A Cook's Tour Part 2

'Picnic site?' I suggested.

'Plan!'

We trudged over dunes, berms, hillocks, slow going in the sand, then finally clambered up a thick, sloping concrete wall and sat atop the thing, exactly where we'd played as kids. I laid out a blanket and our little picnic lunch and we chewed silently, our fingers stiff in the cold wind coming off the sea. The saucisson saucisson tasted the same, the cheese was good, and the wine proved serviceable. tasted the same, the cheese was good, and the wine proved serviceable.

I produced a package of firecrackers, and soon two men in their forties were playing army, as they'd done three decades or more ago: dropping explosives down rusted vents, jamming them into discarded bleach bottles, the dull bang bang of the explosions whipped immediately away by the wind, to disappear into the sand. We chased each other around the blockhouse for a while, and when we got tired of blowing stuff up or, more accurately, when the firecrackers ran out we nosed around inside, exploring the stairwells and doorways where we'd played Combat and Rat Patrol those many summers ago. of the explosions whipped immediately away by the wind, to disappear into the sand. We chased each other around the blockhouse for a while, and when we got tired of blowing stuff up or, more accurately, when the firecrackers ran out we nosed around inside, exploring the stairwells and doorways where we'd played Combat and Rat Patrol those many summers ago.

We ambled awkwardly down to the beach, stepped over driftwood and debris that once, as children, had promised untold possibilities for construction projects and play but now appeared sad and dreary. My brother and I stood by the water's edge looking out at a violent surf, neither of us saying anything for a long while.

'Dad would have loved this,' I said.

'What?' asked Chris, snapping back from his own thoughts.

'The whole idea of this. That we came back. That we came back here again just the two of us. He would have liked it. He would have liked hearing about it.'

'Yeah,' said my little brother, no longer littler, taller than me now. The mature one.

'f.u.c.k . . . I miss the guy.'

'Me too,' said Chris.

I'd been looking to hook into the main vein on this stretch of my around-the-world adventure. I'd thought everything would be instant magic. That the food would taste better because of all my memories. That I'd be happier. That I would change, or somehow be as I once was. But you can never be ten years old again or even truly feel like ten years old. Not for an hour, not for a minute. This trip, so far, had been bittersweet at best.

I hadn't, I realized, returned to France, to this beach, my old town, for the oysters. It wasn't the fish soup, or the saucisson saucisson, or the pain raisin pain raisin. It wasn't to see a house in which strangers now lived, or to climb a dune, or to find a perfect meal. I'd come to find my father. And he wasn't there.

Reasons Why You Don't Want to Be on Television: Number One in a Series 'While you're in the area, let's see where foie gras is made,' said the creative masterminds of Televisionland. 'We're making a food show, remember? All this trip down memory lane is nice and all but where's the food? C'mon! You like foie gras! You said so!'

'Sure,' I said. Why not? Sounds educational. Sounds interesting. I do like foie gras love it, even. The swollen fresh livers of goose or duck, lightly cooked en terrine en terrine in Sauternes, or seared in a pan with a few caramelized apples or quince, maybe a little balsamic reduction, a nice fat slice off a torchon with some toasted brioche. It's one of the best things on earth. in Sauternes, or seared in a pan with a few caramelized apples or quince, maybe a little balsamic reduction, a nice fat slice off a torchon with some toasted brioche. It's one of the best things on earth.

We were right near Gascony, the epicenter of foie gras territory, so sure . . . let's do it! Let's make riveting, informative television, and scarf up some free foie while we're at it. How could we go wrong?

The previous night, I'd sat for the cameras and choked down an absolutely gruesome, clumsily prepared, three-day-old dino-sized portion of tete de veau tete de veau a terrifying prospect in the best of circ.u.mstances. Usually (the way I make it anyway), it's a slice of rolled-up boneless calf's face, peeled right off the skull, tied up with a stuffing of sweetbreads and served boiled in a little broth with a few nicely shaped root vegetables and a slice of tongue. It's an acquired taste, or, more accurately, an acquired texture: the translucent fat, the blue calf's skin, and the bits of cheek and thymus gland take some getting past before you can actually enjoy the flavor. The squiggly, glistening, rubbery-looking gleet is or should be pretty tender and flavorful. Accompanied by a dab of a terrifying prospect in the best of circ.u.mstances. Usually (the way I make it anyway), it's a slice of rolled-up boneless calf's face, peeled right off the skull, tied up with a stuffing of sweetbreads and served boiled in a little broth with a few nicely shaped root vegetables and a slice of tongue. It's an acquired taste, or, more accurately, an acquired texture: the translucent fat, the blue calf's skin, and the bits of cheek and thymus gland take some getting past before you can actually enjoy the flavor. The squiggly, glistening, rubbery-looking gleet is or should be pretty tender and flavorful. Accompanied by a dab of sauce ravigote sauce ravigote, or gribiche gribiche, the dish can be a triumphant celebration of old-school French country food, a conquering of one's fears and prejudices. It's one of my favorite things to cook. The few (mostly French) customers who order it at Les Halles, when I run it as a special, adore it. 'Ahhh! Tete de veau! Tete de veau!' they'll exclaim. 'I haven't had this in years!' I make it well. And I have always gotten a very good reaction from those I inflict it on. I eat my own, now and again, and I like it.

This stuff was different. First of all, I had ignored all my own advice. Sucked into some romantic dream state of willful ignorance, I'd overlooked the fact that for three days I'd been pa.s.sing by that specials board with Tete de Tete de Veau proudly written in block letters in white chalk. Meaning that it was, without question particularly considering this was off-season Arcachon the same unsold Veau proudly written in block letters in white chalk. Meaning that it was, without question particularly considering this was off-season Arcachon the same unsold tete tete on day three as they'd been offering on day one. Business was hardly so good, and they'd certainly not been so swamped with orders for this (even in France) esoteric specialty, that they'd have been making a fresh batch every day. How many veal heads were they getting in the whole town per week? Or per month? Even worse, I'd broken another personal rule, ordering a not-too-popular, potentially nasty meat and offal special in a restaurant that proudly specialized in seafood a very slow restaurant specializing in seafood. on day three as they'd been offering on day one. Business was hardly so good, and they'd certainly not been so swamped with orders for this (even in France) esoteric specialty, that they'd have been making a fresh batch every day. How many veal heads were they getting in the whole town per week? Or per month? Even worse, I'd broken another personal rule, ordering a not-too-popular, potentially nasty meat and offal special in a restaurant that proudly specialized in seafood a very slow restaurant specializing in seafood.

