Phu was clearly troubled. He picked up his phone and punched in a number. “They not answer! Is land line, maybe not use.” He frowned and looked to his computer screen.
We were in the lobby area of our hotel, Phu behind the desk. At issue was a little place he knew of where we could get some fresh seafood—snails, mussels, scallops, oysters—to pick up and eat back at the hotel. Slowly it was coming out (Phu’s English is good. Not great. Good.) that this place basically is open until the food’s gone. And Phu was worried we may already be too late. Thus the effort to phone them. This, plus his nagging concern that as soon as we jumped on his bike and went to the place, his boss would show up and see Phu had abandoned his post at the front desk, which, in a hotel, is kind of a bad thing.
“Maybe it’s best to wait until five,” I ventured. “I don’t want you getting into trouble,” He seemed to consider this, all the while scanning the computer screen, looking for some hidden information he might have missed. “Is OK!” he said. “No trouble! Maybe Madame stay here and help if people come in?” Madame, in this case, would be the lovely Rebecca.
“Sure! She'd be happy to help out..." Suddenly Phu picked up his phone and began punching in numbers. "I find new number!" Soon he was deep into an animated conversation with someone on the other end, his voice rising and falling, stopping and looping around in a guttural, melodious dance of words.
When he hung up, he was smiling. “They have! We go!” Four simple words never sounded so sweet. “But what about your boss?” I asked. “Should we wait?”
“”He not here now, maybe not come.” Clearly Phu was in the risk-taking frame of mind, and really, who am I to argue?
We puttered down the alley into its depths, as opposed to toward the main street, as I expected. “Is short cut?” I asked. “Yes, is way.” OK.
I made note of how this whole world of tight, sharp turns, housing little stalls, people’s homes, even a small Bhuddist temple, all existed just beyond my usual path. Out of sight, in plain view.
Soon, there was barely room for two scooters to pass one another, and I thought more than once I’d lose a knee cap on a jutting concrete corner. Then, suddenly, he cut the motor.
“What’s up?” It felt for all the world like we were simply at another turn in the maze, but Pho smiled and nodded to a compact little woman in a flower smock I hadn't noticed standing there. Then it occurred to me: we were stopped in front of a rack of bowls teaming with snails, clams, and oysters. At her feet were two charcoal buckets glowing red and a small butane stove with an oil-stained wok on top. “We here!”
Tucked into an alcove no bigger than a broom closet was arguably one of the best seafood joints in all Saigon. Of course.
Phu took the lead and began a lengthy discourse with our hostess, who nodded, frowned, smiled, and asked many a pointed question. Or so it seemed. She then squatted neatly in front of her wok, called in her assistant, and commenced the art of seafood alchemy.
Soon snails were babbling in oils and broths, shells lined up on both charcoal grills, topped with various herbs and fats. The smell made me dizzy. A man came by on a bicycle with a basket full of warm fresh loaves, and we grabbed a couple. Pho, for his part, kept me abreast of what she was throwing in, and how her business worked.
“Mostly, she sell in this area. But also, people know of her from all over city, and come here because they know is Good!”
Meanwhile, the food piled into carton after carton which were neatly packed in pink plastic bags. My mind turned to the snake-like path home, and I could see no way to make it work…all this food, and me and Phu, too. On a scooter…
“Is OK! No problem.” True enough. Most of it lived at Phu’s feet, and a couple of bags I held while we rode.
When we returned to the hotel, I sensed something amiss. Rebecca wore a worried look. I searched Phu’s face. “Boss is here,” he said, and in a rush I was transported back to the Hell of middle school, our little pink bags of food shouting out our weakness and guilt.
“I think maybe he not be mad,” This would be textbook wishful thinking. But then, a smiling man appeared with neat hair and pressed slacks. Probably younger than me. He exchanged a bit of talk with Phu, gathered up the day’s receipts, and saddled his scooter.
Rebecca nudged me. “Tell him how much we like his hotel!” Clearly a slime ball effort at sloughing off guilt. Far below my dignity. And his. Yet we were somewhat complicit in his help’s wayward progress, and so I stepped into the breach.
“You have a lovely hotel, sir! We have stayed here twice. We will certainly tell our friends it is good place.” As the words tumbled out, I felt a tad like Rudy Giuliani or Chris Christie must feel in praising Trump. Except this actually is a pretty good hotel. He smiled and accepted my praise. And then we ate!
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