The Buck starts here…

It was dinnertime. Tummy’s were a-rumbling. Concentration was a-tumbling. The lake looked a-pretty and the view was a-humbling. So my housemate Federica and I walked round it to find some grub. We came to a nice little Bia Hoi joint across the road from the water. The menu was in Vietnamese. As one might have predicted. Luckily I had a small phrasebook in my pocket. And I’ve memorised Thit Cho (Fried Dog) so that I never inadvertantly order it. I still have to drive past a dead dog market every day though. The poor fuckers always have a look of surprise on their crispy roasted faces. As though some trusted human was feeding them Pedigree Chum right before a metal stave was stuck through their little doggy heart.

So we ordered a few non-canine dishes and settled back to drink a few beers, wipe away a few tears, say cheers. The food came. Damn delicious stuff. I used to hate spinach. I always reckoned it tasted like ink. I’m not sure exactly how I came to this conclusion – having never sucked on a fountain pen or done shots of Bic’s finest, but I reckoned it anyway. But fly me halfway across the planet, fry me some green stuff with a little garlic, and try renaming it to Morning Glory, and you’ve got yourself a healthy(ish) dish that the Buck is happy to call his friend. Morning Glory. It’s such a nice name for a vegetable. I bet Popeye used to wake up with Olive some days with a bit of Morning Glory.

We ate the delicious food and talked about Italy. Federica is Italian. Italy sounds cool. And the people there are clearly very serious about their food. Which is cool. If a nation is going to be really serious about something then I think food should be that something. Better than being really serious about bombs or toothpicks or something equally prosaic.

As we cleared up the last of the Morning Glory, and wiped the noodle remnants from the corner of our mouths, the highlight of the evening occurred. It may yet turn out to be the highlight of the week, but given that it’s only Wednesday today, I dont think I’m yet qualified to make that kind of assertion. To my left a tank of fish had been swimming merrily all evening. I suppose its possible that the owners of the joint kept some Halibut as household pets, but I’m guessing that these boys were destined for the Wok. One of the fish was called Fred. Fred the Fish. Fred was a smart fish. He knew what was going down. He had seen his friends Barney & Betty leave the tank a few days previously. He suspected they weren’t coming back. Fred could smell the putrid loveliness of Dong Da lake, just across the road. If he could bounce there, perhaps he’d meet his childhood sweetheart – Wilma. They could have fish babies, and live a life of serenity.

So Fred made his bid for freedom. He took a swimming jump (the aquatic equivalent of a running one) and leapt clear of Tony & Gordon, two mackerel acquaintances. Fred hit the ground flapping. Just..a..few…more…feet…or…maybe…a…few…more…. hundred. A game of draughts (or chequers, depending on ones linguistic heritage) was hastily interrupted. A young man blocked Fred’s path while the crowd looked on. I was silently rooting for my finned friend to escape the clutches of his jailer. Just like I rooted for Steve McQueen in The Great Escape. But Fred didn’t have a motorbike to get away on. Perhaps more importantly, he was having a wee bit of trouble getting enough oxygen to help him breathe. The young draughtsman won the day. Fred was tossed unceremoniously back into his cell. And by now, he may well be no more. Goodbye Fred.

I had a half-hour break between two evening classes at the language school I work at, so I nipped out to get some noodles. I slipped across the street to the local Bia Hoi outlet, and settled down at a small table on the pavement outside. Bia Hoi bars are terrific. Beer made fresh that morning at 5p a glass, and delicious food in a convivial & jolly atmosphere. Whilst I waited for my noodles to be cooked, I checked out my fellow patrons. On the adjacent table to me, 3 men were having a heated but well-humoured discussion. Since my Vietnamese is still limited to “Thank-you”, “Cheers” and a nursery rhyme about a duck, I had no idea what they were talking about. Perhaps they were discussing the fashion sense of one of their number. This bloke was wearing smart black shoes, an elegant gold watch, and a pair of silk Snoopy pyjama’s. Outside a pub. In Hanoi. In the winter. I ate my noodles and thanked Charles Schultz for his contribution to globalisation and menswear.

My class started, happened, ended. I hopped on my bike and skedaddled on home. I reached the edge of Dong Da lake and noticed a couple of youngsters leaning on a bike chewing each others face off. This is a not uncommon sight in Vietnam, where people often live with their families until they get married, and unmarried Vietnamese are prohibited from booking a hotel room together. A friend of a friend used to live in a house overlooking a park which would fill up every night with eager beaver teens at it hammer & tongs. I passed the amorous duo, only to find another pair about 10 feet down the street. And then another. And another. I counted 6 couples in all. Which led me to thinking: Did this lot all show up together in some kind of solidarity snogfest? Or is the outside of our house just Romance Central? I mean, I could understand if this was the only lake in the city. But Hanoi’s got more lakes than the bloody Lake District. The fact that they’re all harbouring mutant rat-fish is neither here nor there. Ho hum.

I barely had time to park me bike & change me shoes before it was time to go out again. My witty, charming and well-connected housemate Phil (the 1st two adjectives are a reciprocal – and requested – gift for the 3rd) had found out about the launch of a new wine vintage at the Sheraton Hotel by West Lake which, confusingly, is not west of the city but north. Exactly what happens at a wine launch night I wasn’t certain, but we were fairly sure it included free wine. So we hopped on to two xe om’s and roared off into the night, spotting several more pashing twosomes en route.

We arrived at the Sheraton to find some waiters seemingly in the act of packing stuff away. It appeared we had missed the launch. With muttered promises to never buy that manufacturers wine again (if indeed we had ever bought it in the past – I’m kinda sketchy when it comes to remembering the names of cheap, crap, red wine I have drunk, its the nature of the beast..) we slinked inside to buy a beer. Salsa was being strutted on the dancefloor, a motorbike time trial from the Isle of Man being shown on the widescreen TV above the bar. Phil helpfully informed me that an average of three riders die every year in this event. We saw a video replay of one dude being thrown from his machine, legs azoy. The pumping tunes obscured what may have been an illuminating piece of commentary.

Some of Phils friends emerged from the salsa pot with some unexpected and delightful news. The wine launch had yet to take place, midnight being the allotted time. We played pool, ate pizza, drank beer, chatted. Midnight approached. A switch was flicked & the music gave way to a prmotional guy giving his wine spiel. I’ll give you the edited highlights: “The Beaujolais Neaoveau is sensational!!” The 1st bottle had apparently been opened in Japan just two hours prior, so how this dude knew how sensational it was is a little perplexing. Its “neaoveau”. I.e. new. Now, call me a cretin, but I’ve always been under the impression that good wine is really old. He’s standing here boasting about how the grapes were only picked in September. A little more perplexing.

The lights dimmed. We started counting down. The clock struck 12 and the cork struck the ceiling. Two waitresses were frantically funnelling balloons onto the dancefloor. Others started circulating with canapes and newly poured glasses of this newly made wine. I dont pretend to be a wine buff. I enjoyed Sideways but had no clue what Paul Giamatti was going on about half the time. But this stuff was filthy. I reckon people have been leaving wine in bottles for years because it tastes better that way!! I drained my glass, said my goodbyes and headed for the door. A 6am start with a red wine hangover is one of those joys best avoided. But one glass of this noxious juice gave me one anyway. Snoopy would be proud..

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