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The Old Crone’s Guide to Vietnam: Part III – Dining With Dignity (and a Sturdy Liver)



Greetings once more, dear reader!

If thou hast thus far survived the infernal mopeds, befriended Grab, Be or Xanh, the Magnificent Apps, and learned to cross the street with the poise of a Buddhist buffalo, then congratulations! You are now deemed worthy of the next great trial: dining with the locals.

Be warned, this is no dainty affair with napkins and bread rolls. Nay. This is culinary warfare, complete with mysterious liquors, unspoken customs, and an ever-refilling bowl that may, quite literally, defeat you.

Gather thy chopsticks and thy courage, for the feast begins.

First Rule of the Vietnamese Table: Thou Shalt Not Seat Thyself Like a Barbarian

Upon arriving at a Vietnamese gathering, do not fling thyself down at the nearest empty chair as though thou hast just returned from battle. Oh no. One must wait—with grace and mild hunger—to be shown one’s place.

Seating is a subtle ceremony. The eldest and most respected take their thrones first, followed by the rest in descending order of age or importance. As a foreign guest, thou may be granted a seat of honour—or gently nudged away from it with a smile and a subtle, “No, no, Grandma sits there.”

Wait for the Magical Words Before Thou Darest to Nibble

Once all are assembled, thou shalt not raise thy chopsticks, spoon, or hopeful gaze until the eldest at the table gives the blessing. The phrase thou must await is “xin mời,” which roughly translates to, “Please, let us dine,” but spiritually means, “The food is blessed, let the battle begin.”

To eat before this sacred utterance is akin to performing interpretive dance at a funeral. Simply not done.

The Grand Display: A Feast on the Floor

In many a home, thou wilt find no high table nor throne-like chairs. Nay, the feast is laid lovingly upon a mat on the floor—an inviting spread of broths, meats, pickles, herbs, and mysterious things in banana leaves. All gather 'round, cross-legged, equal before the might of the meal.

Take off thy shoes. Tuck in thy skirts. Try not to yelp as thy knees begin their slow, silent protest.

Do Not Flip the Fish, Lest the Boat Flip Also

A whole fish may appear before thee, gleaming and noble. Resist, I beg thee, the Western impulse to flip it over for the juicy underside. In Vietnam, flipping a fish is akin to cursing the fisherman to capsize his boat—a superstition most robust, especially if there’s a fisherman at the table (and there often is).

Instead, remove the bones gently, as one would unlace a corset—delicately, with reverence, and possibly with assistance.

Slurping: A Compliment in Liquid Form

Thou may be surprised to learn that slurping one’s noodles is not rude but rather delightful. A hearty sluuuurp announces to the cook that thou art both ravenous and most appreciative of their craft. So fear not—let thy broth sing!

Chopsticks: Thy Tools of Honour (And Danger)

Wield thy chopsticks with care and class. Never stab them upright into a bowl of rice, for this resembles incense at a funeral—a grim faux pas indeed. When serving thyself from a communal dish (and almost all dishes are shared), use the blunt end of thy chopsticks to retrieve thy prize, then flip them round before thou eateth.

Do not wave them about like a scepter. This is not a magic show.

Thy Bowl Shall Never Be Empty (Unless Thou Art Clever)

Vietnamese hosts, gods bless them, are determined to feed thee until thou explodeth. If thy bowl is empty, it shall be filled. Again. And again. To signal that thou art full and wish to avoid spontaneous combustion, leave a little rice or soup behind. 'Tis the secret code of satiety.

Now About That Rượu

Ah yes, the devil in the clear bottle. Rượu, also known as “Vietnamese rice wine,” though “wine” is a deceptive label, for this stuff could power a jet engine. The locals will toast thee with a cheerful “Tới sức khỏe!” (to your health), which thou must echo back before shooting it down thy gullet with heroic resolve.

Here’s the catch: if one toasts thee, thou must toast them back before the night ends. Multiply this by twelve people at the table, and suddenly thou art singing sea shanties and hugging the family dog.

The drinking only ends when the oldest among thee calls it quits. Unless, of course, thou art the oldest. In which case—good luck, dearie.

A Few More Golden Rules for Survival:

Do not leave early. Even if thou art full, sweaty, and slightly buzzed, stay and chat. Help serve dessert. Smile politely at the pickled eggplant.

Do not lick thy chopsticks. This is not a fairground.

If thou must burp, do so with modesty. A small one may even be forgiven as a sign of enjoyment. A trumpet blast? Less so.

And Thus Concludes the Feast

Dining in Vietnam is not a mere necessity—it is an art, a performance, and a test of both etiquette and liver capacity. Come with an open mind, a respectful heart, and a slight fear of rượu. And if thou rememberest nothing else, remember this: never let thy bowl go empty unless thou wishest it to be filled. Again.

Until next we feast,The Old Crone(who once challenged a fisherman to a drinking match, and lost with dignity)

 
 
 

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