My brother, who is usually pretty daring in his tastes these days when it comes to food, had ordered the sole. I'd ignored his good example. During the meal, he'd looked at me as if I were gnawing the flesh off a dead man's fingers and washing it down with urine. By any parameters, it had been disgusting; undercooked, tough, seemingly devoid of cheek, tasting of some dark refrigerator and, worst of all, absolutely slathered with a thick, vile-tasting sauce gribiche sauce gribiche a kind of mayonnaise/tartar sauce variation made from cooked egg yolks. I'd swallowed as much as I could for the benefit of the cameras, trying to look cheerful about it, and, far too late, simply said, 'f.u.c.k it!' then tried sneaking away half my food into a napkin concealed below the table (as I had not wanted to offend the chef). a kind of mayonnaise/tartar sauce variation made from cooked egg yolks. I'd swallowed as much as I could for the benefit of the cameras, trying to look cheerful about it, and, far too late, simply said, 'f.u.c.k it!' then tried sneaking away half my food into a napkin concealed below the table (as I had not wanted to offend the chef).

So the next morning, at eight o' clock, feeling none too fine from what had easily been the worst head I'd ever had, I found myself standing in a cold barn, watching my genial host, foie gras farmer and producer Monsieur Cabena.s.s, jam a pipe from a long, long funnel down the throat of a less-than-thrilled-looking duck and begin grinding what looked like a food mill until a fistful of cornmeal disappeared down the creature's gullet. All this before breakfast.

The funnel seemed to reach the very bottom of the duck's stomach. Monsieur Cabena.s.s would give the ducks a stroke, nudge them not too forcefully between his legs, tilt their heads back, and then give them the business. Seeing such a thing with an undigested wad of veal head still roiling in your stomach tends to inspire the gag reflex. Global Alan, the shooter who'd been standing next to Monsieur Cabena.s.s, certainly seemed to think so: He suddenly turned an awful hue of green and went running for the door, disappearing for the rest of the morning.

Though not feeling too good myself, I endured a learned discourse and demonstration of the entire process of raising and feeding ducks and geese for foie gras. It was not as cruel as I'd imagined. The animal's feet are not nailed to a board, as some have said. They are not permanently rigged up to a feeding tube, endlessly pumped with food like some cartoon cat while they struggle and choke in vain. They are, in fact, fed twice a day and each time a considerably lesser amount comparative to body weight than, say, a Denny's Grand Slam Breakfast. Monsieur Cabena.s.s did not strike me as a cruel or unfeeling man, he appeared to have genuine affection for his flock, and, more often than not, the ducks would actually come to him when it was funnel time. He'd simply reach out an arm and they'd come, no more reluctantly than a child having his nose wiped by his mother.

He held up one particularly plump duck and let me run my hand over its swollen belly, its warm, protruding liver. He was not yet 'harvesting,' though he showed me some photos a display akin to a highway safety film, and about as appetizing. Ordinarily, I like blood and guts, but rarely do I like them first thing in the morning. And never with the sound of a violently heaving and coughing cameraman in the distance. By the time we retired next door to the little shop where the Cabena.s.s clan sell their products, I was not feeling well at all.

For my tasting pleasure, Madame Cabena.s.s had a.s.sembled a spread of conserve de foie gras, mousse de foie gras, rillettes de canard rillettes de canard, and confit, along with some sliced croutons of baguette and a bottle of Sauternes. The Cabena.s.s product was top-drawer it regularly takes the prize at compet.i.tions and tastings but I like my foie gras fresh: not canned, not preserved, not in mousse, and not 'en souvide.' In fairness, it had been a while since harvesting, and the fresh stuff was long sold. Any other culinary adventurer would no doubt have been thrilled. And while I do like Sauternes with my foie, not at nine o'clock in the morning. Foie gras should be enjoyed at one's leisure, not choked down in front of a camera in the cold, cruel morning after a nauseating tete de veau tete de veau experience the night before. experience the night before.

There was a lot of food there. Once again, fearful of giving offense to my very kind hosts, I scarfed everything in front of me, smiling and nodding appreciatively, conversing (with the help of my not noticeably disturbed brother) in my tortured French. The drive back to the Norman Bates Pa.s.sion Pit in Arcachon was the longest journey in memory. Global Alan, in the car ahead, had his head hanging out the window at a crazy angle, periodically drooling as we pa.s.sed through quaint country villages, by Crusade-era churches and lovely old farmhouses. Alberto, the a.s.sistant producer, at the wheel of the lead car, was soon feeling bad, as well. My brother drove our car, feeling fine, taking the turns way too hard for my taste my stomach beginning to flip and gurgle like some incipient Krakatoa. I held on for dear life, hoping to make it back to the privacy of my hotel bathroom before erupting. I just made it.

Five hours of rib-cracking agony later, I was lying, near delirious, in my ugly hotel room, trash bucket to my right, alternately sweating and shivering under a pink poly-blend blanket, the television remote control out of reach on the floor. I'd just been considering the possibility however slight that I might someday feel better, when suddenly, the TV show I'd not really been watching ended and the highlights of what was next flickered across my screen. The true horror of France revealed itself in all its terrible quirkiness. This has to be a joke, I thought. It can't be! It's a punch line, for Chrissakes! No! But it was happening. A ninety-minute biography with clips of the glorious career of that great French hero, the recipient of France's highest honors, Jerry Lewis. The great man's entire oeuvre coming tout de suite tout de suite to my television screen, promising to bombard my already-toxin-riddled brain with a lifetime of mugging, simpering, whining shtick. to my television screen, promising to bombard my already-toxin-riddled brain with a lifetime of mugging, simpering, whining shtick.

It was too much. I tried, in my desperately weakened condition, to reach the remote control, felt the blood drain from my head and the bile rise in my throat, and had to fall back into the pillows, inspiring a whole new bout of dry heaves. I couldn't turn the d.a.m.n TV off, couldn't change the station. Already, scenes from The Disorderly Orderly The Disorderly Orderly were searing their way into my softened brain, causing me whole new dimensions of pain and discomfort. I picked up the phone and called Matthew, the one member of our crew who was as yet unafflicted, and begged for him to come over and change the station. were searing their way into my softened brain, causing me whole new dimensions of pain and discomfort. I picked up the phone and called Matthew, the one member of our crew who was as yet unafflicted, and begged for him to come over and change the station.

'Is it The Day the Clown Cried The Day the Clown Cried?' he asked. 'That's a vastly underrated cla.s.sic, I'm told. Never seen by American audiences. Jerry plays a prisoner in a concentration camp. That Italian guy won an Oscar for the same idea! What was it? Life Is Beautiful Life Is Beautiful? Jerry was way way ahead of his time.' ahead of his time.'

