Following tradition, the groom’s family typically paid for all wedding expenses. The groom would offer his bride the most expensive jewelry that he could afford to demonstrate his worthiness as a husband and bread winner. I supposed if I were a farmer in Vietnam, my family would have received a few oxen and many kilos of rice in exchange for me. When I was a kid they always joked about how many kilos of rice I would be worth one day because of my big eyes. These cordial jokes were usually made by Mom to single, older, male visitors who glanced my way. It was embedded in our hearts that our worth was held in things offered to our families for our hands in marriage. The concept of self-worth coming from “being who you are” was laughable in the Vietnamese consciousness.
For the wedding, the husband’s mother was also to give the bride a pair of earrings to symbolize her stepping into her new role as wife. Traditionally, only married women wore earrings, not girls. To keep up this act, my fiancée, in private, gave his mother money to purchase my diamond earrings. I was aware of this exchange and did not mind. Saving face for our families was more important to me than figuring out who paid for what.
On my beautiful wedding day, June 21, the longest day of the year, my mother-in-law slowly presented and placed two half-carat, F color, VVS1 clarity diamond earrings in my ear lobes while exclaiming how happy she was to have me as her daughter. Multiple camera flashes went off. We paused, smiled and posed for this important moment. She had a little difficulty placing them on me so I helped her. The stones were set in gold studs with screws on the back to forever secure them. I felt the hole on one of my ear lobes tear a little as she forced the earring on, but I didn’t care. She loved me and that was all that mattered.
After we came home from our honeymoon, I took my lovely earrings to my jeweler to have them reset into thinner studs that did not screw on so tightly.
“My mother-in-law gave these to me!” I exclaimed as the owner studied my earrings under her magnifier.
She looked at the earrings and then up at my face, which was lit up with pride. I saw a look of surprise or confusion cloud the Vietnamese jeweler’s face.
“Oh, good,” she said. “I thought you bought them. They are of very poor quality, and I know that you usually don’t buy crap from us!” she barked in her heavy Vietnamese accent.
I was stunned, yet kept a smile on my face.
“What do you mean? They’re VVS1, F color. I know they’re small, but we wanted quality over size.” Quality diamonds meant I was assured a quality marriage.
I was offended by her statement.
“No they’re not,” she said, tossing them back to me as if she were afraid they were going to explode between her fingers. “They’re S1 at best.”
I was stunned.
“Do you still want to change the studs?” she asked after a long, uncomfortable silence.
“My mother-in-law probably got cheated and got bad stones,” I said, doing my best to regain my composure and save face. “Let me look into this.”
I was shocked that my mother-in-law, who knew her diamonds well, had pocketed our money and bought cheap earrings. This meant beyond a shadow of doubt that my marriage was doomed. Mom always said it was best to get small diamonds of good clarity because they represented a good marriage. Diamonds full of inclusions carried with them omens of a bad marriage. These two little rocks not only tore my ear lobes apart and gave my ears an infection, they later tore my marriage apart and deeply infected my trust in Vietnamese women.
Bad memories of my first mother-in law inspired my next dish on Sliced and Diced. Anger rose up from my stomach to my chest and to my throat, urging me to seek justice, when Peter interrupted my thoughts with his chirping as he entered the room where we were all waiting for our next set of instructions.
“Good morning, everyone!” he said, flashing such a broad grin it looked as if he had to be up to something sadistic.
“Good morning,” we all mumbled.
“Are you ready for your next set of instructions?”
“Yes!” Most of us faked some enthusiasm to help Peter out.
“Today, you are going to work in teams of two to create a family-style meal that includes at least two dishes, and they must taste great together and represent each one of you individually.”
Not today, I thought to myself. I am not in the mood to deal with another personality, especially not another woman’s personality.
“Kieu!”
I was startled to hear my name and snapped out of my bitter contemplation.
“Yes?” I replied while feeling a surge of heat rise from my back to my neck. I hated to be the center of attention.
“You won the last round so you get to pick your teammate!”
Peter flashed a smile at me and this time it looked real. It was the first sincere smile I’d seen from him. Perhaps he could feel I was a bit out of sorts this morning and was trying to be encouraging. I appreciated his efforts and decided to come back to the competition full force.
“Great, Peter. I pick Deepti!” I said.
Deepti looked happy and quickly shuffled her feet to stand next to me. Even though I would rather work with a man, I knew I had to plan this round strategically. If we had to create two dishes that were cohesive in taste, Indian cuisine would most likely fit with Vietnamese food. And I picked her because I thought she was the best chef in the competition, so we could help each other win. Deepti was given instructions to pick out the next contestant to choose their teammate. And so it went until everyone had a partner. We formed four teams.
“Now contestants, you have one hour to decide on a menu and cook your dish.”
Deepti and I turned to look at each other. Suddenly there was a part of me that was terrified that I had paired myself with her. Could I really trust her? Could I trust any woman? I desperately wanted to, and in that moment, I decided to go with my heart. If nothing else, that would make the hour go much easier on me than if I was in my head constantly worrying about Deepti’s motives. I was there because of my heart’s calling and I would honor that.
