Good Evening, Vietnam!

At our famous local "Vietanese" restaurant the other night, two out of our three children - anyone who knows them will know which two - had left a small jungle of noodles on the floor beneath their chairs from the classic shredded-chicken soup ("Pho Ga") which fills up three small stomachs for relatively little money, with leftovers to take home in a big plastic container.

[At one point, Daniel made it clear to me which portions of the shredded chicken he preferred: "Daddy, I only like the chicken that is good that I like."]

Daniel was puzzled that I was down on the floor, picking them up strand by strand to minimize the work for the hapless wait staff and avoid the likelihood of small feet mashing them into the carpet before that could happen. He pointed out to me, "Well Daddy, that's actually the chef's job."

Earlier in the meal, he had noticed a match-book on the floor, amidst his perpetual scavenger hunt in all places that we go, and he was disturbed that there was still a match in the book. [This is actually a source of comfort - that he saw the match as a threat rather than an opportunity...]

He picked it up, pointed out the remaining match, and asked me, "Daddy, what's this right here - is it to light a fire?"

I confirmed that it was.

He asked the natural follow-up question: "Then how can we stop it?" The presence of a match meant that fire was imminent, unless someone stepped in to reverse this train-wreck-in-slow-motion.

Luckily, soon after this alarming discovery, the "chef" came over. [The chef is otherwise known as probably-the-owner's-son, who mostly stands behind the counter and otherwise hands people menus as they walk in.] Daniel provided a brief explanation, in his own language, and presented the book of match (can't really call it a book of matches) to the Chef, or counter-Chef, who seemed bemused by the whole thing. Once the matchbook was safely in his trusty hands, I told the good Maitre D' that he was now safe.

Meanwhile, Ian was confused by the music. It was one of those kitschy Saturday-Night-At-The-Oldies shows - no doubt syndicated, luckily not by Delilah - and now that it's 2011, the "Oldies" turn out to be the 80's, so I got to hear all the music I liked in my late teens and early 20's, and feel a combination of shame for liking them, and pleasure because I still like them - except for Whitney Houston's awful "How Will I Know?" which I didn't like even in my misspent youth. Yes, I enjoyed hearing, once again, all these decadent English bands from the 80's reprise of the British Invasion, but the whole thing made no sense to Ian, because we were, after all, in a Vietnamese restaurant, and this music was clearly not the Mekong Delta's Top 40.

I explained to Ian that businesses usually try to do things to appeal to the tastes of their customers, rather than those of employees or even of the owners themselves. I went on to break the news to him that pretty-much everything businesses do is focused around getting as much money as possible from the people who buy stuff from them. But none of this really improved the situation: Ian said he would rather like to hear their music, rather than our own, which impressed me even more than it surprised me. When we were in the car, ready to come home, Ian reiterated his general observation, this time quite succinctly: "That doesn't sound like Vietnam music inside."

(April 16, 2011)