'Please, you gotta help me,' I gasped. 'I'm dying here. I can't take it. You don't do something fast, I'm a dead man. They're gonna have to fly Bobby Flay in to shoot the Cambodia stuff. You wanna see Bobby Flay in a sarong?'

Matthew thought about that. 'I'll be right over.'

He showed up a few moments later with his camera running. He stood over my bed, getting a 'white balance' off my bloodless face. He filmed and filmed, while the room tilted and whirled around me, panning back and forth between me, moaning in my sodden sheets, and Jerry, in Cinderfella Cinderfella. He shot close-ups as I heaved and pleaded. Cutaways of the out-of-reach remote control, slow pullbacks to reveal the source of my torment, the distance between me and the remote as I groaned, promised, threatened. Just before he finally reached down and tossed me the remote, allowing me to put a merciful end to a scene from Jerry's masterpiece, The Nutty Professor The Nutty Professor, I heard Matt say, 'This is gold, baby! Comedy gold!'

Don't make television. Ever.

The Burn

Back to New York, Christmas dinner, wake up, exchange a few presents, and it's back on the infernal machine: New York to Frankfurt, Frankfurt to Singapore, Singapore to Ho Chi Minh City, another marathon of smoke-free flights, my personal circle of h.e.l.l, sitting next to the smelliest man on earth, the engines droning on and on without variation, making me yearn for turbulence anything to break the boredom, the gnawing, terrible sense that I'm in some gruesome state of suspended animation. Is there anything so expensive and yet so demeaning as tourist cla.s.s on a long flight? Look at us! Stacked ten across, staring bleary-eyed straight ahead, legs and knees contorted, necks at unnatural angles, eagerly yes, eagerly waiting for the slop gurney finally to make its way down to us. That all-too-familiar brackish waft of burned coffee, the little plastic trays of steamed food, which would cause a riot in a federal penitentiary. Oh G.o.d, another Sandra Bullock film, another Willis. If I see Helen Hunt squinting at me from a hazy airline screen one more time, I'm opening the emergency door. Being sucked into thin air has got to be preferable to that. I find myself looking for any diversion, anything to take my mind off the nicotine yen: Focus on the snoring human compost heap across the narrow aisle, pretend that if I stare hard enough, he'll explode.

By now, I've come to know the smoking areas of airports all over the world. I find similarly afflicted pa.s.sengers speed-smoking about twenty feet from the gate in Frankfurt. In Singapore, you have a choice of two count 'em, two two smoking lounges: a foul-smelling gla.s.s fishtank inside the mammoth shopping arcade, and an al fresco area where there's always an interesting bunch of Asian adventurers. They sit on benches in the roaring heat and humidity, nursing Tiger beers, happily sucking up cigarettes and jet fumes in the blinding dawn light. The accents of those talking are Aussie, Kiwi, Brit, French, Dutch all drunk and red-faced, exhausted. Each carry-on bag tells a story of a long time away from home. smoking lounges: a foul-smelling gla.s.s fishtank inside the mammoth shopping arcade, and an al fresco area where there's always an interesting bunch of Asian adventurers. They sit on benches in the roaring heat and humidity, nursing Tiger beers, happily sucking up cigarettes and jet fumes in the blinding dawn light. The accents of those talking are Aussie, Kiwi, Brit, French, Dutch all drunk and red-faced, exhausted. Each carry-on bag tells a story of a long time away from home.

Tan Son Nhut airport. Ho Chi Minh City. Everybody still calls it Saigon. You can light up a smoke the second you're off the plane. The customs inspector has a b.u.t.t in his mouth. I like Vietnam already. The last pitched battle of the Vietnam War (what they call the American War here) was fought on these tarmac strips, in these lounges. Crumbling American-built Quonset huts still line the runways. You've seen the movies. You've read the books. Do I have to tell you about the blast of heat that hits you in the stomach when you make it past the baggage claim and through the gla.s.s doors? The wall of humanity waiting outside? Saigon. A place I never thought I'd live to see.

I wake up at 3:00 a.m., chest pounding in the cold, damp room. I'm on the tenth floor of the New World Hotel. I've sweated through the blankets after yet another violent and very disturbing dream. It must be the antimalarial pills. There's no other explanation for the vivid, full-color nightmares I've been having since I arrived. I can smell blood and motor oil still the dreams seem to be in Sensurround, fully textured affairs, where I can actually feel vibrations, physical exertion. This time, I was rolling and rolling in an out-of-control car, spinning off the asphalt of a dream highway and down a steep decline. I could feel myself bouncing off the door frames, the seats, the crumpling dash. I could hear the gla.s.s on the instrument panel shattering, the windshield safety gla.s.s cracking in starburst patterns.

I wake up, my arms sore from bracing myself against the collision. Absentmindedly, I run a hand through my hair to brush away nonexistent shards of safety gla.s.s.

Maybe it was the snake wine.

Earlier in the evening, I'd gone to see Madame Dai in her tiny law office-turned-cafe/salon, and after the spring rolls and the rice-noodle cakes and the beef wrapped in mint leaves dipped in nuoc mam nuoc mam, she'd asked in her perfect, elegantly inflected French if I'd care for a 'digestif.' I'd said yes, of course, utterly charmed by the diminutive but stately Vietnamese woman in her black dress a former man-killer if there ever was one. She'd disappeared for a moment into the kitchen while I'd looked idly at the photographs of old friends on the wall: Pierre Trudeau, the Pope, the head of the Central Committee, Francois Mitterand, various war correspondents, former lovers, a portrait of herself as a young woman in the 1940s, looking absolutely Dragon Lady in a slinky ao dai ao dai. When Madame Dai returned, she held a large gla.s.s jar filled with snakes a single full-beaked bird still in plumage, entangled by serpents deep in the clear rice wine.

I can still taste it.

When am I awake? When am I asleep? All Saigon has a dreamlike quality for me. Wandering down Dong Khoi Street, the former rue Catinat, headed away from the river, past the Majestic, I turn the corner and there's the Continental Hotel, the Caravelle, the gaudy Rex; I wade through a sea of scooters and cyclos and motorbikes to a narrow side street where, among the dusty pillboxes, broken timepieces, foreign coins, used shoes, cigarette holders, and dented dog tags, there peek out stained Zippos (both real and fake) inscribed with the poignant personal mottoes of their original owners: vietnam

Chu Lai 6970

Always ripped or always stoned I made a year. I'm going Home.

