“Congratulations again as you are the winning team,” she said.
She paused a moment to give each of us a long, slow look, mustering her best poker face. Then she slipped into a smile.
“After much deliberation, we have decided on a winner for this round,” she said. “As a surprise and a historic first for Sliced and Diced, the winner of this round will also win a trip abroad to her ancestral country to explore and do a live travel segment on cooking in her homeland for our network!”
I was instantly lifted out of my depression. My thoughts raced to visions of what it would mean to visit Vietnam, since I had not been back in thirty years! The camera zoomed in as Deepti and I smiled broadly and looked at each other. I could tell she did not enjoy the edge of tension between us either. Gnarles waited until our giddiness subsided for his announcement, drawing out the moment as long as he could.
“The winner of this round is,” he said, and again he let the pause draw out excruciatingly.
“Kieu!”
The judges were sitting right in front of me, but the sound of my name being called came to me as if across a great distance. I felt the same joy as the day I got my first job offer. This win was for Ngoại. To revisit the land of my ancestors was the ultimate reward.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned around to see Deepti’s face closing in on me, smiling.
“Congratulations,” she said. “You deserve it!”
She gave me a big hug and turned around so quickly I did not have a chance to respond. I thought I saw tears in her eyes.
“Thank you,” I called after her, trying to hold back my own tears of joy, tears of regret and tears of sorrow for my teammate. I knew how much she would have loved to return to India to shoot a special episode.
Linda broke the raw emotions bubbling up by asking me to call in Helen and Christian. I could see the irritation in the producer’s eyes as he lived for TV moments like these and wanted to milk it for all he could. I was sure he would have a chat with her later to remind her why she was getting paid. It was not because of her judging abilities.
I was thankful I was able to contain myself. My TV persona as Ruthless Asian Chick would be shattered if I showed any sympathy for Deepti. Somehow I quickly refocused and walked into the waiting area to call the two contestants who would now have to face the Sliced and Diced cutting board.
Once the first wave of excitement about my upcoming trip to Vietnam started to fade, I realized I was also scared. Though I had often traveled to Europe and South America, I had avoided Asia, and Vietnam in particular, because of the stories I’d heard from friends and acquaintances, who told of hungry children, poor old women and an unpredictable Communist government. I was especially concerned about getting sick from drinking the water and eating raw vegetables. My flight to Vietnam would be in less than twenty-four hours and we would be there for only five days. I was not sure what would happen to my competitors while I was gone. Would they get a break or would they continue on with the competition without me?
I was introduced to the producer of the VietnamEazy segment, Tin, an expert tour guide from Vietnam, who sat next to me in the first-class cabin on China Airlines. I always requested vegetarian meals on long flights. They usually serve me first, which is quite nice, and the special meals are also more tasty. Tin chattered on about the food and where he would take us to film. I was thrilled when he mentioned Quán Ngon, a restaurant in Ho Chi Minh City I’d often heard Uncle Quốc mention from his frequent visits to Vietnam. It’s a wonderfully large un-air-conditioned restaurant in the middle of Saigon with decoration reminiscent of Indochina. The waiters and waitresses dress in traditional clothes. The perimeter of the restaurant is lined with little food stands where each “vendor” creates his or her specialty dish. Tourists love this spot since they are encouraged to peruse the stands to see all the dishes being made before deciding on what to order. Everything is served at your table, just as at a normal restaurant. Most importantly, you could rest assured that the standards of cleanliness would be maintained at a high level at this local spot.
I asked Tin if it were possible for me to visit the homes of my ancestors on my father’s side, as I had never been to Central Vietnam before. His eyes lit up.
“Really? You still have family in Vietnam?” he said with his thick Vietnamese accent.
“Yes,” I said shyly. “I think.”
I didn’t know much about my father’s family except the little my grandma told me. Mom didn’t like to talk about that side. I knew that before 1975 they owned acres of farmland, which my paternal grandmother deeded over to Mom before she left Vietnam. Mom, at twenty-five, refused to accept the deed because she was a young city girl and did not know how to manage farmland and was worried what might happen if the Communists were to find out we owned land. It was frowned upon during those chaotic times to own large estates and properties. Tin was ecstatic at my suggestion and rubbed his palms together as if he were plotting a bank heist.
“Kieu, do you know what this means?” he blurted out.
“That you’re going to make me go see them?” I replied a little fearfully.
Though I spoke Vietnamese fluently, I did not quite know what I would say upon finally meeting my relatives. “Uh, I’m your long lost relative and I’m going to exploit you by doing a show about you and how you eat, so make it interesting, will ya?” I thought to myself. At the same time, I could feel the excitement growing within me at the possibility of meeting the other half of my DNA.
“Do you know exactly where they live?” Tin went on as sparks flew from the dark of his eyes.
“I could ask my Mom,” I replied hesitantly, wishing I did not mention any of it.
“As soon as we land, you will make that call,” he said. “This will make wonderful TV. Tell me more about them.”
I told Tin all I knew. Soon he was convinced the segment could grow into a one-hour show, not just a short clip.
