Dear Tony, Sharing Thanksgiving

Dear Tony,

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. Delicious food, none of the presents. Plus, you always get that Friday after as a “work from home” day. The addition of our Turkey Cup, [an annual deck hockey game with our high school alumni] centers the holiday as a reunion, making for a great couple of days to reconnect with friends and family.

Phooey on those who say they don’t like turkey. [Brined. Deep fried. Spatchcocked. Smoked. Stuffed with autumn veg. You just don’t know how to cook.]

Plus, the sides are key. Roasted Brussel Sprouts. Corn Bread. Yams. Gravy. Stuffing. And the king: Mashed Po-ta-toes. [If you’re making your stuffing inside the turkey, that’s your first mistake.]

My actual favorite meals are the days after Thanksgiving. The turkey is carved for sandwiches. The carcass is shoved into the largest dutch oven we have, plus all the root veg. It cooks down to make a fantastic soup. Any time that weekend, meander down to the kitchen for a few ladles. Add whatever sides are left standing. [We always make a huge batch of mash potatoes for that reason. It helps that we’re only a family of four mouths. The only ones who made it over.]

Thanksgiving is a definitive American holiday. The Canadians celebrate it in October. But no one else in the world has my favorite tradition.

So, when I found myself spending my first Thanksgiving in Vietnam, I’m not-not a little homesick.

Not that homesick. I’ve found a wonderful family in Secret Garden, Cat Ba. Cat Ba is a small island in Northern Vietnam, underneath Halong Bay. It’s a beautiful hippie place. I’ve found work in vegan/vegetarian restaurant/hostel. They are owned and staffed by locals, so I’ve been able to make friends with some actual Vietnamese.

They’re hilariously funny. Ling. Mae. Fung. Superman. Phuk. Chi.

Hue has spent the first four days speaking to me in strictly Vietnamese. I stumble along trying to communicate in single words and hand-signs. Until I catch her talking to guests in pitch perfect English. She’s been playing me for a fool!

For work, I spend a lot of the time trying to make guests more comfortable and welcome. I make life easier for the staff by cleaning and prepping where I can. Part waiter. Part bus boy. All hospitality.

Anyway. Regardless of country, the kitchen is a special place. They recognize work, and if you’ll work, then they’ll be friendly. And by friendly, that means a combination of sharing the burden [Mae’s phase of choice was “Fight On!” with accompanying fist pump], messing with each other, sharing meals, and getting drinks after a long shift.

There’s a moment I’m most proud of though. There is this old Vietnamese grandma who’s withered hands are responsible for most of the cleaning and vegetable prep. She had always treated me kindly but sternly. I put some of the beer bottles in the wrong place. Used the wrong rag for cleaning the tables. Didn’t clean the plates properly [leftovers for the chickens here. Garbage here. Untouched rice for the staff later.] She will clearly explain herself with handsigns and the occasional swat. I am sure to only be wrong once.

She watches with some amusement as I scramble around the kitchen cooking. She helps by peeling some veg, much faster and more efficiently than I could struggle along. She pulls the rice noodles from the soak before I forget.

But as the meal is coming together, she gives the stock a sniff. I offer a clean spoon to taste. I will forever remember her wizened face, the wrinkles lighten, her lips smack, and she gives a half shrug and nods her head thoughtfully.

I earned that. I cooked well enough to make this wise and proficient Vietnamese lady nod at my cooking.

There’s a another moment. I’m frantically trying to keep a few things running. The scallions and eggplant are roasting in the oven. The stock is boiling. I’m prepping the veg and tofu. There aren’t enough hotpot pots, so I’m scrubbing other pots to use. Ling is running for table grills. And we can’t seem to awake any of the hungover friends who were supposed to come.

It’s at this point, I start to hate everyone and everything.

It starts to feel like Thanksgiving.

Regardless. All the food finally gets to table. I haven’t quite made enough stock, so we’re watering it down a bit to extend. The wine is subpar but acceptable. [Sorry Fleur]

Still. We all eat and the food is good, even with all the things. There’s lots to go around. Random guests join us. My friends eventually show up. We make merry over the meal.

And so we celebrate thanksgiving together.

There are a couple Canadians. A couple Americans. A Couple British. A South African. A Dutch. Of course.

But mostly, it’s Vietnamese. The staff of Secret Garden enjoy tucking into the food, and I am ecstatic that they like the meal. We give thanks to what we’re grateful for, following my explanation of the holiday. I am grateful that I have a little family in Vietnam. That I can work in a kitchen in another country. Learn from the culture first hand.

We went shopping for the ingredients earlier that morning. As Ling and Mae lead me through the Vietnamese market, I get to see how they shop for goods. Tucked into a corner of Cat ba I had literally never explored in 4 weeks of being on the island. [A few days later I will go back for an excellent meal of oysters and shellfish and veg.] We pick up produce. Choose cuts of meat. Noodles. Hotdogs. Try to stay under budget, as Secret Garden has provided the funds.

I travel to eat. To see culture. To get to know locals. And not in the superficial way of greeting everyone in the local “hello”. But to befriend and learn from the people who embody the country.

I am overwhelmed with gratitude as my adopted family sat down to eat the meal I cooked in order to share in a holiday tradition from my home country.

We would continue to have late nights drinking after close. We would share many more lunches and dinners and snacks. We would make jokes, build projects, enjoy each other’s company. When I did eventually leave Cat Ba, I made sure to give farewells to the staff. They took great care of me, and I was sad to leave, but I know I’ll be back. Cat Ba was such a wonderful place for me. Secret Garden as well.

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Dear Tony. I hope you had a nice birthday negroni. On my tab is fine. We all cash that out eventually.

Much love,

Winston