Vietnamese Women: What the Pho?
The LP had it right when they said (and I paraphrase): You’ll be warned against street food up and down, against taking those mega ice cubes with your beer, against sampling what the locals eat. Ignore it, get sick and actually be in Vietnam. Stop looking for little McDonalds and Starbucks (thanks to socialism you won’t find these anyway), pizza places (which you’ll find, but they are awful), or “European-style” restaurants. Be where you are.
I welcomed my staph whole heartedly, not knowing where or what it would come from, but knowing it would inevitably arrive. Travelers bravado had me eager for the thing, it meant I was doing my part to eat aggressively. Took me ten days to get it, resulting in one violent night of expulsion. I greeted my travel partner the next morning, beeming, proud to be ill.
Two weeks later and I’m still not back to 100%, but dammed if my body doesn’t look smoking. This was excellent, in a bulimia sort of way, since the premier Halong Bay hotelier asked me to do a photoshoot for his new catalog (some bikini shots, some sans vetements! Ah, when in a French province…). Thank god for staph, and my new flat belly. Oh what won’t an American do for a free massage (retail: $8).
I spent a tremendous amount of time at the markets, not because I was buying anything, but because at the markets you could see the Vietnamese engaged in the two most popular pastimes, giving money and taking money. Plus, I got to hang out with Vietnamese women (believe you me, they RUN this country – from the finances of every home, to the bellies of every person, to the majority of the ownership of small businesses). American feminists could learn a thing or two from these badass chicks. These women are charming and assertive, and have an uncanny way of separating me from my money.
Example one: Hoi An, daytime
I was minding my own business, sitting at an outdoor cafe enjoying a midday beer. A woman inevitably arrives to sell me something, points at my toes in mock horror, and insists: “Pedicure? One dollar!” Now a cheapee like me finds this hard to resist but I just wanted a moment with my Tiger. But that did not dissuade my persuasive friend. "Massage?" She started rubbing my leg and DAMN did it feel good. But she knew her customers; I am not a hedonist, but when it comes to vanity --- yessirree. She took out a piece of string and said, “Your leg. Very hairy.” She began THREADING my leg RIGHT THERE IN THE ROADSIDE REFRESHMENT STAND WHILE I WAS DRINKING A BEER.
So yes, she humiliated me into submission, and this masochist gave way to the thread for the next half hour. That said, my legs (which have been waxed for the last (eek!) 20 years) have never looked so good. (retail: $15).
Example two: Hoi An, evening
I saw this fab cashmere poncho (yes, so fab that despite the 100+ temperature, I had to try it on, and wouldn’t take it off), and was offered a price of $15 by a salesman. I was just beginning the shopping day, so I waited for something better and didn’t see it again until I was post-dinner passive. The shops were closing and unfortunately this time, I was greeted by the salesman’s wife, who owned the joint. She quoted me $30. I reminded her what her husband offered, and she came to $20. I refused to move from the mark, but my travel partner, newly in love, looked desperately as she was awaiting an international phone call from a man we met a town or two ago (retail: $1.50 per minute).
I got her down to $18, then this lovely, 60-something woman, just looked at me and said “Please.” We both knew it wasn’t worth my $3, what with Juliet Capulet’s increasing impatience, when out of nowhere; this woman started hugging and kissing me, saying “please, please, please!” Did I mention that she was 60, with the most beautiful face and physical presence? I know, you coldhearted negotiators are disappointed, but c’mon. Isn’t the story alone worth the $3? I handed her the cash, she jumped up and down (more kisses), Juliet got her phone call and I’ll be looking fine this fall.
But my favorite Vietnamese woman of the entire trip was a captivating 20-year-old from the Mekong Delta now living the Sex-in-the-City lifestyle in Saigon. She’s an assistant to an executive for a French aromatics company, and boy is she an up-and-comer.
