by Tom Vitale
“Tom, you have your whole life ahead of you,” he’d said, thunder and lightning crashing outside the window. “Just think, one day—many years from now—you’ll come back here as an old man, with so many travels under your belt, and you can tell the story of what happened here and the stories of your life.”
Entering the restaurant, massive Roman film crew in tow, the expression on Mama and Papa’s faces were of utter surprise to see us again. Mama kissed her rosary and professed, “A cardinal from New York City came to eat here because he saw the show.”
All sixteen of us sat down at a large table in the center of the dining room and ordered the usual, carbonara and amatriciana.
“Why are you looking so stressed?” Tony asked. “Don’t worry, man, everything’s going great. It’s gonna be a beautiful show.”
Tony was right. Despite the cameras, or perhaps because of them, Rome ended up being an amazing shoot, miraculous, in fact. The episode became a poignant anti-fascist warning against Trump.
“There is the undeniable and obvious fact that this is a love story,” Tony would write during the edit. “Given the grim, melancholic, ominous message, this show gives a sense of what could be lost, what is at risk, what and who is threatened by fascism. Faces on the bus, in the park, the patches of grass and flowers SHOULD look magical, enchanted as if from a fable. LOVE IN THE TIME OF FASCISM. It begins and ends that way.”
Tony’s style was not to offer effusive praise, but when he did, it somehow made the stress and demands of the job feel worthwhile.
“You have painted your masterpiece,” Tony said to me when the edit was complete. “It made me cry. Just from how beautiful and awesome it is. Breathtaking. Never been prouder of a show. Thank you for all the work and an incredible job. Really.”
I FIGURED BY NOW ASIA and I were both liquored up enough, it was time to go in for the kill. “Everyone thinks he killed himself because of you,” I said. “You broke up with Tony. You sent him the pictures of you and that guy from the tabloids two days before he killed himself.”
After the internet furor that had exploded against her in the days after Tony’s death, she seemed resigned to the accusation. “I saw this guy, he came to Rome. I saw the paparazzi, they took a picture of me hugging him.”
“I’ve seen the pictures. You were doing more than hugging,” I said.
“It’s true. But this guy was nothing to me. I told Anthony before.”
“Nothing you did tarnished the way he thought about you,” I said. “These are some of the things I look back on that are signs that I should have seen… I think that so many things in his life were like a drug. You were like a drug to him. If somebody overdoses on a drug, do you blame the drug or do you blame the junkie?”
“Both,” Asia said, taking another drink. “I didn’t break up with him… I just got a job on this big TV show, I was so excited… I have to live with this… but I told him I felt trapped and I didn’t like it. Because he was like angry about my job. He asked me to man up and tell him what I wanted. So, I told him, ‘My kids come first. My job, second. You are third.’ I never said, ‘I’m leaving you, I don’t want to be with you.’ Fuck. I was so happy to start this job. Finally, it was a job for me, it was gonna be really good. But he was really scared that this would somehow take me away from him.”
I don’t know. What Asia was telling me didn’t fully line up with what I knew about Tony’s last days from the people who were there. That said, I believed her life had been ruined just like mine. It seemed to me Asia was desperately seeking to absolve herself of guilt—the kind of sorrow, pain, and guilt that eats away at you like a cancer. I knew the feeling. I’d come to Rome for answers, but they weren’t the answers I was looking for.
“I want a reason,” I said, my fingernails digging deeply into my palm below the tablecloth. “I want you to tell me, you broke up with him, I think you broke up with him.”
“There’s no fucking reason,” Asia said. “I’m sorry.”
PART THREE
Chapter Thirteen
THE QUIET AMERICAN
LANDING IN HANOI, I KNEW SHOCKINGLY LITTLE ABOUT WHAT TO EXPECT. At least the surroundings were familiar. Heading into town from the airport, my car was adrift in the usual sea of motorbikes, some carrying well-dressed commuters in suits or high heels, others laden with an impossible cargo, like a mattress or a family of eight, toddler perched on the handlebars.
