VietnamEazy

by Trami Nguyen Cron

  The woman frantically told him what happened. It was hard to make out what she was saying through her wailing and crying, but he could pick out enough words to understand her troubles. Her daughter-in-law had been in labor for hours yet the baby wouldn’t come and she was afraid something terrible would happen. Papa quickly rolled up his sleeves, ran into the house and started to help with delivering the baby. At the same time, one of his guards hopped on his horse to go fetch the doctor who lived on the other side of town. Thank goodness for Papa’s short time spent in medical school – he had an idea of what to do. His distaste for blood was overwhelmed by the need to save the poor young woman and her unborn baby. By the time the doctor arrived, Papa had delivered the baby. The doctor then took over, but from that point on Papa was the hero of the village. Through time, the tale of the delivery grew more and more elaborate and exaggerated and he became a legend in our family as the greatest mayor of his day.

  The bus sped up to make a stop light, executed a few quick turns, and the next thing I knew we were in the middle of Little Italy during the Feast of San Gennaro, the huge annual festival. Maybe the driver was just stopping to ask for directions? Please! But no. The big doors hissed open. Time for full-on panic. Italian? No, please, anything but Italian. How was I going to make imperial rolls with pasta and prosciutto? Time for Plan B. Only one problem: I had no Plan B! I had been daydreaming the whole ride! A column of frenzied ants began crawling up my spine toward the base of my head. The anxiety was kicking into high gear. I prayed the hives would not continue to spread and make a grand entrance on my face. Keep breathing, Kieu. Stay calm. I knew I would find a way to recover from this horrible twist. I could make VietnamEazy Spaghetti! Italian pasta recipes sometimes call for anchovies to boost richness – umami, as the foodies call it. Mom always added fish sauce to her spaghetti meat sauce. I often snuck a little in at home without telling my husband and smiled graciously as I accepted his rave review.

  I started the whole VietnamEazy concept because of my husband. His disdain for the strong smell of fish sauce often led me to substitute salt to satisfy his taste. But the trick with cooking fish sauce was to simmer it long enough to reach the point of indescribable delicacy where the pungent smell is replaced by a sweet, savory, umami aroma. This essence is unique to Southeast Asian cuisines.

  We lined up against the bus in single file and waited for Peter to get out of his limo. Then we waited as he walked toward us and twice had to stop so his makeup artist, hustling along at his side, could reach out with a brush to make last-minute adjustments to his face. She was one talented artist.

  “OK, everyone,” Peter said in that same playful deadpan voice he always used for the show. “We are now going to take a little walk. Follow me.”

  He motioned us to trail him like schoolchildren on a day trip. I looked around at this huge city full of hustle and bustle. There were young men and women sitting at tables lined up outside cafes and restaurants having their simple breakfast. I could smell the aroma of roasted coffee and the musical sound of the Italian language. Everyone stared at our convoy. To my amazement, we crossed the street and stopped in front of a huge, red Asian Supermarket sign. Peter turned around and was all giddy, like a child who successfully surprised an adult.

  “Welcome to Chinatown!” he called out with a grin.

  “You are going into this wonderful Asian market to gather your ingredients.” I heard some cheers and oh-my-gods coming from the contestants. A few of them glared at me as if I had personally arranged the Chinatown visit. Jessica was among them. She realized I saw her and now had to say something to me to recover.

  “Well, Kieu, this is your lucky day isn’t it?” she asked, her jealousy not at all well concealed.

  “Welcome to my world!” I replied. It was a little cheeky, but I couldn’t help myself.

  Anyway, what was the big deal? Chinese food was hardly foreign to Americans. It was no more foreign than Italian or Mexican. You could get sweet and sour, moo goo gai pan, beef broccoli and egg foo yung all day long. These were all “ChinEazy” dishes, Chinese food made easy for Americans. I listened as Jessica continued on and on about her upbringing and how lavish her lifestyle was, a clear signal of her unease in such a “filthy” neighborhood. Her clothes were perfectly tailored to fit her lean, size-six frame. Her feet were like Cinderella’s, fine and dainty. I know this because only thin feet were made to fit in Christian Louboutin red sole heels. For those of us who had wider feet, these shoes would make our toes bleed within five minutes. You always found her standing in them no matter what circumstance we were in. To the untrained eye, you would immediately know money was not something she lacked. But there was more to her story. The way she laughed gave her away.

