| The real surprise came when the waiter took a hot pot and suddenly, without warning, smashed it down on a sheet metal tray that he had put on the floor. The thin-walled terracotta hit the floor with a loud crack and splintered all over the place. All the Vietnamese clapped and laughed. The rice cake stayed mostly intact after the smash, but some pieces did break off and scatter about the restaurant floor (food for “you know who”). Then came the highly skilled, truly amazing part of the show: the waiter who did the smashing picked up the rice cake disc and, like a Frisbee, flung it up the entire length of the restaurant to another waiter who was holding a dinner plate. With great precision, the little flying saucer came to a perfect landing on the catcher’s plate. Time and time again, this show was repeated, with an occasional miss, much to the joy of the crowd and especially us, the foreigners, and, of course, the Rat. The second appearance of the Rat came after one of the misses. Up the restaurant from where we were seated, it shot out, grabbed a piece of rice cake, and skulked back into its hole near the corner. Nobody but me seemed to notice and those who might have did not seem to care. In a strange way, it was part of the show. It existed there, living off of incomplete rice-saucer passes, a scavenger. The show had to go on, the flying rice cakes brought in the customers, the waiters had to miss from time to time, and rats lived off of the fallen food. The people couldn't get rid of the rats, the rats got bold about coming out in daylight to grab the rice, and everybody accepted this as the way it was. I began to understand–but not accept–that a rat could walk under my table at any time, near my feet, my legs bare in shorts. I squirmed uncomfortably, but I suffered in silence because Luat did not seem to notice and Michael did not seem bothered. I wanted to enjoy my Vietnamese smorgasbord in peace and not show fear, so I soldiered on. The food kept coming in small dishes–fish, pork, and shrimp with many dipping sauces, including the Vietnamese favorite called Nook Mam, a mild and semi-sweet dipping sauce used for just about everything, sort of like Vietnamese ketchup. I didn’t take any of a blackish, pasty-looking sauce, which Luat cautioned that we might not like due to its very strong fish taste. Michael dove right into the dark, thick sauce with his chop sticks without hesitation; Luat preferred it over the milder Nook Mam; I stuck with the Nook Mam or nothing at all. Then, it appeared. This time, it was directly in my line of sight, over Luat’s shoulder, about 10 feet from where I was seated at the table. The Rat. |
| It Took a Rat (continued) |