Sunday, April 24, 2016
Walking home from work the other night, I swung in to the closest Circle K for a couple of cans of tonic water. Two young American hippie-looking kids with pasty skin, eyeballs as big as saucers, and arms full of junk food were staring at one particular cookie display. The boy catches a glimpse of me out of the corner of his eye and his face perks up. That's when I went into defense mode, making a beeline for the back of the store where the cold beverages are kept, my goal to not make eye contact again with them. Plan backfires.
"Hey!", says the boy to me (I say 'boy' but he's probably about 25). "Hey! can you tell me where I can buy a muffin?".
I glance over at him wearily. "A muffin?"
"Yeah we just landed here and i'm REALLY JONESIN' for a muffin. I'd even take a blueberry one. Where can I buy a muffin here?"
Right, cos blueberries, not to mention muffins, are aplenty here. Does this kid know he's in Southeast Asia, I wonder. "Well, there's a Starbucks nearby".
"Great!". He and his girlfriend, who is just as spaced out as him, practically jump for joy and nearly drop their armloads of crap. "We'll head there!".
"Yeah, so hang a left out of here and it's about a block and a half down....".
"Wait, what? a block and a half away? Man, that's waaaaay too far". Boy looks crestfallen.
"Uh, too far? It's a block and a half dude".
"Nah, i'll just have to make do with these weird cookies I guess".
I start walking towards the cashier, ready to get the hell out of neon lit pasty face land.
"Hey, one more question! Hey so... is it legal to smoke pot here?".
I stop and turn to him. "WHAT?!?".
"Yeah, well you know, I've seen people smoking weed in public so I wasn't sure if that's a thing. I mean, can I buy it? And where can I buy it? Can I just light up anywhere like the locals do?".
In retrospect, there's so much I could have said and probably should have, but it had been a crap week and all I wanted was a fucking gin and tonic and a half dozen limes at that point. And I probably sounded like the oldest bat in the world when I responded with a, "Sorry dude, that's not my lifestyle".
"Oh.. okay, just thought i'd try. Thanks!"
He and the girl turned back towards the cookie display, the tip of his tongue sticking out from his mouth as if to really concentrate on the task at hand.
Bless his heart.
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
"Here's the thing: you're not a chef. You’re not a good cook. You're not even a cook. You lack all the basic French culinary skills. You don't know how to use a knife. I'm afraid when I see you holding a knife because I just know your fingers will come flying off and then I'll be forced to call an ambulance and get saddled with babysitting you at the hospital all night. You absolutely suck as a person. You're a terrible manager. Whomever trained you ought to be ashamed of themselves because they failed miserably. The Viets are not used to being treated with respect. If you respect them, they walk all over you. They need to be treated with fear. They are not your friends. They are there for you to abuse and they expect that. So quit being nice to the staff. It's unbecoming. And quit saying thank you whenever someone does something for you. Chefs don't act that way. TRANG, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? Who told you that you can sit down? FUCK THIS SHIT. Fucking animals. See what I mean, Caroline? In order to succeed in Vietnam you have to treat people like complete shit".
I sat there throughout this monologue, speechless. I thought it best to keep my mouth shut anyway. He had spent the entire lunch service hollering at me, loudly enough for customers in the restaurant to hear. He yelled; he threw pots and pans across the room into the sink, contents flying everywhere; he kicked the garbage can; he hollered that I had shit for talent. “ARRETE DE M’ENGUELER”, I finally shouted back at him. He looked at me with surprise and clamped his mouth shut. That's when the owner came into the kitchen, smiling, looked directly at me, and said, “Caroline, can you keep it down? The clients can hear you”. He was so used to the French chef's antics that he tuned them out completely (though various reviews on Trip Advisor mention how volatile and condescending the chef is to staff and customers). And all the owner heard was my voice.
