Easter Supper 

Observing or perhaps just recognizing it to be Easter Sunday, I decided to put on my bathing suit and celebrate. It felt more a celebration of gratitude toward the universe but a celebration non the less. It involved boat tripping, snorkeling, swimming, sunset watching and supper. 

As for supper-I went out in hopeful pursuit of a nice ham dinner, complete with green beans and mashed potatoes. Actually, I did no such thing. I'm in Vietnam, quit being so gullible. 

Instead, I showed up to an outdoor restaurant full of locals and a smattering of Westerners. The place, as suggested by my local evening beer vendor, was all open air seating with a bustling kitchen set up under a corrugated iron roof. Up a steep cement ramp and I was seated just beyond the kitchen next to the live fish tanks. Barracuda, sea snake, cockles, crab and shrimp lay restless in their tanks as patrons drank beer with ice in it, lit up cigarettes and leaned back in their wobbly, brightly colored plastic chairs just off of the ground. If I didn't know any better I would think this miniature furniture was meant for children's picnics. Oh wait. They are. 

'When in Rome' I said aloud and poured my Saigon Special Beer on ice and sat back to observe the well oiled machine in front of me. It appeared to be a family run operation, three generations orchestrating the show. If I had to guess, it was the eldest son manning the woks, second eldest on the BBQ pit, dad handling the money, sister as acting sue chef, mom washing dishes, grandma refilling, topping off and replenishing everything and four other boys racing around taking orders and running food to each table. 

Orders were written down, placed on the edge of a large chopping block and taken by the eldest. He had three burners simultaneously blazing under three different woks. Pause here...Before I go any further I feel the need to discuss the versatility and magnificence of a proper Asian wok. I'm willing to bet that these particular woks have never seen soap in all their years. A splash of water and a quick hit with a bundled twig brush is the way to 'clean' these bad boys. This allows years of 'flavor' to marinate into the bones of the wok providing endless taste complexities to anything you throw into it. 

Back to the eldest, tallest and leanest boy on the woks. He throws in a splash of garlic, oil and fish sauce constantly rotating the wok until the ingredient mingle and begin to simmer. Scallops, dried squid, instant noodles are thrown in with his one free hand as the other smokes a cigarette or sucks down a jug of iced tea to rehydrate from the sweat rolling off his brow. The perfect technique of tossing a wok, practiced and perfected over the years. Round and round the ingredients fly, caramelizing and yummifying all at the same time. When the time is right, and he knows when the time is right, he empties the food onto a plate. Mom circles around with a red marker and simply writes the number of the table the food is to be delivered to directly onto the plate. She also adds a garnish of sweet basil, because it's all about presentation alongside the hand strewn marker numbers and plastic plates. 

Heading up the BBQ, is the second in line. Replacing wooden charcoal briquettes, rotating meat and prepping fish. A giant clever rests on a stump, which doubles as a chopping board. Crack crack crack and a squid is ready for the grill, a small miracle no fingers came with it given the speed at which he accomplishes this task. A sea snake needs to be tenderized and it seems in absence of a mallet there is always the trusty side of a beer bottle to do the job. His one hand operates the tongs while the other pulls up his sagging pants slipping off of his tiny frame. The smoke from the cigarette hanging out of his mouth seeps into the corners of his eyes but they are immune to it, having been working over the BBQ all night long and absorbing the wood smoke. 

My plate reads 26. It is delivered by a boy who looks no older than 15, a Monster Energy hat on his head, knock off gold Gucci belt around his waste, dark skinny jeans and flip flops. 'cảm ơn bạn' I say in what is likely the worst Vietnamese accent imaginable. The scrap hunting cats slinking around the restaurant notice me now that a plate of shrimp lie on my table. The smell of garlic is the first thing to hit my nose but more than anything I am hit by the nature of this place. The freedom. The chaos. The stark difference in this meal as compared to the Easter dinner I had last year while sitting around a table in Yosemite. 

Who knows what life will bring next year. I look forward to it. Happy Easter.