  You could tell a lot about a woman by the way she laughed. At least, a Northern girl could. Northern girls are thoroughly trained in how we carry ourselves, including the way we laugh. A proper laugh signified your family rank and status in society. First, we cover our mouth to conceal our teeth. Second, the laughter has to be contained and not too loud. Third, the sound must have the appropriate coyness, with throaty girlish notes. Finally, the sound can only last for a few seconds. Laughter from deep within our gut accompanied by an uncovered, open mouth was appalling. Gut-bursting laughter was rare and never acceptable in public or even at home. I remember Ngoại scolding my aunts if they allowed their laughter to go on too long or were too loud.

  “Girls should not laugh like that, it’s unbecoming!” she would reprimand them. “Your behavior is like those who have torn underwear tight undershirt, swollen shoulders large biceps, fistful of unruly armpit hair, downing Chinese tea in one breath – tụi khố rách áo ôm, vai u thịt báp mồ hôi dầu, lông nách một nạm, trà Tàu một hơi.” This phrase always made me laugh because it painted a picture of a beefy, bald, sweaty man with long armpit hair, holding a small tea cup downing it as if it were a tequila shot. Ngoại and Mom often used this phrase to refer to the Viet Cong soldiers who came from farmer stock and had no class.

  I felt right at home running around the Chinese market. I had no problems finding my ingredients as I watched my competition go down the American food section aisle to gather ingredients they knew. The most difficult ingredient for me to find in an American market would have been wood-eared mushrooms. Substituting it with shiitake would alter the flavor and texture quite a bit, so I felt today was my lucky day. Maybe Jessica was right: I had to win this one.

  “Kieu, how confident do you feel about this round?” Peter asked me suddenly.

  I hadn’t even seen him coming. This was my TV bitch moment. I had to take advantage of it fully to establish my Ruthless Asian Chick character. Even if I lost, the audience would remember my comment.

  “Isn’t it obvious, Peter?” I said, flashing an ice-cold smile. “No one will out-cook me in this round. It’s mine to win!”

  Then, motioning my index fingers down toward the ground for effect, I added, “I’m going to take them down!”

  I even surprised myself! I revealed my innermost competitive zeal right on national TV. The words would either be played while I triumphantly claimed my prize, or as comedic relief – and rebuke of the overconfident Asian girl – when I was eliminated, in which case the clip would end up on The Soup. Peter looked delighted to have bagged a controversial comment and you could almost see him making a note to himself to ask the producer for a raise before the next season started.

  After we paid for our purchases, we jumped onto the bus once more to drive back to the studio to cook. I imagined the taste of the imperial rolls as I tried to improve the recipe by adding or removing a few things. No. I would not mess with tradition; these Vegetarian Imperial Rolls had to be authentic. There was no need for Dramamine on this bus ride. The warmth of the sun touched my face as I relaxed and felt the comfort of the bus seat enveloping my body.

  The funniest story Ngoại told was about Papa’s foot guards. He had two who were always with him as his
bodyguards. They spent their days around him and took naps in the courtyard while the kids teased them. They lived with the family most of the year, but in separate quarters along with the help. The children’s favorite guard was Khải. He was a funny man who played with them. He had a tobacco addiction. He smoked thuốc lào (tobacco) out of a bamboo pipe called điếu cày (farmer’s pipe) after lunch to aid his digestion. The children were fascinated with the tedious process he had to go through just to light up. He first filled his pipe with a little water and pressed a small amount of tobacco into it. Then he lit the end of the pipe with a match and inhaled a few times to help the fire simmer into the tobacco to create an ember. He gently exhaled back into the pipe, making a gurgling sound. The children were fascinated by this and snuck around to watch him smoke and laughed when his eyes glazed over as he leaned back against a tree to enjoy his high and drift off to sleep, his pipe at his side. They covered their mouths to conceal their laughter as they watched.