Ever since Tony’s extremely formative first trip to this part of the world back in 2000, Vietnam, more than any other country, had staked a claim on his heart. Ten years later I got to return with him and experienced firsthand how Southeast Asia can ruin you for your old life. Over the years I’d had so many wonderful experiences here: riding on the back of Tony’s motorbike, hanging on for dear life as he sped along rural highways in Hoi An, slurping pho at sunrise after a night of Saigon partying, getting lost in the Central Highlands, kayaking in Halong Bay during a torrential downpour. Gin and tonics with Tony on the roof of the Majestic Hotel, feeling like I’d just won the lottery, when Tony asked me, “You’re gonna stick around until this train gets to the end of the tracks, right?”
I’d almost forgotten how easy it was to fall in love with this country. From the start, not only had I been captivated by the beauty, but even more I was humbled by how welcomed I felt as an American, given our nations’ troubled histories.
Out the window passed larger buildings and an ever-increasing number of new retail shops and neon lights, but also just as many restaurants with those low plastic stools as there’d always been. Since my first trip to Vietnam a decade ago, I’d learned it was one of those rare places with the ability to change as much as it stayed the same. But as far as our shoot was concerned, there was going to be one rather significant difference this time.
It was May 2016, and President Obama was traveling through Asia, solidifying support for the Trans-Pacific Partnership trade deal and, for some reason, taking time out of his busy schedule to have a meal with Tony on camera. I couldn’t wrap my head around how or why it was happening or that we’d even passed the background checks. But this was no time to ask questions. Despite all the bewildering shit we’d done over the years, this promised to be the most impressive, insane, wonderful, and terrifying experience yet. That is, if I didn’t fuck it up.
The Secret Service had warned that in the interest of security we were to tell absolutely nobody about the shoot. Not significant others, not parents, not Vietnamese members of the crew, not even the camera guys. If word leaked, the shoot wouldn’t happen. This presented a slight problem, as Vietnam was one of those countries where government minders are supposed to track your every move, and there was a lot that still needed to be figured out and arranged over the next week before the shoot began. Namely, where would we be filming the scene with Tony and President Obama?
The locations I’d proposed had been vetoed by the Secret Service, who offered a counter list of venues, all of which had to be scouted. There were meetings and logistics to work out with the White House media team, and all of it had to be done in secret. Fortunately, Jared, the producer, and I had a believable cover. In addition to the scene with “Eagle 1” (the not-so-discreet code name Tony assigned the president), we still had the rest of the show to figure out.
The first couple days went by without incident. We did all the usual planning, organizing, and scouting. It helped that we were working with our old and trusted friends and fixers Ha and Phi, who had worked with us since my first trip to Vietnam in 2006 as well as every one of the many trips since. It seemed like our government minders, Mr. Lihn and Mr. Tuan, didn’t suspect anything. Jared and I had even managed to surreptitiously visit the locations suggested by the Secret Service. Predictably, all of them sucked. When it came to restaurants, local atmosphere and authenticity rarely went hand-in-hand with sprinkler systems, ease of exfiltration, and proximity to a helipad, all required for this particular special guest.
“You don’
t negotiate with the Secret Service,” I said. “We’re lucky it’s even happening.”
“Trust me,” Jared said. “When we meet with the White House people today, we need to push back.”
Jared and I used to go everywhere together, but he’d stopped traveling on the show years ago after being promoted to an executive office job within the company. I was beyond thankful he’d dusted off his producing hat for this particularly high-profile and complex shoot. We’d both been in our mid-twenties when we started together on No Reservations and had shared some pretty transformative experiences along the way. As a result, our relationship was sort of fraternal, and Jared always looked out for me, especially when I was coming apart at the seams. Now that we were in Vietnam, the reality of filming with President Obama was sinking in. I knew it was the pressure getting to me; but I was so deep in the weeds I felt powerless to stop it from clouding my judgment.
