VietnamEazy

by Trami Nguyen Cron

  We had no idea what to expect when after twenty minutes the door swung open and the three of them filed back in among us. Todd was grinning from ear to ear and finally blurted out, “I’m the winner!”

  Jessica and Deepti were beaming, too, while we all clapped for Todd and congratulated him. He kept looking down bashfully, as if he had never won anything in his life and could not believe he had now.

  “And,” he said, smiling so much he had to stop and start again, “I have immunity for the next round.”

  Cue up another hearty round of applause and congratulations. Todd let that play out, still looking down modestly, then sharply inhaled, like a chain-smoker finishing off a butt.

  “And the judges would like to see Helen, Taylor and … Luke,” he added solemnly.

  The rest of us were so relieved, we could not begin to hide our true feelings. Which brought me back to Todd. I could see it now: He was an actor! I would forever be shocked that any dish he prepared could possibly win out over Deepti’s amazing curry, but we all knew part of the show was performance and self-packaging. Clearly, Todd had hidden talents in this area. He was a chameleon. He could hit any note he wanted. Within fifteen seconds he could rearrange his emotions from exhilarated to humble to apologetic and back again. He might not have the moves in the kitchen, but he had been placed on the show by his agent and there was no denying he could win the whole thing if someone did not take him out. I would have to plan my strategy against him very carefully. He might look like a lightweight, but he was deceptively clever. It was shrewd of him to start with a dish of shrimp and grits with bacon and tomatoes. Even curry, a dish packed with flavor, simply cannot compete against bacon. A meek dish like mine, Feminine Salad, had no shot at all, no matter how fine and exquisite and delicately balanced it might have been. My approach to the next round was going to take this idea and run with it. I would see his bacon and raise it! My dish would be big and bold, tasty and tantalizing. To beat bacon, I would go deep fried!

  3

  In the Time of the Emperor

  VEGETARIAN IMPERIAL ROLLS

  Nem or Chả Giò Chay

  In Vietnam, vegan dishes are usually served during Buddhist ceremonies, so the egg contained in the Chinese wrappers – giving rise to the name “egg rolls” – would not be allowed. Rice paper is commonly used as the wrapper for these deep fried rolls. It is more delicate and more difficult to work with, so most restaurants in America take a shortcut by using the sturdier Chinese egg roll shells. But once you’ve had Vietnamese Imperial Rolls fried with rice paper, you will never want the egg roll version again.

  6 Servings

  INGREDIENTS:

  1 package of dry rice paper shells

  Olive oil

  Oil for frying

  FILLING:

  1 carrot

  1 block firm tofu

  10 white mushrooms

  1/2 pound taro

  1 teaspoon sugar

  4 teaspoons soy sauce

  4 teaspoons ground black pepper

  DIPPING SAUCE:

  1 1/2 teaspoons sugar

  2 teaspoons soy sauce

  2 teaspoons hot water

  1 Thai chili (optional)

  GARNISH:

  1 head lettuce, leaves separated, washed and dried

  1 bunch cilantro, stems cut off, washed and dried

  1 bunch mint, stems cut off, washed and dried

  Mix all the dipping sauce ingredients in bowl. Add hot sauce or chopped chili if desired. Set aside.

  For the filling, julienne carrot, tofu, mushrooms and taro into thin strips an inch or two long. Set aside. In hot oil, deep fry the tofu and taro for three minutes. Remove and drain on paper towel.

  Heat 4 teaspoons of olive oil in a pan, then add the raw vegetables and deep-fried tofu and taro. Stir for four minutes.

  ASSEMBLY: Fill a large shallow bowl with warm water. Find a hard even surface (wood block or large plate) to work on. Remove one rice paper at a time, quickly dip it in warm water and place on wood block. Scoop 1 to 2 teaspoons of filling and place in the center of rice paper. With your fingers, gently shape filling into a long shape. Fold in the two sides over the filling, then gently roll up the wrapper like a burrito. Do not overfill or wrap too tightly as the filling will expand during cooking and the rice paper will break. Place wrapped rolls on a plate, being sure to keep them well separated so they don’t stick together.

