speaking in English.
“Hi,” he smiled.
“Phai, sit down! Eat!” said Tung, who was already biting into his second burger. Phai took a seat next to Tung.
Huong, Nga, and I sat down at three empty spots near the kitchen. “Duyen!” Tung yelled from the far end of the table. “Drink Johnnie?”
I didn’t like whiskey, but tonight I took a glass.
We Americans eat our meals very quickly. Even Thanksgiving dinner, which might take eight hours to prepare, can be devoured in twenty minutes. Vietnamese, on the other hand, like to savor their food when they have a chance. On festive occasions, I’d seen men take a bite, stop and talk, take another bite,smoke a cigarette, take another bite, then have another glass of whiskey. A meal like that could last for hours. Tonight, people were laughing and joking as if we were celebrating a holiday, but, for some reason, they rushed through my hamburger and French fries dinner with the speed of a meal at McDonald’s. Maybe there was something about the food itself that didn’t allow for pauses. Within about half an hour, everything on the table had disappeared, except the mustard, which no one liked.
“Ask her how to make that meat,” said Huong’s mother, nudging Nga.
“Duyen, blah blah blah,” said Tung’s mother, nodding enthusiastically.
“ Très bon! ” laughed Huong’s father.
Tung’s father was going through his teeth with a toothpick.
Tung yelled down at me from the other end of the table. “This dinner is vui, ” he said. It was the best compliment I got all night.
I looked at Huong. “What did you think?” I asked. Hers was the only opinion about which I really cared.
Huong had eaten one hamburger and a small bowl of French fries. On top of that, she’d consumed several tomato slices dipped in ketchup. “The meat is good,” she said, agreeing with her mother. “But it’s not good on bread. It would be more delicious over rice.” Then she got up and began clearing dishes. Nga and I stood up to help her. I wasn’t thrilled with Huong’s response, but I told myself that I was making progress.
The party ended pretty quickly after that. While Nga and I cleared, Phai, Tung, and Nga’s husband sat at the far end of the table, smoking cigarettes and sipping Johnnie. Each time I emerged to retrieve another armful of dishes, someone else had gone home. First, Huong’s parents left, then Tung’s, then Tung’s brother, then Phai disappeared as well.
Not a single person had thanked me for the meal. I had long ago noticed, of course, that Vietnamese don’t say “please” and “thank you” nearly as often as Americans do. As I would later learn, it wasn’t for lack of social skills. Rather, with as much logic as an American would use to explain how “thank you” eases the flow of social interaction, a Vietnamese would argue that Americans’ use of such terms is excessive, overly formal, and even cold. The mark of a true friendship, a Vietnamese would say, comes from the ability to expect everything from each other, and to give and receive without comment.
I didn’t know the Vietnamese side to this argument yet, and even if I had, I would have still been disappointed. You only realize how heavily you depend upon the customs of your own culture when you live somewhere that doesn’t follow them. I was raised to say “please” for something as slight as the salt and pepper shakers being passed at the table. My parents had taught me that even “Gesundheit!” deserved warm thanks. As I slowly filled my arms with another set of dishes from the table and walked into the kitchen, I felt unappreciated and ignored. “People don’t say good-bye very often in Vietnam, do they,” I commented to Huong.
Huong looked up at me from the basin of dishes over which she was squatting. She had refused to let me help her wash, and it was only after some arguing that she’d agreed to let me clear the table. “I don’t understand,” she said.
I let it
“Hi,” he smiled.
“Phai, sit down! Eat!” said Tung, who was already biting into his second burger. Phai took a seat next to Tung.
Huong, Nga, and I sat down at three empty spots near the kitchen. “Duyen!” Tung yelled from the far end of the table. “Drink Johnnie?”
I didn’t like whiskey, but tonight I took a glass.
We Americans eat our meals very quickly. Even Thanksgiving dinner, which might take eight hours to prepare, can be devoured in twenty minutes. Vietnamese, on the other hand, like to savor their food when they have a chance. On festive occasions, I’d seen men take a bite, stop and talk, take another bite,smoke a cigarette, take another bite, then have another glass of whiskey. A meal like that could last for hours. Tonight, people were laughing and joking as if we were celebrating a holiday, but, for some reason, they rushed through my hamburger and French fries dinner with the speed of a meal at McDonald’s. Maybe there was something about the food itself that didn’t allow for pauses. Within about half an hour, everything on the table had disappeared, except the mustard, which no one liked.
“Ask her how to make that meat,” said Huong’s mother, nudging Nga.
“Duyen, blah blah blah,” said Tung’s mother, nodding enthusiastically.
“ Très bon! ” laughed Huong’s father.
Tung’s father was going through his teeth with a toothpick.
Tung yelled down at me from the other end of the table. “This dinner is vui, ” he said. It was the best compliment I got all night.
I looked at Huong. “What did you think?” I asked. Hers was the only opinion about which I really cared.
Huong had eaten one hamburger and a small bowl of French fries. On top of that, she’d consumed several tomato slices dipped in ketchup. “The meat is good,” she said, agreeing with her mother. “But it’s not good on bread. It would be more delicious over rice.” Then she got up and began clearing dishes. Nga and I stood up to help her. I wasn’t thrilled with Huong’s response, but I told myself that I was making progress.
The party ended pretty quickly after that. While Nga and I cleared, Phai, Tung, and Nga’s husband sat at the far end of the table, smoking cigarettes and sipping Johnnie. Each time I emerged to retrieve another armful of dishes, someone else had gone home. First, Huong’s parents left, then Tung’s, then Tung’s brother, then Phai disappeared as well.
Not a single person had thanked me for the meal. I had long ago noticed, of course, that Vietnamese don’t say “please” and “thank you” nearly as often as Americans do. As I would later learn, it wasn’t for lack of social skills. Rather, with as much logic as an American would use to explain how “thank you” eases the flow of social interaction, a Vietnamese would argue that Americans’ use of such terms is excessive, overly formal, and even cold. The mark of a true friendship, a Vietnamese would say, comes from the ability to expect everything from each other, and to give and receive without comment.
I didn’t know the Vietnamese side to this argument yet, and even if I had, I would have still been disappointed. You only realize how heavily you depend upon the customs of your own culture when you live somewhere that doesn’t follow them. I was raised to say “please” for something as slight as the salt and pepper shakers being passed at the table. My parents had taught me that even “Gesundheit!” deserved warm thanks. As I slowly filled my arms with another set of dishes from the table and walked into the kitchen, I felt unappreciated and ignored. “People don’t say good-bye very often in Vietnam, do they,” I commented to Huong.
Huong looked up at me from the basin of dishes over which she was squatting. She had refused to let me help her wash, and it was only after some arguing that she’d agreed to let me clear the table. “I don’t understand,” she said.
I let it
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