A Cook's Tour_ In Search of the Perfect Meal - Anthony Bourdain [113]
Matthew made it out the gate of Eddie’s ranch on two feet with the rest of us, but by the time we were in the car at the end of the dirt drive, he had his head out the window, begging for us to pull over. Now, Matt had, over the last few months and continents, been less than sensitive to my own moments of gastric distress. He had never hesitated to get me to choke down some cinematic but nauseating gleet – even when I was ill – if he’d thought it would make riveting television. He’d never had a problem shooting me sick in bed, crying for relief, crawling toward yet another cold tile floor. So when we pulled over so poor Matt could flop senselessly about in front of the headlights, then crawl into a drainage ditch on his belly, I had his camera in my hands. This was my moment. Payback. Video gold. All I had to do was aim, press the button, and then everyone back in the offices in New York – editors, producers, all of us – could play and replay the comeuppance of my longtime tormentor. The lighting was perfect. It couldn’t have been more dramatic: a deserted country road, total black beyond the narrow circumference of the headlights, a dark canefield in the background. I raised the camera, pointed . . .
I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t have the heart.
We ended up hoisting the poor bastard back into the car, and carrying him to his room later. We took off his shoes. I left his camera and his exposed tape by his side.
When he woke, those would be the first things he’d be looking for.
He’s a professional, after all.
Can Charlie Surf?
I wake up in my room at the Bao Dai Villas, the onetime summer home of the last emperor of Vietnam. I hear reveille out the window, followed by patriotic music at a nearby school, and the sound of children assembling. Rain patters on leaves; roosters crow. Someone is chopping wood on the grounds and there’s the familiar shush of a straw whisk broom sweeping tile. Out on the water, just around the point, a freighter’s engines throb idly in the early-morning mist.
All my clothes are soggy and beset by mosquitoes. I remain under the netting over my bed until I can remember where I put the repellent. There’s a knock on the door. It’s Lydia, wondering if I have any Lomotil. I went alone to Nha Trang beach yesterday, ate whole sea bream with my fingers under a palm tree. Chris ate crab soup at the hotel. He’s deathly ill with food poisoning. Of course I have Lomotil. The traveling chef’s best friend. I give Lydia a few and wish Chris well. I know how he feels. It looks like I’m on my own this morning.
After locating the repellent, I spray down my clothes, find the driest ones I can, and get dressed. There’s a scooter and motorbike rental by the desk, and I pick out the one with the most juice, hop on, then head into town for breakfast. Technically, foreigners aren’t allowed to drive anything over a low-cc putt-putt, but the rental guy didn’t give me any trouble, so in a few minutes, I’ve joined the thick stream of morning cyclists heading in on Nha Trang’s main beachfront drag. It feels great. I’m surrounded on all sides by men and women in their conical hats, whipping by palm trees, a long stretch of white sand and gentle surf to my right, the beach mostly deserted. The Vietnamese are not really beachgoers. Pale skin is seen here – as it is in Cambodia and elsewhere in the East – as an indicator of high status and good family. A lot of money is spent on skin lighteners, acid peels, and various fraudulent and often-harmful procedures intended to make one whiter. Women in Saigon often cover themselves from head to toe to protect themselves from the sun’s rays. So Charlie, it appears,