After a brief consultation, Deepti and I decided that I would make a Sour VietnamEazy Fish Soup to balance out her Chicken Sukha. She told me it was from the coastal Western India region. Though it was a dry dish with almost no gravy, it tasted really nice served with just plain boiled rice. With that we were ready to go and each of us ran to the pantry and refrigerator to gather our ingredients.
I knew I had to substitute celery for bạc hà (taro stems) and mint for ngò om (rice paddy herb). I found a beautiful filet of sea bass that would allow me to avoid taking the time to clean a fish. But the lack of fish bones to make the soup sweeter demanded compensation. My mind raced as I thought about my mom using dried shrimp to enhance the flavor whenever she made any kind of soup, so I grabbed some large prawns. I peeled and deveined them, then quickly cooked the shells in a large pot over high heat to bring out the deep shrimp flavor. I then added vegetable stock and reduced the heat to medium. I continued to chop my celery, pineapple, garlic, shallots and herbs. Once the water boiled, I let it bubble gently for about five minutes, then drained the broth out to remove the shrimp shells. Now I had my soup base.
I looked over to Deepti and she was grinding spices like mad. I had never seen so many spices in one dish in my life! She had cardamom, fennel, cinnamon, cloves, fenugreek, peppercorns, coriander, cumin, chili, turmeric and I didn’t know what else. I didn’t even know what the heck a fenugreek seed was. Thank God my soup would be mild in comparison so the judges could see the balance we were trying to achieve.
Twenty-five minutes into the competition, I thought about the steamed rice.
“Did you make the steamed rice?” I asked Deepti.
A look of horror took over her face. Neither of us had gotten the rice going.
“I don’t have time to do it, do you?” she asked me.
She had a look of “Please rescue us,” or maybe that was my ego interpreting her intentions. I did have a lit
tle bit of a heroic side instilled in my DNA, a gift from my mother. Maybe Deepti really meant, “Why don’t you do it, you idiot, your dish is simple and mine is not. There’s not enough time to cook rice, and if it’s raw, then it’s your fault and not mine.” The duality of my wanting to trust her, yet afraid to trust her, intruded on my thoughts once more.
I had to talk myself off the ledge by finding the positive side to this problem. I had immunity, so I could not be eliminated. I could take the risk. But the biggest issue I had was I didn’t know exactly how to make rice without a rice cooker. I’d always been taught to rinse the rice in warm water, drain it, then fill the rice cooker with enough water so that when you point your index finger into the water to barely touch the top of the rice, the water should only reach the line of your first joint. Then press the button and when it’s ready, it will automatically shut off. How would I cook it on the stove top? Would I confess any of this to Deepti, who would think I was a total loser? Or would I fake it and take the chance to show the world I could not cook rice?
Deepti was staring at me, awaiting my response.
“You’re probably better at making basmati rice than me,” I said. “Tell me how you like your chicken cut up and whatever else you need help with and I can do that while you make the rice.”
Did you ever notice how the way a person behaves in a high-pressure situation reveals their true character? I guess my honesty and desire to help took over naturally while my cunning side took a backseat.
“Sure,” she replied, without any sign of annoyance, but maybe a little surprised that I thought she could cook rice better than me.
She showed me how to cut up her chicken thighs and slice her onions before she flew to the pantry to get some basmati rice. I watched as the drape of her blue and gold sari flew behind her as if she were Superwoman.
Presentation of everything, especially food, was vitally important to Ngoại. It didn’t matter if it was a simple meal or an elaborate feast for big celebrations. The way our food was presented always made me feel rich. We served our meals in blue and white porcelain bowls and plates. Cracked dishes were never used – that would suggest something was not perfect with our family or fortune. We’d set the small plates in the center, the rice bowls face down on the plate, napkins to the right of the plate, soup spoons face down and chopsticks on top of the napkin with the tips perching on little chopstick rests.
Our chopsticks, made of dark wood, were always matched and straight. No crooked ones were allowed on our table. The way we held our chopsticks said a lot about who we were as people. Ngoại taught me how to read people by the way they held their chopsticks. If they held them too low, they were stingy. Stay away from people like that. If they held them high, they thought too highly of themselves. Stay away from people like that – they would always try to overpower you. If your index finger stuck out while you held your chopsticks, well that was just bad manners. She used to correct my uncle by hitting his finger with her chopsticks whenever it went wayward. I used my chopsticks in a crisscross manner instead of holding them parallel to grasp the food. For years she and I tried to correct this but to no avail. I was not sure what this habit said about me; she never told me. But perhaps it had to do with being a rebel? Or something bad? Otherwise, why would she bother trying to correct it?
Ngoại usually served three main dishes and a side dish at every meal: a vegetable dish, a salty protein dish, a brothy soup and a pickled side dish to balance out the meal. And of course always some pure fish sauce with cut-up chilies as condiment.