I find one by the compa.s.ses, feeling absolutely ghoulish as I read another plaintive commemoration of one young man's long-ago year abroad: hue DA NANG.

QUI NHON.

BIEN HOA.

SAIGON.

On the other side of the lighter, the sentiment: When I die, bury me face down So the whole world can kiss my a.s.s.

This is a city named after a cook. Maybe you didn't know that. Ho Chi Minh was a very fine, cla.s.sically trained culinarian. Prior to helping found the Vietnamese Communist party, he worked at the Carlton Hotel in Paris, for no less a chef than the great man himself, Auguste Escoffier. It is said he was a favorite of the old man. He worked as a saucier there, later as a cook on a transatlantic liner, then as a patissier at the Parker House in Boston. He was the Commie thing aside one of us, like it or not: a guy who spent a lot of hours standing on his feet in busy hotel and restaurant kitchens, a guy who came up through the ranks the old-school way a professional. And yet he still found time to travel under about a zillion aliases, write manifestos, play footsie with the Chinese and the Russians, dodge the French, fight the j.a.panese (with U.S. help, by the way), beat the French, help create a nation, lose that nation, and organize an ultimately successful guerilla war against America. Communism may suck, but old Uncle Ho was one interesting guy.

And this is where his dream ends: on the tenth floor of the New World Hotel, an overchilled high-rise mausoleum in the city center; with a swimming pool elevated from the noise and exhaust of the city's streets, where one can look up from one's blender drink at poolside (though the developers have done their best to mask the view with foliage) through trellised flowers and see the ramshackle apartment blocks of the Workers' Paradise, where barefoot old women live on less than a dollar a day.

At the New World, one can walk directly from the maddening heat of the streets into the gigantic, sweeping lobby, past the gingerbread house display for the holidays ('Festive Table!'), past the c.o.c.ktail lounge, where a Vietnamese cover band, the Outrageous Three, are playing note-perfect Barry Manilow tunes, ride the silent elevators up to the Executive Floor, or to the health club, the driving range, or tennis court. One can sit on the enclosed tenth-floor terrace, sipping 333 beer (p.r.o.nounced bababa bababa), or enjoying a little port wine and Stilton from the complimentary buffet while rubbing one's fingers over a dead soldier's Zippo.

Is it the antimalarials I've been taking in preparation for the Mekong Delta and Cambodia that are curdling my dreams? Was it the snake wine? Or is it the fact that I'm in the Vietnam of my dreams all of our dreams. Was it Tricky d.i.c.k, all those years ago, who called everything we did here all the waste, death, folly, the legacy of still-permeating cynicism we inflicted on ourselves 'our long national nightmare'? In Saigon, walking the streets, it's hard to separate the real from the fantasy, the nightmare from the wish, a collection of film and video images that have long ago been burned into so many of our cortices. The ceiling fan in Apocalypse Now Apocalypse Now, the choppers coming in slow with a Whuppwhupppwhupppwhuppp Whuppwhupppwhupppwhuppp . . . the running girl, flesh hanging off her arms from a napalm strike . . . burning bonzes toppling over . . . the point-blank bullet to the head . . . that lush longed-for green that drove generations of mystics, madmen, technocrats, and strategists insane. The French, the Americans, ruined for decades by tiny little farmers in black pajamas, slogging through those beautiful rice paddies behind water buffalo. Yet it always looked so beautiful, so . . . unknowable. . . . the running girl, flesh hanging off her arms from a napalm strike . . . burning bonzes toppling over . . . the point-blank bullet to the head . . . that lush longed-for green that drove generations of mystics, madmen, technocrats, and strategists insane. The French, the Americans, ruined for decades by tiny little farmers in black pajamas, slogging through those beautiful rice paddies behind water buffalo. Yet it always looked so beautiful, so . . . unknowable.

I wake from yet another nightmare. This one was even worse. I was a witness at an execution. I can almost still smell the smoke and cordite from the guns. Feeling nauseated and guilty, I read for a while, afraid to go back to sleep. I'm rereading Graham Greene's The Quiet American The Quiet American for about the fifth time. It's his Vietnam novel, set in the early days of the French adventure here. He wrote much of it it is said at the Continental Hotel, just down the street. It's a beautiful, heartbreakingly sad book. But it's not helping my state of mind, which is becoming increasingly deranged. I've got to get out of this room. Even with the air conditioner on, everything's wet. Condensation has built up on the windows. The carpet feels moist and smells stale. My sheets have been sweat through. My clothes are soggy. Even the currency is wet; a pile of near-worthless dong sits limp and moist on the nightstand. I head out for the Ben Thanh market, about twelve blocks away. for about the fifth time. It's his Vietnam novel, set in the early days of the French adventure here. He wrote much of it it is said at the Continental Hotel, just down the street. It's a beautiful, heartbreakingly sad book. But it's not helping my state of mind, which is becoming increasingly deranged. I've got to get out of this room. Even with the air conditioner on, everything's wet. Condensation has built up on the windows. The carpet feels moist and smells stale. My sheets have been sweat through. My clothes are soggy. Even the currency is wet; a pile of near-worthless dong sits limp and moist on the nightstand. I head out for the Ben Thanh market, about twelve blocks away.

I stroll past quaking rabbits, squawking chickens, trembling deer mice, past meat counters where vendors squat barefoot on their cutting boards, calmly eating from chipped bowls. The smell is heavy, narcotic: durian, jackfruit, seafood, nuoc mam nuoc mam the ubiquitous fish sauce condiment of choice all over Southeast Asia. At the center of the enclosed market, past the vegetables, meat, fish, live poultry, nostrums, jewelry, and groceries for sale, is a large area of food stalls selling a psychedelic rainbow of good-looking, good-smelling, unbelievably fresh stuff. My mood begins to improve immediately. Everything is brightly colored, crunchy, exotic, unrecognizable, and attractive. I suddenly want everything. Without warning, I'm happy, exhilarated, delirious with hunger and curiosity. A manic-depressive on a happy jag, I'm on top of the world. the ubiquitous fish sauce condiment of choice all over Southeast Asia. At the center of the enclosed market, past the vegetables, meat, fish, live poultry, nostrums, jewelry, and groceries for sale, is a large area of food stalls selling a psychedelic rainbow of good-looking, good-smelling, unbelievably fresh stuff. My mood begins to improve immediately. Everything is brightly colored, crunchy, exotic, unrecognizable, and attractive. I suddenly want everything. Without warning, I'm happy, exhilarated, delirious with hunger and curiosity. A manic-depressive on a happy jag, I'm on top of the world.