You know it's bad when you dread going into work because you don't know what kind of mood the French chef will be in. I found out through a friend (who had the misfortune of dating him for two dire weeks) that he was bi-polar and refused treatment. He would destroy things in the kitchen then scream at us to clean it all up. He abused everyone, not just me. When he wasn’t pointedly avoiding the owner’s Vietnamese wife, he would yell obscenities at her. He made my favorite hardworking girl in the kitchen cry every day. She pays 6 million VND for English classes every afternoon (about $270 USD – an absolute fortune here where minimum wage is about $100 to $150 per month), and he would purposely detain her or prevent her from going by saddling extra work on to her shoulders. Every time the server would come up to the pass to take food to a table, he'd say to her, "Try not to drop it, you fucking ugly bitch". Every. Single. Time. The last few weeks he stopped coming into the kitchen during service, except to yell some obscenity or another at us. He would sit at the first table in the dining room where he could observe us in the kitchen and occasionally bellow out an insult for all and sundry to hear. He told many regular customers, "Your food is going to suck today because I didn't make it". On my third day, he told me I was on my own from now on. "You need to fail. You need to fall on your ass and screw up orders so badly. I WANT you to fail". The only person who seemed at ease with him was the French owner, who had become very Vietnamese, adopting a non-confrontational attitude by turning a blind eye and ear to everything. When I finally sat the owner down to complain, he said, “Well what do you want me to do about it?”
When the server took two days off, the French chef was upset. "Can you believe he gave her two days off?”, he said, pointing to the owner. “That fucking server doesn't even fucking work! She doesn't deserve it. She needs to be kicked in the ass. I should kick her ass". Two days later, he called in sick, claiming indigestion. The next day, he said he was taking himself to the hospital. Day three: no call, no show. The owner, out shopping, ran into an acquaintance who happened to mention she'd seen his chef out drinking that morning and acting belligerent while playing pétanque. And this, finally, made the owner snap. He unceremoniously fired the chef via text, but I knew this wouldn’t be the last we’d hear from him. He came storming in one day last week to collect his final pay. “I WILL DESTROY YOU”, he shouted to the owner and his wife. “I WILL FUCKING DESTROY YOU AND YOUR FAMILY AND YOUR BUSINESS. ON THE HEAD OF MY MOTHER, I PROMISE YOU THAT I WILL FUCKING MAKE SURE YOU FAIL”. On and on and on, he finally clambered down the steps to the ground floor, attempted to break the front door and part of the front window. Reeling from the shock of it all, we were all shaking.
I endured 5 weeks of this and it seemed like a lifetime. 6 days a week, at least 10 hours a day. I’m mentally worn out.
I'm not naive; I know the old school French chefs have a habit of hollering at their staff. Perhaps this breaking down of someone's soul works when you're a young trainee of 17, but once you hit your mid-forties the routine is a bit stale. I wasn't hired to be a line cook; I was reeled in to help change things (menu, atmosphere, etc). I was to work not only back of the house but also front of the house, with server training and assistance with wine. They knew of my qualifications before hiring me. They knew I was self-taught and was a catering and event chef and chef instructor before moving to Vietnam. I was honest about everything.
A new chef has been hired, and after a strange "getting to know you" kind of week, I have to admit that I like him. He's a talented youth, also French, but much less volatile. And though the atmosphere has changed for the better, I’m looking for different work. The damage has been done. I’m over it.
But the best part about all of this is that the French chef left Saigon. Mutual friends ran into him and he said he was moving away because he was sick of it all (it's probably because he has such a bad reputation that no one will hire him). But as of yesterday, he is gone from this town, and the air has cleared. Good riddance, volatile asshole.
Saturday, April 2, 2016
Wednesday, March 23, 2016
Saturday, February 27, 2016
Note that I say "understand" and not "agree with".
My mom has been on a diet my entire life, and probably all of her adult life. I can't remember a time when she wasn't watching her weight. Her generation is the generation that poured money into SlimFast shakes and Dexatrim. I even remember my parents doing a short stint of HerbaLife because my aunt sold the supplements. My mom constantly talks about weight (hers and other people's). In every email and letter, every phone call I've ever received from her, she always brings up weight. It affected my mental health and it affected my sister even more. My sister's weight skyrocketed and she became morbidly obese, though there wasn't any family history of obesity. She underwent gastric bypass in 2004, but she's not a success story. Though the operation helped her lose a considerable amount of weight (100 lbs during that first year), she didn't and still doesn't practice good nutrition and makes poor choices involving food and alcohol. None of us in the family have ever said as much, but my mom's constant nagging and negativity towards food was the catalyst to my sister's health issues.
