I still remember the very first time my father took me to a local noodle restaurant that I later learned went through more than five generations in their family. I was around six years old at that time, struggling with tears to convince my father to let me stay at home instead of going to school. Still, he held me in his arms anyway and we drove to have breakfast before my nightmare began. But I didn’t see it coming. Who could have guessed that a bowl of pho made me forget all about what I just said to my dad and just like that, I finished wiping my eyes and started wiping my mouth.