Yesterday morning I went to my usual street stall for my usual breakfast: a warm, hearty, freshly-cooked bowl of phở bò. All you have to do is sit down for a few minutes and your meal arrives. They only cook one thing and they cook it well. Henry Ford would have approved.
I arrived late morning and it was not busy. The staff were having an early lunch in advance of the next rush.
There were very few customers at this time so most of the condiments at my table were flyblown, even the bowl of lime segments and fresh chilli. However, New Me is a pragmatist who knows that Pho is cooked at high temperatures. New Me has never been sick from eating anywhere in Vietnam. New Me waved the flies away as he sat down and waited for the Pho to arrive.
The owner was sitting on a stool, eating pieces of fruit which had been cut up and piled next to the chopped raw meat (the bò). As each customer arrived she would get up to prepare their meal by using her hands to measure and toss the right amount of meat, noodles and vegetables into the boiling stock. These hands also regularly carried food to the tables, cleared the tables, took money, gave out change and grabbed another piece of fruit on their way back to the stool.
I finished eating and went over to pay my slightly turgid bill. This was accompanied by an established ritual where I smilingly exclaim my approval "rất ngon" ("very delicious") in Vietnamese and she repeats it back twice, noddingly as she hands me my change.
Today she also picked up a piece of fruit and offered it to me with an emphatic straight arm. This piece had clearly been marinating in a shallow pool of raw meat juice at 35 humid degrees for some time.
What does one do in this situation?
Does one pretend to be very full and gently decline?
I'll tell you what one does.
One accepts it.
Immediately, gracefully and gratefully.
I smiled, thanked her again, accepted the bleeding toxic fruit and took a demonstrable bite out of it. I chewed enthusiastically. It tasted bland, like raw potato with hints of blood. I pronounced that this, too, was rất ngon and she agreed again.
I asked what it was called in Vietnamese. She told me. I repeated the word back. She corrected me firmly. By now 4 people (2 staff, 2 customers) had stopped what they were doing in order to watch.
I tried again to pronounce it. 5 people laughed. I assumed that I'd once again used the wrong tone or vowel and said "cunt". It's always cunt. All 5 people corrected me this time, in an awkward unison that sounded like an echo in a tunnel.
My next attempt was more successful and I was permitted to leave. I promptly took another public bite of my toxoid, forgot my new word and walked to my bike.
This got me thinking about Abraham Maslow. Maslow dictated that people will prioritise their needs and choices based on a particular hierarchy. In order to aim for higher needs, you first need to satisfy the lower levels.
Given a choice between the two, people will satisfy their lower-level need first. It makes perfect sense. For example if you were starving to death you would look for food first and pontificate on whether contemporary American literature is painting an accurate picture of working class homosexuals second. (Poppy Z Brite is not huge in Darfur.) Oh, and if you were busting to go to the toilet you wouldn't care whether or not your President was black.
But if this particular experience taught me anything, it is that Maslow had never been to Vietnam.
As this proprietor handed me her toxic piece of fruit she was also handing me a choice between Safety (of health) and Esteem (respect by others). I chose the latter in a heartbeat.