I sit down at a clean white counter with a crowd of Vietnamese and order a bowl of pho pho, a spicy noodle soup that comes with a variety of ingredients. I'm not sure exactly which pho pho I'm ordering, but it all looks good, so I simply point at what the lady next to me is eating. Is there anything better to eat on this planet than a properly made bowl of I'm ordering, but it all looks good, so I simply point at what the lady next to me is eating. Is there anything better to eat on this planet than a properly made bowl of pho pho? I don't know. Precious few things can approach it. It's got it all. A bowl of clear hot liquid, loaded with shreds of fresh, white and pink crabmeat, and noodles is handed to me, garnished with bean sprouts and chopped fresh cilantro. A little plate of condiments comes next: a few wedges of lime, some ground black pepper which, judging from my neighbors at the counter, one makes into a paste, adding lime juice to pepper and stirring with chopsticks a dish of nuoc mam nuoc mam, a dish of chili fish oil, some chopped red chili peppers. The proprietor hands me a cold plastic-wrapped towel, which, once again emulating my neighbors, I squeeze until the air is forced to one end and then pop loudly between my hands. Everyone claps encouragingly. This sound, the pop pop pop pop pop pop of plastic-wrapped hand towels exploding, is the backbeat to Saigon. You hear it everywhere. Inside the wrapper is a cold, fresh, clean towel to wash and refresh with. The of plastic-wrapped hand towels exploding, is the backbeat to Saigon. You hear it everywhere. Inside the wrapper is a cold, fresh, clean towel to wash and refresh with. The pho pho is fantastic spicy, hot, complex, refined, yet unbelievably simple. The astounding freshness of the ingredients, the brightly contrasting textures and colors, the surprising sophistication of the presentation the whole experience is overwhelmingly perfect. The proprietor beams at me before I even take a mouthful. He knows it's good. I wipe my bowl out, wash it down with a little clear plastic sandwich bag of lychee juice, and hand over a few moist dong. is fantastic spicy, hot, complex, refined, yet unbelievably simple. The astounding freshness of the ingredients, the brightly contrasting textures and colors, the surprising sophistication of the presentation the whole experience is overwhelmingly perfect. The proprietor beams at me before I even take a mouthful. He knows it's good. I wipe my bowl out, wash it down with a little clear plastic sandwich bag of lychee juice, and hand over a few moist dong.

At the beginning of a fierce compulsion to eat everything in sight, I bounce around like a hungry pinball from stall to stall. A woman crouches by a doorway with a wok of oil sizzling over a few coals. Crisping on the surface are a few tiny little birds, head, feet, wings intact, their entrails bursting yellow, billowing out through golden fried bellies. They look good. They smell good. I buy one, pick it up by the feet, the smiling woman urging me on, letting me know I'm doing it right. I wolf the thing down, gnawing it right up to its feet, beak, brain, tiny crunchy bones and all. Delicious. And again, so fresh. Everything, everywhere, is fresh, astoundingly fresh. And not a refrigerator in sight.

Another woman beckons me over and offers me a slice of jackfruit. I accept and offer her money. She declines, simply watches, smiling as I eat. I am loving this. I am really, really loving it. I order a spring roll at another stall, watch as the owner wraps freshly hacked cooked prawn, mint, basil, lotus root, and sprouts in rice paper, then eat that and order a shrimp kebab, a sort of shrimp cake wrapped around a stick of sugarcane and grilled. It's a wonderland of food here. Tiny intricately wrapped and shaped banh banh triangular bundles of rice cake and pork inside carefully tied banana leaves dangle from stalls, like the hanging salami and cheese you see in Italian markets. I try some. Smashing. There's food everywhere, inside the market, outside on the street; anyone not selling or cooking food seems to be eating, kneeling or squatting against walls, on the floor, in the street, tucking into something that looks wonderful. triangular bundles of rice cake and pork inside carefully tied banana leaves dangle from stalls, like the hanging salami and cheese you see in Italian markets. I try some. Smashing. There's food everywhere, inside the market, outside on the street; anyone not selling or cooking food seems to be eating, kneeling or squatting against walls, on the floor, in the street, tucking into something that looks wonderful.

I leave the market and head toward one of the many little coffee joints, picking my way through the stream of motorbikes and cyclos, past more food vendors, men and women carrying yokes, a pot of pho pho hanging from one end, utensils and garnishes from the other. Everything I see, I want to put in my mouth. Every pot of soup or noodles over a few sticks of burning wood is fresher and better-looking than any stuff in a New York market. hanging from one end, utensils and garnishes from the other. Everything I see, I want to put in my mouth. Every pot of soup or noodles over a few sticks of burning wood is fresher and better-looking than any stuff in a New York market.

Sitting down on a tiny plastic stool, maybe a foot off the ground, I order coffee. I feel short of breath from the rapidly building heat, the humidity, all those delicious, intoxicating smells pulling me in every direction at once. An empty coffee cup and a banged-up strainer over a tin receptacle hits my wobbly little table. The grounds strain slowly, drip by drip, into the lower container. When it's all gone through, I pour my coffee into my cup and take a sip. It's simply the best coffee I've ever had: thick, rich, strong, and syrupy, like the dregs at the bottom of a gla.s.s of chocolate milk. I'm instantly hooked. The proprietor, a toothless old woman, has a suggestion. She brings out another coffee, this time with a tall gla.s.s of ice and a can of condensed milk. When the coffee has filtered through, it's poured over the ice. Mingling with the milk below, it's a slow, strangely mesmerizing process, delightful to watch and even better to drink. As the black coffee dribbles slowly through and around the ice cubes, swirling gently in dark-on-white wisps through the milk, I feel Vietnam doing the same thing to my brain. I'm in love. I am absolutely over-the top gonzo for this country and everything in it. I want to stay forever.

Are there any more beautiful women? They drive by on their motorbikes in tight white silk ao dais ao dais, slit to the tops of their thighs, black silk pants underneath, driving gloves that reach beyond their elbows, white surgical masks covering their faces, bug-eyed dark sungla.s.ses, and conical straw hats. Not an inch of flesh is visible, and I'm totally enamored with them. Sitting on my stool drinking iced coffee and watching them, I feel a twinge of pain for Greene's hero in The Quiet American The Quiet American, so hopelessly in love with a young Vietnamese girl who can never and will never return his affections in kind. It's a paradigm for the whole American experience here in some ways. Poor LBJ, shaking his head, unable to understand that that little Uncle Ho fella over there, offered a badly needed dam and hydroelectric system for the Red River Delta in return for selling out his dream of a united country turned him down flat. All those well-meaning Green Beanies in the early days of the war, the would-be Lord Jims, warrior priests, idealistic CIA officers, AID specialists, medics and mercenaries, hurt, wounded, confused that these people just wouldn't love them back the way they thought they deserved to be. We took out our lover's pique later, by sending in the marines.