In my own case, I was never overweight but my mom made me feel as large as a house. She has a way of getting in my head and pushing all the right buttons, all the self-worth and confidence ones. It's a power play on her part. I remember one Christmas going to visit my folks in San Francisco; I took the Marin Airporter and my mom picked me up at the bus stop. A look of horror spread across her face as I stepped off the bus. "What happened to you?", she gasped. "You are SO FAT". The bus driver almost dropped my suitcase that he'd been hauling out for me and looked at her wide-eyed. "I cannot BELIEVE you let yourself go like that. What is the matter with you? We have FAMILY coming tomorrow! I am SO EMBARRASSED". She went on and on, in the car on the way to the house, for the rest of that week, in front of family and friends. She wouldn't shut up about how "grossly overweight" I was. I kept my mouth shut tightly and tried not to let it bother me, but she was relentless. She would come into my room as I was falling asleep to sit on the edge of my bed and lecture me, giving me "guidance" as she calls it, about how I absolutely must lose weight immediately. I was a nervous wreck by the end of that week and burst out crying on the airplane as it was taking off out of SFO. I am 5'4", and when I got off the bus that night? I was a size 8.
Another time when I flew back home for a cousin's baby shower, mom told me she was too embarrassed to stand anywhere near me because of how fat I was. "Fat people shouldn't wear beige", she informed me matter-of-factly, as I emerged from my room wearing khakis and a fucking twinset (I used to keep a whole separate wardrobe of ridiculously conservative clothing solely to wear around my mom. Not that I have questionable taste in fashion, but as she doesn't approve of anything I wear to begin with, no need to give her a heart attack by donning my black leather Chucks). At the baby shower, an extended family member whom I hadn't seen in a few decades was gushing about me to my mom, who promptly shut her up with a "Caroline makes bad life choices. She's so immature. I told her not to wear beige, look at how much fatter she looks in beige!".
When I turned 40, I took some holistic nutrition classes. That's around the time when I decided I couldn't let the shitty comments get to me anymore. Though I go through serious bouts of exercise (I do love all of Tony Horton's P90X series), I'm not always in top shape, but I'm okay with that. I don't eat fast food. I do indulge in occasional bits of chocolate - anyone familiar with the Marou brand made in Vietnam will know what I'm talking about. I drink alcohol; perhaps not every night but hey, I drink. But I also eat an enormous variety of fresh vegetables, fruit, fish, and shellfish. Interestingly, since moving to SE Asia, I've actually put on a little weight even though I walk everywhere. But I don't feel unhealthy. Tony Horton himself explains that we shouldn't be slaves to the number on the scale; after all, muscle weights much more than fat. I've tried explaining this to my mom, but she's so set in her ways that it falls on deaf ears. "But how much do you weigh?". she asked after I told her muscle weighs more than fat. I told her it was none of her business. Surprisingly, she took it well.
Cheryl Tiegs has the same mentality as my mom. She was at the height of her popularity in the late 70s/early 80s, when women thought it was okay to skip a meal or two in order to get into a dress the next day. Thin was in. She still has that mindset. If I showed my mom the SI cover, I bet you she would say the same thing that Tiegs did. I"m not trying to excuse her, just trying to crack open her brain and peer in to understand. People like Tiegs and my mom won't change; they just won't get it. There's a woman I absolutely admire named Jessamyn Stanley. She is a yoga instructor who has a cult following on Instagram (@mynameisjessamyn - you can also find out more about her here: http://jessamynstanley.com/). She's strong, she's beautiful, and she's by no means thin as a rail. And she's okay with it. She moves easily into the most difficult of yoga poses. She has a self-confidence that many more women need, including myself. And i'm positive that my mom would think up some horrible remarks about her.
