by Di Morrissey
‘Hung!’ She waved and ran a few steps. But if he saw her he gave no indication and she realised he couldn’t hear her over the noisy motor.
‘Hey, let’s walk off lunch and hit the tailor,’ said Sandy, adjusting her dark glasses.
Anna turned and walked back. ‘I just saw Hung. You know, from the junk on Halong Bay. What do you suppose he’s doing down here?’
Sandy shrugged. ‘This is a tourist town. Chasing business. Who knows? Come on; let’s do the clothes bit.’
In the Miss Rose Silk Shop the girls were draped in lengths of fabric, and rivers of satin and silk were unrolled along the big table in the centre of the tiny shop.
‘No, no, I don’t want to look at the picture books, thanks,’ laughed Anna. ‘Just copy these clothes in these materials.’
‘You so pretty, so pretty,’ began one of the girls, stroking Sandy’s blonde hair. But when she smilingly answered in Vietnamese the shop girls became more businesslike.
Finally they agreed on the outfits and fabrics and measurements were taken.
The girl who was measuring Anna gave her an appraising glance. ‘You wear ao-dai?’ She pronounced it ao-zai.
Anna shook her head. ‘No, not for me. Nowhere to wear it,’ she added as she eyed the green satin trousers and long patterned green silk tunic top of the ao-dai the seamstress was wearing.
‘You can wear. You Viet Kieu, more better. Not like . . .’ she angled her head towards two weighty German ladies who were trying on the classical ao-dais they’d had made.
Anna nodded in agreement. While it was a flattering garment for slim Vietnamese women, it didn’t look as graceful on the lumpy European women.
‘This one special for Vietnamese lady. You very beautiful; you try.’
Sandy overheard the conversation. ‘Great idea, Anna. Go on, get one. Surprise your father.’
‘Oh, and where will I wear it? To a fancy dress ball and go as a Vietnamese?’ said Anna, but there was no humour in her tone.
‘Lighten up, Anna . . . it’s the world’s most sensual outfit, if you ask me. God, Ralph Lauren and any number of designers have used the ao-dai style in collections. I have one I wear on occasions here. I just wish I looked as good in it as the local girls. Curves and blonde hair don’t do it justice.’
An older woman glided towards them. She wore the darker colours of a married woman – deep violet tunic and black silk trousers, her long hair twisted on top of her head. Her tunic top had the popular raglan-cut sleeves that buttoned on the diagonal on one shoulder, different from the other neckline styles which Anna had noticed. This ao-dai had a slightly scooped neckline that showed a heavy gold necklace. Like all ao-dai, the tunic’s split extended above her waist – showing a flash of flesh above the trouser waistband. The full pants almost touched the floor and the tunic sections floated about her as she moved. The bodice hugged her breasts and rib cage, showing off her narrow body.
She smiled and took Anna’s hands and in perfect English said quietly. ‘I am Madame Nguyen; this is my silk shop. To wear the ao-dai, it must be fitted correctly. You are married?’ When Anna shook her head, she went on, ‘Pastel colours for a young unmarried woman. The school-girls wear white and older ladies like me, dark colours.’
‘No dark colours for me?’ asked Anna, who’d never thought of herself as a pastel person.
‘On rainy days,’ smiled Madame Nguyen. ‘Now choose best quality material. Modern girls are so busy, they like synthetic, no iron. For you, nice silk. Heavy one, yes?’
Madame Nguyen was gentle but persuasive and, before she knew it, Anna was holding a pale cream and a rich chocolate silk fabric up to her body. Madame Nguyen turned her around to face the mirror.
‘Dark trousers, and the milk-coloured tunic shows off your skin and eyes. This is the one for you.’
And so Anna paid the deposit on her clothes and on two shirts for Carlo as a surprise. She’d packed one of his favourite shirts to have copied even though he had dismissed the idea of having clothes made in Asia, as he considered nothing matched Italian tailoring.
Sandy had ordered pants, shirts and a skirt.
Well satisfied with their afternoon they set out for their hotel and another swim.