I sit there for a long time, sipping iced coffee, smelling motorbike exhaust, freshly baked baguettes (they're really good here), burning joss, the occasional waft from the Saigon River, thinking back to Madame Dai and my first night in town.

'Les Francais,' she began, listing all the regimes she's lived through, 'les j.a.ponais, les Francais encore! encore! puis les Americains, le President Diem, les Americains, Thieu, les communistes puis les Americains, le President Diem, les Americains, Thieu, les communistes.' She smiled, shrugged, casting a skeptical glance at my translator, Linh, who, as Madame Dai was well aware, would later have to report this conversation to the ominously named People's Committee.

'Le President Thieu wanted to put me in jail,' she said, 'but he . . . could not. I was too . . . populaire populaire. His cabal said I would become a hero in jail.' The first female lawyer in Vietnam under the South Vietnamese government (now referred to as the 'Puppet Regime'), she saw her law practice shut down when the North Vietnamese rolled into town. Eventually, she was allowed to reopen as a cafe, still operating, as she does today, out of her musty law offices, the walls lined with law books, memorabilia, and photographs of better days. She's on some kind of governmental advisory committee, she explained, which was perhaps why it was okay for me to visit. She still entertains visiting dignitaries from the West.

'I love to flirt with communism,' she said, giggling and goosing Linh. 'The "Government of National Reconciliation," ' she scoffed. 'Reconcile what? I was never angry!'

She served a choice of two menus to guests most of them visiting Westerners: French or Vietnamese. I hadn't come here to eat escargots bourguignonne, so I chose Vietnamese. Madame Dai floated back into a rear kitchen, where a few loyal retainers were preparing a spread of ban phong tom ban phong tom (shrimp crackers), (shrimp crackers), goi sen goi sen (lotus salad with chicken and shrimp), (lotus salad with chicken and shrimp), cha goi zoua cha goi zoua (fried spring rolls), (fried spring rolls), ba la lop ba la lop (beef wrapped in mint leaves), (beef wrapped in mint leaves), com duoung chau com duoung chau (Saigonese rice with pork, egg, and green beans), (Saigonese rice with pork, egg, and green beans), mang cua mang cua (asparagus soup), a mint, pineapple and cuc.u.mber salad, and pork grilled over charcoal. The meal ended with creme caramel, an innocuous but delicious reminder of colonial days. Madame Dai was educated in France, and she led the conversation toward fond memories of ca.s.soulets, (asparagus soup), a mint, pineapple and cuc.u.mber salad, and pork grilled over charcoal. The meal ended with creme caramel, an innocuous but delicious reminder of colonial days. Madame Dai was educated in France, and she led the conversation toward fond memories of ca.s.soulets, choucroutes, confit de canard choucroutes, confit de canard, clearly enjoying simply p.r.o.nouncing the words after so long. Occasionally, she paused to put a finger to her lips, then delivered a tap on the table. 'Les meecrophones,' she stage-whispered, making sure that poor squirming Linh who does not speak French and was not enjoying when we did heard every word. 'I am CIA?' she asked sarcastically. 'Non, I tell zem. I am KGB!' Both acronyms made Linh sit upright with barely concealed alarm. If there's anyone the Vietnamese hate, it's the Russians. Apparently, after the war, a lot of their 'advisers' and technicians walked around the country like conquering heroes, pretending they'd won the war for the Vietnamese. They were rude. They were loud. They were it is said lousy tippers. 'I love to flirt with ze communism,' said Madame Dai for the second time. She involved me in a well-known Vietnamese joke, very popular in the seventies, during the period of 'reeducation.'

'What religion are you?' she asked.

'Uh . . . no religion,' I said clearly the right answer for the punch line.

'Oh!' she exclaimed with mock horror. 'You are VC!'

Even Linh laughed along with this. He'd heard it, too. At last, we left Madame Dai out in front of her cafe, a tiny figure in a black dress and stockings, sweeping away a few bits of litter with a straw whisk broom.

When I finally leave the market, the streets are dark, and I pa.s.s a few blocks where not a single electric light appears only dark open storefronts and coms coms (fast-food eateries), broom closet-sized restaurants serving fish, meat, and rice for under a dollar, flickering candles barely revealing the silhouettes of seated figures. The tide of cyclists, motorbikes, and scooters has increased to an uninterrupted flow, a river that, given the slightest opportunity, diverts through automobile traffic, stopping it cold, spreads into tributaries that spill out over sidewalks, across lots, through filling stations. They pour through narrow openings in front of cars: young men, their girlfriends hanging on the back; families of four: mom, dad, baby, and grandma, all on a fragile, wobbly, underpowered motorbike; three people, the day's shopping piled on a rear fender; women carrying bouquets of flapping chickens, gathered by their feet while youngest son drives and baby rests on the handlebars; motorbikes carrying furniture, spare tires, wooden crates, lumber, cinder blocks, boxes of shoes. Nothing is too large to pile onto or strap to a bike. Lone men in ragged clothes stand or sit by the roadsides, selling petrol from small soda bottles, servicing punctures with little patch kits and old bicycle pumps. (fast-food eateries), broom closet-sized restaurants serving fish, meat, and rice for under a dollar, flickering candles barely revealing the silhouettes of seated figures. The tide of cyclists, motorbikes, and scooters has increased to an uninterrupted flow, a river that, given the slightest opportunity, diverts through automobile traffic, stopping it cold, spreads into tributaries that spill out over sidewalks, across lots, through filling stations. They pour through narrow openings in front of cars: young men, their girlfriends hanging on the back; families of four: mom, dad, baby, and grandma, all on a fragile, wobbly, underpowered motorbike; three people, the day's shopping piled on a rear fender; women carrying bouquets of flapping chickens, gathered by their feet while youngest son drives and baby rests on the handlebars; motorbikes carrying furniture, spare tires, wooden crates, lumber, cinder blocks, boxes of shoes. Nothing is too large to pile onto or strap to a bike. Lone men in ragged clothes stand or sit by the roadsides, selling petrol from small soda bottles, servicing punctures with little patch kits and old bicycle pumps.

