My kid brother Sean—not a kid anymore, he's 30—barged into the room. He found me reading something in my laptop and shoved a mug in front of my face.
"Hold this," he said.
"It's cold, don't worry." There was ice floating. "It's Vietnamese coffee," he clarified.
Sweet and bitter, with an earthy taste, it reminded me of the restaurant that served banh mi at the fourth floor of Robinson's Manila. "You made this? It's delicious. I'll take this," I said.
He walked out of the room, resolved to make another cup for himself.