VietnamEazy

by Trami Nguyen Cron

  Deepti and I worked out our plan, decided who would go first and how we would work together to present our dishes.

  After the fall of Saigon on April 30, 1975, our family had to demonstrate we had no money and were just as common as everyone else so Mom opened a coffee shop right outside our front door. We had to pretend we were earning money for a living and give the illusion that we were a working-class family. The cafe had four tables, none of which matched, a dozen similarly nonmatching chairs and stools and a tall, rectangular serving table. Mom made her coffee and tea and kept her cups and glasses at the tall table. The cafe did not even have a name. Why bother naming something right outside your door? It was simply called Quán Cà Phê (Coffee Shop).

  One bright sunny morning, Mom sat down after serving her two male clients. She enjoyed watching them drink their morning coffee and tea. A young Viet Cong walked up to Mom’s makeshift coffee shop. He could not have been older than twenty-two, but had a haughty air about him and was decked out in full VC green uniform. He sat down on one of Mom’s least stable stools, removed his hat, set it on the table and looked around while resting his elbows on the table. The cafe did not have a menu. It was quite simple, and everyone knew how they wanted their coffee. Mom hated serving VCs. After about five minutes, he was ready to order and flicked his fingers at her, a signal for her to come over. Pointing and flicking multiple fingers up in the air was considered disrespectful and impolite. The appropriate hand gesture would simply happen after one had caught the eye of the waiter or waitress. One would subtly lift one’s hand from the elbow and rest. The fact that the VC was gesturing with his palm up and fingers flicking really sent Mom to the edge, but she had to maintain her placid demeanor and quickly pasted a smile on her face and came over to him.

  “I would like to order cà phê dực (yanking coffee),” he said while looking at the sky as if he were observing a rare breed of bird.

  Puzzled, Mom asked him to repeat himself. He became frustrated, turned to look straight at her and repeated himself in a louder tone, as if she were deaf.

  “Cà phê dực – Yanking coffee!”

  Mom was now nervous because she did not want to agitate a VC. He could literally throw her and her entire family in a rehabilitation camp over a cup of coffee. But she did not in all honesty know what type of coffee he wanted so she had to ask him to repeat himself again.

  Now he got really upset and slammed his hand on the table, flipping his hat to the ground. She was startled and everyone around her looked up. He proceeded to point at her face.

  “Chị khi dể tôi hả – Older sister, are you disrespecting me?” he spat at her in his thick Hải Phòng (Northern Vietnamese accent).

  She was careful to cast her eyes down to the floor as a sign of respect. It was difficult for her to pull this off, as only maids are not allowed to look into the eyes of the mistress or master of the house.

  “I am sorry for my ignorance,” she continued softly and calmly, “but would you please show it to me so I can make you the drink you desire?”

  He stood up and pointed at one of her customers.

  “I want his coffee!” he screamed.

  It was so comical to Mom, she wanted to burst out laughing, but she managed to clench her teeth together and restrain herself.

  “Ah, you want tea,” she said. “The tea is in a bag and—”

  She could not finish explaining. That would only humiliate him further and everyone in the café was watching them closely. The young VC looked like a bull as his eyes grew larger. His nostrils flared up and down in rapid movements. She gently smiled at him and put her hands on his shoulders to soothe him and batted her eyes and widened her smile. Mom had a way with men when she wanted to. Even though she was seven years his senior, she still called him Anh, older brother, to show him respect.

  “Please sit down and forgive my ignorance,” she said. “I will bring you your coffee right away.”

  This was how things were evolving after the fall. Saigon changed its name to Ho Chi Minh City. The sophistication was gone. The economy tanked and the rich cultural life slowly eroded. The elderly and children were reduced to working in the streets to feed themselves. Beggars and thieves were rampant. Good people became criminals, but no one blamed them. That was what hunger would do to anyone.

