"Yoh!" The village peanut oil makers take the day off and invite me to join them for a boozy Sunday brunch
I thought I had learned all about Vietnamese food before my trip to Vietnam. Cookbooks and restaurant visits taught me that the Vietnamese are adventurous when it comes to eating: anything that crawls, slithers, grunts, or howls goes into the pot, and is seasoned with whatever grows nearby. I, on the other hand, do not cook in this manner, and have a strong preference for healthy, organic California fare. But learning about local culture and custom does not come from importing your own food or eating Oreos for dinner every day. I already made every effort to dine as the locals do, but I knew that at some point during my travels I’d be at a crossroads—if I were ever expected to eat something really strange, could I chow down on whatever came my way?
I answered this question at the very end of my Central Highlands motorcycle tour. As we had done a dozen times before, my guide and I pulled over in a small village to meet a family that produced peanut oil in a very small, makeshift factory located in their front garden. On that day, though, they didn’t have enough peanuts for work, so the family was instead enjoying the village equivalent to a lazy Sunday brunch.
On my arrival several of the men and the family matriarch were sat around a small metal table in child-sized plastic chairs, enjoying bowls of rice porridge and glasses of rice vodka. My guide passed around cigarettes and chatted with the group, who apologized for the lack of industry that day. In lieu, I was invited to sit with the group for a little while and eat with them if I like, which I’m told was a great honor. I thanked the group and respectfully took a seat—I could not be rude by denying their generosity—and am immediately handed rice crackers with instructions to dig in. After nibbling a small bit of plain cracker I was promptly admonished and shown the right method: the cracker must be slathered with an ominously dark red substance before consumption. Simultaneously the grandfather poured a shot of the rice vodka into a glass that has been produced from who knows where.
Duck blood and rice crackers... open wide!
I turned to my guide and whispered, “What is this and what do I do?” while smiling; the hospitality of this group humbled me greatly. “You are being invited to drink rice vodka with them. And that red stuff is duck blood.” So there it was—my moment of truth. The rice vodka I’d had before. But this time I’d be chasing it with duck blood. “Free range and organic!” my guide joked to me. I stare at it wide eyed and hover my rice cracker above the mixture, which contained bits of meat and flecks of some green herb. In the end honoring my hosts’ kindness won out and I dunked my cracker into the bowl and scooped out a not-so-small helping of the mixture. Duck blood and all, down the hatch. And to my great surprise, it was pretty tasty. If culinary bravery was a game you play while traveling, I’m awarding top points to myself.
The family loved my compliant spirit and within minutes the old woman took me by the hand and guided me indoors, where a larger party had formed. Children brought me bananas as I sat around a larger table on the floor, joining more men and women. My guide translated as they ask every conceivable question about my life. I was vaguely aware of a bowl being brought out and filled with rice porridge, and placed in front of me. Unidentifiable chunks of meat of differing texture and color lay suspended within the tapioca-thick mixture. Undeniably, I would have to eat this too, how could I not? I learn that it is duck; just about every part of it, besides the blood, and the feathers, which I could see were being put to use by the children. There really was no turning back.
These kids ran around making mischief while the family ate and drank
More rice vodka was passed around and we raised our shot glasses with a loud “Yoh!”, the toast in southern Vietnam. The more I ate, the more porridge was put in my bowl—I’d forgotten than an empty bowl means “more please,” instead of “I’m eating this out of respect for whoever cooked the poor creature inside it.” My guide tells me that the family has sent for the scorpion whiskey to be brought out, which is typically reserved for special occasions and honored guests. As it arrived I snuck a glance—several dead scorpions floated dead in the pellucid liquid, disturbed by the movement of the jar. To my surprise my stomach didn’t also move by looking at the new arrival—I’d already had the duck blood, and was managing to keep that down. I must admit that by this point I was also quite drunk. After 6 or 7 (who was counting?) shots of the rice vodka my inhibition was reduced to nil and I probably would’ve eaten anything placed before me. Besides, surely the extra alcohol would kill any residual germs from the duck components I’d already consumed. So there it was—scorpion whiskey, chased by more duck porridge. And again, it wasn’t half bad. I think I even surprised my generous hosts. They laughed in pride, and we all drank more.
The youngster flashes a peace sign while the adults and I talk through a translator
Our translated conversation continued. Once it emerged that my father plays bass guitar in a jazz band, they asked for a song: “Music always runs in the family!” For the first time that day I was truly at a loss; unless it’s over the din at a nightclub, I don’t generally sing. I settled on the only song my inebriated brain could remember—one by my favorite pop artist, Lady Gaga. I sang to the applause of the group, and the old man produced a banjo for the group to sing along with while he played. I felt indoctrinated. I would have quite happily stayed—the family even said that I would learn Vietnamese quickly, since I could already pronounce several phrases expertly. They had no comforts to offer a Westerner though, but for a day of being adopted into this cheerful, kind family I would have quite happily done without.
The entire time I couldn’t believe my luck and privilege to have stumbled into this makeshift party. I was utterly touched by the hospitality this family showed me, a complete stranger and passerby, with little to offer in return—but they seemed to take enough from the fact that they could show an outsider the small pleasures offered by life in the Vietnamese countryside.
The good old arms length photograph with a stranger. Only acceptable when you're drunk, of course.
As I left my thoughts drifted to other tourists who come through Vietnam—the backpackers who stay on the well-worn track up the coast of the country, or the do-it-yourself motorcyclists, neither of whom would have a local guide to introduce them to village life. I thought of my own home—would Americans so willingly bring a non-English speaking foreigner into their homes and offer them food and drink? I left, drunk and happy (and really full), after hugging the entire family and promising to develop and send them pictures I had taken. If I’m ever able to ride up the Ho Chi Minh trail again, I would pay them another visit. Perhaps by that time, I will have learned more Vietnamese. And I would bring offerings from my home, to repay the generosity and kindness they showed toward me.