  One afternoon while Khải was sleeping, Ngoại’s youngest brother, Tuân, went in the kitchen and scraped off some black char from the wood-burning cooking area with a stick. He crept up on the sleeping guard, whose slumber was so deep he was snoring with his mouth wide open. Tuân grabbed Khải’s pipe, smeared black char all around the mouthpiece with his fingers, and snuck the pipe back gently next to the sleeping guard. After a while Khải made a loud snorting sound and woke himself up. He looked around and didn’t see anyone so he picked up his tobacco pipe to smoke it again. He lit it and smoked it for a few minutes and fell back asleep. The children got bored watching him sleep so they moved on to other childhood games.

  Upon waking up again, Khải went into the living area where everyone was gathered for their afternoon snack. Everyone looked up as he entered the room and burst out laughing uncontrollably. Even Papa was rolling with laughter while Maman tried to retain her dignified composure and laughed while covering her mouth with her right hand. Khải’s mouth had a perfect black ‘O’ on it from the tar that was smeared on his pipe. He didn’t have a clue why everyone was laughing and pointing at him. Maman rushed to grab her embroidered handkerchief, handed it to him, and made a motion with her hand for him to wipe his mouth. She wanted to help end his humiliation and pretended to scold the children. They grew up happy in a home of gentle discipline and sunny afternoons of laughter until one day the sun went away for Ngoại.

  I knew I had to keep sad thoughts away from my head the day of this pivotal Sliced and Diced competition. I would dedicate this win to Ngoại, the grandmother, the woman who brought smiles and happiness into my life when my parents were not there to raise me. We arrived back at the studio where Peter signaled us to gather in the kitchen with our groceries in hand.

  “Contestants!” he called out, raising his arm in the air with a flourish. “Go!”

  I followed the recipe to perfection, the same recipe that had led to so many smiles and approving nods from friends. I soaked the mushrooms and glass noodles in warm water first to rehydrate them, and heated up the oil for deep frying. I used the mandolin grater to slice the vegetables, carefully avoiding shredding my own fingers in the process.

  I saw Christian running around talking to himself. He was the funniest character among the contestants. He had a habit of addressing himself in the third person as if he had an invisible coach at all times. He opened the fridge and suddenly started talking in a strange Pee-wee Herman voice.

  “Christian, why are you looking in here?” he asked himself. “You already bought everything you needed.”

  “Yeah, but I couldn’t find the buttermilk. Where is the buttermilk?” he replied to himself, this time speaking in an almost normal voice, though he emphasized the T’s and stretched out the ending of “butter” like Dana Carvey doing the Church Lady. A cameraman ran over to him as I thought to myself, “Attention whore!” Then I caught myself: Oh, yeah, I’d been making my own shameless bids for attention from those same cameras! I had to chuckle at myself, and that was the perfect thing to do. Laughing had a magical way of changing my mood, and I got back to concentrating on my dish.

  When Ngoại was seven her mother, Maman, dressed her and Tuân in their finest. These clothes were specifically tailored for them using the latest patterns from France. The children were dressed in European styles, not the usual traditional street style of Vietnamese children. Tuân wore little navy shorts and a white-collared shirt. His hair was short and parted to the left and slicked back with his father’s Brilliantine. He looked like an angel. Ngoại wore a white dress with ruffles and white socks and black patent leather shoes. She was happy to receive special attention from Maman while her sisters watched with envy.

  Ngoại twirled in her dress and stole glances at her sisters to make sure they knew she was special. She always knew she was special. Her father sometimes took her – never her sisters – with him when he visited with the townspeople. He loved taking her to the only French restaurant in town to show her off. He’d order a steak frites. He would cut up little pieces of juicy steak for her while she ate the fries. She sat perfectly straight at the table and glanced around to make sure everyone watched her as she took each bite slowly. The villagers would congratulate and compliment their mayor for having such a beautiful daughter who looked just like him with light skin, big eyes and a high-bridge nose.

  At the end of each meal, he would order a scoop of vanilla ice cream for her, served in a stainless steel cup and saucer. The creamy, sweet, velvety texture was her favorite. She felt the softness of the cream as it melted on her tongue and licked the spoon with great enthusiasm as he watched. This was their special time together.

  But this day, Papa watched her with great pain in his eyes as he kneeled down in his bedroom and looked into his favorite’s eyes and spoke softly, “You and Tuân are going on a visit with Tonton Phú and Tata Bạch Nga.”

