chalk in the cookâs barely legible scrawl on a chalkboard fixed to the bulkhead. The next two hours were filled with any number of menial tasks in preparation for the onslaught to come. Wilson lit pilot lights, sharpened knives, chopped onions and a dozen other vegetables, beat eggs, gutted fish, shelled shrimp, deboned chicken, tenderized cuts of pork and beef with a leather mallet, and threw all the scraps out to sea for the sharks following in the vesselâs wake.
At 7:00 A.M . exactly, Nguyen appeared, wearing a spotless white double-breasted chefâs jacket and improbably tall chefâs hat, and the real work began on the
menu du jour
, usually Vietnamese in character: On a typical morning, they made spring rolls, lemon chicken, shrimp curry, barbecued spareribs, cinnamon beef, Saigon fish soup, scallion pancakes, boiled dumplings, twice-cooked porkâthese just a sampling of the complicated dishes that could easily exhaust the entire repertoire of a good-sized Vietnamese restaurant back home. Ackerman had become addicted to the subtle cuisine of Indo-China while serving in the Quartermaster Corps during the War.
Wilsonâs job was more like battle than cooking. The little cook barked orders and darted around as if he were under artillery fire at Khe Sanh. The galley was a tight, airless corridor squeezed between the ready room and the forward hold. Stainless steel gas burners, a convection oven, and a refrigerator filled half the narrow space; small as he was, Nguyen managed to fill the other half with the force of his personality. He looked about thirty-eight but was probably closer to sixty, his skin brown and thick as an animal hide, after the manner of men who have spent too much time out of doors. A long,ragged scar bisected his left eyebrow; the back of his right hand showed a faded tattoo of the Legionâs five-pointed bomb insignia, surmounted by the regimental motto
Marche ou Crève
.
To the natural peevishness of the chef, Nguyen added the career soldierâs love of discipline. He had learned his trade from the French in the days before Dien-Bien-Phu, had cooked for a Foreign Legion regimental mess, then for the American Army before Ackerman found him in a restaurant in Saigon. His chefâs whites didnât seem to suit him. Wilson saw the man squatting in the jungle in camouflage and khaki, Sten gun slung over one shoulder.
Of course Wilson could do nothing right. He diced and deboned too slow, couldnât sauté an onion, didnât even know how to scrub pots properly.
âI think you raised by a family of stupids, joe!â Nguyen screamed at Wilson on his first day as cookâs assistant. âHow you get cook license? You listen too much Buffalo Springfield, I think! And Mr. Jimi Hendrix! I think you smoke Mary Jane before work and you hear rock and roll banging around your head when you supposed to concentrate on food! Purple Haze in your brain right now, yes?â
The cook had received the impression during the Vietnam War that Americans spent most of their time doing drugs and listening to loud music. Not only had these vices lost the U.S. a sure victory, Nguyen insisted, but they continued to foul up the lives of Americans everywhere.
âIn States you all a bunch of drugged-out stupids wearing headphones,â the cook said. âItâs amazing you can still take a piss without messing your pants!â Wilson tried to argue with him, but soon learned to keep his mouth shut. These theories, based on firsthand experience, circa 1967, were now set in stone. No amount of rational argument could break them down. Besides, there was just enough truth in what the cook said to dull Wilsonâs enthusiasm. He remembered all too well the bright eccentric kids in high school who blew their minds out on bong-hits and Thai stick, and ended updumb and impotent or dead or worseâsorting packages on the line for the postal service for the rest of their
At 7:00 A.M . exactly, Nguyen appeared, wearing a spotless white double-breasted chefâs jacket and improbably tall chefâs hat, and the real work began on the
menu du jour
, usually Vietnamese in character: On a typical morning, they made spring rolls, lemon chicken, shrimp curry, barbecued spareribs, cinnamon beef, Saigon fish soup, scallion pancakes, boiled dumplings, twice-cooked porkâthese just a sampling of the complicated dishes that could easily exhaust the entire repertoire of a good-sized Vietnamese restaurant back home. Ackerman had become addicted to the subtle cuisine of Indo-China while serving in the Quartermaster Corps during the War.
Wilsonâs job was more like battle than cooking. The little cook barked orders and darted around as if he were under artillery fire at Khe Sanh. The galley was a tight, airless corridor squeezed between the ready room and the forward hold. Stainless steel gas burners, a convection oven, and a refrigerator filled half the narrow space; small as he was, Nguyen managed to fill the other half with the force of his personality. He looked about thirty-eight but was probably closer to sixty, his skin brown and thick as an animal hide, after the manner of men who have spent too much time out of doors. A long,ragged scar bisected his left eyebrow; the back of his right hand showed a faded tattoo of the Legionâs five-pointed bomb insignia, surmounted by the regimental motto
Marche ou Crève
.
To the natural peevishness of the chef, Nguyen added the career soldierâs love of discipline. He had learned his trade from the French in the days before Dien-Bien-Phu, had cooked for a Foreign Legion regimental mess, then for the American Army before Ackerman found him in a restaurant in Saigon. His chefâs whites didnât seem to suit him. Wilson saw the man squatting in the jungle in camouflage and khaki, Sten gun slung over one shoulder.
Of course Wilson could do nothing right. He diced and deboned too slow, couldnât sauté an onion, didnât even know how to scrub pots properly.
âI think you raised by a family of stupids, joe!â Nguyen screamed at Wilson on his first day as cookâs assistant. âHow you get cook license? You listen too much Buffalo Springfield, I think! And Mr. Jimi Hendrix! I think you smoke Mary Jane before work and you hear rock and roll banging around your head when you supposed to concentrate on food! Purple Haze in your brain right now, yes?â
The cook had received the impression during the Vietnam War that Americans spent most of their time doing drugs and listening to loud music. Not only had these vices lost the U.S. a sure victory, Nguyen insisted, but they continued to foul up the lives of Americans everywhere.
âIn States you all a bunch of drugged-out stupids wearing headphones,â the cook said. âItâs amazing you can still take a piss without messing your pants!â Wilson tried to argue with him, but soon learned to keep his mouth shut. These theories, based on firsthand experience, circa 1967, were now set in stone. No amount of rational argument could break them down. Besides, there was just enough truth in what the cook said to dull Wilsonâs enthusiasm. He remembered all too well the bright eccentric kids in high school who blew their minds out on bong-hits and Thai stick, and ended updumb and impotent or dead or worseâsorting packages on the line for the postal service for the rest of their
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