Girls were taught to hold their bitterness over unfair treatment deep inside. Even at weddings, the married couples were always reminded of this with the first sip of their Champagne as husband and wife. We all raised our glasses to toast and were told “the taste of Champagne represents the bitterness and spiciness of life. May you always face the bitter and spice of your marriage with courage.” We all knew what marriage was and it was not for this Western notion of personal happiness and love. Marriage and children were a must and a duty in the heart of Vietnamese women.
Ngoại and Tuân were taken by the driver to their new home. They arrived in the early evening by car. It stopped in front of a big, maroon-colored wooden gate. Khải was their driver. He looked at the children with wet eyes and helped them get out of the car. He stood in front of the gate and knocked on the great door so loud that it startled Ngoại. A mousy maid with a long ponytail opened the heavy gate and greeted them with a welcoming smile, which made Khải glad for the children. He had met their aunt and uncle before and did not have warm feelings toward them.
The maid motioned for them to come inside. Khải ran back to the car to get the two little wicker suitcases. Ngoại was in awe at how grand and empty the house was. There were no sounds of children or laughter. The only sounds she heard were their footsteps and leaves rustling in the wind as the evening set in. It was a traditionally built home with a brick courtyard with two tall trees in the middle. All the rooms faced the courtyard. The elaborately carved pillars and window panes were painted black. Aromas filled the air – pork belly cooked on charcoal, which she recognized as Bún Chả, and Nem (fried imperial rolls) served with thin vermicelli noodles and fresh mint. It must be what they would be having for their welcoming dinner.
She followed the maid toward the salon, or living room. She saw the figure of a tall woman pacing back and forth in the salon. It seemed she couldn’t decide whether to sit or stand until she looked up and saw Ngoại and her brother. She straightened her posture and gazed directly at them. She wore a traditional dress of deep red velvet, áo dài, black long pants and gold bracelets on both wrists all the way up her elbows. She had so many on her lower arm it looked as if her arms were made of carved twenty-four karat gold. The bracelets made clanking sounds as she moved toward the children. She reached out to tap their shoulders lightly while smiling. It was her attempt to show them a little affection. Her husband stayed in his large, carved, wooden chair and smiled at the children as she herded them toward him to show him respect. They were both taught proper manners, to greet adults with arms folded while bowing, but their tongues were frozen and out of fear they could not utter a single word. Their aunt reminded them of their manners.
“Say hello to Bác Cả,” the literal translation is Oldest Uncle.
The children looked at the light green floral tiled floor as they bowed and greeted their uncle in unison.
“Dạ thưa Bác Cả! – Hello oldest uncle.”
He reached out and patted them both on the head like two puppies and said, “Giỏi lắm, hai cháu ngoan – well-mannered children, two good kids.”
The pleasantries continued until they were escorted by the maid to their shared bedroom. On the way, they saw Khải with their suitcases and ran up to him to hug and claw at his legs like two scared kittens running from water. He said goodbye to them and promised to bring their parents and siblings with him soon. He saw the disapproving looks shooting out of the mistress’ eyes. He knew he was a servant and the closeness he showed the children went beyond the boundaries of propriety, but he did not care. He was an orphan himself and his compassion for these children overwhelmed him. He was a simple man and could not understand how their parents could allow this to happen. At the age of twenty-seven, he himself was still struggling to understand how his mother could also abandon him at the age of five.
They were taken to their bedroom to settle in before dinner. Once the bedroom door closed behind them, Tuân hugged his sister and started to cry. He said he missed Maman and Papa and he wanted to go home. Ngoại wiped his tears and nose with the bottom of her dress and told him everything would be OK, even as she herself was also crying. They huddled in the darkness under the sheets in the bed. They held hands and waited until they were told what to do next.
That evening, small vegetarian imperial rolls were served along with grilled pork balls, pungent fish sauce, thin rice noodles and fresh lettuce along with a variety of mints and herbs. Aunt Bạch Nga arranged a small plate of imperial rolls as an offering to the ancestor’s shrine to thank them for blessing them with two children. She lit three sticks of incense with a match and watched as the tips of the incense lit up brightly in the dim room. She blew out the flames and held her palms together in prayer position, holding the incense sticks between her fingers toward the sky. She held her hands at her temples and mumbled her thanks and asked for blessings from the ancestors. Then she moved her clasped hands up and down three times to finish and stuck the three incense sticks in a large brass urn filled with dry rice. The children glanced at the incense every once in a while to see the ash curl and wind down around the sticks. Unbroken ashes meant the dead had paid you a visit – that was how they signaled you that they had stopped by to enjoy the treats you offered and would ensure your prayers were sent to the heavens. If the ashes stayed intact and did not break off, your prayers would be answered.
If burning incense would help me win this round, I would have burned a thousand sticks and smoked out the Sliced and Diced studio.
“Let me introduce you to our fourth, guest judge today, Chef Martin Yan!” Peter announced.
