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Rice wine, Lau, the Lunar month and amnesia

Work is getting busier now and I’ve reached the point where there are so many plates spinning I’m starting to forget things. So it came to pass that I totally forgot Tod’s birthday celebration (Tod is the German of dog fame). It had been a week heavy with meetings and pharmacy terms I’m still trying to get to grips with. So when, in the office, it was suggested we retire to a Japanese restaurant for a few beers, Sushi and the odd bowl of noodles I quickly acquiesced.

We walked the short distance to the restaurant, the doorman took care of my bike and we shed our shoes and made our way into a booth made to look like a room in a traditional Japanese house. The whole top floor of the restaurant is arranged like that with bamboo mats to sit on and low tables. When I sat down I realised it was a cheat, there was a large hole in the floor under the table to allow inflexible westerners to drop their legs in, so it looks like you’re sitting cross legged but it’s actually like sitting on a chair. I sat cross legged on my mat as a matter of principle, feeling superior, and ate a selection of very good raw fish, Tempura and curried noodles. I also drank a few beers…. maybe more. Meal over we went our separate ways and I arrived home to realise the house was empty because everyone else was at the birthday party in the big Van Ho Bia Hoi.

The invite had been issued at the small Bia Hoi as we ate Lau and drank rice wine the previous Sunday. The owner had invited us after we failed to turn up to his Christmas Lau – that occasion was not amnesia, more it was a measure of my command of the Vietnamese language.

We arrived just after 8pm – a few minutes late by European standards but early for Vietnamese social ethics – and were seated and given glasses of beer. We conversed (badly) with the locals, then the Germans arrived and the conversation picked up (Kate speaks very good Vietnamese). The small plastic tables were pulled out into the middle of the floor. As the last of the paying customers departed the landlord’s two young daughters and their cousin appeared from upstairs with bowls of noodles, tofu, raw fish, squid, prawns and vegetables including chrysanthemum leaves. The rice bowls and chopsticks came out and then the hotpot, or fondue, or steam boat – it has many English names. In Vietnamese it’s called Lau and you will see it all over Hanoi. If you order one make sure you are hungry. The pot is either something like a casserole dish which sits on a gas burner or in this case a self contained electric unit which sat on the table in front of me. We stretched the power cable to a socket on the wall. The socket was the wrong shape for the plug, something solved simply by bending the pins and forcing it in. Derek sat straddling the cable.

Its arrival coincided with the appearance of the rice wine. This is the landlord’s own brew. Not the clear liquid you buy in the shops. It was dark, infused with a rich bouquet of herbs and spices. Very tasty, very drinkable, very potent.

As the thick rich broth of stock, vegetables and tomatoes heated up to the boil we toasted family, friends, pending Vietnamese New Year and good health. There were a few too many “100 percent” s for my liking so I held my glass firmly to ensure no one could see if I’d drained it or not. At least one of my housemates played the game by the rules and went very quiet after a few rounds.

By now family and friends of the landlord were arriving and introducing themselves with a toast, Zung, Chung, Chang, Tang, Nock – the names were flowing as fast as the wine. In all fifteen people sat round the table. The pot was now boiling and the girls were dunking the raw fish and prawns into the liquid just long enough to barely cook them. They also had their own version of dipping sauce a beautiful mix of chilli, fish sauce, sugar, lemon juice and dill which added to the flavours of the food. We sat and ate as our bowls were filled over and over. The herbal rice wine – served from a 2 litre coke bottle – ran out and a bottle of Hanoi Vodka (local name for mass produced rice wine) came out. By now we were drinking the broth as a soup since everyone had had their fill of the food. As the drink threatened to run out again the birthday invites for the following week were being issued to the party and buoyed up by the now absent rice wine I had the idea that the Vietnamese might like Single Malt Whisky.

After a brief debate about “Zeeoc Scotland” I excused myself and returned with a bottle of Glenfiddich. The participants nodded approvingly and rinsed the Saki glasses before filling up on the amber liquid. One guy had now been gently caressing my thigh for about ten minutes – an indication that we are friends for life and soon the “Tram Phan Tram” – 100% s started again – the Vietnamese equivalent of “down the hatch”. Kate had already disappeared out the door looking green and without saying a word, now the whole place began to go quiet. I took a deep breath and excused myself saying I had to work in the morning and with a sigh of relief the whole party broke up. We left the balance of the Whisky and staggered back home to sleep well.

