The most American I ever felt as an immigrant kid growing up in America was when I was 18 and I ordered my first French dip at Applebee’s. Nothing felt as far removed from home-cooked Vietnamese food than, to me, a decadent meat filled sandwich where you dip the whole contraption into its own juices. In those few moments of enjoying the sandwich, the feeling of being included and accepted as just another American kid, and not an immigrant kid with strange cultural traditions and stinky food, was incredibly powerful.
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