‘Did you notice the jewellery, the rings, that Madame Nguyen was wearing?’ said Anna, as they walked from the shop.
‘How could you miss them? They were serious rocks. She mentioned she had more than one silk shop. Must be money in it,’ answered Sandy. ‘What did you make of her?’
‘I liked her at first, but then I started to feel she was a bit like a snake. Her kind of lazy, slithering movement, hissy voice, those sharp eyes, the shiny clothes, glittery jewellery. If I was a man in bed with her I wouldn’t shut my eyes in case she wound around me and strangled me.’
Sandy burst out laughing. ‘Anna! My god. She’s a shrewd businesswoman, that’s all. I bet she has smart private clients. Now I’ll check out the cooking schools. You book us into the spa for a massage or a facial,’ said Sandy. ‘It’s a quarter the price of home.’
Sandy chose the Blue Gate Cooking School. ‘It’s all morning. Then we get to eat what we make. We go to the markets, buy the ingredients, then get a shuttle bus to the school – it’s an old place on the river that’s been kitted out with kitchen, big tables, a deck – sounds nice. There’ll be about fifteen of us. We have to meet at the Blue Gate Cafe in the Ancient Quarter at nine.’
*
Those in the cooking group were tourists from all over. Anna and Sandy were glad they weren’t the only young people. The older couples had been to Vietnam before and were keen to show off their knowledge to the first timers. With notebooks, water bottles, cameras, shady hats and shopping bags the group trailed out of the cafe to walk to the markets, led by Mr Bach and Miss Tan.
‘Feels like a school outing, doesn’t it?’ smiled a young American woman walking beside Sandy and Anna.
By the time they reached the small streets leading into the food market, Anna and Sandy had learned that Josie, the American woman, and her husband, Trent, came from New Jersey and were on their honeymoon. An older English couple had always wanted to visit the Orient, while two German ladies were on their third trip.
The side streets around the main market were jammed with people looking at the overflowing stalls, people selling from mats and baskets on the streets, or wandering vendors, mostly women, with a shoulder pole bent with the weight of a basket at either end filled with fresh produce or homemade delicacies.
It was mid morning and the market had been in full swing since sunrise. As Mr Bach explained, ‘Vietnam is a nation of markets, daily ones, some speciality ones and others that happen once a year for a big festival like Tet.’
‘Many recipes are kept secret, passed down for generations,’ Miss Tan said. ‘Some are given only to sons as daughters might give them to their in-laws.’ She went on to explain that the rituals around food bind families together. ‘Traditions, whether it be food used in ceremonies, for worship, or eaten at certain events and times of the year, unite us. Flavours, recipes and ingredients might vary from the north to the south, but the memories of certain dishes prepared by family, or an old woman at a stall in a market, or at a certain favourite eatery, last through life.’
‘I love the markets,’ said Sandy. ‘When I first arrived I used to go with one of the local girls from the office. I’m still learning what all the different things are. So much of it is seasonal and local to various areas.’
‘Do you cook much?’ asked Anna, rather surprised. Sandy wasn’t known for her culinary skills.
‘Just the basics! You know me. So many dishes here take hours or days to prepare.’
They were led in a straggling group into the big covered market area. Cameras and notebooks came out to record details of vegetables, dried spices, pickled food, brightly coloured mounds of rice and a variety of noodles.
‘It’s an art show,’ declared Anna.
Women crouched on sto
ols or sat on plank beds before their displays of foods, which were artistically arranged on trays, in bowls or in cones of colour. Dressed in cotton pyjamas, they gossiped loudly as they bundled beans and leaf plants, or sifted seeds, lentils or dried foods by tossing and shaking them on a fine bamboo tray or sieve. Some giggled and flashed welcoming smiles when the group stopped before them, while others turned shyly away from the cameras.
Rainbow fruits – small bananas, longans, persimmons, tangerines, pomelos, starfruit, mangoes, kumquats, dragonfruit and huge watermelons – all looked mouth-watering in the heat. There were gasps and groans as they passed through the meat section where pigs’ heads and trotters, and chunks of raw and bleeding flesh were laid out on slabs or hung from hooks, exposed to flies and dust.