We met when I walked onto a bus from Saigon to Mui Ne. She waved hello and I smiled. When I got off the bus, she came up and said hello again. I called Juliet over and told her that we should roll out, as I don’t want to be sold anything. Miss Mekong’s travel partner (t'was a business trip, in the most legitimate way), a French executive, asked us where we were off to, and I said gruffly, “To find a hotel room”. He said, in the Frenchest way, “Pffft, moi aussi, but euh, first we enjoy a beverage, and luunch of course, and then we will be on our way. Perhaps you would like to join us?”
Why must the French be so blatantly sensible? Why are they always happily enjoying the better things of life? Blech.
I said no, but Juliet needed a beer, so I kept my (very heavy) knapsack on while we sat with these people, who thought I was nuts.
Miss Mekong noticed I had bug bites on my arms, and immediately started putting Tiger Balm on parts of my body that I had gone unnoticed for the better part of a decade. She smiled, and was simply trying to help (oh, that’s another thing…in Vietnam, there’s a lot of touching. Sometimes shoving, sometimes guiding, sometimes nursing the wounds. It takes some getting used to…personally I think there’d be a lot fewer shrinks in New York if we could all just touch a bit more).
She kept staring at me and smiling, I was indeed odd. Not long before, “Where is your huss-bahnd?” I don’t have one. GASP! “But you must have boyfriend?” she pleaded. Indeed I did. “How old you are?” I’m thirty-four. Another GASP. If she was an American, she would have text messaged her friends with horror. But she wasn’t, so I got to absorb it all. And the horror subsided into pure fascination, Miss Mekong started to tell me about how Vietnamese women love.
She lowered her voice; whispered. She confided that in Vietnam, a woman loves once and only once. If the man dies, and there are no children, the woman kills herself. You love once, because you throw yourself so deeply into it, that's all there is. Only once. Sure, you can date, be wooed, etc. But love is sacred and happens one time.
Then she asked me why American women sleep with so many men. I certainly couldn't explain this one -- suddenly this love once thing seemed to make sense.
I ordered a beer, which she poured. Then she told me Vietnamese women don't drink beer, and they certianly don't smoke, as it makes a woman ugly.
She and her French friend met me the next night at my hotel for dinner, and we saw them off before they left. She said, “I want to be just like you; I want to be very rich.” The best hotel in the town retailed for $60, albeit off-season (and preferentially priced as a result of my mad negotiating skills). She told me that it was very strange that I talked to her, as I was so rich. I tried to explain that I was not actually very rich, nor did the money matter all that much – that I found her interesting, charming, and I was sure that she would be tremendously successful in whatever she chose to do.
Then a gorgeous French kitesurfer rolled in, and she cooed, “Sexy body!”. He asked for a massage.
I have no idea where any of that went, I just know I’m impressed with the potential, and the audacity, of Vietnamese woman.
BEER WITH ICE
I know you were probably hoping for a Pho recipe, and trust me, it will come, but one of my favorite things in Vietnam was the way they served beer with these enormous ice cubes. It’s sensible really, as the country is hot – damn hot – especially in the South, and who can afford refrigeration? They drag these massive ice blocks all through town, and everyone takes a big chunk for chilling whatever it is they're selling that day. A smaller cube (3 inches square) ends up in your glass when you order a beer. Before arriving in front of you, it has encountered street detritus of all sorts. Some cry “eeew!”, as they order a mushroom (fungus) omelette, others consider it local flavor.
Call it what you will, when I was welcomed home by 100 degree, 90% humidity Brooklyn weather, I immediately hightailed it over to my local Vietnamese joint for a 333, Festival or a Tiger. I asked for ice with my beer, and my Latino server looked at me like I had three heads.
If you’ve got a Sharon Stone-style ice pick hanging out in your culinary drawer; use it. Cut a bunch of cubes that will fit just inside the glass, and pour whatever you’ve got over it. And for the love of god, drink it outside, beyond the talons of air conditioning, and enjoy the summer heat.
