Vietnam. It grabs you and doesn’t let you go.
Once you love it, you love it forever
—Anthony Bourdain
Anthony, can I tell you a secret?
When I was young there was a shame that boiled inside me.
Boiling, broiling, lingering, steaming, simmering from within.
Who can break free from the bruising words of the young?
There was shame and sham.
I was running from myself, my food, my people.
I tried to hide from the fish heads, the duck eggs, the sauce of fish,
the bowls of broth, the meats, the cold rice, the flavors, the aromas.
When can we outlast the history of smells?
I wanted nothing to do with it.
I wanted the burger, the bland, the just like them and him and her.
I wanted to eat like the wind.
Which way to begin again?
And there you were, Anthony, on the screen,
turning food into art into history into story.
My whole life, I pushed my food away
but you brought it closer to you for the world to see.
You embraced each noodle, each dish, each bite
as if they were your forgotten friends you found again.
Why couldn’t I find refuge frothing at the brim?
Anthony, when you brought the president into that
small Vietnamese
noodle shop and sat on plastic stools, beer between you, you helped tell our story.
You showed the world how we lived, loved, ate
with our whole being.
You taught us that we are not bound to our past
that with each new meal comes a new way to live the day.
How can we go on when memory is without moment? You had so
many stories left to tell.
We wanted more of you but we had to surrender to time.
I wish we could’ve shared a meal together, one last bowl of clam rice
or bun cha.
Anthony, you are gone now but the food will always remain.
Now, I want to eat until there’s nothing left but home.