They stepped carefully on the wet floors as they sloshed into the seafood area close to a canal where small fishing boats, sampans and canoes were tied up. Fishing baskets were piled high and spread in front of every seller were tubs and plastic buckets full of wriggling, squirming, flapping fish and eels. Live crabs and large shrimp were tied in mournful bundles. Bowls of tiny school fish and freshly cleaned fish were laid out ready to cook.
Miss Tan picked through the fish while Mr Bach chose small crabs and mussels, which were ladled into plastic bags. As the two instructors consulted their list of ingredients, Anna took a photo but turned when a voice hailed Sandy.
‘Bonjour! Such a surprise. Nice to see you again, Sandy.’
‘Jean-Claude! What are you doing here?’ Sandy laughed. ‘I was just thinking of you as I looked at those shrimp – are they safe to eat?’
Anna glanced at Sandy as the good-looking Frenchman came towards them.
‘They’re still alive, so fresh. Unfortunately for them.’ He grinned at Anna. ‘I am Jean-Claude. I met Sandy a few days ago.’
‘When Kim and I went to the shrimp farm,’ explained Sandy to Anna and then made the introductions. ‘Anna Fine, Jean-Claude Petiere.’
Anna shook hands. ‘Ah, the shrimp doctor. Sandy told me about the problems with the shrimp farms. Are you working here in Hoi An?’
‘Danang. But I have been visiting a few farms around this area. How long are you here for?’
‘A couple of days. I’m showing Anna around and visiting an orphanage. We thought we’d go over to Hue as well.’
‘Would you both like to join me for dinner this evening?’ he asked with a warm gesture of open hands.
Sandy glanced at Anna, who smiled agreement. ‘Well, that would be lovely. We’re staying out at the River Resort.’
‘I’m at The Royal. They have a very nice ocean-side terrace and it’s close to your end of town. Say seven o’clock?’
‘Wonderful. We’ll see you there, then,’ said Sandy. ‘Here’s my mobile number in case there’s a problem.’
‘There won’t be.’ Jean-Claude tucked Sandy’s card in his pocket and for a moment Anna thought of Carlo and his regular text messages and suddenly missed hearing from him. Jean-Claude grinned at Anna. ‘Enjoy your cooking course.’
‘Thank you. I look forward to seeing you tonight,’ said Anna.
‘Au revoir. Until this evening.’ He swung through the market and Sandy and Anna hastily followed their group to the shuttle bus waiting to drive them to their cooking school.
They teamed up with Josie and Trent, the American couple, for the cooking demonstration and participation. While Sandy drew the line at turning tomatoes into a perfect rose or a carrot into a swan, Anna enjoyed everything, from preparing dishes in fine detail to learning customs associated with serving food.
Mr Bach gave some additional social commentary. ‘Since Doi Moi – the renovation of the country that began in 1986 – there has been a return to our traditional customs and values, like religion and many food rituals.’ He gave a small smile. ‘The new rich people want to have big weddings and funeral banquets like in the old days.’
Following Miss Tan’s deft hands and swift instructions the group learned to prepare rice noodles with grilled pork rolled in sweet spices, fried spring rolls, steamed shrimp pancakes, noodle and crab soup topped with tangy mint, green papaya salad and sweet rice cakes. A lot of the food preparation had been done in advance but the three hours flew by quickly.
‘Now is the best part – we eat,’ said Mr Bach.
On the large verandah of the old house that overlooked the river, the western tables and chairs had been pushed to one side and woven mats were set on the floor with four tiny stools at each corner. Large trays, bowls and chopsticks were set out and everyone chose a seat.
‘I’ll never get off this darn thing without help,’ laughed a heavy American woman as she lowered herself onto the tiny plastic seat.
‘Sit on the floor if you prefer. Or perhaps a cushion,’ suggested Miss Tan. ‘We sit at the four corners of the mat and the food is placed in the centre on the tray – usually an even number of dishes for luck. Rice is served by the mother or the first daughter-in-law.’