-------
P.S. Big shout out to my college pal Moph for the title: It was his. (Get it? Pho is pronounced the way the French pronounce Feu, as a result of their passing on the dish Pot du Feu.) What the Feu?
I welcomed my staph whole heartedly, not knowing where or what it would come from, but knowing it would inevitably arrive. Travelers bravado had me eager for the thing, it meant I was doing my part to eat aggressively. Took me ten days to get it, resulting in one violent night of expulsion. I greeted my travel partner the next morning, beeming, proud to be ill.
Two weeks later and I’m still not back to 100%, but dammed if my body doesn’t look smoking. This was excellent, in a bulimia sort of way, since the premier Halong Bay hotelier asked me to do a photoshoot for his new catalog (some bikini shots, some sans vetements! Ah, when in a French province…). Thank god for staph, and my new flat belly. Oh what won’t an American do for a free massage (retail: $8).
I spent a tremendous amount of time at the markets, not because I was buying anything, but because at the markets you could see the Vietnamese engaged in the two most popular pastimes, giving money and taking money. Plus, I got to hang out with Vietnamese women (believe you me, they RUN this country – from the finances of every home, to the bellies of every person, to the majority of the ownership of small businesses). American feminists could learn a thing or two from these badass chicks. These women are charming and assertive, and have an uncanny way of separating me from my money.
Example one: Hoi An, daytime
I was minding my own business, sitting at an outdoor cafe enjoying a midday beer. A woman inevitably arrives to sell me something, points at my toes in mock horror, and insists: “Pedicure? One dollar!” Now a cheapee like me finds this hard to resist but I just wanted a moment with my Tiger. But that did not dissuade my persuasive friend. "Massage?" She started rubbing my leg and DAMN did it feel good. But she knew her customers; I am not a hedonist, but when it comes to vanity --- yessirree. She took out a piece of string and said, “Your leg. Very hairy.” She began THREADING my leg RIGHT THERE IN THE ROADSIDE REFRESHMENT STAND WHILE I WAS DRINKING A BEER.
So yes, she humiliated me into submission, and this masochist gave way to the thread for the next half hour. That said, my legs (which have been waxed for the last (eek!) 20 years) have never looked so good. (retail: $15).
Example two: Hoi An, evening
I saw this fab cashmere poncho (yes, so fab that despite the 100+ temperature, I had to try it on, and wouldn’t take it off), and was offered a price of $15 by a salesman. I was just beginning the shopping day, so I waited for something better and didn’t see it again until I was post-dinner passive. The shops were closing and unfortunately this time, I was greeted by the salesman’s wife, who owned the joint. She quoted me $30. I reminded her what her husband offered, and she came to $20. I refused to move from the mark, but my travel partner, newly in love, looked desperately as she was awaiting an international phone call from a man we met a town or two ago (retail: $1.50 per minute).
I got her down to $18, then this lovely, 60-something woman, just looked at me and said “Please.” We both knew it wasn’t worth my $3, what with Juliet Capulet’s increasing impatience, when out of nowhere; this woman started hugging and kissing me, saying “please, please, please!” Did I mention that she was 60, with the most beautiful face and physical presence? I know, you coldhearted negotiators are disappointed, but c’mon. Isn’t the story alone worth the $3? I handed her the cash, she jumped up and down (more kisses), Juliet got her phone call and I’ll be looking fine this fall.
But my favorite Vietnamese woman of the entire trip was a captivating 20-year-old from the Mekong Delta now living the Sex-in-the-City lifestyle in Saigon. She’s an assistant to an executive for a French aromatics company, and boy is she an up-and-comer.
We met when I walked onto a bus from Saigon to Mui Ne. She waved hello and I smiled. When I got off the bus, she came up and said hello again. I called Juliet over and told her that we should roll out, as I don’t want to be sold anything. Miss Mekong’s travel partner (t'was a business trip, in the most legitimate way), a French executive, asked us where we were off to, and I said gruffly, “To find a hotel room”. He said, in the Frenchest way, “Pffft, moi aussi, but euh, first we enjoy a beverage, and luunch of course, and then we will be on our way. Perhaps you would like to join us?”
