VietnamEazy

by Trami Nguyen Cron

  After a brief moment she motioned for Uncle Quốc, whose white-collared shirt was stained red with my blood, to leave the room with her. They stood in the hallway to discuss my case.

  “They think she should be OK to walk again but they are not sure,” I overheard him tell my mother. “Her nerves and tendons don’t seem to be affected. You should have seen the white tendons!”

  To this my mother had no reply.

  “The hospital had no anesthesia, so they had to sew her up without any,” Uncle continued, his voice rising for emphasis. “She is the strongest kid I know. She did not cry or shed a single tear.”

  Still nothing from my mother.

  “I watched her face and lips turn from pink to purple to green,” Uncle Quốc continued.

  “They did a bad job sewing her up,” I heard my mother say. “It’s a mess. She will have a terrible scar forever. For a girl this is not good. If I had known sooner, I have a source who would have a supply of anesthesia. I could have gotten some for her.”

  “How could any of us have known sooner?” Uncle replied with obvious annoyance in his voice. “We tried to reach you as quickly as we could. You should have been around for your kids!”

  “I was making a living at Chợ Trời (open air market),” Mom replied. “How can I do both?”

  Everyone understood the situation was grave. After the fall of Saigon into Communist hands, the lack of medical supplies was dramatic. Women who had stayed home before the end of the war had to find ways to get out and make a living, trading personal possessions or working in the black market. Mom worked both the black market and the open-air market, selling French pharmaceuticals, electronics equipment and anything else she was able to purchase with the old Đồng currency before it became obsolete after September 22, 1975. Everything was changing, even how we talked to each other. In Vietnamese culture respecting family rank had always been extremely important. Growing up we were never allowed to point out the faults of our elders, not even our older brothers or sisters. That day marked the first time I ever heard Uncle Quốc speak to his older sister this way.

  My proud half-smile as I walked back into the Los Angeles Hilton ballroom was all my husband needed to see to know it had gone well. He quickly broke into a wide smile, both relieved and thrilled, even if he did not begin to grasp how important this was for me, how much I loved Sliced and Diced and needed and wanted to be on the show, or how badly I wanted to share Vietnamese food with mainstream America and introduce our culture to a country that had been home to more than a million of us since 1975.

  “They’re going to call in the next twenty-four hours if they want me to come back,” I told him.

  He put his arm around my shoulder as we left the hotel lobby, his silence oddly fitting for a change. Three hours later came the call from the producer.

  “We love the VietnamEazy idea!” he told me.

  I understood that in the language of producers, they loved everything or they couldn’t stand it. You were in or you were out. There was never any middle ground.

  “See you at 9 a.m.,” he said. “And come ready to cook.”

  My stomach went into freefall. No matter how excited I might have been, I was also terrified. The idea of an on-camera test made me feel like a nervous little girl, bound to disappoint. I could hear my mother’s voice in my head telling me, “You’re not so pretty that water will flow over walls for you! You will not marry a wealthy man, so make sure you get an education and can support yourself.”

  Or the time when I came home excited to show her my brilliant report card – all A’s with just one A-minus. “What happened with the A-minus?” she asked, staring at me with her usual irritation and blanket disapproval. The giddy feeling of excitement and pride that had been coursing through me instantly vanished.

  I often wonder how different a life I might have led if not for all the small rips and tears woven into the cloth of my psyche, created by my own mother with each cutting comment or hard, disapproving look. Is it possible to sew a beautiful Vietnamese áo dài (traditional skintight two-panel dress) with so many holes in the fabric? I gave up on ever becoming that perfect Vietnamese woman my mother apparently wished I would be. Perhaps this was why so many of us in-betweeners, born in Vietnam and raised in America, embraced American fashion, where baggy clothes and jeans with large holes were not only acceptable, but coveted.