  In a deep pot, heat up oil to 350 degrees. Add a few rolls at a time and cook for five minutes or until golden brown. Do not turn rolls over too many times or they will break. Do not put too many in the oil as this will cause the oil temperature to drop. Frying anything in oil that is not hot enough will render soggy rolls. Place fried rolls on paper towel to soak up excess oil.

  To serve the rolls, place them on a large platter with lettuce, cilantro and mint on the side. Serve with the dipping sauce on the side. Enjoy these delicate rolls by wrapping them inside a lettuce leaf with cilantro and mint, and dip in sauce.

  I spent about a millisecond feeling good that it was Luke and Taylor who were eliminated in the first round and not me. I let myself enjoy the odd mixture of thrill and relief that came with knowing I was alive in the competition. But I also knew the clock was ticking. As soon as the show was aired on TV, my mother would be wound up full of tips, unwanted advice and reprimands. “You got lucky!” she would blurt out at me over the phone in Vietnamese, or she would just think the thought so loudly, I would feel it in my bones. “You could have been knocked out! Really you lost that round. Do you want me to tell you why?”

  My answer, if I gave one, would of course be, “No, Mom, that’s the last thing I want,” but it did not matter if I spoke or did not speak, sighed or did not sigh. The question was rhetorical and I was going to get an earful from her. Even without picking up the phone, I could hear a stream of critical words from her, the consonants all running together. I didn’t want to think about that now. I wanted to fill myself with happy, empowering thoughts. I let myself float back into the past to remember times when I was happy. When Ngoại was happy. When she cheerfully and proudly recounted the stories of her father and how they lived. I loved her stories. To me they were Vietnamese fairy tales of beautiful days gone by, days I would never know and only dreamed of from time to time. Those were imperial days of her childhood where she grew up in wealth, opulence, comfort and laughter. Life outside of Vietnam was not easy for us so she liked to tell us stories of her childhood to ease the financial hardship that fell upon her during the prime of her life.

  Ngoại was born a middle child to a family of six children in Hanoi. Her father, Papa, studied to be a physician at the University of Indochina in Hanoi. He knew French, played tennis and was quite a ladies’ man. Ngoại and Mom inherited his high-bridge nose and light-toned skin. He did not complete medical school as he changed his course of study halfway through because of his dislike of blood. He managed to finish his university law degree and dutifully got married immediately. He easily secured a post as the mayor of a small village outside of Hanoi with his university degree and family wealth.

  He loved being a mayor because he was able to offer hands-on help to the people in his village. Every evening before dinner, he rode out to visit the town’s people on his brown horse, followed by two of his guards on foot. He wore the traditional imperial áo dài tailored for men. People would bow to him to show him respect as he rode by.

  I was jolted out of my early morning daydream haze when Peter walked into the bedroom I shared with three other female contestants. He flicked on the lights and surprised all of us. It was at 5 a.m. and still pitch dark outside. We were in our pajamas, uncoiffed hair and not a speck of makeup. I hated to imagine how I would look once this episode aired on TV. I sat up, covering my body with the pink blanket and clutching it as if it were a binky.

  “Get up, everyone!” said Peter cheerfully. “We are going on a road trip! Get dressed and meet me downstairs in fifteen minutes.”
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  He had this way of finishing all his sentences with a singsong quality. Then he turned around to slide out of the room as the two cameramen followed. I caught the eye of one of them lingering a little too long in the vicinity of my chest. How annoying was that? It did not bother me the cameras saw us in skimpy clothing, but I hated to be woken up in a startled state. When this happens, my heart goes racing and my anxiety kicks into high gear.