  Deepti and I made a great team. She started her presentation by explaining a little about the region of India that inspired her dish, and talked about the spices. Once she was done throwing the ingredients in a pan, I took over with a big smile.

  “To balance out Deepti’s spicy and pungent chicken, I decided to make for you today a soup served in many Vietnamese families called Canh Chua Cá, or Sour Fish Soup,” I said. “Of course, I made it VietnamEazy for you by using ingredients found in American grocery stores. You may substitute chicken stock or add any protein you like to this soup and your cooking time should be no more than half an hour.”

  I looked over at Deepti to signal it was her turn.

  “It was really fun cooking with you today, Kieu,” she said and smiled confidently. “We infused the flavors of India and Vietnam to make for a great Asian family meal. I’m Deepti and I make Indian food friendly.”

  “Yes, it was great cooking with you as well. I look forward to showing you how to make Vietnamese food VietnamEazy!” I said.

  We both waved and smiled at the camera at the same time.

  “Cut!” screamed the director, and Deepti and I sighed a deep sigh of relief, then walked back to the waiting room.

  We sat quietly and did not talk much while the other teams began tearing each other apart with who did this and who should get credit for that. Culturally, Deepti and I were much closer than if we were paired with other contestants. Quiet confidence was a commonality for us.

  “Was the steamed rice cooked?” I asked her, chuckling a little.

  “Yes, perfectly,” was her gentle reply.

  We waited as Peter strutted in and called out, “Deepti, Kieu, Jessica and Jay please come to the judges’ room.”

  We all stood up and I knew one of our teams had won.

  As fate gently stepped forward and put me on a reality show that would change the course of my life, fate surprised Ngoại at the door that afternoon. It shifted her slight aggravation at her husband for forgetting his keys to utter horror upon discovering he had a wife in the country all along. Worse than the feeling of having to share her man, she had lost face. Her rank had been reduced to a lowly second wife. It was not uncommon in those days for men to have multiple wives, but no little girl ever grew up wanting to be somebody’s second wife. Not one.

  For me, coming second to anyone proved to be especially difficult. The competitive seed was planted deep within me at birth. I had to be the best. In America parents would console their losing child with “You did your best and that’s all that matters.” In my family being number one was all that counted. If you fell short of that, you had better be ready for the criticisms that followed. If your backbone was not strong enough and skin not thick enough, you might as well end your life because you would never ever hear any encouraging words. Instead, you would be made fun of and chastised because you should have done more and been more. Effort and good intentions were irrelevant. Only results mattered. You simply failed.

  Deepti and I were the winning team. Linda turned to Deepti and asked, “Deepti, between the two of you, who do you think should be declared the winner of the round?” The director held up his hand to signal Deepti to hold her answer for a few dramatic seconds. Once he gave her the nod, she replied confidently.

  “I think I should win that round,” she said calmly, avoiding my gaze. “Kieu didn’t even know how to cook steamed rice.”

  Gnarles turned to me, his face apparently devoid of emotion, although I had the feeling he was raising his eyebrows slightly in surprise.

  “Kieu, who do you think should win this round?” he asked me.

  I was still recovering from Deepti’s kn
ife in my back. I needed a moment to regroup, but there was no time. The judges were waiting for my reply and somewhere the director was lurking, hoping he’d get an all-out cat fight between Deepti and me. He wanted to see the fur fly! This was my TV bitch moment and I knew it. Would I stoop to Deepti’s level? Would I throw her under the bus? Would I place a stamp on my Ruthless Asian Chick image for the audience, once and for all? Or would I stay true to myself and my principles of right and wrong and rise above her treachery?

  5

  Breaking Out of Tradition

  FISH IN A CLAY POT

  Cá Kho Tộ

  Cooking food in a clay pot gives it an incredible roasted quality and umami flavor. If you can find a large clay pot in the Chinese market, cook and serve this dish directly from the pot.