“We only got one chance at this,” Jared said as we were driving to meet with the White House team. “Think about it. The president, or at least somebody powerful on his team, wants to film a scene with us, because of what we do. So let’s do what we do! I know you liked the Bun Cha place as much as I did.”
Jared was referring to a local noodle shop we’d scouted the other day. Located in the old part of Hanoi, it was so much more visual and in line with the ethos of the show than the safe and sterile locations where the Secret Service wanted us to film. But who were we to interfere with their judgment? Enough people had been put in harm’s way over the years as we pushed boundaries with the show, and I wasn’t eager to add the leader of the free world to that list. In fact, it was keeping me up at night. At the same time, I was also terrified of under-delivering with the stakes so high.
“Yes, the Bun Cha restaurant was amazing, but I don’t know. The place has gotta be a firetrap. If one of those woks bursts into flame, we’d all be fucked!”
“Pull yourself together,” Jared said, shooting me one of his trademark withering stares. “For starters, let’s not talk about shit that we don’t know—like whether or not the restaurant will blow up,” Jared said. “Let’s talk about what we do know, like food.”
“You’re right, you’re right,” I said, trying to calm myself. “But what if the president gets food poisoning because of us?”
“Woah! Pump the brakes!” Jared ordered as we pulled up to the JW Marriott. The high-end hotel was nearly completed but hadn’t officially opened yet. Situated atop a hill lording over a neighborhood that had only recently risen from rice paddies, the structure seemed to have been designed with a futuristic “Evil Star Wars” theme. The American delegation would be taking over the entirety of the gargantuan property when they arrived the following week, but at the moment it was ghostly desolate.
Even though we’d just stepped out of the car, I was already sweating, but not from the tropical heat and humidity. I put out my cigarette and took a deep breath in an attempt to appear sane to our White House liaisons. It wasn’t hard to spot them, as they were the only other people in the cavernous lobby. Nicole and Rachel worked in the Executive Office of the President where—as best I understood—they helped to communicate Obama’s message.
It wasn’t just that we were filming with the president. Thanks to the years of accumulated stress and overstimulation, my confidence, perspective, and nerves were generally shot. I’d developed some repetitive ticks, and worst of all, I’d started to catch myself talking to myself. Out loud. In public. I really needed a vacation from my vacation.
“We’re all really excited about the opportunity to work with you guys,” Nicole said as we sat down on a bank of sofas.
“Everyone on our end too!” I said. No sooner had the words come out of my mouth, I realized I’d managed to gaff in the first two seconds of talking. “I don’t mean everyone, I-I just mean everyone who’s allowed to know about the shoot. I mean filming, filming, not shoot… I didn’t mean to say shoot, and no random extraneous people know about our plans.”
A silence descended on the conversation. Despite the lobby being kept at refrigerator temperature, I felt the sweat break out on my forehead. After a pause that felt like it lasted forever, Nicole asked, “Sooo… what did you think of the locations the Secret Service suggested?”
“Well… frankly, we didn’t love them,” Jared said, turning to me. I knew this was my cue to mention the Bun Cha restaurant, but I couldn’t quite find the words to speak up. So Jared continued, “The Secret Service suggestions didn’t exactly have the local vibe we go for.”
“Yeah, those spots were a little stuffy,” Rachel said. “It’s tough. I know one of the big sticking points is the guys prefer a restaurant with a private dining area instead of general seating.”
“The big sticking point is a private dining room?” I asked, sensing an opportunity.
“There’s this great locals-only bun cha pork noodle soup shop.” I took a deep breath and did my best to channel Jared-style confidence. “The restaurant has a separate upstairs overflow room we could take over for the scene.”
“That sounds interesting,” Nicole said.
“We could fill the other tables with trusted people,” I said. As always, Jared’s instincts were spot on. There was only one opportunity to get this right, and we owed it to ourselves to film at the best possible location. “So it would be totally safe as long as windows aren’t an issue. Is line of sight a problem?”