Tiegs made a follow up comment on Twitter yesterday, but later deleted it and issued the following:
Is it half-assed? No, because it's not an apology or retraction for what she actually said. She, like my mom, won't change her mind about what she thinks is right, that women should look thin, and that is that. And I feel sorry for her.
There's no great big secret here: the key to health and well-being is diet and exercise. And by "diet", I don't mean the negative connotation that we often associate the word with; I mean good nutrition. I've never had better skin than I do now in my 40s. Could I use more muscle tone in my upper arms? Sure. Would I like to get back into some of my size 6 clothes that I brought with me when I moved here, now that i'm a size 8 (and sometimes 10)? Absolutely. But i'm not going to kill myself over it, and nobody else should either.
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
|an Italian-looking chef riding the Vietnamese salt wave|
If you haven't used regular salt in a dog's age, you're in for some fun. I've had to adjust my recipes, since a teaspoon of iodized salt isn't the same as a teaspoon of kosher salt. I've found refined iodized salt to be less salty than kosher, so I've had to add boatloads of extra salt to my dishes, which screams against every bone in my body. As a chef, you can eyeball and "feel" how much a teaspoon of kosher salt is supposed to look and feel like. But iodized salt is just weird. Sometimes I end up under salting my food (totally fixable), but that's not as bad as over salting (unfixable). Unless you're on Top Chef, then under salting without tasting a dish before sending it out will get you a Greyhound bus trip home.
I've also started liberally using fish sauce in most of my Western dishes. It brings a savoriness you can't get with salt alone. Rule number one when it comes to fish sauce: There's fish sauce, and then there's fish sauce. You want the latter. So what's the latter, you ask?
I think I can confidently say that the best fish sauce in the world comes from Vietnam, and the best fish sauce in Vietnam comes from the island of Phu Quoc, on the southern coast near Cambodia. In the States, you want to seek out Red Boat brand, which I've seen at Whole Foods, but I think other shops are now starting to carry it due to the upswing of American celebrity chefs promoting it. A good fish sauce has two ingredients, anchovies and sea salt. That's it. And a good fish sauce has something on the bottle which says it's higher than 30N (the number of grams of nitrogen per liter of sauce). 30N is okay; 40N is better. Though fish sauce smells, well, fishy, a good fish sauce shouldn't smell too fishy. You shouldn't have an aversion to it if you pop off the lid. If yours makes you gag and recoil in horror, get rid of that shit. If you can't find Red Boat, spend some time looking for two things, the ingredients list and the amount of nitrogen listed: Anchovies. Sea Salt. 30N or greater.
|apparently someone in the apartment had a good time last night.|
While Red Boat is made in Vietnam, it's not actually sold here under that name. The stuff I use is called Quoc Huong, and comes in a glass bottle. Buy yours in a glass bottle, and keep it in the fridge. I read an article a while back about keeping stuff like that, including soy sauce, in the fridge; so just do it.
|soy, sesame oil, sambal oelek, tonic water, something of questionable |
provenance, and Marou chocolate. What do you keep in your fridge?
I go to the markets and groceries and unconsciously, automatically, look for familiar things. They are there, but there's more an abundance of unfamiliar vegetables and fruits. This can be both exciting and daunting. What to do with some of these weird things? My two local markets carry a huge variety of greens, most of which I've no idea what they're called in English. I tend to look in other shoppers' baskets to see what they're buying. They also look in mine to see what the American is buying, which is kind of funny because I think I disappoint them. My usual shopping list (procured every day or so) consists of a boatload of limes, coriander (aka cilantro), rice noodles, a variety of fruit, pressed tofu, and some kind of fresh fish or pork product. On one such a trip, I encountered a type of flowering green, which I'd no earthly idea what it was. I'd seen it at the corner restaurant but couldn't figure out the name.
