Table For Eight Billion

[Krong Buk, Vietnam on 3/25/19]

Yesterday in Pakse, I lived indulgently, luxuriously and, I must admit, rather obscenely. I ate too well. No man, though, can be expected to survive on dog tails, chicken testicles and snail earlobes alone. Every so often, he must avail himself to the best of what the gods make available.

My day started modestly enough with a 57-cent plate of bánh cuốn. Showing up at around 5:30AM, I was, as usual, the lady’s first customer. In northern Vietnam, they dip each roll into the dipping sauce. In the south, they pour all of it onto the bánh cuốn. This, I did very shamelessly, to the horrors, I imagine, of the bánh cuốn seller, a northerner.

Lunch was when I went crazy. Though I had walked by Subinh Hotel many times, I never wandered in. It just looked too fancy. My portrait of Pakse or Laos would be misleading if I avoided finer venues. Yes, I’ve mentioned Dok Mai Lao Trattoria Italiana, but Subinh seemed even more uppity. Next to it is a bespoke tailor.

Entering, I noticed a bar but no barstools, upholstered chairs with armrests and a wall of French wines, with some Spanish thrown in. Opening the menu, I ignored its varieties of bordeaux, merlot, riesling and cabernet sauvignon. An incorrigible peasant, I ordered Beerlao. They also had Chivas Regal, Rémy Martin, Hennessy, Johnny Walker and Martell XO, the last going for $298 a bottle. I’ll order that when I feel like committing suicide.

Food prices were very reasonable, I gladly discovered. There were many entrees for under $5. Their names, though, were alarming. There were “spicy frong,” “touching fish tea,” “black pepper in the cow,” “chop the fore vegetable with red water,” “spicy cucum salad with egg” and “spicy the beans,” etc. It’s remarkable that after spending so much on their building and decor, they didn’t bother to hire a native English speaker to proof their menu. When it’s not your language, though, “black pepper in the cow” sounds just about perfect. What else would you call it?

Luckily, there was a photo of each dish, so I ordered “oyster” and “poached fish.” The tab for my food plus a large bottle of beer was just $8.65, or less than the price of a quarter pounder with cheese meal in the USA. At $2.86, my oyster was a giant baby that came with hot chili pepper, crispy red onion, raw lemongrass, Luang Prabang chili paste and some spicy, tangy green sauce. That’s a lot of seasoning to mask that bracingly raw digestible cunnilingus. Moreover, eating raw oysters connects us to our remotest ancestors.

Felipe Fernández-Armesto:

Australian aboriginals guzzle witjuti grubs, seized from gum trees, plump with half-digested wood pulp in their guts. Nenets chomp the living lice lifted from their own bodies “like candy.” Nuer lovers are said to show mutual affection by feeding each other lice freshly plucked from their heads. Masai drink blood squeezed from wounds in live cattle. Ethiopians like honeycombs with the young larvae still alive in the chambers. And we have oysters.

So who eats at Subinh? During my visit, there was a party of 14 Vietnamese tourists, including three children, then three Laos came in.

High on a wall, there was a framed photo of Kaysone Phomvihane with Ho Chi Minh, so Commie leaders gracing a privileged setting. In real life, too, this happens, predictably.

At Siena’s best restaurant, La Taverna di San Giuseppe, I saw at least one framed photo of Vo Nguyen Giap, for he had dined there. More recently, Vietnam’s Minister of Public Security, Tô Lâm, caused outrage when he was photographed eating a gold laminated steak in London that cost well over a thousand bucks. Earlier in the day, he had laid a wreath at Karl Marx’ grave.

Walking by Subinh, I often see no one in there, so they’re not doing great. Before Covid, a place like this in Saigon, Hanoi or Bangkok would have been packed. Along with peak travel, we’ve also reached peak eating, I’m afraid.

Quantity and variety of food will diminish for most people, but for now, most eateries in Pakse are still busy. Orientals don’t just love to eat, but feel a constant need to eat publicly in bright eateries, often festive, especially at night.

After Subinh, I went to Coffee Saigon to watch Vietnam U-23 against Indonesia U-23. I wanted to experience it among people. In Italy, Albania and Mexico, etc., I’ve also made a point of watching soccer among strangers.

Despite an own goal and down one man, Indonesia still beat Vietnam 3-2, with the decisive score in the 92nd minute. Vietnam played like shit, in short. Despite all this, the mood among five men and two women at Coffee Saigon was festive, with constant laughter. Food and beer was shared, with one man briefly leaving to buy beef cube salad, bò lúc lắc, for everybody.