Both Nicole and Rachel’s faces went stone cold. By the way they were staring at me, I could tell I’d said something very, very wrong.
“Line of sight?” Nicole repeated.
“It’s just that we don’t wanna—” I shut up, seeing Jared flash me his “I didn’t come all the way to Vietnam for you to fuck this up now” look.
“What Tom means is that we just want to make sure we don’t get in the way of anything you guys do,” Jared said, saving me from self-immolation. “The restaurant Tom mentioned is one of the best places for bun cha in Hanoi. We can have lunch there if you like.”
After a taxi ride across town through bustling traffic, we arrived at Bún Chả Hương Liên.
Rows of stainless-steel tables jam-packed with hungry locals lined the narrow, tiled dining room. A never-ending procession of trays loaded with bun cha came from the kitchen, along with the savory aroma of grilling pork. The atmosphere was punctuated by an occasional flash-bang, the result of a pyrotechnic wok-related explosion. We ordered a bun cha for each of us and went up the staircase to the overflow rooms.
“Oh, wow,” Rachel said, tasting the rice noodle and pork meatball soup. “This is delicious.”
“I see what you mean,” Nicole said. “The energy here is so much better than the other locations we’ve been considering.”
“According to Ha, who’s been fixing our Vietnam episodes for a decade, bun cha is the quintessential Hanoi dish,” I said. “Eating it on camera is definitely the sort of thing that ‘makes the home team proud.’”
“Maybe we should bring the security detail here for lunch?” Rachel suggested to Nicole. “It might be a good way to try to sell it to them.”
Nicole and Rachel were sold; now it was up to them to convince the Secret Service. Jared and I were anxious to get back before our government minders realized we were missing, so we agreed to keep each other updated on plans as they fell into place, and we parted ways.
“It was a meeting about noodles,” Jared said, once we were safely on the way back to our hotel. “‘Shoot,’ ‘windows,’ and ‘line of sight’ was too much sniper terminology for meeting with White House people. You don’t need to be worried about stuff like that. There are plenty of real things for you to worry about.”
I was so thankful Jared was here. I decided not to mention it, but I was starting to think I was either on the verge of, or already having, a mental breakdown, and Jared was probably the only thing keeping me from going over the edge. Ugh. This shoot with the president was the absolute most inconvenient time to be go
ing insane.
“You’re single-handedly managing to depress everyone at the bar,” Jared said later that evening. “I’ll buy you another scotch if it’ll cheer you up.”
“What kind of scotch?” I asked. “And in case I haven’t said it, thanks again for coming along. I know how busy you are.”
“Are you kidding?” Jared said. “I love being on the road again. This job is too good to be true.”
“It’s a fucking widow-maker,” I said, on the verge of whiskey tears.
“Aww, c’mon! What’s happened to you? Where’s the Tom who used to take pleasure in regularly outwitting government tourism boards? You love your job! How could you not, it’s the best job in the world! We’ve stayed in palaces, hotels built for royalty. We’ve eaten food made by grandmothers in the favelas in Colombia. And now, somehow we’ve ended up in Hanoi about to shake the hand of our president…? As long as you don’t scare him off…”
“Too late, probably,” I said, and we both laughed.
Jared was—again—correct. Having him here had brought into focus just how much I’d changed in the last couple years. And not for the better. I needed to reconnect with my old lighthearted self. For the last several years I hadn’t been stopping to smell the roses like I used to. Jared was right: it really was the best job in the world.
SEVERAL DAYS LATER NICOLE, RACHEL, and a very serious-looking Secret Service agent named Mitchell came to our hotel for a clandestine poolside meeting. Mitchell was wearing dark aviator sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt. The whole thing reminded me of some sort of B-movie spy thriller. I was about to say as much when I thought better of it and decided to keep my mouth shut.
“Mitchell is head of the president’s detail the day we’re filming,” Nicole said. “Great news, he’s agreed to the bun cha restaurant!”
“Oh my god, that’s fantastic!” I practically shouted. “Thank you, thank you!”