They're called Tonkin jasmine flowers, or bong thien ly in Vietnamese (there are other Western names for it, but Tonkin is the name I remember). They're delicious and slightly crunchy. And I treat them the same way I would with broccolini or snap peas or kale or collards: quickly sauté with garlic, red pepper flakes (or fresh Thai bird's eye chili), olive oil, salt and pepper. For last night's dinner, using my trusty mortar and pestle (you can use a food processor, but I don't have that luxury here, plus bashing shit up lets out my aggressions), I bashed up some lemongrass, garlic, coriander (cilantro), sugar, black pepper, and fish sauce. Then marinated the lot with some thinly sliced pork and prawns (aka shrimp - hey look at me getting all Australian on you), before stir frying for a minute or two and tossing in the Tonkin jasmine another minute or two before the end. Really vibrant and delicious. I'd never seen it in the US, though to be fair I've never looked for it; but if you do find some, say, at Buford Highway Farmers market in Atlanta or another Asian market near you, get some. Remove the tougher stems from the flowers first (discard stems) , give the flowers a quick rinse, and sauté away.
Monday, February 22, 2016
1. French Toast.
I really don't like French toast. It seems like such a waste of perfectly good bread, which you can just toast up, slap on some good butter, and call it a day. Okay, traditionally French toast is supposed to be made with day old bread, and it derives from pain perdu, which is in fact a French dish made with leftover, stale bread. But who makes French toast with stale bread anymore? I've seen it with croissants, Texas toast, biscuits; all fresh. And while we're on the subject, I really don't like sweet breakfast items, other than fruit and the occasional jam on my toast (but even then, i'm picky - I like marmalades and sour cherry jam). I don't mind a spoonful of brown sugar melting into a bowl of oatmeal, or a piece of toast slathered with peanut butter, but that's about as sweet as I go. The idea of eating something sweet first thing in the morning makes my teeth ache.
2. Vanilla + Seafood.
My sister-in-law loves to pair a vanilla beurre blanc with her shrimp/crab/lobster. And she makes a great beurre blanc; but Lord Almighty I can't stand it. Vanilla and any seafood just don't work for me. Vanilla automatically reminds me of ice cream and custard, and I just can't wrap my head around seafood hanging out in that bathtub. On the flip side, I do like a savory creme brulee (such as infused with fresh thyme), so who knows what my taste buds are all about.
3. Cheese + Seafood.
I'm so grossed out by the idea of cheese mixed with seafood that even typing this makes me nauseous. Every once in a while on the food blogosphere, some article will come out and praise the merits of cheese and seafood together, and people will firmly fall into two categories of lovers and haters. I think the general idea comes about when the old argument of putting Parmesan on seafood pastas gets hashed up, and then that spawns heated debates of whether or not the Italians do it that way.
Lobster mac and cheese - which was on everyone's menu stateside for way too many years - vile. And don't even get me started on the "drizzle of truffle oil" that everyone used to Jackson Pollack all over the dish, because that's just blasphemy (and usually it's not made with real truffles).
The only time I find the idea of cheese and seafood sort of acceptable is with shrimp and grits , however that doesn't mean I eat my shrimp and grits that way (I prefer my grits to be well-seasoned without unnecessary gobs of cheese).
4. Milk Chocolate.
I just don't get it.
This is a type of Japanese fermented squid that, though i'm a big fan of all things fermented, I just can't get down with. I've eaten a lot of really wonderful Japanese food while in Vietnam; there are a large number of great places here, one of which is about a 45 second walk from my front door. We've become friendly with the chef (who is Vietnamese but has been studying Japanese cuisine for 12 years), and the Japanese owner is an interesting character. One night, I ordered a dish of shiokara, and I just couldn't get down with it, or get it down. I don't think a lot of western palates are ready for that level of gutty fermentation quite yet. I'll try it again someday.
Side note: speaking of guts, since living in SE Asia, i've only gotten food poisoning once - and that wasn't from eating street food, it was from a well-respected, super fancy, expensive restaurant owned by a Viet Kieu acquaintance of mine. It was some kind of fermented shrimp that I knew on first bite wouldn't agree with me, but I didn't want to be rude - enter two weeks of taking Ciproflxacin and Dukoral. So the moral of the story is to trust your gut (no pun intended) when you think something tastes off.
