, hủ tiếu xào, or bánh xèo—dishes that capture the perfect balance of flavors, textures, and aromas that make Vietnamese cuisine so special. Cooking, to her, is more than just a daily necessity; it is a way of keeping her culture alive, sharing it with others, and making sure that even in Greensboro, the taste of home is never too far away.

Though she will always consider Vietnamese food the best, living in North Carolina for over 30 years has introduced her to flavors she never grew up with. At first, American food felt foreign, too rich, too bland, too different from the balanced, layered flavors she knew. But over time, she found dishes she genuinely enjoys. When eating out, she often craves steak, a perfectly cooked cut of meat that feels indulgent in its simplicity. Clam chowder, a creamy seafood soup, is another favorite, though she finds it interesting how rare creamy broths are in Vietnamese cuisine. Vietnam has an abundance of seafood, yet instead of thick, dairy-based soups, people prefer lighter, more tangy preparations like canh chua, where the balance of sweet and sour takes center stage.  

When she thinks of Southern food, she immediately thinks of hushpuppies, eggs, and steaks, hearty and filling dishes that contrast with the freshness of many Vietnamese meals. Alfredo pasta, something she never would have imagined eating before, has become a comfort food in its own way. While she enjoys these American flavors, she still cooks Vietnamese food every day. Unlike eating out, where dishes tend to stay the same, cooking at home allows her the freedom to switch things up, to recreate the meals that remind her of home while also adapting to the ingredients available in North Carolina.  

While she has grown to appreciate many aspects of American cuisine, nothing quite compares to the warmth of a bowl of bún riêu, the crispiness of bánh xèo, or the comforting aroma of thịt kho simmering on the stove. Food is more than just taste, it is memory, it is tradition, it is home. 

No matter how long she stays in North Carolina, the food she loves most will always be the flavors of Vietnam.

Some dishes are more than just meals; they are symbols of tradition, expectations, and the roles people once played in the family. For her, canh chua với cá thòi lòi, a tangy, sweet-and-sour soup made with mudskipper fish, is one of those dishes. In the past, every young Vietnamese woman was expected to know how to cook it before marriage. A girl who couldn’t prepare canh chua was seen as lacking an essential skill, unprepared for the responsibilities of running a household. Cooking was not just a daily task but a measure of a woman’s worth, something passed down through generations, much like language and customs.  

She remembers how in her youth, cooking was strictly a woman’s role. While men worked outside the home, women were expected to manage the household, ensuring that meals were prepared fresh every day. The kitchen was not just a space for cooking, but a place where knowledge was shared. Women taught their daughters the right balance of tamarind, fish sauce, and sugar to achieve the perfect broth, the proper way to clean and prepare the fish, and how to garnish the dish with ngò om and rau thơm for the best aroma. Back then, meals were often cooked over wood-burning stoves or in clay pots, methods that gave the food a depth of flavor that modern gas stoves could never quite replicate.  

Times have changed. Today, both men and women work, and strict gender roles around cooking have faded. Many people no longer learn these dishes at home, relying instead on restaurants or shortcuts to recreate the meals their grandmothers once made from memory. While she understands that life is different now, she worries that as roles shift, some of the traditions will be lost. Cooking is not just about feeding people. It is about identity, about history, about keeping a connection to the past alive through something as simple as a bowl of soup.  

She no longer believes that a woman must cook to be worthy, but she does believe that cooking has value beyond necessity. It is a way of preserving culture, of carrying forward the tastes and techniques that define Vietnamese cuisine. Even as life changes, as roles evolve, she hopes that people will still take the time to learn, to taste, and to remember.

Some dishes are more than just food; they are pieces of the past, carrying the weight of memory and tradition. For her, one dish that holds deep meaning is thịt kho măng với mắm ruốc và nước cốt dừa, a specialty from Tây Ninh made with braised pork, bamboo shoots, fermented shrimp paste, and coconut milk. It was her grandmother’s signature dish, one she remembers watching her prepare with care. The smell of it simmering on the stove meant warmth, family, and home. Even now, decades later, every time she cooks it, she is transported back to her childhood, back to a time when she was surrounded by the people and places she left behind.  

This dish, like many others, plays an important role for her in Đám Giỗ, the annual tradition of honoring ancestors on the anniversary of their passing. Each year, she prepares it in remembrance of her grandmother, just as her family once did in Vietnam. Cooking it is more than a ritual. It is a way to keep the connection alive, to bring a piece of the past into the present. 

To Chi, food access has clearly changed over time. In her early years in North Carolina, finding fresh bamboo shoots was nearly impossible, and she had to make do with the canned version. Now, with more access to Vietnamese markets, she can cook it the way it was meant to be made, the way her grandmother would have wanted.  

Food has a way of anchoring people to where they came from, even when the world around them shifts. For her, cooking isn’t just about eating. It is about remembering. It is about preserving the flavors of Vietnam, not just for herself, but for the next generation. As long as she can stand by the stove and stir a pot, she will continue to cook, to remember, and to pass these tastes of home forward.