The government says we’re developing, but I see my neighbour’s phở stall torn down for another marble-floored coffee shop where no one smiles and nothing cooks. They call it progress, but my son can’t name the fish in his broth anymore, only the logo on his soda. We beat the Americans, the French, even the Chinese in ’79, but we can’t beat the rent? Let them build their towers, but don’t call Saigon a success while the old hands shake over bowls that cost less than a tip. My grandmother tasted the broth this morning and said, “Still tastes like home.” That’s the only election result I trust.