a folding stand, and he and the lady began laying out plates on our table. It was mostly boiled vegetables and starchy rice, with two plates filled with stuff that looked scaly and smelled awful. I gave Bian an accusing look. "You said you hated fish."
"I lied." She laughed. "I'm Vietnamese. Of course I love fish."
At least the rice looked somewhat edible and smelled okay.
The owner mentioned something to Bian, who said something back. Bian said to me, "She says there is no beer on the menu because she doesn't have a liquor license. But she keeps a hidden stock for favored customers in her fridge in the back. She'll bring it out in a moment."
Things were looking up.
I smiled at the woman, then at Bian. "Please thank her from the bottom of my heart for her hospitality. Tell her she is most gracious."
Bian translated this, and the woman bowed. I added, "Also, please tell her she has a lovely and very deceitful daughter."
Bian looked away for a moment. Then she looked back at me. "You're very observant."
"And you have your mother's beauty."
"Well . . . thank you."
Her mother said something to her, and Bian patted her arm and said something in reply. Her mother looked at me a moment, then returned to the kitchen.
"What was that about?"
"Because she thinks you are a good man, she says she has a special surprise for you." She added, smiling, "I told her she's a terrible judge of men. She should poison your food."
Bian's mother returned a moment later, carrying a dish upon which sat two Big Macs, still hot and steaming in their boxes. She set the plate in front of me, and two cans of holy water blessed by Pope Budweiser.
I stood and hugged her. She giggled, saying something to her daughter that probably translated as, "Tell this round-eyed idiot to let go of me before I knee him in the nuts."
I sat, and Bian's mother left us. Bian sliced off a piece of fish and, holding it up on her fork, said, "Try a little of this. It's very good."
"No . . . thank you."
"You're sure? It's a freshwater fish. It tastes different."
"Did it swim in scotch?"
She laughed.
We ate in silence for a few moments. She asked, "How much do you remember about Vietnam? Not the country, the war."
"For me, it was a TV war. You know what I mean, right?"
"No. Tell me about that."
"It was the first war piped into America's living rooms. Somebody described that as like seeing a hologram of a war. But for one year of my life--the year of my father's second tour--I was glued to it. I wanted to see him on TV, but I really didn't. You know?"
"I don't know. All I had to do was step out in the backyard and watch the artillery flashes."
"I had a friend who was watching CBS news one night. He actually saw his own father get shot."
"Dead?"
"Wounded. They were in the middle of dinner, though. His mother actually vomited. But for most Americans it was--just as this war is-- that moment on the evening news between the trial of the month and the weather forecast."
"Did TV and the media make it unpopular?"
"Wars are never popular."
"You know what I'm talking about. I read in a history book that Walter Cronkite did more damage in one night than the entire Tet offensive."
"I think the media and TV exposed a truth--an unwelcome truth, an unhappy one, but an important one. They were biased and irresponsible in many ways . . . but I also think they did more good than harm, told more truth than lies. On the big truth, they nailed it."
"What big truth?"
"We had become involved in a war we didn't intend to win. Like sex with neither partner able to orgasm--eventually, somebody has to call it quits."
"That's a very . . . unique explanation."
"I'm thinking of writing a political science textbook."
"They come wrapped in brown paper?" She took a bite of her fish, then reached across the table, grabbed my beer, and took a long swig.
"I can get you your own beer," I told her. "The owner has a big crush on me."
She laughed. And then we found ourselves staring into each other's eyes.
I broke eye contact first--somebody had to before this turned complicated.
Obviously, she and I, somehow, were becoming intimate. There was a natural sensuality to this woman, an unconscious sexuality that I was very conscious of.
The Army, unique institution that it is, has managed,