The next day, Monday, was unusual in several respects. Firstly I walked to a meeting with one of my Vietnamese colleagues. Secondly she complained that she needed new lenses for her glasses and asked me if I would go with her on the way back from the meeting. This would be my first trip to a Vietnamese optician’s, as with most shops there are whole streets of them but we were going somewhere a bit different.

We walked into the yard of a large building which turned out to be the national eye hospital. In the corner was a small building about five metres long and three metres wide, open on two sides. Along the open sides in an L shape there were glass topped counters full of spectacle frames and five women dealing with about a dozen or more customers.

Behind the women in the middle of the space was an optician doing eye tests. No chairs or darkened rooms here, the patients simply stood with their feet against a line on the outside of the counters and read from a chart on the opposite wall. When he had tested them and decided a prescription was necessary on went a device like the one you look through in the opticians in the UK, but this one was worn like a pair of glasses leaving the individual looking like something out of Doctor Who. The patient and optician then selected the right lenses by looking round and reading the eye chart.

When it was determined the prescription was correct the patient went for a walk round wearing this contraption to make sure, after which they were told the prescription and went off to buy their glasses. In the back of the space under the eye chart were three men in white coats with a four machines making the glasses up from frames and lenses.

We pushed our way through to the front of the counter. My colleague didn’t need an eye test she had had one somewhere else. I thought we were just there to look but she suddenly produced some money (from her right boot!?), told the woman her new prescription which was scribbled on a note pad and handed over her existing glasses. I asked her how long it would take, I was thinking about the need to get back to work. Fifteen minutes she answered (whatever happened to the one hour service? – eat your heart out BOL). But they were back in two minutes – the frames were too worn to take new lenses. My colleague didn’t want to spend a lot so we brooded over frames for about ten minutes and she tried on several plastic frames in dark colours. All the designer names were there, at designer prices too – but apparently all counterfeits.

In the end she chose and handed over more money. Five minutes later her old glasses were back, cleaned and with the old lenses back in. Whilst we waited she insisted I tried them on and we had competitions to see who could read what with and without the glasses. That didn’t last long because after another five minutes her new glasses arrived. She tried them on, looked around and pronounced herself satisfied, insisted I tried them as well and then we left. New frames and lenses had cost £10 and the whole process from start to finish had taken less than half an hour – amazing!

Monday lunch time was the third unusual event. It was the last day of the lunar month and as you know that is the best time to eat dog. We’d been joking about this for months and I guess I just picked the wrong day to revisit the subject. Eyes immediately lit up and an enthusiasm I have not seen before took hold. Plans were made and the rest of the Westerners in the office made their excuses and headed for the Belgian cafe! It was just me and seven Vietnamese.

So we went, it was a street restaurant up a Ngo and it was packed. They cleared a table for us and we waited as one of my colleagues wiped the tables, and the stools, and the chopsticks and the bowls before tearing up a cardboard box in the corner to use as a table cloth. Dog will make you hot, I was told. You should not eat dog if you’re pregnant as pregnant women are hot already and might overheat if they ate dog. It didn’t taste at all hot, but the heat we’re talking about is a concept of traditional medicine, not curry powder or hot coals.

First came the giant poppadom, well it looks like that but it's made of rice not wheat flour. We crunched bits and someone found a bag of salad in a box behind where we were sitting so he opened it and we ate that as well. Next the boiled dog arrived - it looked a bit like the steamed goat I’d had the previous week and it had cold dog liver on the top with a root similar to ginger in big slices on top of that. No heat in this – it was all served cold. There was strong, salty, shrimp dipping paste with a salad of mint, something I didn't recognise and what looked like geranium leaves - the ones with the velvet finish. We ate; it’s ok but a bit greasy and fatty. There was also lemon grass which we peeled and then ate the core dipped in the paste. That tasted a bit like eating a lollypop stick. I asked if this was it? My neighbour shook her head - much more to come.