Chef Yan, wearing a white traditional Chinese coat and lime green scarf, walked out from behind the glass doors leading into the studio. With his hands clasped together, he nodded, a humble gesture so unlike typical American celebrity chefs who wave or raise both hands to claim their air space.
I almost jumped up and ran screaming toward Chef Yan. Chef Yan! He was the world renowned chef who brought Chinese food to mainstream TV. He had hosted his own award-winning cooking show, Yan Can Cook, since 1978. I had watched his show on PBS since I was a little girl. I first learned the word “julienne” through him as he demonstrated how it was done with his incredible and swift knife skill, using his cleaver. Mom and I used to laugh as we watched him slam his big knife on the cutting board, smashing garlic, then smile at the camera with his huge grin and proclaim in his heavy Chinese-American accent, “Look at this! If Yan can cook, you can too!” His comedic timing and simple cooking technique were easy to understand, even for those whose English was limited. He was the beloved chef in our household when we did not even know who Julia Child was. He had that Asian quality that Mom and I could easily identify with. Having my idol in front of me threatened to be simply too much. I almost forgot to do one last quick, mental review of what I was going to say for my on-camera presentation.
The camera zoomed in on Chef Yan as he spoke in his usual sharp, quick tone and Chinese accent, “Good luck, contestants!”
Peter saw my wild gaze and was kind enough to give me my cue.
“Kieu, you have three minutes. Are you ready to present your dish on camera?”
“Yes!” I almost shouted.
I wanted to impress Chef Yan with my knife skills, but alas I had already chopped everything, so I had to focus instead on being memorable with my charm and eloquence.
“Action!” said the director.
“Hi, I’m Kieu, and today I’m preparing for you another simple VietnamEazy dish that will make your taste buds feel like royalty!” I said, smiling confidently. “Nem, or Vegetarian Imperial Rolls! What’s unique about these rolls is the wrapper. I’m sure you’ve seen rice paper used in fresh spring rolls, but by frying them, we will change their texture and give them a melt-in-your-mouth lightness and crispiness you have never experienced before.”
I picked up a dry rice paper to show the camera and then folded the sides together to break it in half.<
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“I’m breaking the rice paper in half because we are going to make a miniature version of these imperial rolls. During ancient times in Vietnam, the royal family was often served small dishes, so everything was usually bite size.”
I made a gesture with my thumb and index finger to show the small size while looking at the camera.
“Let’s now quickly dip our rice paper in a warm water bowl and place it on a cutting board covered in cheesecloth or a thin towel so it can absorb excess water, like so.”
I gently placed the wet rice paper down on the cutting board. With a teaspoon I scooped my filling and gently placed it in the center of the half rice paper lengthwise.
“Now fold in the sides, then roll the bottom up like a burrito.”
I smiled at the camera.
“Careful not to put in too much stuffing or roll them too tight, as the stuffing will let off steam and expand during the frying process. If you wrap them too tightly, your rolls might explode and make a mess in the frying oil,” I said, showing a gesture of explosion with my fingers while smiling.
I continued with my childhood stories. I knew the judges liked that.
“When we were little, we got to eat the ugly ones that did not meet Grandma’s quality control. Only the prettiest ones were served to our guests and elders.”
I gently placed the roll into the hot oil then picked up the already finished plate. There in the middle of a medium-size square white plate was a small, golden brown fried roll snuggling cozily inside a bright green butter lettuce leaf tucked with a sprig of mint. Next to it was a small blue dish with a light brownish red soy dipping sauce with a little chili.
“Fold up the lettuce to make a wrap and dip it in our homemade vegetarian soy sauce,” I said, taking a bite.
I heard a light crunch and was thrilled. Let’s hope the sound man caught it! I closed my eyes to savor the moment and tasted the amazing rolls I had just made. Take that Mr. Bacon Man! I opened my eyes and looked up at the camera.
“Um, so good!”
With an endearing smile and thoughts of Ngoại, I added: “So treat your family and friends like royalty tonight and serve them some Vegetarian Imperial Rolls. I’m Kieu, and I look forward to making all your meals VietnamEazy!”
4
Trust
SOUR FISH SOUP
Canh Chua Cá
This soup is distinctive of South Vietnam, where food is abundant. It’s a dish that will take your taste buds on an amazing journey of sweet, sour, salty and oh-so-refreshing.
4-6 Servings
INGREDIENTS:
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
6 minced shallots
2 cloves minced garlic
2 tomatoes, cut into wedges
1 pound catfish fillet (basa fish) or red snapper or shrimp
(Traditionally, we use the whole fish, heads and tails too.)
2 teaspoons fish sauce or 1 teaspoon salt to taste
2 teaspoons sugar
1/2 cup tamarind juice or 2 tablespoons paste with white vinegar or lime.
10 okra, cut into 1-inch pieces
1-2 cups pineapple chunks
3 cans vegetable stock or water
1 cup bean sprouts
2 large celery stalks cut into 1/2 inch diagonal slices
If you want to trek into a Vietnamese/Chinese market to find additional ingredients:
A few sprigs of ngò om (rice paddy herb), chopped
2 large stalks of bạc hà (Vietnamese taro stem: It looks like the elephant ear plant, but it is not! We use this instead of celery as the taste and texture is completely different.)
