The Family Recipe

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

1976, Delacroix Island, Louisiana

Long before Duc was known as the famous purveyor of Vietnamese fare, he was known as ??c Tr?n, the son of a lowly fisherman from a small village in Vietnam, who had very few dreams aside from following in his father’s footsteps. To fit in with the Americans, he bastardized his name to simply “Duc.” He wanted to boil his life down to a mononym, something that was easier for Americans to embrace, a name that was friendlier . That’s how everyone got famous in America, right? Like Cher, Elvis, or Liberace. Being ??c wouldn’t get him there, but being Duc would. Duc was ready to leave Vietnam behind in a heartbeat, but ??c would have held him back, reminding him of all the pain and grief that was waiting for him in a country he couldn’t call his own anymore.

Duc was determined to become the most American man who ever America’d.

Long before Mr. Ng? was known as Duc’s lawyer and eternal sidekick, he was simply Huy Ng?. When Huy arrived in America, immigration kept butchering his name, somehow added an “e” to it, and ended up calling him Huey. Eventually, the name stuck and he went from a Huy to a Huey. Huey welcomed his new American identity with open arms, hoping Americans would embrace the rest of him as well.

Huey quickly learned that everything had to be fast and hot in America. Fast food, hot food, fast coffee, hot coffee. Why did Americans drink coffee in order to wake up, treating coffee as a means to an end? Coffee should be enjoyed slowly, at any time of the day, and always over ice. Despite how strange America was to him, he loved everything about it. He loved the lifestyle more than most Americans—that is, until he met Duc Tr?n.

Duc was the most American man he’d ever met.

When work began drying up in the northeast quadrant of the country, Huey followed a commercial fishing opportunity down south to Louisiana, even though he didn’t want to be a fisherman in America. He’d been a young fisherman with his father back in Vietnam and was seeking a different life here, one where he didn’t have to use his hands as much. But boys from his village became fishermen because it was ingrained in their blood to understand how the ocean worked. Reading the currents was like studying a second language. Huey followed his father’s advice to always make sure to live by the water. Because even though the ocean could punish you, it could also be generous. It was very much like America.

The fishing boat Huey had been assigned was moored off the coast of Delacroix Island in Louisiana. As soon as he crossed state lines, he knew something was off. His skin started to crawl from all the stares he’d received from strangers. He knew the war had had a bad reception in the country, but he couldn’t tell if his presence was a warm welcome or a reminder of so many dead sons who’d died in Vietnam. Did they blame him when they saw his face? Did they blame him for a war that he also wanted no part of? Did they realize that he’d also been displaced and had seen many dead Vietnamese, brothers, sons, and fathers, at his own feet?

The night Huey got into Delacroix, he settled into a sketchy motel off the highway. The sky was pitch-black, and he could barely find the keyhole to fit his key, nor was he able to see the anger in the night clerk’s face when he helped check Huey in. It was for the best, because Huey slept soundly that night, despite stained sheets, the room’s sour smell, and some motel workers talking shit about the “gook stinking up room 215.” The lull of chirping crickets in the distance gave Huey the false promise of peace, because if bugs could sleep well out here without worry, so could he.

In the early morning, Huey set off toward the dock, following a flimsy piece of paper that had blurred instructions. He’d spilled beer on it the night before, and the ink had trailed off until it bled at the edges. But scanning the dock, he spotted the boat easily. There she was, in all her vigor, the Lady Freedom . Huey understood patriotism; to a certain extent, he certainly harbored it for Vietnam. Among the row of expensive sport fishing boats, the Lady Freedom looked unsanitary and unsanctioned—perfect for immigrants who would do anything for quick cash. Huey noticed rust creeping up from the bottom of the boat, wrapping up around the sides, and cascading outward like rivulets. There was more wear and tear on her than on the other, pristine boats, and there was an odd smell emanating from the deck. Huey climbed on without a moment’s hesitation. A job was a job.

He was surprised to see he was the only nonwhite man on the boat so far. The staring was back again. The men stared, and stared, and though Huey had gotten used to all the staring by now, he knew they weren’t staring at him like he was a celebrity—more like a parasite.

He went to the captain and clocked in. The captain’s eyes lingered a touch on Huey, and though Huey was uncomfortable, he locked eyes right back, squaring his shoulders. The captain took note of the scar that was above Huey’s forehead where a bullet grazed him in the war, and Huey took note of how sunken and empty the captain’s eyes were, as if life had worn him down. There was something about the moment that unsettled Huey, yet he knew he would have photographic memory when it came to the captain’s face. He’d remember it for the rest of his life. Had it been in another lifetime, Huey was sure they would have been friends. But the concept of friendship between the two men was meant for another multiverse, for another timeline, for another century.

For a timeline in which war never happened.

Huey slinked off to the corner to try to shrink himself from being seen. These men weren’t just run-of-the-mill men; they were the big, bulky types—working men who needed the money. Huey could smell the desperation on them. Despite being a war refugee, he didn’t have the same desperation they did. He didn’t have a family to feed, since they had been left behind in Vietnam. It was just him in America and no one else. His desperation was contained to just his own survival.