Sunday, February 21, 2016
I was out with my French friend Alex who was admiring a table of young Vietnamese women, one of them his flavor of the week (though monogamous, he has a steady stream of girlfriends, with never any break between relationships. Healthy, I know). "Les femmes Vietnamiennes", he says, "dress in a way that elsewhere in the world you would call them putes. But here, the men find that cute and irresistible". And it's true; whenever I go out, I notice the women are always dressed to the nines, mostly clad in as little amount of fabric as can possibly cover their skin without being too slutty, heels as high as they can go without toppling over.
There's a restaurant here that I like to go to, as their outdoor terrace reminds me of a Parisian bistro. It's comfortable and not pretentious. And I've come to realize it's a favorite place for older Westerners to meet their young Vietnamese Tinder dates. I'm not saying people over a certain age aren't allowed to find love (I myself am getting on in the age department). But what at first my friends and I all used to joke about has now crossed over into the Creepy Old Man Category. When I see a young Vietnamese girl shacked up with a Westerner three times her age, it makes me wince. I understand where they're both coming from, but it still makes me wince. It looks like the creepy old guy at the bus stop who just picked up his new prey. Except this time, the prey goes willingly and most often has the full support and emotional backing of her family.
Let's look at it from both sides:
The guy. Typically an American or Australian over the age of 50 (but more often, 60+). Retired, or running away from something back home (job, ex-wife, kids, alimony, police). In some cases he's been unlucky in love his whole life.
Enter the girl. Age: 18 - 22. Usually not from Saigon, but life back home in the provinces is so dismal with no chances. Most young people come to Saigon because there are no advantages and absolutely no future in their rural areas. I've spent some time outside of the cities to know that, while charming and unspoiled it is to visitors, the kids can't wait to leave. The girl is cute and speaks passable broken English. She's never wearing much: tiny little "dress", just short enough to not be considered indecent, and platform heels. She will fawn all over her Western date who is immediately smitten. No one has ever paid this much attention to him in his life, and he's lapping it up. One of my Australian friends is in such a relationship with a girl who came from utter poverty in the Mekong Delta. And though i'm happy for the guy, because in his eyes he's "finally found love", I still find it deeply saddening.
And then you get situations like the following. At dinner the other night, we just settled into our seats and ordered wine when a couple gets sat at the table next to us. Middle aged American guy with young Vietnamese woman, and it appears to be a date. There's a bit of that awkward first date "getting to know you" conversation going on.
"This is Italian. You know, from Italy".
"Oh... you eat here before?"
"Yes, with my German boyfriend I tell you about".
Chef's been doing the rounds greeting various tables, and comes over to greet them. "She's been here before", whines the American guy (boy, was he ever whiny). "Yes, with my German friend", she adds, looking at Chef. "You know him".
Chef walks away.
American, squinting at the specials board, "You wanna split somethin? They have spaghetti. Spaghetti-ohs! and ravioli. .... ravioliiii. Whatever".
Server comes by.
"I wan mineral water. Do you wan mineral water?", he says to the girl. "What is it?", she asks. ""It's got gas. You know". To server, "I wan San Paligro. San Pallagren. You know. Mineral water. San Pellegrano. You gotta have it. It's Italian".
"Yes sir we have that. A big bottle?"
"Two glasses. And I wan CLEAN ICE. And I wannna Wet Nap".
It's right about this time that I realize the dude is hammered.
"Sir?". The server is puzzled.
"Wet napkin". He mimics the movement of washing ones hands. "To wash my hands. My hands dirty. I wan clean hands!".
"Oh. We don't have those, but there's a lavatory right behind you".
"Oh. K... just gonna go wash hands", he says to his date. Staggers upon uneven footing, his boat legs aren't working properly. He's wearing a brand new Chinese-style white cotton shirt with frog closures, and though it's an ample amount of fabric, it stretches too tightly across his generous abdomen. He's also wearing black sneakers with socks pulled high up on calves, and a white Indiana Jones-style hat. Very typical tourist look. I look away quickly to glance at Larry. My eyes open wide and I mouth, "He's hammered". Larry: "I know".