  Ideas buzzed through my head to prepare myself for my Sliced and Diced tryout. Which simple yet amazingly delicious dish should I make? This choice could shape my life forever. I summoned the look and taste of each dish as I flipped through the catalogue of recipes in my mind. I could smell my favorite one from childhood, a simple recipe Ngoại made for us as kids called Mắm kho quẹt. She would add about half a cup of pure fish sauce into a pan and reduce it until it was nothing but a fishy, crystallized salt mixed with black pepper and a little sugar. There was nothing like the smell of fish sauce cooking, pungent, fishy and wonderfully pleasing all at the same time. We would eat this unbelievable salty, sweet and savory paste with a bowl of hot steamed jasmine rice. Because of all the salt I had to drink glass after glass of water along with the dish. I remember asking for seconds and thirds until the rice swelled and my belly was so big I couldn’t eat another bite.

  It was a dish that from time to time I still craved, but it never tasted quite as good as it used to because now I ate it alone. I only whipped this dish out when my husband was away on a business trip and I found myself missing my family. John would have sent me packing from the smell of the dish alone. He could not stand the smell of fish sauce, so I only used it in tiny quantities when I cooked for him. When he was gone and I indulged my Mắm kho quẹt need, I took precautions. Often I aired out the house for three days afterward so that when John returned from his trip he would pick up no trace of my secret dish. That sounds funny: my secret dish. But that’s what it was, at least a secret from my husband. Wait, that was an interesting idea: a secret dish. That would make a splash if I could announce my “secret dish” for the competition. But what could I cook that would live up to such a tantalizing description? I would have to think long and hard to find – no, I wouldn’t. I had it: In my family we have our own recipe for crab, a simple yet unbelievably delicious crab dish served with fresh sliced French bread or steamed rice. I couldn’t think of a more fitting choice for my first shot at making an impression on Sliced and Diced, a dish that would entice the judges and one that would tap into the fraught world of my family history, a dangerous decision, I was all too aware, but one well worth the risk if I was going to have a shot at winning this competition.

  I was three years old when I first came to understand chaos. That was spring 1976 in Saigon. Mom took me by the hand, her arms so full of clothes she could hardly reach out to grab me, and shoved me into the back of a taxi. I was wearing the same light blue hand-knit sweater that I still recognize today in my baby pictures. I hated cars. My tiny body would stiffen up from the beginning of the ride all the way until the engine stopped. Mom took great delight in recounting tales of my childhood fear of car rides. She told people it was the grinding sounds of the motor that made me nervous, but she was wrong. It was the motion I didn’t like. My mother never bothered to consider that possibility. She herself had never suffered from motion sickness, so why should I? For her the only logical explanation was the sound. I never received any sympathy for getting carsick. We didn’t offer sympathy to family members. That would only encourage weakness. Denial and poking fun were the preferred ways of handling unpleasant things. My mother tried to cover up her embarrassment at my vulgar reaction to car rides by blaming my father’s side, the dark-skinned “country” side.

  “My little wine daughter, she’s just a country girl who doesn’t understand luxurious things like cars,” she would say with a pompous laugh. “What a shame she will probably never be rich enough to own one if she doesn’t learn to like them.”

  In Vietnam a pet name for a precious d
aughter is con gái riệu, or “wine daughter.” Typically, fathers love drinking wine and prefer to be served by their daughters – boys are considered lazy and are not expected to serve. I didn’t have a father to call me his wine daughter, but Mom used the expression in bitter mockery of him, as I understood all too well. Every time she called me wine daughter I knew she was cursing him and passing on to me, whether I wanted it or not, the angry, painful residue of their marriage.

  My father was never a rich man. He was a teacher whose assets were a skillful tongue, a handsome face and artistic manners. That was more than enough to woo an innocent girl of nineteen like my mother. Grandma disapproved of their marriage, but Mom insisted, because she was in love. Ngoại never warmed to my father, never softened her harsh opinion of him, and his every misdeed pleased her, offering further proof that she had been correct in her assessment. On the day Saigon fell into Communist hands, April 30, 1975, my father deserted us. A lover of his had somehow found a way to have him added to her family list and so there he was on one of the helicopters lifting off from the American Embassy that chaotic, surreal, smoke-shrouded day. After his departure, Mom reluctantly moved back in with Ngoại. Instead of expressing sympathy for Mom’s plight, Ngoại reminded her daily of her failure in her choice of a husband.