Serving chopsticks were placed on each dish and everyone helped themselves, putting small portions into their bowls and adding chilli paste or nuoc mam, the fish sauce that Vietnamese use liberally on nearly every dish.
‘Families like to eat together; it is a tradition. We help ourselves to each dish but it is polite to serve food to others,’ said Mr Bach.
Sandy leaned over and dropped a portion of spring roll onto Anna’s rice. ‘Nice custom, eh? Did you write down the recipes?’
‘I did. I’ll try some of them out on Carlo when I get home. Such healthy food. But I’m not going to eat much tonight!’
They dressed up for dinner with Jean-Claude. Both had treated themselves to a massage and facial, and so they drifted up the white stone steps of The Royal into the marble foyer feeling very relaxed.
‘Wow, this is certainly five-star,’ said Anna as she looked around at the antique furniture, the exquisite flower arrangements, the beautiful women staff in ao-dais, the expensive boutiques. Through the colonnades that led to the upper terrace they could see palm trees and a stretch of blue ocean gleaming in the sunset.
‘Look at that view!’ exclaimed Anna.
‘I could learn to love this lifestyle,’ declared Sandy.
‘Hello there. How lovely you both look.’ Jean-Claude strode towards them.
Both girls stared at him, breaking into smiles at the sight of the tall and handsome Frenchman in white linen pants and a pale blue shirt slightly revealing a tanned chest. His hair was damp and as he kissed each of them on the cheek they caught the scent of a fresh tangy citrus aftershave.
He was good company and after champagne aperitifs they moved to the sheltered lower garden terrace where trees were floodlit, frangipani flowers carpeted the grass and candles fluttered on the elegant tables set discreetly apart.
Over dinner they talked about the challenges of working in a foreign country.
‘Something I’ll also be able to experience,’ said Anna. Then they told him about running Barney’s Bar for two weeks.
‘Is there no end to your talents? I shall be sure to stop by, of course.’
‘What about you, Jean-Claude? Who do you work for?’ asked Anna.
Jean-Claude expertly eased an escargot from its shell. ‘I work for a private company. At the moment I answer to the head office back in France, but within the country we have local staff and I attend monthly staff meetings in each office, and we also have a series of meetings on program management and program quality so staff can share what they are doing in various sectors. How does HOPE work, Sandy?’ he asked.
‘HOPE is quite hierarchical. Our accountability is not just to our donors, but most importantly to our partners and beneficiaries. Cherie Mitchell, our director, reports directly back to Canberra.’
‘Sandy, you don’t work with HOPE any more,’ Anna reminded her.
Jean-Claude laughed and held up his wine glass for a toast. ‘To your next life, Sandy! What will it be? Your own restaurant?’
/> ‘Good Lord, no! I have no idea. Except it won’t be a desk job. Or in hospitality. Barney’s is strictly a favour and a bit of fun.’
‘And you, Anna?’ asked Jean-Claude.
‘Oh, my life seems very boring compared to you two. A desk job, a steady boyfriend, future all mapped out.’
‘Says who?’ retorted Sandy.
‘Have you not found being here, making connections with your heritage . . . interesting?’ asked Jean-Claude.
Anna looked away from his intense green eyes. ‘Yes, interesting. As all tourists find it, I’m sure.’
‘What about you, Jean-Claude? How do you find Vietnam?’ asked Sandy suddenly to change the subject. Everyone was always keen to hear a Viet Kieu story.
Jean-Claude gave Sandy a swift glance and lifted the bottle of wine to refill their glasses while he decided how to answer her direct question. He put down the bottle and twirled the stem of his glass. ‘I have a connection with this country too. My maternal grandfather lived here and worked for the French administration. My mother lived here when she was very little but left before World War Two broke out. I was born in France but grew up in a house filled with Vietnamese furniture, art and photos. We had a Vietnamese maid who cooked Vietnamese food.’ He paused. ‘Because my family were part of the colonial regime, I feel a great bond with this place.’
‘Is that why you feel you have to help the country? What business is your family in now?’ asked Sandy.