Next plates of what looked like black pudding, thin black pudding. This was dog intestine. It tasted like black pudding. It was served hot with more dog liver on the top and this time the gingery stuff was shredded over the dish as a garnish. Next plates of barbequed dog, also hot but a bit underdone for me. I did find a few crispy bits which were nice but most of it was still soft making the skin very chewy. This was followed by noodles and dog and bamboo soup – a clear but greasy broth with a slightly unappetising odour. Add it to the noodles then eat and drink with whatever dog is left on the table.

There was a heated discussion about the bill. A colleague complained we were paying more than a bigger group who left a few minutes before (its supposed to be all you can eat, but it looked to me like the matriarch was counting plates) then we paid and it was over. The cost of a dog lunch for eight? It was £2.60! And it’s imported dog too. Restaurants only serve farmed dog from Cambodia or Thailand. Is that good value or not? Mind you, I wouldn’t rush back – apart from the intestines I didn’t think it was an exceptionally tasty dish and questioning my colleagues as we walked back to the office it emerged that they only eat dog once or twice a year, despite its exotic reputation.

The rest of the week passed in a blur of meetings, working late, language classes and VSO meetings so that by the Friday sushi I’d forgotten all about the birthday party invite.

Now I was standing in the empty kitchen, having had more than enough beer already contemplating the impact of my memory loss. I decide it was still early enough for me to show my face, have a single beer (the food would be over wouldn’t it?) and still get a relatively early night since I’d agreed to work on Saturday.

I headed off to the big Bia Hoi. It was easy to find them. Vietnamese eat and drink early and it was now gone 8.30 in the evening. The open air restaurant is vast but only one table was occupied, a mix of about a dozen locals and foreigners and a noise level which implied a good time was being had by all. I said hello and was welcomed into the group with a rice bowl and a beer. It looked like the food was over, there was a selection of nearly empty plates scattered across the table. I introduced myself to a few people I didn’t know and put a prawn into my bowl and sipped my beer. A couple of minutes later the group from the small Bia Hoi arrived. Loud welcomes were given and extra tables pulled up. As I’d been sitting at the end of the table I now found myself in the middle of the newly arrived group. I smiled and said hello and decided to use the opportunity to embed some names. I was not the worst at this, the landlord asked my name at least ten times as we sat there. To my horror fresh plates of food arrived for the new arrivals and out came the Saki glasses. A large bottle of Hanoi Vodka appeared and the 100% s started. I cringed, but there was no escape. Zung at the end of the table filled my glass every time I took a sip and the landlord’s daughter sitting to my left took great delight in putting food into my rice bowl every time I turned my back. I explained I had to work and how I’d had a headache after the previous Sunday (not true, but I was desperate for any escape mechanism). The headache story caused great amusement and as for having to work – well they all had to work every day. I gave up, drank my drink, ate my prawns and tried to practice my Vietnamese.

Then…. the Lau arrived. The previous Sunday fifteen of us sat around one pot. This time sixteen of us sat around four pots. The main ingredient was eel, sliced and trimmed into portions even I could handle with chopsticks. The landlord’s daughter beamed and settled into her self appointed role of building me up to be a sumo wrestler. More beer, more Hanoi Vodka, more food. We had a great time. In the end I did make my excuses and walked unsteadily home to enjoy a deep sleep and another loss of memory - somewhere during the evening I’d invited all our Vietnamese friends to our house for dinner! That’s a house where we boast a total of eight plates and six forks. I’d even agreed a date with them. Worse still days later I still had no recollection of making that invitation.

Saturday morning I crawled out of bed and barely made it on time. We met in the Hilton for a bacon and egg breakfast on the executive floor – great hangover cure, toured a factory and lunched at a noodle soup restaurant. The afternoon continued with a walking tour of central Hanoi, an early evening drink in the rooftop bar on the 20th floor of the Sofitel Plaza (fifteen times the price of a beer in the Bia Hoi) and then on for dinner with a Vietnamese woman who is a keen cyclist (I’m supposed to be going for a ride with her soon) and who is secretary to the Friends of Vietnam Heritage group. When we arrived at the restaurant she had already ordered – a Lau. It was delicious and at least this time I was spared the rice wine, just a few beers and I walked home stuffed but steady on my feet.