Unlike what I’ve experienced in American families, we never served ourselves first. Similar to saying “Bon appetit,” we’d say, “We invite you to eat.” As children we had to invite specific elders. “I invite you, Grandma and Grandpa, to eat, and Mom, and uncles, and aunties.” This process was always frustrating to me because I was shy and I felt like everyone was staring at me. I usually mumbled and said the words as quickly as I could. Why did we torture children this way? We taught them to be quiet. I got really good at that. Yet I was forced to speak on command to honor adults. It was like not being taught to stand, yet you better run when it was asked of you.
The highest ranking person had to be served first. Usually it was the man of the house, followed by the eldest son, then the female head of the house and then finally the children. The men were always served the best pieces. How we served was also a big to-do. Usually the highest ranking female grabbed the best and biggest cut of meat between her chopsticks and reached out to set it in the honored person’s bowl of rice. It was acceptable to stand up and reach over other people at the table while holding up your right sleeve so it didn’t touch the food. It was a ceremonial gesture to be observed by all. The only exception to the serving rule was sometimes the beloved first grandson was served first, followed by a pat on the head and nods from the elders. Minh held this prestigious position so he was often served first because he needed the sustenance to grow big and strong. My favorite cut is the drumstick. Yet even as an adult I have never dared to take that piece for myself during any gatherings and have always offered it to my elders. I don’t think anyone even realized or cared about which piece I liked best. Being the youngest girl, I made a habit of being invisible.
Sharing of utensils was not questioned in common households. Sometimes we saw people flip over to the larger, unused end of their chopsticks to access community food and then flip them back to use them to bring food to their mouths. Mom said it was nhà quê, peasant behavior, to use both ends of your chopsticks. For formal settings, large serving spoons or chopsticks would be placed in or near the dishes. Small individual dipping dishes were given to everyone at the table. For informal dinners, we all shared a community dipping sauce. It was also acceptable, though not great etiquette, to hold up your bowl of rice if you needed to reach to get more food. But perching the edge of the bowl to your bottom lip and using chopsticks to shovel the food into your mouth was considered vulgar. I did it on occasion when I was alone because it was a lot easier to eat rice that way than with just chopsticks. Simplicity was sometimes irresistible.
The rules went on and on. If you were a guest at the meal, you would always be served first. But you had to refuse this honor by pushing the server’s chopsticks away from you toward someone else or back to the server as you profusely and humbly shook your head to show you were not worthy. If you made the mistake of accepting that precious piece of meat, you were forever doomed and labeled an ungrateful and selfish person. Mom used to say that Northerners were the best at this by saying “Mời mời mà lạy trời đừng xơi – please eat, eat, but I beg to God you don’t eat.”
Placement of hands was another important thing to consider. Both wrists had to be on the table showing your hands to demonstrate that you had nothing to hide. In America, it was the opposite, you had to hold both hands in your lap and not put hands or elbows on the table. Slurping noodles at the table, unlike what many Americans believed about all Asian cultures, was not acceptable. We liked things quiet; no slurping and no talking with our mouths full. Perhaps these two rules derived from the French. After all, they occupied Vietnam for two centuries.
I carried these paradigms of judgment with me throughout my life. Before going to visit my family, I had to coach John, an American, on the proper etiquette. He was used to piling heaps of food on his plate and keeping his hands below the table. In Vietnam these acts would produce glares and knowing looks from everyone. I was protective of him and didn’t want him to be negatively judged because of his ignorance of these rules. Early in our marriage, I hated watching him eat, because all the glaring signs were there to prove that he was a selfish American. Later I realized that a simple shift in perspective was all it took to change my impression. That type of shift in perspective proved more difficult in other areas of our relationship. We adjusted to each other, slowly and sometimes fitfully, but cultural differences left a lasting gulf between us. We tried to bridge this gulf, again
and again, but grew weary of trying again and falling short again. Low-level resentment simmered. We both felt it, but could do nothing about it.
I knew Deepti’s and my dishes would go great together, but I felt that we needed something fresh and bright to serve with them, so I started to pickle some mango in lime, sugar, salt and a tiny amount of chili to go with our Sour Fish Soup, Chicken Sukha and steamed rice. Deepti gave me a taste of her dish and it was indeed filled with spices, but the coconut cream she added mellowed out the spiciness. The sauce was thicker than I was used to, but it had a sharp, pungent aroma. Deepti tasted my soup and offered what looked to me like a smile of approval. I was glad I had let my guard down and worked as a team to complete this task together. Now we would see what the judges thought. I ladled the broth and fish and vegetables into a deep large bowl and sprinkled on some mint and fried shallot.
“Complete your final touches, you have fifteen seconds before time is up!” announced Peter before starting the countdown: “Ten, nine, eight …”
Deepti scooped the perfectly steamed rice into a bowl and inverted it onto a nice plate and I seamlessly topped it off with a sprig of cilantro and a sprinkling of fried shallots.
“Time!” Peter said, and everyone’s hands went in the air.
Deepti and I looked at each other and hugged.
“Now contestants, you have ten minutes to work together on a three-minute presentation.”
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