The next morning, I'm right back at the market, where I have a healthy breakfast of hot vin lon hot vin lon, essentially a soft-boiled duck embryo, still in the sh.e.l.l, a half-formed beak and bits of dark crunchy matter buried in the partially cooked yolk and transluscent alb.u.men. I eat it but don't exactly love it. It will not be replacing bialys on my breakfast table. I hear for the first time what will become a regular refrain in Vietnam, particularly when eating something that only a few days ago one would never have imagined putting in one's mouth. While running my spoon around inside the eggsh.e.l.l, sc.r.a.ping out the last bits of goop and feather, a man sitting next to me sees what I'm eating. He smiles and says, 'Make you strong!' While he doesn't make any rude accompanying gestures, I gather that hot vin lon hot vin lon is supposed to ensure an imminent erection and many, many sons. Not feeling too great from my embryonic breakfast, I soothe my stomach with a bowl of is supposed to ensure an imminent erection and many, many sons. Not feeling too great from my embryonic breakfast, I soothe my stomach with a bowl of chao muk chao muk, a hearty soup made with ginger, sprouts, cilantro, shrimp, squid, chives, and pork-blood cake, garnished with fried croutons. This goes down well, and after a morning 333, I start across the street, until I'm stopped short.

I'm already used to the amputees, the Agent Orange victims, the hungry, the poor, the six-year-old street kids who you see at 3:00 a.m. and cry, 'Happy New Year! h.e.l.lo! Bye-bye!' in English, then point at their mouths and go 'Boom boom?' I am almost inured to the near-starving Dondis, the legless, armless, scarred, and desperate, sleeping in cyclos, on the ground, by the riverbanks. I am not, however, prepared for the shirtless man with the pudding-bowl haircut who approaches me outside the market, his hand out.

He has been burned at some time in the past and is now a nearly unrecognizable man-shaped figure of uninterrupted scar tissue beneath the little crown of black hair. Every inch from the waist up (and who knows how far below) is scar tissue. He has no lips, no eyebrows, no nose. His ears are like putty, as if he's been dipped and melted in a blast furnace, then yanked out just before dissolving completely. He moves his jack-o'-lantern teeth, but no noise emanates from what used to be a mouth.

I feel gut-shot. My exuberant mood of the last few days and hours comes crashing down. I just stand there, blinking, the word napalm napalm hanging inevitably over me, squeezing every beat of my heart. Suddenly, this is not fun anymore. I'm ashamed. How could I come to this city, to this country, filled with enthusiasm for something so . . . so . . . meaningless as flavor, texture, cuisine? This man's family has very possibly been vaporized, the man himself transformed into a ruined figurine like some Madame Tussaud's exhibit, his skin dripping like molten wax. What am I doing here? Writing a f.u.c.king book? About food? Making a petty, useless, lighter-than-air television f.u.c.king show? The pendulum swings all the way over and I am suddenly filled with self-loathing. I hate myself and my whole purpose here. I blink through a cold sweat, paralyzed, certain that everyone on the street must be watching. Radiating discomfort and guilt, I'm sure that any casual observer must surely a.s.sociate me and my country with this man's injuries. I spy a few other Western tourists across the street in Banana Republic shorts and Lands' End polo shirts, comfortably shod in Weejuns and Birkenstocks, and I want suddenly and irrationally to kill them. They look evil, like carrion-eaters. The inscribed Zippo in my pocket burns, no longer amusing suddenly about as funny as the shrunken head of a close friend. Everything I eat will taste like ashes now. f.u.c.k writing books. f.u.c.k making television. hanging inevitably over me, squeezing every beat of my heart. Suddenly, this is not fun anymore. I'm ashamed. How could I come to this city, to this country, filled with enthusiasm for something so . . . so . . . meaningless as flavor, texture, cuisine? This man's family has very possibly been vaporized, the man himself transformed into a ruined figurine like some Madame Tussaud's exhibit, his skin dripping like molten wax. What am I doing here? Writing a f.u.c.king book? About food? Making a petty, useless, lighter-than-air television f.u.c.king show? The pendulum swings all the way over and I am suddenly filled with self-loathing. I hate myself and my whole purpose here. I blink through a cold sweat, paralyzed, certain that everyone on the street must be watching. Radiating discomfort and guilt, I'm sure that any casual observer must surely a.s.sociate me and my country with this man's injuries. I spy a few other Western tourists across the street in Banana Republic shorts and Lands' End polo shirts, comfortably shod in Weejuns and Birkenstocks, and I want suddenly and irrationally to kill them. They look evil, like carrion-eaters. The inscribed Zippo in my pocket burns, no longer amusing suddenly about as funny as the shrunken head of a close friend. Everything I eat will taste like ashes now. f.u.c.k writing books. f.u.c.k making television.

I'm unable even to give the man money. I stand there useless, hands trembling, consumed by paranoia. I hurry back to my refrigerated room at the New World Hotel and sag back onto the still-unmade bed, stare at the ceiling in tears, unable to grasp or to process what I've seen or to do anything about it. I go nowhere and eat nothing for the next twenty-four hours. The TV crew thinks I'm having a breakdown.

Saigon . . . Still only in Saigon.

What am I doing in Vietnam?

Where the Boys Are/Where the Girls Are

There was barely a sound to be heard in the empty streets of San Sebastian's parte vieja parte vieja, just the clip-clopping of my boots on wet cobblestones echoing against four-hundred-year-old buildings. It was late at night, and Luis Irizar and I carried food through the dark.

Luis was the main man at the Escuela de Cocina Luis Irizar, the cooking school that bears his name, a capo, maybe even a consigliere, in the city's vast culinary subculture. Had it not been so late, and the streets so empty, there would have been pa.s.sersby waving at him, shopkeepers calling out his name, former students coming out to give him a hug, a handshake, and a hearty h.e.l.lo. Everybody who has anything to do with food in San Sebastian knows Luis. Where we were headed at this late hour was an inst.i.tution particular to this food-crazy city, the Gaztelubide, an exclusive all-male clubhouse for one of San Sebastian's many gastronomic societies. If you love food, San Sebastian's got it all: an unwavering faith in its own traditions and regional products, a near-religious certainty that it's got the best cuisine in Spain, a language and culture that go back literally to the Stone Age. And more Michelin stars per capita than anywhere else in the world.

If you listen to the locals, San Sebastian isn't even really Spain. It's Basque country, that vaguely defined, famously independent area of southwest France and northern Spain where the street signs are in Basque (lots of names with t t's and x x's and few vowels) and woe to anyone who too obnoxiously a.s.serts obeisance to another culture. There's a bunch of good ol' boys here who call themselves ETA and they make the IRA look like Mouseketeers. Screw with them at your peril. While the great majority of Basques look disapprovingly on car bombs and a.s.sa.s.sinations, their interest in independence and self-determination is right under the surface. Scratch lightly and it's in your face.

