post 6: on my own petard

Post 6:

A note on hypocrisy: fear not, dear reader, my own Olympian levels are not lost on me. Too true that I flee the skin color I bear (and occasionally bare); I scorn the traveler I am; were I to see my mythic double-going me saunter up to a food stall, I would shake my head, sad that I hadn’t walked far enough, and trudge on in search of more decay. Anthropology, gastronomic or otherwise, is a privilege, but more so is the ability to deceive yourself that you’ve outpaced your own identity, sloughed one skin and slid into a new, perhaps less white, less rich, less coddled. But don’t worry; I fool myself as little as I fool you.

Day 4, dinner

That said, I make exceptions for the white and sweet (the chaps, angel food cake, sarah…). So they come by, convinced now of my truffle-finding snout and the wisdom of following it (though my gait has proven to be a significant problem). It’s their last night, so I take them for crab claws
I saw in secret Saigon. Knowing that shell-crackers are a western luxury that this time we won’t be able to indulge, we all have molars on the mind as I lead them down the muddy path to tastiness. I also wanted to take them to the pho stand where I met Anne, but when we arrive it’s not there, no trace. We make up for it by sampling the gantlet (no typo -- we don’t eat gloves): the crab claws warmed on a grill and served with the omnipresent salt/pepper mixture (very yummy, but I can honestly say I far prefer the hassle-free bang for buck of shrimp); then Mick had the Fluf-tuber omelet, which he loved; Martin and I had liver pate banh mis (dangerous, but very very yummy), then a plate of Chinese-style fried noodles w/ greens (first leafy one I’ve had yet, ironically), and 4 different types of dumplings, which we ate in the bia hoi bar (and the beer was much better, pretty much draft PBR at $1/liter). That, my dearies, is eating a block.

We then retired to the cheaper, shittier, whiter, closer, but also, as long as they’re my company, more fun bia hoi bar on my block, where their abilities as English provincial drinkers are finally put on display.

I sleep soundly.

Day 5: Morning

For the first time, there isn’t one. I awake at 6 briefly, then sleep again till 10. Finally. Sleep, in the Bard’s words, “knits the raveled sleeve of care…” Indeed.

Day 5: Lunch

Final outing with the gents, we go to take the strolls Genevieve’s brother recommended and to eat another block, on his suggestion. When we get to the latter, it’s fancy and quiet, almost soporific at this point not being almost-mown by motorbike at every step, and at first we fear mistake, as there are no food stalls to speak of.

. A grill restaurant (not so good for Mick), then nothing till we come across the motherlode: a big spread with outdoor seating and thirty-odd dishes to choose from (it took me three pics to get it all)
I order us each a different fish dish so we can all share and taste everything. The winner, as is often the case, was the giant sardines. Oil might as well share a named with spoon; it is the flavor ladle, as we know, but occasionally that’s lost on me (though not on my brother, who has been bringing home rendered duck fat to cook all his meals in. Donations to Hillary’s purple heart fund can be sent directly to me…).

Interestingly, this meal costs about three times what the others have, but no real surprise. And it is pretty much the best thing yet; they’re both blown away, and since they’re leaving in a few hours, a happy guide am I.

2nd asia post: dangers abound

all (lovelies)

it looks like my strategy for saigon is going to be that whenever i see the beaten path, to beat it. the LP guidebook (which i heard someone unsarcastically call The Bible) says most tourists never make it out of sectors 1, 3, and 5, so i took the 20-minute stroll to the river and across, into sector 4, where something between adventure and abduction beckoned...

along the way, vicarious gastronomes, i thought i'd take my GI tract for a workout at the heavy bag with some roadside snails and clams, wolfed down on the most disreputable alley i've seen yet (it literally took only 4 minutes to escape all honky-ville and emerge into narrow unpaved streets hung with laundry and teeming with pregnant dogs. haven't seen scenes like these since india)

also stopped for this intricately spiced fried fish -- utterly incredible (the clams, by the way, were very delicate, as were the smaller white with brown boxes snails; the slightly larger ones less exciting, and none living up to the giant snails that were on the Balthazar shellfish Babel that jeremy -- shout out, homie -- treated his all-beef moving crew to back in the day.

i sat down to eat the fish but got no laughs for my travails with the raw chilis i hoped to use as a cultural icebreaker/shibboleth. still, the endorphin spike was nice. then i noticed that the whole back of the dingy dark frontless space i was in was filled with women packing what looked to be tourist=trap salesman kits. i started writing in my journal about the fish, and i think the proprietor thought i was writing about the women and sat at the stool next to me and gave me the evil eye. i tried to show that i was writing about the food, then i said i was a "teacher" and he took up my vietnamese/english book and we both practiced pronunciation (don't ever attempt to say their word for "help"), and all was well.

the alien then crossed the bridge, watching a skiff propelled by foot-oars trace over the muddy eddies.

i was in the provinces.
a group of boys called out Hello to me and punched each other when i responded, clearly embarrassed. this was a "The Weird Guy Spoke Back" thing, which i've experienced before (like in high school). now i'm getting continuous eyeballs from nearly everyone, somewhat suspicious but still friendly. i'm walking through a long sidewalk market of shockingly diverse beautiful fruits and greens. (conner, i could deviate from my daily kale here...) until i saw and approached a cart with big heaping bowls of pickled shredded evil-chili-laden salad looking things, very colorful. my interest and bafflement drew a communal whoop from the women nearby. eventually i explained that i wanted to try them (the salads), but couldn't get across that i only wanted a little (as they seemingly sold them by the kilo), until i took a small bag from my bag and pinched off the corner. now a crowd has formed and i get my salad and start to eat it and it's good but not great (the way all the side dishes are at the broome st bahn mi). then, however there was some confusion because a fruitseller is asking me some questions, and i have no idea, and am just trying to say that i like the salad (though my friggin phrasebook doesn't include such esoteric lexography as "good" or "delicious" -- presumably because it's for brits and aussies who only eat pasta when they're abroad). so i'm saying what i can say, and it turns out that they're not talking about the food, they're talking about the coffee vendor, a woman in her late 40s. i figure it out when someone says, You boy, She girl, and then quickly find the "i'm here with my girlfriend" line in the book (which i had originally wondered why they bothered...), pointed to my ring finger (though vacant), translated We are here on holiday, and scampered off and away from all the laughter.
in retrospect, and considering how good the coffee here is, i might have missed the love of my life.

long nap. then the quest for bia hoi, "fresh beer," the one-day-shelf-life low-alcohol slightly fruity less-than-a-buck-a-liter beerish stuff my bro said i must find and consume with abandon. all the bars with palefaces made me nervous, so i zip again into my secret saigon but only find a place to have bottled beer and stir-fried beef (delicious). i sit down alongside gangsters with their heinekens, me with my saigon (i've long wondered why southeast asian gangsters always drink heineken -- no joke. anyone know? that's market cornering!)

finally back to my hood and the one bia hoi place i'd seen, very crowded, half local half white, and i sit and drink a liter ultimately getting into a conversation with a pair of 60yrold brit travelers, the kind who trek for a year at a time to places like Goa. They were sweet and we talked a lot about books (they prompted but then were gracious even after my predictable excoriations of kerouac, orwell, and ouellebecq). nice to speak a bit, and nice to go to sleep a little tipsy. maybe i will dodge jet lag completely.

a fine first day all around

love, the b-c b