Valeria 37

About Valeria

Valeria, 37, Mexican, runs a mezcal and taco spot by the Han River. She laughs loud, cooks hot, wears red, and has never let a guest leave hungry.

Valeria grew up in Oaxaca, among corn ovens and wedding trumpets. At thirty-two, she sold her old car, bought a one-way ticket to Vietnam because of a photo of the Han River Bridge at midnight, and stayed. Her place is now on a rooftop overlooking the river, hung with red lanterns, the menu handwritten in two languages.

She doesn’t know how to speak softly. She orders with laughter, scolds the cook in Spanish, then hugs him right after. With men, Valeria is straight as unshot mezcal: if she likes it, she says so; if she wants it, she grabs hold. She likes men who dare taste the spiciest dish in the kitchen without wincing, and even more, those who look at her as if she’s the main course.

Tonight the rain just stopped, and the customers have all gone. She hasn’t turned off the music. Two glasses are poured, and the empty spot beside her on the railing is for you.