Why must the French be so blatantly sensible? Why are they always happily enjoying the better things of life? Blech.
I said no, but Juliet needed a beer, so I kept my (very heavy) knapsack on while we sat with these people, who thought I was nuts.
Miss Mekong noticed I had bug bites on my arms, and immediately started putting Tiger Balm on parts of my body that I had gone unnoticed for the better part of a decade. She smiled, and was simply trying to help (oh, that’s another thing…in Vietnam, there’s a lot of touching. Sometimes shoving, sometimes guiding, sometimes nursing the wounds. It takes some getting used to…personally I think there’d be a lot fewer shrinks in New York if we could all just touch a bit more).
She kept staring at me and smiling, I was indeed odd. Not long before, “Where is your huss-bahnd?” I don’t have one. GASP! “But you must have boyfriend?” she pleaded. Indeed I did. “How old you are?” I’m thirty-four. Another GASP. If she was an American, she would have text messaged her friends with horror. But she wasn’t, so I got to absorb it all. And the horror subsided into pure fascination, Miss Mekong started to tell me about how Vietnamese women love.
She lowered her voice; whispered. She confided that in Vietnam, a woman loves once and only once. If the man dies, and there are no children, the woman kills herself. You love once, because you throw yourself so deeply into it, that's all there is. Only once. Sure, you can date, be wooed, etc. But love is sacred and happens one time.
Then she asked me why American women sleep with so many men. I certainly couldn't explain this one -- suddenly this love once thing seemed to make sense.
I ordered a beer, which she poured. Then she told me Vietnamese women don't drink beer, and they certianly don't smoke, as it makes a woman ugly.
She and her French friend met me the next night at my hotel for dinner, and we saw them off before they left. She said, “I want to be just like you; I want to be very rich.” The best hotel in the town retailed for $60, albeit off-season (and preferentially priced as a result of my mad negotiating skills). She told me that it was very strange that I talked to her, as I was so rich. I tried to explain that I was not actually very rich, nor did the money matter all that much – that I found her interesting, charming, and I was sure that she would be tremendously successful in whatever she chose to do.
Then a gorgeous French kitesurfer rolled in, and she cooed, “Sexy body!”. He asked for a massage.
I have no idea where any of that went, I just know I’m impressed with the potential, and the audacity, of Vietnamese woman.
BEER WITH ICE
I know you were probably hoping for a Pho recipe, and trust me, it will come, but one of my favorite things in Vietnam was the way they served beer with these enormous ice cubes. It’s sensible really, as the country is hot – damn hot – especially in the South, and who can afford refrigeration? They drag these massive ice blocks all through town, and everyone takes a big chunk for chilling whatever it is they're selling that day. A smaller cube (3 inches square) ends up in your glass when you order a beer. Before arriving in front of you, it has encountered street detritus of all sorts. Some cry “eeew!”, as they order a mushroom (fungus) omelette, others consider it local flavor.
Call it what you will, when I was welcomed home by 100 degree, 90% humidity Brooklyn weather, I immediately hightailed it over to my local Vietnamese joint for a 333, Festival or a Tiger. I asked for ice with my beer, and my Latino server looked at me like I had three heads.
If you’ve got a Sharon Stone-style ice pick hanging out in your culinary drawer; use it. Cut a bunch of cubes that will fit just inside the glass, and pour whatever you’ve got over it. And for the love of god, drink it outside, beyond the talons of air conditioning, and enjoy the summer heat.
-------
P.S. Big shout out to my college pal Moph for the title: It was his. (Get it? Pho is pronounced the way the French pronounce Feu, as a result of their passing on the dish Pot du Feu.) What the Feu?
posted by Allison Fishman Task at 4:01 AM
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