My heart skipped a beat when the flight crew opened the door at the gate and hot, humid air rushed into the air-conditioned plane. It was really happening. I grabbed my carry-on bag and headed to the off-ramp. The heat was a palpable presence, like a warm, damp washcloth being lowered over me, covering my face and body in an embrace that welcomed me home. I looked around to find a sea of strange faces, and even though I recognized no one, somehow I felt a deep connection. These people looked like me. They were the same height. Their hair and eyes were the same color. They even sounded like me. The only difference I could see was that I was not as skinny as them. My heart and five senses were singing as I took in and memorized everything I saw and felt. After thirty years abroad, I was finally home.
Our black Mercedes SUV with dark-tinted windows pulled up in front of the Park Hyatt in the center of Ho Chi Minh City, and we were greeted by a swarm of pretty young girls dressed in traditional áo dài dresses. The hotel was impeccable and met our American standards to a tee. Tin checked us in and I was shown to my room for a brief rest. With our tight filming schedule, we did not have much time to relax and be tourists.
I settled in my cool hotel room and enjoyed the smell of fresh lemongrass oil in the air. I called Mom to find out where my relatives lived. To my great surprise, she had all their contact information. She wanted to know why I needed it, but my contestant agreement with Sliced and Diced absolutely forbid me from revealing the truth, so I made up an intentionally convoluted story about the producers requiring all of us to fill out forms listing the names and addresses of every known relative. Mom might have wondered what I was really up to, but I was probably even more curious about how readily she was able to give me the contact information. I would have to wait until later to delve into Mom’s secrets.
I dialed the number she gave me and was warmly greeted by my male cousin Thiện. His welcoming voice informed me that I was arriving at the perfect time for the First Death Anniversary (đám giỗ) of his father, my uncle, a celebration that would take place the next day.
I was startled to realize he knew exactly who I was and did not hesitate an instant to extend an invitation to me. The first anniversary of someone’s death is a significant day in Vietnamese culture, a festive occasion for the extended family to gather for an elaborate banquet in honor of the deceased, similar to Thanksgiving. Of course the women spent all day in the kitchen working hard to prepare the food while the men sat around watching TV, drinking and chatting. The responsibility for organizing the banquet fell to the person who inherited the ancestral estates, typically the eldest son.
We arrived in Qui Nhon by air the next day and were met by a driver arranged by the ever-competent Tin and his team. I was anxious and excited all at once. The driver was local, so he knew exactly where to go. He drove like a maniac, swerving around the swarms of motorcyclists buzzing along in every direction and honking his horn nonstop. Tin peppered him with questions about the area. I admit I enjoyed hearing the driver’s Central accent. I could only make out a sentence or two as it was quite heavy and tickled my ears.
I’d had a rough time choosing the right outfit for this occasion. I made sure not to wear anything too revealing or even my super high heels. I wore a green V-neck, knee-length jersey dress and platform sandals. In my mind, I had the impression that my relatives lived on dirt floors and wore leather brown sandals, as in the many photos I’d seen from friends who had visited their relatives in Vietnam. I made sure I had little envelopes of money to give out as needed as gestures of appreciation. I had learned from my mother, long ago, that this was standard operating procedure when one visited relatives and friends in Vietnam. I saved the largest envelope for Thiện, who was responsible for the banquet, as he was my host and the eldest.
After an hour the driver veered off the main road onto a poorly paved alley full of gravel. As we bounced along I rolled down the window to feel the midafternoon heat. The warm, humid air felt amazing to me and I couldn’t help but note the contrast from that suffocating taxi ride so many years ago here in my home country, when Mom left Ngoại. The driver stared at me, irritated because I let out the cool AC air and invited dust into his car, but I didn’t care. He finally stopped in front of a large gated house painted a vibrant shade of turquoise. I saw three middle-aged men and an old lady standing out in front staring at us with inquisitive eyes. I instantly recognized them as my relatives. The men’s facial features carried a stunning resemblance to my brother’s face.
The men greeted Tin with warm handshakes while I stood to the side. After the initial awkward moment I realized that it was my job to greet the old lady.
“Chào Bác, cháu là Kiều ở bên Mỹ mới về – Hello older auntie, I am Kieu, coming home from America,” I finally said, remembering the manners I’d been brought up on.
The three men gathered around me and introduced themselves as my cousins. My two cousins were thrilled to hear my perfect Vietnamese and I was relieved to hear they did not speak with heavy country accents. They invited us into the open living room and offered the crew something to drink. Since I had already explained to Thiện, my cousin, our intentions over the phone, no one seemed surprised to see we were followed by two cameramen.
The older woman, Bác, was the widow, my cousins’ mother. She took my hand to show me around my ancestors’ home. To my surprise, the home was large, clean and well kept. The floors were spotless white porcelain tiles. She explained they had been the wealthiest landowners of the area until most of the lands were split up and given to party members once the Communist regime took over. She talked about a land deed that went missing so it was difficult to prove how much property our family owned. I believe this deed was last seen by Mom, I thought to myself. Without proof to show the land had belonged to our family, the property was seized by government functionaries and split up among local residents. Because of its sheer size, one could tell the main house was built for a landlord, as compared to the mishmash of smaller homes around it. The sore point for my cousins was that the locals, mostly blood relations, did not speak up and tell the truth, happily choosing instead to accept the choice land for themselves.
