A Cook's Tour_ In Search of the Perfect Meal - Anthony Bourdain [138]
‘I love everybody,’ she says. ‘You must give love. Give yourself to be success. You love people. They love you back.’ Food arrives at our clean, newly varnished and polished table. Canh ngheu, a tofu and dill soup. Platters of bong bi don thit, crunchy, delicious golden zucchini blossoms that have been stuffed with ground pork and seasonings, then batter-dipped and fried. Cha goi, spring rolls, and rau muong sao toi, flash-sautéed spinach with garlic sauce – an otherworldly bright, bright green. Thit kho tau, a stew of pork and egg in coconut broth, the halved boiled eggs tinged pink around the outer rim of white. Tom kho tau, lobster stewed in coconut and chili, redder than red, the plump tail meat a phosphorescent saffron yellow. Ca bong trung kho to, a whole fish fried and dressed with chili sauce. Dua gia muoi chau, stir-fried baby bok choy. And, of course, lots of com nieu, the wedges of crispy rice cake from which the restaurant takes its name. Everything is as fresh as I’ve seen it anywhere in the world, fresher even. The flavors practically explode on my tongue; the colors shimmer. At the end of the meal, platters of ripe custard apple on ice arrive, accompanied by sliced mangoes, papayas, dragon fruit, and pineapple. I have been Madame Ngoc’s guest three or four times by now, and there is no question in my mind that hers has been the best food I’ve had in the country (this in a country where everything is already fabulous).
Like any really good restaurant lifer, Madame Ngoc’s nervous system is hard-wired to every movement in both kitchen and dining room. She has the ability to sense a full ashtray on the other side of the restaurant, even when far out of view. One moment she’s cooing over Lydia, or teasing Linh for being late to the airport the last time she was in Hanoi, or insisting I try the crab, or worrying over Chris’s stomach – the very next second, she’s giving orders to a shaking but very competent waiter who has somehow managed to displease her, rebuking him in terrifying imperious tones.
Then it’s back to ‘I love you, Chris, Lydia . . . Tony, you happy?’ She places her hand over mine and gives it a pat. When she smiles, it’s a broad, full-body grin. And I want to hug her like a beloved aunt. She’s a cross between a Jewish mother and the head of the Genovese crime family, driven, relentless, smotheringly affectionate, dangerous, warm, complicated and attentive. Though very concentrated on money – and things – she has rarely, if ever, allowed us to pay for anything.
She’s strong. She can be hard. She can be cold. But on our way out the door after dinner, as we say goodbye for the last time to our new best friend in Saigon, her face collapses and she bursts into tears. As our car pulls away, she is sobbing, her hand brushing the glass in a combination wave and caress.
New Year’s Eve in Saigon is a jumbo-sized version of the song tu do, the weekend ritual of cruising downtown Saigon, circling the fountain at the intersection of Le Loi and Nguyen Hue boulevards. It’s the Vietnamese equivalent of low-riding or cruising down Sunset Strip; thousands – tonight, hundreds of thousands – of young Vietnamese, dressed in their best button-down shirts, freshly laundered slacks, dresses, and ao dais, drive in perpetual slow-moving circles through the downtown city streets. They are going nowhere in particular. They don’t stop. There is no place to stop anyway. Every inch of Saigon seems filled, tire-to-tire, with motos and scooters. It takes twenty minutes to cross the street.
My plan