1 small container of pre-fried shallots as garnish
In a five-quart pot, heat vegetable oil until hot, add 3/4 of minced shallots and all the garlic and sauté on high heat for one minute. Add tomatoes and sauté for two minutes. Add everything except for the celery and bean sprouts into the pot. Fill the stock pot with vegetable stock until all ingredients are covered. Add water if needed. Once the soup boils and the fish/ shrimp is cooked (about fifteen minutes), remove the protein from the pot and set aside until ready to serve.
Add fish sauce and/or salt to taste. Simmer the broth for another ten minutes.
In a separate small pot, heat 1 tablespoon oil to fry the remaining shallots. Taking care not to burn them, fry until golden and crispy. Remove shallots from oil and drain on paper towel.
When ready to serve the soup, heat it to a simmer, add the protein back in along with the bean sprouts. Turn heat to high, and once the soup boils, instantly remove from heat. Serve in a large bowl and garnish with shallots and chopped rice paddy herb. Traditionally, we remove the fish from the soup at the table so it doesn’t overcook in the steaming broth. Serve with steamed rice and hot chili pepper in fish sauce for dipping the morsels of fish.
Taking home the win felt fantastic. The judges loved my imperial rolls and my on-camera presentation. I was reminded that tradition is not always a bad thing. Grandma’s recipe of vegetarian rolls not only helped me win, but it put me neck and neck with the likely top contenders – Todd, Deepti and Jay. When I was called to the judges’ table I knew I was safe, yet the idea of winning only brushed across my thoughts gently. Because of my fear of disappointment, I did not truly expect to win, despite what I told the camera. When they announced I served the best fried spring rolls they’d ever tasted and reminded me I had immunity for the next round, I wanted to jump out of my ballet flats. But I only smiled, bowed a little and thanked the judges humbly before heading out of the room.
I felt sorry for the cupcake girl, Miranda, who was eliminated. The judges did not find her Chicken Pot Pie Cupcakes cute or amusing, or, for that matter, palatable. Rumor had it that Gnarles spat it out into his napkin and wiped his tongue clean of any residue. Helen, who was devoid of any personality except for her red hair and freckled pale skin, was also eliminated for her overcooked steak. That was her second time at the bottom so we all knew she had to go.
I was so well trained to retain my composure at all times that even if my spirit wanted to soar and scream for this win, it was muted beneath years of practice to suppress any extreme emotion. For us, any overt expression of happiness, even swaying to music, was considered inappropriate, especially for girls. If we were at a dance party or wedding, we were only allowed to move to the music if we were up and on the dance floor. While sitting at a table waiting to be asked to dance, we had to look as if we were at a lecture hall. A slight smile might be approved, but direct eye contact with a man was frowned upon. If a girl were to sway back and forth while in a sitting position she would be labeled Con gái không đàng hoàng, a girl with questionable morals. I had seen many girls, inspired by the music, tap their feet beneath the table. It was natural to want to express it. So they contained this excitement somewhere below their ankles.
I saw this repression less in American night clubs when I went out with my girlfriends. I found myself judging my friends when they danced lewdly. Usually I stood back, away from them, as if to say to anyone who might be interested, “I’m not associated with them.” These critical thoughts often sent me into a state of confusion. Why were my immediate thoughts disapproving of my girlfriends? Weren’t they just having fun and not hurting anyone? Didn’t I know them to be wonderful women? I couldn’t quite justify my harsh judgments, but my paradigm was so firm it knee-jerked me immediately into that space. It wasn’t until years later that I finally threw off those invisible chains. The marks left by them slowly faded from my flesh and spirit, but after so many years their imprints could still weigh me down.
Ngoại was married off at sixteen. Mothers-in-law in Vietnam were like step-mothers in Cinderella stories across all cultures. They were notorious for doing evil deeds to their daughters-in-law and making their lives miserable. If you were lucky you might get one who was polite to you in your presence and criticized you only behind your back. There was a phrase Mẹ chồng nàng dâu, mother-in-law daughter-in-law, a
simple phrase that only listed two societal roles but carried with it thousands of years of oppression, misconduct, pity, abuse, mockery and excuses for all conflicts between two women. The most devastating mother-in-law criticism started with “I really love my daughter-in-law, but….” That was always followed with a string of stinging complaints.
I was the luckiest of them all. From my first husband, I inherited a mother-in-law who cried at my wedding, exclaiming how happy she was to receive me into her family and for me to call her Mẹ (Mom) in front of all our friends and relatives. Her exclamation made me cry tears of joy. I flung away all the discord we had during our engagement. All the petty arguments between a girl of twenty-four and a grandmother of fifty-one on wedding details seemed unimportant to me now. In that moment I completely forgot tradition and freely expressed my happiness by leaping into her arms to embrace her and welcome her into my heart, which had been shut to all women outside my family so long ago.
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