Catfish and Mandala: A Two-Wheeled Voyage Through the Landscape and Memory of Vietnam

by Andrew X. Pham

That is how Vietnamese men bond. We only talk when we drink. Two nights a week, the three brothers and I drink at home on the floor, a bottle of Johnnie Walker in the center of our circle like a campfire. Viet sends his nephew Nghia down the alley to bang on the door of a neighbor who sells dried fish and squid. Nghia’s mother roasts the fish over coals and serves it to us with plates of pickles and chili paste. The women and children always keep clear of the men when we drink. Viet is fond of declaring loud enough for everyone to hear, “We are dealing in men’s business. Let us be.” Viet, the oldest male present, ceremoniously starts us off. He pours himself a shot, tosses it back, harrumphs, grins, pours another shot into the same glass, and passes it clockwise. While the next comrade regards his shot of whiskey, Viet gnaws on bits of smoked fish. The four of us do the rounds, drink the shot, pour another, pass it on, eat a piece of fish, over and over until Johnnie is gone. As long as the booze flows, we are free to talk about anything we want. Free to confide our hopes and fears. We chase it all down with a couple of beers, then disband, each to his own bed to sleep it off. The women clean up our mess as we pass out. A night like this runs about twenty-five dollars. Many Vietnamese men drink up half of what they make, treating each other to round after round of beer, liquor, whatever is at hand. Their women make do with the money left over, splurging on things for thems...