  My thoughts scrolled to all the past episodes of Sliced and Diced to do a quick comparison to figure out what the surprise would be. It could be anything. Maybe we would have to cook with our bare hands and no utensils or, worse yet, be part of a team competition. I like people well enough, but I have to work double-time to be politically correct, hold back on barking orders, allow others to chime in. In other words it would be an exhausting experience.

  We all got dressed as quickly as we could. I grabbed my makeup bag and threw it in my tote along with my flat shoes. I figured I could do my face during the torturous ride in the car. I would have to figure out how I could ride in the front to avoid getting sick. Did other people wake up with their minds racing a mile a minute like mine? I always wondered about that. Probably not.

  I started to see a doctor a few years back just to see what counseling was all about. During my first session, I explained to him that I experienced sweaty armpits whenever I got on the phone. To my surprise, he said this was not normal. He said it was a symptom of anxiety. I absorbed the information, refused to label myself as he did, and easily masked my symptoms with a clear deodorant stick to skip the mood-altering drugs.

  It was not acceptable for us Vietnamese to have mood disorders. It was not allowed. We labeled these people crazy or weak. I remember we had a cousin who was mentally unstable and he would self-medicate with drugs. He sometimes acted a little nuts around us and Ngoại would whisper under her breath to us that he was crazy and that we should stay away from him. During one of his visits, he looked into the mirror in our living room and said, “There’s a man looking back at me, make him go away.” Minh and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. Ngoại gave us disapproving looks and turned to him with her Northern Vietnamese smile while she completely ignored his question and offered him more tea.

  There were many clear distinctions among Northerners and Southerners. One important distinction was that Northerners were pretentious and Southerners were blunt. Neither trusted the other. It was not uncommon to ask someone you just met where their family came from so you could immediately classify whether you could trust them or not.

  My veins were pumped with a mix of Northern and Central Vietnamese blood, yet I was raised in the South. My accent is a mix of Southern and Northern. At home, I only heard the accents of the educated class in Hanoi. At school, I adopted a Southern accent of Saigon. Grandma was grateful I was not raised by my father or his family. They came from Central Vietnam and their accents were considered country, or the American equivalent of hick. Even I could not tell if I would be classified as trustworthy or not based on these rules. Were there exceptions for people like me?

  I hopped on the large touring bus with the huge Sliced and Diced logo and a photo of Peter plastered on the side panel. I grabbed the first open seat I could find and wished I had taken my Dramamine. Bus rides were even worse than car rides. Across the aisle next to me was Miranda, who was tall and slender to a fault. A shaft of sunlight was shining on her in a way that made her light blonde hair glow. I had a momentary thought that she could be an angel, but the spell was obliterated when she spoke.

  “Oh, boy, I hope we get to make desserts today,” she said in a high-pitched, nasal tone that reminded me of screeching cats. “I’m dying for some cupcakes!”

  She was my roommate. I liked her well enough, but could not stand that voice.

  “I hope not,” was my short reply.

  I worried my irritation might be showing, so I tried to soften my comment.

  “You’re so great at making desserts.” It was the best I could come up with so early in the morning.

  Miranda’s show was about cupcakes. She could make everything into a cupcake, even roast chicken or pesto sauce.

  All the contestants were finally on the bus and the director also piled in. As soon as all the cameras were in position, Peter made his grand entrance.

  “Good morning, everyone!” he cried out.

  Then his voice dropped an octave and he turned serious.

  “There are ten of you left, and one of you will be eliminated today. Todd, congratulations, you have immunity for this round.”

  The second cameraman zoomed in to Todd’s grinning face.

  “We are going on a wonderful ride today around Manhattan!”

  Everyone cheered and clapped and I thought to myself how I loved Manhattan. I spent a month there with a boyfriend once when I was very young, too young to realize it would never last. Magical moments shared with another human being were rare for me; my guard was always up. I could count on one hand the moments in the first thirty-eight years of my life when I allowed myself to be loved, accepted love, and did not ask for anything in return. Sometimes, I wondered if it ever happened at all. As the years passed, those memories faded into edited snapshots of moments of happiness.