“Anh ?y,” a voice called out behind him.

Huey couldn’t tell what made him turn around. Was it the fact that he was hearing Vietnamese for the first time in months? Or maybe he was hallucinating hearing a friendly tone? Brother. The young man had greeted him in an informal way, and how he missed it. He turned around and faced a young Duc. They seemed similar in age and both had an air of independence about them—as if they didn’t need anyone else in this world. There was an easy gait about Duc, which was highly unusual for someone who’d also just escaped a war. But he looked as if he’d never even seen what war looked like, let alone any troubles. He was slender and short, but his confidence made him taller than all the other men on the boat. He switched to English. “You got a cigarette?”

Huey nodded, mostly confused now. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a banged-up pack, flipped it open, and let one fall out onto Duc’s palm. Duc pulled out a lighter, lit it up, and, using the sweat that had gathered from underneath his hairline, slicked back his hair. The weather in the South was scathing and unforgiving, yet Duc looked as if he’d just casually taken a dip in the water. He was handsome in a mischievous way.

“Anh,” Duc said again as he blew out a long, billowy cloud of puff, and switched to Vietnamese entirely. “What are you doing here? Where’d you come from, anyway?”

“I needed the money,” Huey said, also switching to Vietnamese. He shrugged nonchalantly, as if that was the only conceivable reason anyone would be on a rusted boat in the middle of Louisiana. “Work is dry up north. The family who was sponsoring me to stay with them wanted me to convert to Christianity, so I fled in the middle of the night.”

“Where’d they sponsor you?”

“The middle of bumfuck nowhere. Somewhere on the outskirts of Philadelphia. Some Amish town.”

“Ah, Philadelphia… Phi-la …” Duc said slowly, scanning his internal Rolodex of cities and Americana facts he’d collected in his short time in the country. “Ah yes! Philly! You try their sandwiches? Crazy right? America is wild. So much cheese! Who can eat that much cheese? That stuff will kill you.”

Huey stared at the young man before him, who disregarded the fact that he’d escaped to avoid being converted, and who only wanted to talk about Philly cheesesteaks instead.

“Yeah, it was fine,” he responded. “But I do miss just a regular bánh mì sometimes. Don’t you ever miss it? You know, miss home?”

Duc stared at him as if he were crazy. “Why the hell would I ever miss Vietnam? Why would I miss Vietnamese food? Never go backward, anh. Look where you are! Enjoy all the American food! Enjoy life! Leave your past worries behind you.”

“Oy! You two!” the captain shouted over at Duc and Huey. “Why are you two huddling? Y’all conspiring with the Viet Cong?”

At the mention of the Viet Cong, the frown lines on Duc and Huey instantly grew tight, their chests grew even tighter. The casual racism didn’t surprise them, but the annoyance on their faces was clear. How could they try to explain to the captain that that wasn’t so much an insult, but another display of ignorance? In a lot of ways, Huey was relieved to split the racism with Duc, but at the same time, he didn’t know Duc well enough to know if he’d ever help him out if things went awry. That was the problem with being part of the first wave of refugee immigrants to America—would anyone come to help one another in times of crisis?

To Huey’s surprise, Duc erased his annoyance with ease, smiled at the captain, and threw him a thumbs-up. “We’ll be over soon!”

Duc then slowly turned to Huey and, still with a smile on his face, sent chills down Huey’s back. “One day, we’re going to buy this boat, and take them all out of business.”

Huey laughed and brushed it off. “Just forget it. Let’s not cause any trouble.”

“You don’t believe me? Tell me, what would you be if you had the chance to do anything you wanted? You’re in America now. Pick and choose your poison.”

Huey stared out into the water. The sun was slowly climbing, its rays starting to hit his face. He thought about it. He thought about all the cities he’d been to in America, and he saw all the respect that men in suits got. Double-breasted suits, three-piece suits, big, fat, thick ties that almost choked them at the neck. Somehow, it garnered deference. Huey wanted that. He wanted the stares at him to not be of disgust, of shame, of curiosity, or of judgment. The next time he caught someone staring at him, he wanted it to be full of respect or fear.

“A lawyer,” he said, seemingly surprised by his own answer. “I want to be a lawyer.”

“Then you’re a lawyer ’cause I say you’re a lawyer,” Duc responded, winking at him. “See? How hard was that? Now, will you help me—help us—become rich so we can buy this damn boat one day and put those bastards out of business?”

The two men laughed. Huey had heard a lot of empty, grandiose promises from other Vietnamese refugees since he came. A lot of “payback” dreams, of being able to have both money and power one day. For some reason, though, Huey believed Duc. It was the look in his eyes—a hunger.

“Okay, anh,” Huey said, still laughing, finally calling him brother back. “Sure, I’ll help you. Why not?”

He thought he had agreed to nothing but a mirage that day, not realizing that Duc had meant every word he had said, and would change the course of Huy “Huey” Ng?’s life forever. But whether Duc had chartered them down a good path or the wrong one, he couldn’t tell. Because the guilt Mr. Ng? carried, all these decades later, still weighed him down more than all the riches Duc had delivered.