He staggers back from the bathroom.
"My hands are dry", he whines. "Hand lotion. Gimme some hand lotion. You got any hand lotion in your bag? No? Oh. But all girls have hand lotion!".
This conversation is odd. Both Larry and I are totally eavesdropping; we have no shame. The guy's date speaks English particularly well, but he's talking to her like she's a small child, a prize if you will. Plus he's drunk and/or on something, because his speech tones go up and down throughout waves of whininess. He hits the head about four times during their meal. I notice she's conservatively dressed; this is very unusual. She's wearing a scarf, long sleeved shirt, polka dotted pants. And she's not as young as I originally assumed. I wonder what her story is.
Her: "Have you been to Italy?". Him: "Rome. I've not been to Venice. I wanna take ya to Venice". HIs voice tapers off into a low whine.
Their wine comes. "To new beginnings", he says, and they toast each other. That's when my interest piqued considerably. Kind of a strange thing to say to someone on your first date, no?
"So tomorrow", he continues, "It's 6 hours to Hong Kong. Then 18 hours to Newark. And our new life". She smiles.
So that's it. It isn't so much of a first date as it is a business transaction. This is the Vietnamese equivalent of a Russian mail-order bride. No wonder this guy is hammered. He's probably jet-lagged, jacked himself up on some pill or another to stay awake and pick up his goods, only to turn around and bring them back home immediately. I look at the girl with new interest.
Eventually he pays the bill and they get up to leave; he's bobbing and weaving all over the place. I wish her a silent prayer of good luck, but I know that she's probably moving on to a better place.
Saturday, February 20, 2016
|lounge at the Park Hyatt Saigon|
It had been a long day, and I leaned back into the couch cushions, sighed, and wearily looked around. There was an older American guy sitting by himself at the table across from me, drinking his way through a bottle of Bordeaux. He was busy looking at his phone, like most everyone does these days. Pretty soon afterwards he was joined by a very young Vietnamese woman wearing the tiniest booty shorts creeping right up her ass and super tall platform heels. A server rushed over to present her with an empty wine glass, and the now enthusiastic guy poured in some of his wine, saying something along the lines of how special the wine was. I stopped focusing on them as my friend Sveta was saying something to me, but I did notice that the girl pulled out her phone and started typing into it. "Poor guy", I thought. "She can't even be bothered to spend 30 seconds with him before she gets bored and calls her friend". I chatted with Sveta a bit and out of the corner of my eye saw the girl give her phone to the guy. He said something into it, handed her back the phone; they got up and headed towards the elevators, half the bottle of Bordeaux still on the table, her wine glass untouched. Wait... what the hell just happened?
At this point, Sveta and the rest of my table figured out what was going on and we all leaned in closer to each other, furiously whispering about it, like gossipy old ladies. Not 15 minutes later, the guy came back down into the lounge, alone. The staff, who had not cleared his table, came to take her glass away and he poured himself some more Bordeaux, looking satisfied, staring at his phone.
You hear about this kind of shit happening a lot. I mean, the hotel does have a martini bar at the far end of the lounge, where i've seen many a lady of the evening stroll in and out of before. But I guess i'm so naive as to think it would never happen so blatantly at a place as posh as the Park Hyatt's lounge, early evening, surrounded by rich Hong Kongese having tea and scones. And as we looked around the lounge, nobody else seemed to notice, and the staff didn't seem to care. Made me wonder how often they are subjected to this kind of situation.
|High Tea offerings. they don't suck.|
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
There are probably thousands of ghosts in Saigon alone, what with the horror and atrocities that took place in this country. And the building where I live, the original back part of it, is at least 80 years old. The last time my Hanoian landlady was in town, I tried (through an interpreter) to ask questions about the previous tenants - I didn't want to alarm her, so I just inquired about the architecture and if she knew anything about the history of the building. I did study architectural history in college, so it's not like I am uninterested in the subject. She says that prior to the war, an American captain resided here, followed by a Viet Cong captain after the fall of Saigon. After that, she claimed to not know. Until a few years ago, this building housed the Chilean Consulate, which would have been great fun; can you imagine the wine-laced dinner parties? (okay, that's my vivid imagination at work, as I would like to hold an epic wine-laced dinner party here). The landlady says the front part of the building is rather new. The whole building is a bit quirky anyway, so I figured there was something lurking here when we moved in.
