Tucked away in the maze of Northern Virginia’s largest Asian shopping center is a single secluded alleyway. Neon signs emblazoned with Vietnamese lettering flicker, fluorescent lighting strobes against peeling wallpaper. The stained linoleum runway is lined with small, rickety stalls, each advertising bargain deals on exotic produce of alien-like shapes and colors.

“You want? It’s sweet. 7 dollar.”

A tiny, sparkly-eyed, whiskered old man gestures to the bulbous yellow fruit in a shopping cart to his right. He places both hands on either side of his blue-striped foldable beach chair and stands, strikingly agile for a man of his age. Slipping a laminated menu into his customers’ hands, he coaxes them into his restaurant, shuffling swiftly in his Sketchers and flashing them a warm smile that casts laugh lines across his face.

A woman with large hoop earrings sits alone at an uneven, sloped table. Above her, a poster portrays Buddha and “The 10 Dharma Realms,” and a gold-tipped ceramic lotus rests regally on a shelf.  Between forkfuls of noodles, she responds to emails on her laptop, the click-clacking of her long, acrylic nails marrying with that of the rusty metal fan in the corner. The singing of windchimes joins the symphony as an elderly lady, swimming in her colossal puffy coat, enters the restaurant and allows the old man to assist her in scooping chunks of tofu into a styrofoam take-home container. He utilizes his chopsticks with finesse and familiarity, paying the task minimal attention as the two babble amiably in Vietnamese.

Grace Kugler, a frequent visitor of the Eden Center’s eateries, scans over the menu carefully.

“Notice how the most expensive thing on the menu is $7.45,” Kugler explains, placing the menu back onto the table.

The smiley old man in the Sketchers greets her in broken English, notepad in hand. As she orders, the man writes on his notepad and they both laugh as she attempts the pronunciation of “bì cuốn” and “canh bún chay.” Her noodle soup comes to the table steaming: a savory, aromatic broth full of bean curd, tofu, carrots, and green leafy vegetables.

As the restaurant in the hidden alley’s already slow frequency of customers begins to dwindle, the old man emerges from behind the glowing dinosaur of a cash register. He serves himself a helping of noodle soup in a lilac-printed bowl and eats in solitude, recovering from another long day’s work.

The Eden Center has become a community to hundreds of small business owners who sought out the United States as a sanctuary following the Vietnam War. Fruit sellers, jewelry makers, and merchants bring their heritage with them as they rebuild their lives on the sidewalks of Falls Church’s new Saigon. Its produce section is stocked up on barrels of Taiwan guava, fresh young Thai coconut, and open tubs of fermented cabbage, radish, jellyfish, all the way down to frozen beef blood; this is how immigrant families have access to foods necessary to make the staple dishes of home.

Just outside the secluded hallway, the Eden Center’s massive Asian supermarket is teeming with shoppers. A petite, silver-haired woman weaves through its aisles with a stubborn, squeaky grocery cart. The corner of her cart becomes stuck underneath a low-lying shelf.

“Mom? Over here,” calls a masculine voice from the seafood section.

The woman looks up, and with one forceful thrust, she unhooks her cart from the shelf’s grasp and follows the sound of her son’s voice, muttering softly in Vietnamese.