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In all of Lebanon, there was just one Vietnamese restaurant, Le Hanoi, so I called, just to make sure it was still open, but all I heard was recorded piano music.

Days later, I found myself walking in that direction, so why not, I kept going, even through a slackening hailstorm. Soaking wet, I was finally at that address, but Le Hanoi was still awol, so I called again. Presto, a man answered!

“Are you open today, brother?” I said in Vietnamese.

“Yes, we are.”

Wonderful! I beamed. “I’m standing right at the corner, but I don't see your restaurant.”

Oddly, he said nothing for several seconds. When I heard a man’s voice again, I repeated, “I’m at the corner, brother, but I don’t see your restaurant.”

“Wrong number,” this second man said in English.

“Oh, I’m sorry!”

So eager to eat a bowl of pho, I had mistaken spoken Arabic for Vietnamese! I’m seriously losing it. After my phone mishap, I did manage to find what’s left of Le Hanoi. Empty, stripped, darkened and unlocked, it’s dead.



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