Birthday Dinner

There’s something in Vietnamese culture about having food left on the table at the end of a meal, it means everyone was satisfied. If you don’t have anything left then you didn’t cook enough. This philosophy also abounds in Africa, and as we had appointed an African colleague as head chef for a small dinner party on Saturday night, the shopping list for the event was extensive. There is of course another side to this, a sort of paradoxical paranoia – if too much food is left, then it obviously was not to the taste of the guests and that is bad. It’s a fine line.

The event was the birthday of the oldest of our colleagues. She does not normally celebrate these events, but had been persuaded over the last few weeks that she should allow us to put on some small event in her honour. It’s a miracle we got there, the previous 24 hours my communication had been confused and we had lost the plan we made the previous week. Head Chef was in Ha Long all week and travelling back on Friday. She sent a message saying we would meet on Saturday morning and querying the time as she had been invited to a Vietnamese cultural event at 8.30, she was not sure she would have time to go (to the event). I thought she meant Saturday morning and replied saying she had plenty of time. She meant Friday evening and had intended us to go with her. I missed that bit altogether and so we were in the Bia Hoi, with the retired colonel drawing armaments for us to guess the names of, with my phone on charge back at the house when she phoned Derek to ask where we were. Oops!

10.30am Saturday we finally got together and planned. The meal was for eight. The menu was fish curry, mashed potato, fried chicken (must get that recipe), spiced rice, peanut and sesame sauce and the famous chapatti. One guest would bring ratatouille and another some fruit. Derek would cook flambé banana and pineapple dessert. Mike would provide transport for the shopping.

Chef and delivery boy departed for the markets and I went in search of wine and Gordon’s Gin – birthday girl’s favourite. I also wanted some birthday cards. Both cards and Gin proved elusive. The card shop I usually used had decided to take the day off and was closed. I found the gin in the third shop I tried and a few overpriced cards in Vincom Tours – the nearest mall. Cycling down Ba Trieu I was overtaken by Mike and Chef, now laden down with supplies for the cooking operation.

Much of the afternoon was then taken with cooking. I was not allowed near the kitchen. If Derek is possessive the Chef was more so. I didn’t even qualify as washer up. Delicious smells started to permeate the house and as the rice steamer started to heat up an army of our tiny indigenous ants staged an evacuation via the handle, swarming down the casing and across the table to meet their demise on a passing dish cloth.

I was allowed to learn the art of making Chapatti, flour, oil, water (warm) a little salt and sugar, knead the dough, roll it out spread with oil, cut into strips and fold the oiled surface in, roll out again, fry in a dry frying pan, as the dough sets turn it and oil the side which is part cooked, turn back and oil the other side, turn once more and remove as the blisters begin to brown. It takes so long! Cooking Chapatti for a large family must take hours. Anyway timing was perfect, cooking was finished as the guest began to arrive. Drinks were dispensed and the dishes cooked earlier in the afternoon reheated, cards issued, congratulations proffered and then down to the serious matter of eating. There was a LOT left but many contented noises.

We washed up and took a break before dessert (no option but to wash up, every utensil in the house had been used on the first course). Then Derek started the banana and pineapple flambé, which is when the gas ran out.

We’re on bottled gas here. The only mains utilities being the electricity which arrives by a cable precariously strung from a collection of telegraph poles and water which is metered and arrives in the yard before being pumped up to a tank on the roof. Whilst the electricity man comes once a month, with a bill to be paid in cash (in fact he arrived half way through the meal) gas had never been an issue. The bottle had been there when we arrived, over two months ago.

We found a phone number on the cylinder and called it, it was disconnected. We found another phone number and one of our colleagues who really does speak Vietnamese placed the call. Sentences were punctuated with the words “gas cylinder” – afterwards he admitted he didn’t know the Vietnamese for gas cylinder but thought they might know the English. The call was a failure, the woman on the other end just kept saying she didn’t know what he was talking about. You’d think she might have had a guess that we were ringing up for some gas, as it was the 24 hour gas supply line. Derek tried to flambé his bananas with a cigarette lighter, but the mixture had not reached flash point.

Then the phone rang! Someone at the gas company had taken a flier that we might be after some gas and called us back. A second conversation followed in which our address was requested and questions were asked which we were unable to answer, but which turned out to be about the size of the cylinder. Fortunately the guy at the other end of the phone guessed right.

Within half an hour a motorbike carrying two men and a 12kg gas cylinder arrived at the door. Change over was swift and at 200,000VND – less than £7 – seemed good value. We’re cooking on gas!

Dessert was followed by more drinks and we retired to the balcony for music and yet more drinks. The last of the single malt was consumed and guests began to leave. Birthday girl was bedding down on the new bed settee in the lounge (the last one was destroyed in the second flood) and as we assembled her bed she paid tribute to a lovely evening. So everyone was content and we have enough food left to keep us going until next weekend.