  4 Servings

  INGREDIENTS:

  4 tablespoons vegetable oil

  2 tablespoons sugar

  1/2 cup chopped shallots

  4 cloves of garlic finely chopped

  1/4 pound bacon chopped into little pieces

  1 pound black cod or catfish cut into 2-inch-thick filets

  1 tablespoon fish sauce

  Salt and pepper to taste

  2 sprigs of green onions finely chopped for garnish

  Add vegetable oil and sugar to large pan or clay pot on medium high. Caramelize the sugar until brown, being careful not to burn. Add chopped shallots and garlic and cook until translucent. Add chopped bacon and cook for three or four minutes. Add fish, fish sauce, salt and pepper to taste. This dish does require extra-coarse black pepper. Cooking time will be five to ten minutes. Do not stir too frequently once you’ve added the fish or the filets will fall apart. Sprinkle on green onions right before serving.

  Serve immediately with steamed rice.

  I thought about all the times I allowed women to be unkind to me and I did not fight back, all because of my Buddhist upbringing. In this moment, I once again faced someone who was forcing my hand. I had admired Deepti for her cooking skills and her gentle ways, and had let my guard down. It was true what they say about how the ones you love hurt you the most. Now I was going to have to find a way to make Deepti regret that she had ever crossed me.

  The determination to overcome adversity is intrinsic in nature, seen in everything from bugs to bears, but we Vietnamese take the trait to new levels. We’ve had to, as a way to survive after being conquered and occupied continuously over the centuries by one group after the next. First the Chinese, then the French, and finally the Americans. To survive with dignity my people created imaginary tales that placed the soul of the Vietnamese above all other races and cultures. We developed our own invisible hierarchies to help lift us above others during the years of foreign domination.

  The story goes something like this. Our people descended from a dragon lord, Lạc Long Quân, and a heavenly angel creature, u Cơ. They were two mystical creatures with tails, wings and horrible teeth who decided to lie together – after they got married, of course. She then laid one hundred eggs. From these eggs one hundred children were hatched. Naturally their oldest son, Hùng Vương, became the first king of Vietnam.

  Brace yourself for the rankings created for the different races (it reminds me of the caste system in Hindu culture). Firstly, we are the best. Yet we willingly share our seat with the Chinese, or Big Brother. We are aware our ancestors came from China. So we give them grudging respect for their undeniably rich culture developed over thousands of years. Naturally, we host big celebrations, such as weddings, at Chinese restaurants.

  After eleven hundred years of Chinese domination, the French took their turn and poured their influence into Vietnam starting in 1858. The obvious impact the French left was not only on our food, culture and race but also in our spoken and written language. Quốc Ngữ, our national language, was developed by Alexandre de Rhodes, a Catholic missionary, to translate prayer books and catechisms. He and his colleagues created Romanized scripts from phonetic sounds. What separated the Vietnamese culture from other Southeast Asian countries is a subtle European elegance the French left behind and gifted to us.

  After the Chinese and French, the sequence continues down to the Japanese, Thai, Koreans, Laotians, Cambodians, Filipinos, Mexicans and Arabs, Africans and children born of mixed races, known as con lai. It amazes me how someone of a mixed race gets put down so low on the list as if they had a choice in the matter, as if any of us had a choice. I’m not sure how it is those of darker skin tones somehow always end up at the bottom of the list of prejudices in most cultures. So if our children married or dated someone outside of our race, there would be judgment upon the family’s values. Shame can destroy a family in one instant. I’ve known families who decided to pack up and move away due to shame and dishonor caused by a daughter or son who decided to marry someone of African-American decent.