I wasn't worried about bombs or kidnappings. I've long ago found that nationalism bordering on militancy is often accompanied by large numbers of proud cooks and lots of good stuff to eat. San Sebastian is just about the best example of this state of mind. Good food, good restaurants, lots to drink and 'Leave me alone!' Not a bad place for a hungry, globe-trotting chef, early in his quest for the perfect meal.

Luis and I entered Gaztelubide with our supplies. We pa.s.sed a wide, oblong-shaped dining area lined with wooden tables and benches, then walked into a nice-sized, professionally equipped kitchen, crowded with men in ap.r.o.ns. The men were working earnestly on various individual cooking projects, the stovetops fully occupied with simmering pots and sizzling pans, while a few onlookers drank red wine and hard cider in the dining area and rear cloakroom. I was out of my element. First, I was at least fifteen years younger than anyone there. This society hadn't opened the books to new membership in many years. Second, all these cooks were amateur as opposed to professional cooks (save Luis), guys who cooked for love, for the pure pleasure and appreciation of food. Third was the 'all-male' thing, an expression which, in my experience, is most often accompanied by signs reading peep-o-rama and buddy booths or, worse, football on the big screen! For me, a night out 'with the guys' unless we're talking chefs, of course usually veers into the territory of bar fights, Jager shots, public urination, and vomiting into inappropriate vessels. Without the civilizing perspectives of women, too many guys in one room will almost always, it seems, lead the conversation, as if by some ugly, gravitational pull, to sports stats, cars, p.u.s.s.y, and whose d.i.c.k is bigger subjects I've already heard way too much about in twenty-eight years in kitchens.

Virginia, Luis's daughter and the director of the cooking school, had put my mind somewhat at ease earlier, a.s.suring me that I'd have a good time. 'Go,' she said. 'You'll have fun . . . Tomorrow night,' she added ominously, 'you come out with the girls.'

Now I was in the inner sanctum putting on an ap.r.o.n and preparing to a.s.sist Luis in the preparation of a traditional Basque meal a tall gla.s.s of hard cider in one hand, a bucket of soaking bacalao bacalao (salt cod) in the other. 'You dry the (salt cod) in the other. 'You dry the bacalao bacalao on the towel, like this,' said Luis, demonstrating for me exactly how he wanted it done. He blotted a thick filet of cod on both sides, ready to make his move to an open burner on the crowded stovetop. on the towel, like this,' said Luis, demonstrating for me exactly how he wanted it done. He blotted a thick filet of cod on both sides, ready to make his move to an open burner on the crowded stovetop.

'Next you go like this '

There was no argument about who was boss here. I happily complied as Luis slapped down a heavy skillet, added some olive oil, and began to bring it up to heat. When the oil was hot enough, I seared the pieces of fish lightly on both sides.

We were making bacalao al pilpil bacalao al pilpil, about as old-school Basque a dish as you are likely to find. After setting the seared fish aside, I covered the half-cooked filets in more hot olive oil. Then, moving over to a countertop and using a thick earthenware ca.s.serole, I followed Luis's example and carefully swirled in a gentle clockwise motion until the natural alb.u.men in the fish bound with the oil, creating a thick, cloudy emulsion. At the very end, Luis spooned in some piperade piperade, an all-purpose mixture of tomato, peppers, and onions, which gave the sauce a dark pink-and-red-flecked finish and an inviting spicy aroma.

'Keep it warm here,' said Luis, balancing the ca.s.serole dish between two simmering stockpots.

Next: cocoches cocoches, the salt-cured cheeks of hake, soaked in milk, then seasoned, floured, dipped in egg, and fried until crispy and golden brown. Luis walked me through the process while frying serrano ham wrapped langoustines on skewers on the flattop next to me, charring them lightly on both sides. People kept refilling my cider gla.s.s and handing me gla.s.ses of txakaoli txakaoli, a sort of greenish white wine similar to vino verde vino verde. I was beginning to feel that warm buzz, an artificial sense of well-being and inflated self-image so conducive to enjoying a fine meal. We were joined by a brawny and gregarious former student of Luis's, who explained the society's drinking policy: Drink as much as you like on the honor system. At the end of the night, count up your bottles, fill out a ticket totaling the damage, and leave the money in a hanging covered pot by the untended bar.

The food almost ready, Luis showed me to a table, set down some gla.s.ses and high-poured me a big drink of patxaran patxaran, the deadly local brandy made from berries and anise. With the bottle held about two feet over the gla.s.s, he did the same for himself, winked, and gave me the Basque toast of 'Osa.s.suna!' before draining his gla.s.s in one go. I was beginning to understand what went on here. Soon, we were well into the patxaran patxaran and happily tearing at our food. The cheeks were terrific, the pilpil, served at blood-warm temperature, surprisingly sweet and subtly flavored, the and happily tearing at our food. The cheeks were terrific, the pilpil, served at blood-warm temperature, surprisingly sweet and subtly flavored, the piperade piperade/oil emulsion a nice counterpoint to the salt cod and much more delicate than I'd expected. The langoustines were great, and a surprise addition of wild mushroom salpicon salpicon in a sort of rice-paper vol-au-vent another cook's contribution, I think was wonderful. in a sort of rice-paper vol-au-vent another cook's contribution, I think was wonderful.

All the other cooks' food seemed to be coming up at the same time, and the tables were soon crowded with burly, barrel-chested men animatedly devouring their creations in food-spattered ap.r.o.ns, the clatter and roar of conversation punctuated by exclamations of 'Osa.s.suna!'

We were having a jolly time at my table, and visitors from other tables frequently swung by to say h.e.l.lo to me, Luis, and his former student. Conversation ranged from the exact frontiers of Basque territory (Luis's friend claimed everything from Bordeaux to Madrid wherever there was good stuff to eat) to the incomprehensible aversion to mushrooms shared by most non-Basque Spaniards. Luis was quick to point out that the Basques, not Columbus, had discovered America. When I mentioned that some Portuguese friends had just made the same claim, Luis waved a hand and explained everything. 'The Basque are fishermen. We were always fishermen. But we were also always a small country. When we found cod, we didn't tell people about it. And we found a lot of cod off America. Who should we have told? The Portuguese? They'd have stolen it all. Then we'd have had nothing.' Things seemed normal in the large room, a big crowd of happy eaters, speaking in a mixture of Spanish and Basque, gla.s.ses clinking, more toasts.