Fat chance.

We’re blown to the restaurant on the corner of the road, a stone’s throw from the guest house. We never managed to get the umbrellas up. Both of us are completely drenched from the rain. I sit on the entrance step and wring out the water from my polka-dot skirt. I give my hair a shake, knowing I’ll have mascara running down my cheeks. There’s no door into the restaurant – it’s open-fronted and currently shielded from the storm by some blankets attached to the tin veranda roof with pegs. How they haven’t been blown off, I’ll never know.

‘Welcome!’ The waitress smiles.

Her hair is pulled into a ponytail. She’s wearing skinny jeans, and a red t-shirt hangs neat upon her petite physique. Her name badge reads Linh. She invites us to sit down and hands us a menu folder, each laminated page filled with photos of various dishes, and she reads out the words printed in English on the front cover.

‘You Eat, I Like,’ Linh reads.

That must be the name of the restaurant. Cute.

And wow, is it cute.

Low bamboo tables are dotted around the space with bright-coloured beanbags as seats. Some red heart-shaped cushions are scattered about. A guitar hangs on a painted white wall, framed pictures of The Beatles on another. The words All you need is love are painted beneath the guitar. Ah, home from home. There is an open kitchen, with a man and woman doing the cooking for all to see. I notice a double bed – well, more of a mattress, really – in the corner of the restaurant, a few mismatching pillows and blankets thrown on it, a small bedside cabinet against the wall. This is a family-run business and they must live in this room, too. The first page of the menu is filled with information about their daily cookery classes.

‘Beer?’ Justin asks me.

I’m old enough – or wise enough, rather – to understand that hair of the dog works.

‘Yep.’

It’s not yet five o’clock, although it feels like the depths of night. The restaurant is bright with bulbs hanging from wires across the ceiling, and the waitress is putting out candles on each table ready to light. The Dutch lady is sat behind us with her son and, I presume, her partner. We exchange hellos. I order a special Hoi An noodle dish and some banh xeo – Vietnamese crispy pancakes. Justin is mid-order when the electricity cuts out and we’re all sitting in darkness, one small flickering candle on the Dutch family’s table alive.

‘I guess this means we can’t order from the menu now,’ Justin gripes.

‘Bloody hell, you are a grump today, aren’t you?’ I point out.

‘I wasn’t expecting this.’

‘Ha. You’re telling me?’

Linh finishes lighting all the candles and brings us ice-cold beers, asking us if we’d like food, too.