After Vietnam’s miserable performance, Leeds United vs. Newcastle came on. In the 90’s when wretched poverty was still widespread in Vietnam, people would marvel at European soccer matches, because everything, players, fans, pitch and stadium, looked so impressive. In 2023, they still do. Few Vietnamese suspect there’s anything amiss outside these staged spectacles.

Take Detroit. Its newly built football and baseball stadia are gorgeous, and you’re safe driving in from the suburbs to enjoy a game, then enjoy a few beers afterward at a nearby sports bar even. If you feel like taking a leisurely stroll for a mile or so after an afternoon game, it’s best to call your wife and kids to say goodbye and ask for their forgiveness.

Since it costs $150 to see a Premiership match, its crowd is not at all representative of the UK population, but that’s what foreigners most often see as “the English.” Those who must buy grocery on credit or frequent soup kitchen aren’t likely to be so presentable, let us say.

To end my evening, I popped into Dok Mai Lao for a “Regina Pizza” for $8.59. On a thin crust, there was olive oil, tomato sauce, mozzarella, Parma ham, parmigiano and porcini mushroom, laid in that order. Seeing a photo of it, a reader remarks that it “looks alien.” Only to Americans, I reply.

Drinking a small Beerlao, Coredo the owner stopped at my table for a chat. What he misses most about Italy are the conversations, he said. Otherwise, he’s very happy here. In Laos a decade, he’s seen its darker side, of some children having too much demanded of them, leading to suicide even.

I already knew about Pakse’s “debt canceling bridge,” due to the people who have jumped off it.

At 6 per 100,000, Laos’ suicide rate ranks well below that of Russia (21.6), South Korea (21.2), United States (14.5) or Japan (12.2). Nine of the ten worst are in Sub-Saharan Africa, with Lesotho at a horrifying 87.5.

It’s curious that Coredo the food connoisseur often gets his breakfast at a dumpy, 24-hour Vietnamese joint. Its homemade egg noodles with pork, duck, chicken or beef are lovingly prepared, though. It’s no jive garbage pitched with a jingle.

Or just bullshit, “It’s scientifically true eight slices of Wonder Bread contain as much iron as in three lamb chops. Sammy’s mother sure likes Wonder Bread. It’s so fresh. Remember Wonder Bread helps build strong bodies eight ways.” Trust the science, see? With this logic, you can add vitamins and irons to a cowpie and call it nutritious.

This morning, I extended my day of indulgence with a visit to La Boulange, where I had an excellent baguette with Emmental, ham and butter for about $4.50. Bread is baked on site. Ham is made by a German in Don Det (three hours away). Cheese and butter are imported.

Molière, “One must live to eat and not eat to live,” so go grab something honest to chow on. It doesn’t have to be expensive. For many dinners in Pakse, I was more than content with a paté bánh mì for just 57 pennies, because it’s true.

Food is love, not just from human to human, but God to humanity. We’re not just talking about raw ingredients here, but the care and creativity decent food requires.

A Vietnamese word for native land is “quê hương,” meaning aromas of home or one’s native village. Though food is not mentioned, it’s clearly implied, for the smells of phở, grilled pork and shrimp paste, etc., are what all Vietnamese grow up with. There are many restaurants called Quê Hương, including those in San Diego, Westminster, San Jose, Paris, Berlin and Tokyo.

Sending pleasant smells to all creatures and towards the heavens, cooking itself is prayer.

The world enters us through the mouth. In this sickest of eras, we are even forced to block that vital channel and intercourse. Laughter is muffled. From eating together, we now sit alone in the dark, chewing perfunctorily and tasting nothing. Retreating underground, we hoard our misery.

In Pakse, I say no, thank you.

Again, it is dawn, my favorite time of day, so I’ll get to enjoy another plate of bánh cuốn, then two glasses of coffee with condensed milk, plus free glasses of tea, a standard feature in Vietnamese cafés. Around me, conversations will swirl.

Though live human voices and laughter are essential, not everyone knows this, weirdly enough, so they go mad.

In a distant land, random attacks have become common, I hear. Stocking shelves, a female store clerk is suddenly stabbed by a unknown man, who thusted at her eight more times, even as she lay on the floor. Each day, there are bizarre stories coming from that madhouse, but it’s normal for them, apparently. Stoically, cheerfully or even militantly, they welcome the insane.

I can already taste my bánh cuốn, so ciao, ciao, adios and goodbye!

[breakfast at Arnold’s in Cape Town, South Africa on 8/11/21]

[fettuccine with pesto, cherry tomatoes, mushroom and walnut at OO Pasta in Bangkok on 12/31/22]

[Country Restaurant in Waegwan, South Korea on 5/28/20]

[Istanbul on 10/28/20]