|back in the day, the chilean consulate had wine flowing a go-go|
I don't claim to "sense" things (though I know people who do) but I know there is something here. I've not seen objects move, heard cries in the dark, had doors open and close involuntarily, or had my hair pulled. The ghost in my room simply watches me sleep.
The idea of ghosts, in general, freak me the fuck out. I remember house hunting with my ex. One older ranch-style home in Decatur, Georgia drew me in completely. The minute I walked in the door, I envisioned myself living there. It was wild. I was suddenly overwhelmingly, inexplicably happy. We walked into the bedroom and I went to inspect the tiny bathroom as my ex backed out of the room and walked right out the front door. A few minutes later, I came searching for him. "Someone died in that room", he said, taking deep breaths. "Someone died really, really horribly in that room. I was overwhelmed with the biggest sense of sorrow and despair, and then someone physically pushed me out of the room". "Well that sucks balls, because I really like that fucking house", I retorted. Then I pouted the rest of the day, as if it was all his fault that we couldn't live there. But I've seen enough episodes of A Haunting to know that people who gleefully move into haunted houses usually run away screaming in the night later on. I don't want to be one of those people.
To be safe (safe from what, really?), on my very first night in the house I had a little chat with the ghost in my room. Well, it was a one-sided verbal conversation, but I informed him, in both English and French (for good measure) in a few carefully chosen words along the lines of, "Hey dude, you freak me out, so let's make a deal that you won't bother me, and I won't torment you, and we'll get along just fine".
And the bathroom lights flickered.
Instead of being freaked out, this calmed me down. I am satisfied that we understood each other completely. Except I've seen him twice now. I say "him" though it's not so much a human male form, it's more of a metallic shape. I know, I know, it sounds improbable. But both times I've seen it have been when I was jolted awake from a really horrible dream. Both times I saw a rectangular metallic shape standing at the foot of my bed, as though keeping an eye on me. I blink, and it's gone. Side note: I've been affected with war-related dreams since childhood, so moving to Vietnam was probably an unconscious decision to exorcise my demons, if you will. When I first came to this country and flew into Hue, as I emerged from the plane and looked towards familiar-looking hills, I said to myself, "I've been here before". But that's another story for another time.
|this is what it looks like. it's actually a bit more rounded and less like Batman.|
I don't know why I know that this ghost doesn't wish me ill will. He just keeps an eye on me to ensure I'm okay and wakes me when the dreams are bad. It's kind of nice, in a way. Though I do give thanks to it, in the dark, for waking me up, but to kindly fuck off because anxiety is kicking in and I want to go back to sleep. And it fucks off, and I sleep.
Apparently there's a ghost in one of the back bedrooms too. I don't know whether or not Z, the current tenant, is making this up (he might; he's known for inventive fictional tales), but he says that the ghost pulls his covers off at night and laughs at him. When we moved in, one of the rooms had a tiny bust of Ho Chi Minh, which Z liked, so he took it with him into the back bedroom. One night it inexplicably flew off the desk and broke into a hundred pieces. Evidently, that ghost doesn't like Uncle Ho.
In Vietnamese culture, ghosts are spirits whose bodies have not been given proper burials. Once the bodies are finally laid to rest, the spirits move on. Ancestor worship is very important here. Over 40 years after the war, human remains are still being found (in rice paddies, in fields), and I've read that DNA research has finally progressed in this country (not to the level of the US, but it's getting there), enough to identify and return some remains to grieving families. So my two ghosts are unrested. I'm not sure who they were, or what they seek (but hey, they speak English and/or French). As long as they don't mess with me too much, I'll be just fine.