  She wanted to know why they were going to see their aunt and uncle, but it wasn’t polite for children to ask questions, so she just nodded. Maman took her time combing Ngoại’s hair, put it in two braids and gently whispered to her to remember to be good and do as she was told. Ngoại wanted to know why no one else was going on this trip, but knew not to ask. Maman started to pack their clothes in two small suitcases. Papa said to leave it for the maid, but Maman only cried and said it was the last thing she would do for her children.

  Ngoại recalled the look in Papa’s eyes. She saw a great, unfathomable sadness in those eyes. Later she elaborated that she believed he must have hated his own weakness, but despite himself he could not go against his brother’s wishes. These were customs he had to obey. When she spoke of him she was never angry. She knew he couldn’t do anything more to keep her by his side. Maman picked up Ngoại and Tuân and held them tight, and she gave each of them a twenty-four karat gold necklace and a jade Buddha pendant to wear around their necks for protection, a tradition Ngoại kept with her own children and grandchildren. Ngoại and Tuân, age seven and five respectively, were taken away by their aunt and uncle. No explanation was ever given to the children.

  Fathers were the head of the households, and if this figure was taken away by fate, then the oldest son would automatically gain authority over the family. Even his mother had to listen to him. Papa was the second oldest son and had no authority within the family. His older brother and wife were childless. After multiple miscarriages, they had given up hope of ever having their own children. Papa was blessed with seven children, four girls and three boys. He was given too much. Everyone believed he must have received all the good karma left to the brothers by their ancestors and God did not leave any for his older brother, so that was why they had no children.

  Papa’s sister-in-law, Bạch Nga, had stern, cold eyes and soft, milky white skin. At the death of her father-in-law, her husband received all the inheritance and took the position as head of the family. Without children, her own position in the family, although only second below her mother-in-law, would never be
respected. She had to produce children or she and her family would be forever scorned by her husband’s family. Her personal happiness of having her own children was not her concern, but her family’s honor had to be preserved. It was her duty to not shame her ancestors with her inability to produce children.

  At the start, their arranged marriage was not fully supported by her mother-in-law. Bạch Nga’s cheekbones were deemed too high. High cheekbones in Vietnamese women were not considered beautiful or revered as in Western society. High cheekbones on women were a “husband killing” (sát chồng) feature. This meant she would outlive her husband – one day her cheeks would cause him to die a young and, of course, tragic death.

  She was accepted into the family only because her future husband begged his parents to pursue the marriage. He had only caught a single glimpse of her right arm and face on the street and fell in love with her translucent skin. Her pale white skin was her saving grace. Darker skin tones suggested one came from lowly farmer and peasant stock, whereas light skin tones were cherished as high-class, a symbol of wealth and education. She was married for nine years and was miserable with her inability to produce children. Instead of holding young babies in her arms to show her power, she wore numerous twenty-four karat gold bracelets, carved with dragons and phoenixes, from her wrists up to her elbows on both arms. Her only weapon of defense was wealth, for without it, the other family members would forget she held the second highest position of all the women in the home.

  It was not unusual for extended family to adopt children from other family members. For example, for families who had ten children, the tenth child was usually seen as bad luck. It was not unusual to give this unlucky child to an aunt or a cousin to raise. Since Bạch Nga’s sister-in-law had seven kids, it was only fair that she shared her children with her less fortunate sister-in-law. The two families lived far away, about one day of traveling time by train. Bạch Nga had only seen all the children once, but knew she wanted the two youngest as they would be able to adapt more readily to their new parents than the older children. She asked her husband to order his younger brother to share his last two children with them. She wanted a boy and a girl, so she could secure her place as head of the family. Papa was considered a man who was “weak of the spirit” with his family even though he was the mayor of a village. Duty and responsibility to his parents and brother were his first priority and he could not say no to his older brother. His wife hated him for it. She despised him for his inability to protect her children and for making her give them up. Being only the daughter-in-law, with no power in the family, she could not do anything about it. She could not kick or scream for she would disgrace her own family. It was her duty to obey her husband to avoid whispers from the neighbors and other family members. They had a wonderful marriage until the day her children were ripped away from her arms. It was the most disheartening moment of her life. She did not allow Papa in her bed after that day and barely spoke a few words to him for the rest of her life.