  The skill to draw up an invisible shield around me on command came not only from my personal misfortune, but also as a result of the Communist takeover of Vietnam. Once the Viet Cong seized Saigon, I remember being taught to tell white lies in order to protect ourselves from being arrested. An example of a lie Ngoại taught me was, “If you ever get stopped by the Viet Cong police and they ask you what you ate at home, never, ever tell them meat. You have to always say vegetables.”

  I was confused by her instructions because we were always taught that kids should never lie, that lying was bad and we should mirror Grandma’s impeccable record of truth. She saw the surprise on my face and explained with worry and seriousness in her eyes.

  “The Viet Cong have changed everything about our lives, and you must now learn to do this so we can stay alive,” she said. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Ngoại.” Her calm tone and concerned eyes told me everything. I did not need to ask any more questions.

  One of the ultimate improprieties in behavior from a conscious adult was to pry information out of children. Innocence was to be encouraged, cherished and prolonged as long as possible. Life and all its sufferings would take it away soon enough.

  To live among the Viet Cong was to learn to display a totally different set of behaviors and values than we were used to. I was often stopped on my way to and from school by men in uniform asking me random questions about my home life. I remember the dark green uniforms, red bandanas around their arms, the yellow star they wore and the large guns they carried. They usually offered me and my brother a piece of candy to buy our trust and said the candy was from Bác Hồ, Uncle Ho Chi Minh. But we were taught well and never accepted their gifts. We shuffled our little feet ahead toward our destination as fast as we could without eye contact and remained quiet until we were bullied into giving them an answer. Years later, these rules were still playing out, even if American tourists were oblivious to them. Dislike for the upper class ran deep and those of us who survived did so only by learning to shift and play by their rules. I understood that everyone had a drive for survival. They had the right, the courage and the will to climb out of the hole of poverty to claim their spot in the sun. But that did not mean I could condone the continuous ruthless treatment of our people. Sometimes the ends simply did not justify the means.

  Peter waited until the cheers died down and continued.

  “Once we stop, you will have fifteen minutes and fifty dollars to purchase your ingredients and one hour to make a one-bite dish that will blow the judges away,” he said.

  The excitement bubbled within me as I thought “Yes! I can definitely make my grandma’s Vegetarian Imperial Rolls.” I can make a miniature version of them. Like the ones I
had as a kid. They’ll be fried and will beat Todd’s bacon anything. Peter climbed off the bus and we saw him hop into his limo. I was invigorated and happy again and suddenly realized my lips had slipped into a smile.

  One of Ngoại’s favorite stories was how her father became a hero. She began the story with, “Your great-grandfather (có oai và phong độ lắm) was full of nobility and charisma.” Her eyes would take on a faraway look as if she could see Papa standing right in front of her. There was an immediacy to her voice, as if he were there listening as she continued with her story of how he became admired and loved by all who knew him.

  Papa heard a woman scream for help from one of the small houses and he quickly rode his horse toward the calls, leaving his guards on foot chasing behind him. As he approached the screaming sounds, he spotted a woman wearing a black cotton đồ bộ, similar to men’s pajamas in style and worn by peasants. She frantically waived her hands in the air. He quickly stopped his horse and came to her side. She was about fifty years old with jet black teeth. In those days, aging gracefully did not encumber anyone’s consciousness after the age of fifty; a village woman was simply happy to have all her teeth. She might as well have been one hundred for she looked it, even though her hair had only a thin streak of gray on the right side of her temple. Her black teeth had not become black naturally. They became black as a result of daily chewing of betel leaves with slivers of areca palm nut and a bit of lime paste. It was a great way to preserve teeth by preventing tooth decay, but the juice also turned white teeth into a glistening black. This look became fashionable among older women in the North.