The three sons were all married and each had his own individual unit connected to the main house. The compound was built in an elongated fashion, similar to a line of rail cars. Each unit was equipped with a living room, one or two bedrooms, a private kitchen and modern private bathroom and shower. It was not as grand as the estates from the stories Ngoại told of her ancestral home, but it was much nicer than I had imagined.
Bác stopped in a large open room in the central area of the convoy. It faced the main gate and had no front walls. This turquoise-painted room had three large red and gold altars. The largest one, pulled up against the central wall, was decorated with Buddha statues, incense, food and water offerings, candles, red lights and large floral arrangements. The one to the right wall was my grandparents’ and uncle’s altar. I recognized photos of my paternal grandparents. My grandfather was in his thirties when he passed away, so he looked quite young. Rumor had it that he passed away due to syphilis, but no one could confirm that. The altar on the left wall had to be for Bác’s ancestors as I did not recognize any of the photos at all. Once I turned around, Bác handed me three sticks of incense and told me to burn them for my ancestors. I knew this ritual well, so I lit the incenses, bowed three times and placed them in the bowl filled with ashes and hundreds of burnt-out red sticks. I was supposed to pray for the welfare of their spirits in the afterlife or for the health and protection of the living. But I was too nervous to think of anything so I just moved my lips around silently as if I were praying.
We continued as the cameras rolled and Tuan reminded me not to worry about translating too much into English. They would cut and paste each segment in later and add in voice-overs. Bác continued to show me the back of the house, where I finally saw the younger generation of women and girls. I slowly approached my youngest cousin’s new wife, who was squatting in the corner of an open structure with a corroded metal roof, a yard away from the main house. She had jet black hair, tied low and loose at the nape of her neck, and was wearing jeans, a pink T-shirt with white flowers and city heels. She seemed innocent, obedient and no older than twenty-five. She looked up briefly and smiled at me as I nodded. I watched her as she concentrated on fanning the wood fire pit. She squatted on the cement floor with her knees spread out and no stool to sit on. This was a favorite position of many Vietnamese women from the countryside, nhà quê.
After introducing myself, I asked her, “Chị đốt lửa để làm gì – What is the fire for?” Though she was much younger than me, I still had to call her “older sister.” She outranked me because my father was younger than my deceased uncle.
She shyly smiled and giggled while stealing glances at the camera.
“Mình đốt để chồng mình nướng cá – I’m making the fire for my husband to grill the fish.”
Of course, I thought to myself, she had to put in all the hard work sitting outside in the heat to build a fire, inhaling tons of smoke, while her husband got to claim the glory of grilling the fish later. I chuckled a little as I was reminded that men throughout every culture like to cook over fire, even in this small town in the middle of Central Vietnam.
We proceeded to the large main kitchen built just like the ones we see in America, minus the oven. To my surprise the granite kitchen countertops were not used to make imperial rolls or prepare any food at all. All these tasks were done on large, round, stainless steel trays by my female relatives while squatting and hovering on the clean tiled floor. Even little girls were actively helping do something on the floor. Though the kitchen had a sink, the fish, meats and vegetables were cleaned at a second floor faucet that came a foot off the ground. I was confused but did not want to embarrass them by asking, “Why don’t you use the counter tops and stand up to save your backs?” I learned later that even though modern kitchens were built to imitate our American styles, many women from the countryside were not used to
working standing up and preferred to squat while preparing food.
I asked if I might help them prepare the food. This habit of offering to help in the kitchen was taught to me early on. As a guest in anyone’s home, girls always had to offer to help. Girls who did not offer to help were deemed rude and mất dậy (unmannerly). Of course, the answer would most likely be “No” – and indeed it was – but I had to ask to be polite. If I were a man, nothing would be expected of me except to sit, chat, eat and be complimented by the elders in the main room.
After we spent a few hours of listening to my family’s history, an early dinner was served. We sat around a large, round table set up on the tiled area on the front porch. It was dusk, a cool pleasant breeze was blowing and amazing aromas wafted in from the kitchen. I smelled a mixture of fried egg rolls, catfish in a clay pot, grilled and boiled pork and fish, stir-fried shrimp, steamed rice, fish sauce and shrimp paste. My mouth started to water. Despite being a little jet-lagged, I was ready for this feast. I knew the Americans in the crew would never forget this experience. There were plates and bowls of food almost to the edge of the table. The courses kept coming. The women constantly stood up to clear empty plates and bring more food. As guests, we were expected to sit still and focus on eating as much as we could.
It is traditional in Vietnamese cooking to keep the bones, skin and shells intact throughout the cooking process as they bring added flavor to the food. Eating takes a little extra effort, but some enjoy the work involved. I did not know what to do with my bones so I placed them on the small plate in front of me while I held the rice bowl to eat. As I looked around at my relatives, I realized the Americans and I were the only ones with plates of shells and bones. What did the others do with their bones? Eat them? Then I looked down. I was horrified to see there were paper napkins, bones and shells all over the tiled floor. What was this? I leaned over to Tin.
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