Dining alfresco in Vietnam can difficult for full-sized adults, since many of the tables are designed for preschoolers.
Five-star on a bohemian budget
I checked in late and beyond hungry to the Little Charm Hanoi hostel in the Old Quarter of Hanoi, Vietnam. Truc, a handsome young Vietnamese man, manning the front desk welcomed me with a huge gapped smile. After check-in was complete, I asked him where I could find the best pho in the city. He eyed me suspiciously was obviously thinking, “Should I give her tourist best or local best?” After pushing him for the best of the best, Truc recommended a spot on Ly Quoc Su, just a few blocks away. I pushed the heavy hostel door open and stepped onto slippery street trying my best to remember his directions.
On my way
Humidity and melting meats make the narrow streets of the Old Quarter damp. In addition, shop owners wash dishes outside storefronts and this water also flows into the streets. Cars, motorcycles, pedestrians, and bicycles struggle for space on the crowded street. Pedestrians are unable to walk on the sidewalks since they are used as parking lots for motorbikes.
As I make my way down the street, the contrast between the dark roads and the bright neon signs burn my retinas. I realize that I am at the restaurant because a peeling number above a door matches the number Truc wrote on the damp piece of paper. Everything here is wet.
Table for one
I spot a worker as I stepped over a sleeping dog and raise a finger requesting a table for one. She points her sharp finger at a small table at the edge of the sidewalk. Apparently, the few tables inside are occupied and I would be enjoying my meal al fresco. The table offered was a “Little Tykes bright and bold playset for toddlers” I recognized it immediately because I had one in my attic back home. Since I don’t speak fluent (or any) Vietnamese, I tapped my chest and then pointed at the chair which begged the question “You want me to sit there?” She nodded impatiently and turned away.
The Decent
My knee cap bumped the corner of the dirty red table and it moved. Nothing about this arrangement was ideal for larger guests. The accompanying chair was no more than 10 inches tall. Impossibly low for anyone born outside of the country.
I straddled the chair and felt like the Jolly Green Giant looking down at his little buddy Sprout. After quickly analyzing the situation I knew that if I dropped too fast there was a chance the chair would crush under the unexpected weight. I felt like a sumo wrestler ready for a match. My feet splayed duck-footed for balance and I lowered my body.
The descent took a full 10 seconds. I sensed I should be close. The final inch felt like someone removed the chair. Where is it? The chair screeched and its short legs splayed as my bum found the seat. Heads turned at the sound. My long legs didn’t fit under the table so I spread them around the table like I was saddling up to ride a pony. My outstretched leg was now in the street.
The meal
I ordered a bowl of Pho and waited impatiently. The hustle and bustle of the city swarmed around me like angry bees. I sat at the crotch level of every passing pedestrian and eye level with every motorbike’s exhaust pipe.
The chef placed the soup in the center of my unsteady table. Translucent rice noodles covered white chunks of chicken that floated on top of green onions in a steaming golden broth. With the artistic flair of Jackson Pollock, I flicked a dollop of brown sauce into my bowl. I got lost in the art of my soup as I stirred the colorful contents with my chopsticks. I sipped, slurped, and gulped the soup and finished my meal by lifting the bowl to my face and licking the bottom using my tongue like a blind man would use his cane searching for any forgotten pieces of meat. No napkins were available, so I used my chopstick to clean my face.
The dishwasher insisted on washing my bowel even though I cleaned it with my tongue it. She crouched a few feet away with the entire dish washing enterprise surrounding her. On the ground in front of her, she had one large pot with bubbling suds and a massive wok for the rinse. I handed my bowel and utensils directly to her.
Time to go
I paid my bill and hesitated. How do I get up with a belly full of pho and weak abs? Sweat collected at the top of my brow as I thought through my options. I couldn’t use the table as leverage, it only weighed about 2 pounds and would crush under the pressure. What if I pretended to fall off my chair and roll into the street? I would certainly get wet, dirty and humiliated. With limited options, I decided to sway gently and on the count of three use the momentum to jump-squat off my seat. I held my breath and counted. to three. The sound of the chair hitting the pots, pans, and the woman washing dishes will be a sound I will never forget. I looked at her with empathy, embarrassment, and horror as I quickly disappeared into the crowded street.