  I knew all about the pain of being categorized. For years everyone put me in a box and assured me my issues must come from not having a father, and as much as this was a cliché, I went along with this theory. But deep down I knew there had to be more to it than that. If it were that simple, wouldn’t I have jumped from one man to the next in desperate search of a daddy figure? It was true I enjoyed dating older men who were experienced enough to have left behind the years of finding themselves. They had established careers and had outgrown their insecurities. Being with older men allowed me to explore the depths of the relationships without the usual distractions. Most importantly, I found men my age had little refinement and gallantry in their upbringing. Their parents somehow did not teach them how to treat women properly. I loved watching Gone With the Wind and was attracted to Rhett Butler simply because he was my ultimate definition of masculinity. He allowed Scarlett O’Hara to carry on with her ridiculously childish behavior because he had confidence in who he was. I wanted a man like that. In truth, I’ve observed many women, across all cultures, who want men to be men. I wanted a man who speaks his mind, owns his words, and delivers on his promises. But I never looked to a man I dated to become a father figure. I never had the feeling of needing to overcome some deep lack or longing where male figures in my life were concerned. I like men. I trust men. In fact, I find men to be far more trustworthy than women – and kinder and more predictable.

  On the other hand, my distrust of women runs deep and has cut gaping red scars in my psyche, the separations, cracks and lines all manifestations of a profound fear of women. This angst established the foundation of my life. On my first visit with my psychoanalyst I announced to him that I knew I had issues of abandonment, failure, performance and acceptance. However, I told him, I believed these issues came from my mother abandoning me, not my father.

  “This is why I am in front of you today,” I firmly announced. “I need you to help me make sense of it all and overcome it without medication.”

  I specifically chose him out of a list of hundreds of psychiatrists my insurance gave me because he was also a psychoanalyst. I did not need to sit for hours recounting the gruesome tales of my sadness. I wanted to learn how and why I arrived there so I could begin to build bridges over valleys I created and then cross over them to ease the path of my life.

  Now, facing the judges awaiting an answer from me, I lifted my chin and looked Gnarles in the eye.

  “My dish did not require rice,” I said, pausing a moment to let the impact sink in, and then moved in for the kill.

  “Deepti was lost in her dish. She fell behind and forgot to make the rice. As a good team player, I jumped in to help her finish her dish while she cooked the rice.”

  I looked at the other judges as I felt Deepti’s laser stare out of the left corner of my eye penetrating my left temple deep into my skull.

  “Judges, if you ask me, you could say that without me, her dish would not have been completed at all,” I added.

  My words hit their target like a lioness darting out from behind the reeds to pounce on her prey. I aimed for the jugular.

  “You
can roll back the tape and see that without my help,” I continued, “Deepti’s dish would have been unseasoned and incomplete. I am not surprised she had to say she won for the team, because it is expected of her to say that. This is a competition. Even a loser has to say she deserves the win.”

  I glanced over at Deepti with a look of calm unconcern, all the better to belittle her, but my jaw was clenched and I could feel my hands and feet growing cold as I finished my statement and turned back to face the judges.

  “Clearly, the obvious winner of this round is me!” I said emphatically.

  Even as the words and their impact settled over the judges, I felt ashamed I had stooped to her level. I should have bubbled with enthusiasm about how well we worked together, told the judges we won as a team, and then let them decide who had the better dish. I avoided her gaze afterward in the waiting room and she tried to avoid mine as well.

  “Kieu and Deepti, the judges would like to see you now,” Peter called out in his usual gleeful tones before spinning around on his heels to leave the room.

  I glanced at Deepti as a camera zoomed in for a close-up of my face. A sudden surge of anger rose within me. In that moment, I could empathize with celebrities who tried to smash the cameras of the paparazzi, even poor bald Britney Spears, in shorts and sneakers, bashing a car window with an umbrella. I wanted to run to Deepti to hug her and say I was sorry for all my terrible words. I wanted her to win if it made her happy. I would take it all back. But instead I clenched my jaw, held my head up, reminded myself I was playing the role of Ruthless Asian Chick, and followed Peter out. My hands and feet were clammy as I stopped on the marker on the floor, under the bright lights, in front of the judges.

  “Action!” the director barked, waving his hands.

  Judge Linda kept her head down as she spoke, trying not to look either of us in the eye so she could avoid giving away the winner.