Grandfather Dearest
I knew we were going to see my wife’s grandfather at some point. Although, as I knew grandmother reasonably well, I escorted her home to An Lao last January, I had always been under the assumption that grandfather was deceased. And rightfully so. Most of the conversations about grandfather were in that context. Not to mention that grandmother’s generation in Vietnam didn’t divorce, and she had been living as a widow in America for over 30 years. So, with everything considered, I assumed that when I was told we would visit grandfather, we would visit his gravesite.
As far as I knew, he was a casualty of the war, and that was that. So you can imagine my utter shock and bewilderment when I walked into a shop in Kông Chro, and an older man of about 80, short and feeble, was introduced to me as my grandfather-in-law. I was initially a bit shocked and confused, followed by curiosity and questions.
I thought he was dead. What is going on? Does Grandmother know? Is all this food for us? Let’s talk more about this food and discuss Grandpa, dearest. All around us in the shop, tables were set, and food was placed and arranged. A natural event took shape: beer piled by the tables, buckets of ice strategically located, chopsticks, spoons, plates, bowls, and glassware. People were coming and going, and the shop entrance filled up with quite a crowd.
The Tables are set
But first, let’s discuss grandfather. He, as you can guess, was very much alive. He had gone off to war at a young age and left his wife and three children behind. I discussed the oldest daughter, who succumbed to the disease, in a post here. As we all know, the war waged on long after the U.S. left the region, and the U.S. took with them thousands of refugees.
With no word for years and assuming the worst, grandmother and her youngest daughter sought refuge in America. The middle daughter, my mother-in-law, had already married and resettled to make a new life. And so, the home was empty when grandfather came home after years of war. He searched for years. But with records challenging to come by, accounts of those who fled the new regime nonexistent, and the daughter who was still in Vietnam married with a new name and location, his search was fruitless.
Eventually, he assumed that they were either out of reach in America or, worse, killed in the aftermath of war. So, grandfather eventually remarried and bore seven more children. It is noted that grandmother never remarried. Some years later, about 35, as I can tell, Grandfather ran into an old family friend. With the country opening up and relationships easing with the West, the information had begun to flow again. And so, about five years ago, over 40 years after his disappearance, on a typical day in Georgia, the phone rang at grandmother’s home in Conyers.
The Dinner
The crowd assembling around me had gathered for a reunion. Every child still alive was in attendance. It was a spread unlike any I had seen in my travels in Vietnam. Sweet and savory kebabs, Vietnamese BBQ pork, chicken simmered in turmeric, chilled rice noodle and mung bean salad, sliced pineapple, BBQ skewered shrimp, stuffed bitter melon soup, stuffed grape leaves, chicken stew with wood mushrooms and rice, Vietnamese style charcuterie with fresh salami and a terrine comprising different colored forcemeats, wood mushrooms, spinach and carrots, rice crackers and an assortment of other flavored salts and dipping sauces. That, my friends, was the first course.
We began to eat in mass. The beer started to flow, and the cheers and glasses clanging together became a rising den in the small storefront on the town’s Main Street. It was, after all, a celebration. As the craftsmen and their chopsticks worked their magic, we slowly and methodically deconstructed the table’s contents. But like magic, the more we consumed, the more there seemed to be. As one plate was removed, another appeared. Coconut curry chicken stew with taro, carrots, cilantro, and coconut flour baguettes, slightly sweet and wonderfully decadent for soaking up the creamy curry broth, mung bean, and rice cakes in preparation for the new year and on we ate.
The endless meal
The courses were served for a whole hour, and we ate our dinner as if it were our last. I had to excuse myself a few times to take a break. If I was sitting down, then my chopsticks worked over time. I’m already the only person who gains weight in Vietnam; there’s no need to push things.
I could see that grandfather was a happy man. I was given the privilege to sit beside him as the guest of honor, and after everyone had their fill, it was time for dessert. Some fresh fruit we had picked up at the market earlier, sweet fragrant coconut bánh bò, ornately molded agar jellies, sweet rice coated in tea gel, and piles of what looked like creamy fresh ice cream or custard.
My first exposure to Durian
Custard it was not. It was simply the interior of the durian fruit piled onto a plate. Seeds and all, the different layers from within the aptly named “king of fruits,” were merely plopped onto small plates. I was handed a cute little dessert fork and began working around the table. Of course, everyone eagerly wanted me to try the durian fruit, and in my experience, when everyone pushes you to try something, it’s usually comically sinister.
I was not wrong. Though I’ve seen the durian fruit in markets in the states, they are as prevalent here as bananas back home. Every market, grocer, and corner store seems to have either whole or cut into sections and tightly wrapped with cellophane awaiting purchase.
The durian’s appearance is more like something attached to a pole and wielded in battle rather than served for dessert. Its hard pointy shell is both tricky to open and tough on the ankles. So be aware while walking around any floor that may have them lurking in the shadows. I’ve caught my ankle a time or two on the mace-like edibles.
A remarkably expensive fruit
Durian is often called the king of fruit, partly due to its mass and undeniable uniqueness. A specimen can sometimes weigh up to 7 pounds, and its hard, spiny shell makes it difficult to handle. Expensive to ship and often dangerous to farm, the popular Southeast Asian fruit has defied all odds to become one of the world’s most costly fruits. In Thailand, the Kanyao Durian, one particular breed, averages about $638 per fruit, with specimens sometimes costing upwards of USD 40,000.
It’s an affair only a true lover would fund, as the fruit is also the world’s most malodorous of crops. Banned on most regional public transport, even unopened fruit can give off some rather unpleasant aromas. The strange thing, however, is the flavor. Many writers and chefs have tried to describe the fruit over the past century, yet we are no closer to a helpful description.
Famous Descriptions of the fruit
Travel writer Richard Sterling said of the fruit. And I quote, “Its odor is best described as pig-shit, turpentine and onions, garnished with a gym sock. It can be smelled from yards away” end quote.
Even the late Anthony Bourdain weighed in on the divisive fruit, “Like pungent, runny French cheese. Your breath will smell as if you’d been French-kissing your dead grandmother.” I will also note here that he was a fan of the funky fruit.
I’m not sure about the pig-shit or gym sock, I haven’t tried them yet, but the rest is pretty spot on. Slightly sweet, intense as a ripe Limburger cheese, and full of that tear-inducing potion found in relatively robust onions. More side dishes than dessert. I can see it used more like a sandwich spread than a sweet treat. Nevertheless, it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever eaten.
And so it was, we ate, we talked, we laughed, and we drank. It was a special moment, a particular time, a special place. I felt very humbled and honored to have been invited to such a wonderful little gathering high in the central highlands of Vietnam. It was an experience that will be remembered fondly for many years to come.
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