Let's Eat

Making a selection

Escargot and Clams

and Crab too!

 

                 Last night we went to the night market to see if there were food stalls and to get something to eat. 

                “You pick.”  This is getting to be a common refrain from Rebecca.  We were standing in front of an outdoor combination restaurant/food cart.  It had definitely started as a food cart, with all the cooking going on out front, but had clearly grown, and had expanded its small metal tables and plastic chairs under tent and lights to accommodate a proper gaggle of tourists.  The menu-eagerly thrust under my eyes, was thick with images and loaded with western and Chinese options—as well as some Vietnamese staples. 

                “Let’s look around.”  Something about trying to do everything—which this restaurant clearly had down, was off-putting.  I’m sure it was just fine, but it was trying just a bit too hard to make things easy and safe for the tourists who wanted, well, easy and safe. Which is fine.  But the emphasis seemed more on getting our seats into a seat than in generating something special and/or unique.  I figured there was probably something more interesting in the neighborhood.  “What about this street?”  We turned off the main selling area into a wide walking street crowded with shops and people on bikes selling coffee and toys and junk.  The shops were mostly high dollar, and I started to think maybe we should just head back to the big tent when I spied a little something going on under a frayed awning. 

                Rather, I spied some one going on. A wizened old lady was squatting over a cement and steel bucket (of which this place is loaded) which held a charcoal fire with a grate.  On the grate were an assortment of crabs, oysters on the half shell, mussels and snails.  She was yakking up a storm, and within the shop were various souls sitting on tiny plastic stools at kid-sized plastic tables, eating seafood and drinking beer.  It was packed and noisy with various women running around with plates of food.  Fully half the tiny dining space was devoted to cooking and cleaning.  It all looked filthy and wonderful, but clearly too full for our white asses, and, what’s more, there was a couple waiting.

                “I don’t suppose you’d like to try there?”  I didn’t really think Rebecca would go for it.  She’s getting game, but this was a bit of a push.  Then: “Maybe…” 

                We walked up to one of the whirling women.  “You want food?”  “Yes.  Two.  How long?”  I looked at the other couple (French, as we soon learned…on their way back to Paris) and shrugged.  The woman said nothing, and I wasn’t sure she heard.  She then turned and snapped out a command to someone in the back, who magically produced two more toy-sized tables and four stools. They hurriedly plopped them down onto the sidewalk next to grandma, who was rattling on a blue streak of commands and wielding her magic ways over the hissing fire. Suddenly, we were seated.  Now what?

                Clearly, this was not a menu/hostess/maitre-d kind of place.  But I needn’t worry.  The woman I first approached was clearly the general in command, and she beckoned me and the French dude to a side table, which was groaning under the weight of various crustaceans.  “You try this.  And this.  What you think, you like this?”  I said yes to everything she suggested, sat back down, and gave Rebecca a shrug.  “What did you order?”  “Beats the hell out of me.  But I’m thinking it’s going to be interesting.”

                And it was.  Slathered in oil and smoke and chilies and peanuts…the dishes kept coming, along with little sides of various spices and oils.  Our savior field general periodically popped in to quietly dip a spoon into a dish and sprinkle one of the plates with a fragrant sauce.  Like she was teaching her children how to eat.  And we dug in like kids.  Stupid, hungry kids.  Lovely.