  That day I put on a cloak of worry that I would never take off. I didn’t know if I would see my brother, Minh, ever again. Whenever Mom and Ngoại disagreed, the topic of who got to keep my brother always came up. He was the first grandchild. He was a bright boy with big brown eyes. He was fiercely loyal to Ngoại and was clearly her favorite. I always knew this, but don’t remember ever resenting him. I adored Minh. He was the only constant presence in the first three years of my life. No matter where we lived, he was always there. This time Ngoại won and I was alone with Mom in the taxi under all these clothes.

  That particular car ride with my mother in spring 1976 will always stand out clearly in my memory. Mom, uncharacteristically, didn’t make a single sound. As I replay the memories of that car ride now, I can see Mom’s tears waiting for permission in the corners of her eyes. I feel a compassion for her in retrospect that at the time was beyond me, scared and bewildered as I was. I would never have thought of infuriating her by asking any questions – we were forbidden to ask questions – but I knew Mom had argued with her mother, Ngoại.

  The direct translation of “Ngoại,” the mother’s mother, is “outside” grandmother. (A paternal grandmother is the “inside” grandmother.) In many ways Mom and Ngoại had always been on the outside – outside of their own families, outside of their fathers’ affection and outside of each other’s love. Now they were handing that legacy down to me.

  I could barely see out the car window, so all I glimpsed were bellies and backs of people on bikes and three-wheeled rickshaws called Xích Lô zooming by. Thank God the window was rolled down on my side. It was hot and steamy in Saigon. The kisses of warm wind helped suppress the nausea welling up in my throat. A vendor on the street was yelling out with his Chinese accent “Bánh Bao nóng ăn liền, ăn liền – Hot buns eat now, eat now!” The smell of these hot minced pork, sausage and egg-filled steamed buns was my favorite. I loved peeling off the thin, sweet, outside layer of the large, doughy, milk-white bun and eating it first, then breaking it in half. With each bite I made sure I had enough salty meat and sweet dough to balance the flavors and texture. I always saved the egg for last. The chalky cooked yolk was like eating thick, creamy clouds.

  I looked over at Mom to see if she had given the tears permission to flow, but she had not. There they remained, waiting. She now had a “planning” look on her face. Mom always knew what to do next. She gave directions to the driver, leaned back and finally looked over at me, her youngest child, the unplanned child. Mom had jet black hair, long and slightly wavy, that fell down onto her waist like beautiful, thick, black silk. Her face was marked by a high-bridge nose, a preferred European feature in Vietnamese women. She had large brown, sparkling eyes, light skin and plump lips. She had a thin, long waist, large breasts and a perfect European profile. She was the most beautiful woman I knew.

  I sat as still as I could, trying not to provoke her while trying to control my stomach and throat. The cloying smell of ripe car leather did not help. I swallowed the hot, wet air to control the nausea that came and went of its own will. I tried to stick my face and nose out the window to get some air. Oh God, would we ever get there? Wherever there was? My breathing grew faster and shallower. I lifted my nose, trying to get more fresh air. I prayed I would not throw up. This would only provoke her more. I could not cause trouble for her, not then, not ever.

  Then suddenly the car stopped. All I could think was “Get out, get out” but I didn’t know how to open the car door. I had to wait, wait for Mom to pay the driver, wait for her to gather all the clothes, wait for her to release me. At last I was out of the car. I felt the sun on my face and the solid ground under my feet again. I gave one last shudder as my stomach slowly stopped churning. A sense of great relief washed over me, although in some ways I would never move beyond that suffocating experience. All it takes is a whiff of diesel fumes or car leather to return me to that day. When I bought a new car a few years ago, I had to air it out for days to exorcise the stench before I could drive it.

