







It was a sunny afternoon in the small riverside village, where the air smelled faintly of blooming jasmine and the soft chatter of neighbors floated between houses. Lala, a playful and lively girl with big sparkling eyes, had just come back from the market with her mother. Her hands carried a basket of fresh vegetables, but her attention was fixed on a strange dark parcel wrapped in banana leaves, tucked neatly in the corner of the basket.
She had never seen anything like it before. The banana leaves were glossy, almost black, and the aroma coming from inside was warm, sweet, and a little nutty. Her curiosity was buzzing like a bee in her chest.
“Mom, what’s this?” she asked, pointing at the mysterious package.
Her mother smiled, “That’s banh gai. A traditional cake made with glutinous rice, gai leaves, mung bean paste, and coconut. We bought it from Auntie Tam at the market. It’s for later, when everyone’s home.”







Lala’s eyes widened. She had heard about banh gai before—Kien, her older cousin, once said it was one of the most delicious snacks in the world—but she had never had the chance to taste it herself.
The moment they arrived home, her mother placed the basket on the kitchen table. “Lala, help me wash the vegetables,” she said before going to fetch water from the well.
Lala nodded obediently, but her gaze kept darting toward the banh gai. It seemed to be calling her, whispering, Come and see what’s inside… just a little peek won’t hurt.
She glanced around. The kitchen was quiet. Outside, she could hear Kien chopping wood in the yard. This was her chance.
With careful hands, she picked up the package. The banana leaves were soft and warm to the touch. She slowly unwrapped them, revealing a sticky, dark brown cake that glistened in the light. It smelled heavenly—sweet from the coconut, nutty from the sesame seeds, and rich from the gai leaves.








Lala licked her lips.
But then she heard Kien’s voice from outside, “Lala! Are you helping Mom?”
She froze. Her heart jumped like a startled rabbit. Quickly, she wrapped the banh gai back in its leaves and tiptoed toward the back of the house. If she was going to taste it without Kien knowing, she needed a hiding spot.
Behind the old jackfruit tree, there was a small bamboo bench no one used anymore. It was shaded, hidden from view, and perfect for her secret mission. She sat down, took a deep breath, and unwrapped the cake again.
“Just one bite,” she whispered to herself.
The first bite was magical. The sticky rice dough was soft and chewy, and the filling was sweet and fragrant. Tiny coconut shreds melted in her mouth, mingling with the creamy mung bean paste. She felt as if she had discovered a hidden treasure.
“Wow…” she breathed, savoring the taste.
One bite became two. Two became three. Before she knew it, half the cake was gone, and her fingers were sticky.
Suddenly, she heard footsteps approaching.
“Lala?” It was Kien’s voice again, closer this time.
Her heart raced. She stuffed the rest of the cake into her mouth and quickly hid the empty banana leaves under the bench. She tried to chew fast, but the sticky dough made it impossible to swallow quickly.
Kien appeared, wiping sweat from his forehead. “What are you doing back here?” he asked suspiciously.
Lala quickly covered her mouth. “Nothing! Just… um… looking at the jackfruit tree.”
Kien raised an eyebrow. “Why are your cheeks puffed up like a squirrel?”
She shook her head vigorously. “No reason!” she mumbled through the cake.
But Kien wasn’t fooled. He leaned closer, sniffing the air. “Wait… is that the smell of banh gai?”








Lala’s eyes widened. “No! It’s… um… flowers! The jasmine flowers!”
Kien smirked. “Lala, you can’t fool me. I know that smell anywhere. Did you eat it without me?”
Lala swallowed the last sticky bite and wiped her hands on her skirt. “Maybe… just a little,” she admitted, her voice small.
Kien crossed his arms, pretending to be upset. “That was supposed to be for everyone. You didn’t even share.”
She lowered her head. “I was curious… I’ve never tasted banh gai before. I just wanted to know what it was like.”
Kien sighed, then chuckled. “Curiosity is fine, but sneaking and hiding? That’s sneaky, Lala.”
Her cheeks turned red. “I know… I’m sorry.”
Just then, their mother’s voice called from the kitchen, “Lala! Kien! Come and have some banh gai before it gets cold!”
Lala’s eyes widened. “Wait… there’s more?”
Kien laughed. “Of course there’s more. Mom bought two.”
Relieved, Lala followed Kien back inside. On the table sat another neatly wrapped parcel. Their mother sliced it into even pieces, revealing the same sweet filling and fragrant aroma.
“This time,” Kien said, handing Lala a piece, “we eat together.”
Lala took a bite, smiling. It was just as delicious as before—maybe even more so, because she didn’t have to hide.
After they finished, Kien teased her, “Next time you’re curious about food, just ask me. I’ll tell you everything… or better yet, we’ll taste it together.”
Lala grinned. “Deal. But I’m still glad I got to have my secret taste first.”
Kien shook his head with a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
And from that day on, whenever Lala smelled the sweet, nutty aroma of banh gai, she remembered the afternoon she tried to hide behind the jackfruit tree—and how much better food tasted when shared.