  Whenever I made my favorite crab dish for my Vietnamese friends, they would ooh and aah and beg me for the recipe. It was literally finger-lickin’ good. I told them it was my mom’s secret recipe and I could never reveal it or she would disown me. They readily accepted this explanation. For us, any threat to one’s family honor was always an acceptable excuse whenever one wanted to gracefully decline an offer. The truth was I didn’t want to reveal the recipe because I wanted it to be special. My Vietnamese friends could only eat that dish when they invited me to make it for them.

  Without a real name for the dish, my friends called it Cua Rang Me (Sauteed Crab in Tamarind Sauce). I never corrected them, but actually the dish didn’t even contain any tamarind. I chuckled to myself each time they said Cua Rang Me. A few attempts were made to duplicate my recipe. They failed. They would always fail. I was well trained to keep bigger secrets, so keeping a recipe under wraps was second nature.

  Ngoại always loved to be the center of attention. She was pretty, alluring, seductive. Our family said she was the Liz Taylor of Vietnam. Her voice was decent enough that she would get paid to work as a lounge singer in a small club in Saigon a few nights a week. She purposely never took on the official title of Professional Singer, preferring to be seen only as an invited special guest of the lounge. A professional singer title, Con Ca Sĩ, carried with it connotations of classlessness and promiscuity, almost verging on prostitution. Con used in this context was considered disrespectful. This was where the conflicting Vietnamese culture confused me. I could only compare it to the geisha of Japan. Professional singers were envied and loved, yet at the same time they were not held in high regard. Children were never encouraged to be singers. Having a college education was considered the key to gaining respect. Pursuits like art or music were never fully acceptable. Yet most of my Vietnamese friends loved karaoke, secretly longing to be on stage singing instead of hiding behind their computer desks at Cisco.

  Ngoại was a single mother raising Mom on her own while working as a secretary at a local factory during the day. She easily secured this position with her sixth-grade education, a rarity for women of her generation, as well as her typing skills, gentle manner and good looks. She made enough money to live on her own and have a maid to help take care of Mom.

  She met her second husband one night after she had performed her favorite song. He was the mayor of a small village near Hanoi, and he gave her a huge bouquet of flowers as she stepped off the stage. He was wealthy enough, handsome, charming and tall. For Vietnamese men, being tall was the most important physical trait. A short man, no matter how successful, would always be mocked behind his back. The mayor came to the
club every night she sang. She quickly fell into his arms and he married her a few months later. Their courtship was quick as he was quite the catch and she was afraid he might get snatched up by someone else. But all she knew of him was whatever he told her. He was significantly older than she was, but it was not unusual then for men to take very young brides. She never questioned why she didn’t get to meet his family or have a formal wedding ceremony. Society already considered her damaged goods after a divorce and a child. She was glad that she now had a man who could take care of her. She remained in her town while he traveled back and forth. She had a few secrets, too, conveniently forgetting to tell him about her son, Mom’s younger brother, for one.

  Mom told me stories about Ngoại and how she loved being married to her new husband. For her he was the epitome of a man. He was good looking, articulate, educated in French schools and seemingly powerful. He and his friends would refer to each other as moi and toi, the French pronouns of me and you, which was typical of the educated class. He had nightly political meetings away from the house.

  Mom respected him because whenever Ngoại would get out of line with her demands he would “give her a smack.” That’s what they called it. In Vietnamese families it was not unusual for men to beat their wives. I remember as a kid hearing our neighbors get into physical brawls all the time. No one was too alarmed by this. They might pause to listen, just to make sure it was not some real emergency. If it sounded like the usual arguments, throwing of things and beatings, everyone went on with their lives. If the woman was well liked, they would feel sorry for her and would check in on her the next morning and give her iodine and eucalyptus oil to salve her wounds. They would criticize the husband for being so unnecessarily mean. If she was not well liked, then they would say “Đáng đời lám. Cho ông dạy nó – She deserved it. Let her husband teach her.”